The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(62)
Author: J.R. Ward

Between one blink and the next, there was blood on the lower half of it … and very sharp teeth.

Or had that been a nightmare? She was having trouble figuring out what was reality.

She opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. “My head … not working right.”

“It’s all okay.” As if on impulse, he reached out to her, but then dropped his hand like he didn’t know what to do.

Sola struggled to swallow, her mouth dry. “More water? Please?”

He moved so fast, it was like he’d been waiting for a chance to do something. And as he cracked another Poland Spring bottle open, she went to push the sleeping bag away to free her hands—and got trapped. The nylon fabric seemed to weigh as much as a coating of asphalt.

“Be still,” he said softly. “Let me serve you.”

“My hands aren’t working.”

“I know.” He brought the open neck to her mouth. “Drink.”

Easier said than done. Her teeth started to chatter. “Sorry,” she mumbled as water went everywhere.

“Ehric, how long,” he snapped.

The Range Rover came to an abrupt stop. “I believe we’re here—or somewhere.”

Sola frowned as she looked over the shoulder of the driver in front of her. The rickety fence in the headlights was the kind of thing you’d see on a cattle farm—that had been deserted. Half of it was hanging at an angle, the old boards and rusted wire more tangle than organized form.

“Where are we going?” she asked hoarsely. “I thought … back home.”

“We’re getting you treated first.” Assail repeated that thing where he reached out a hand and then put it back down before touching her. “You need … you’re wounded and we can’t let your grandmother see you like this.”

“Oh. Right.” Jesus, she’d forgotten she was half-naked, injured, and needed a good, long shower. “Thank you.”

“Surely this cannot be it,” the driver muttered.

Assail glanced out the windshield, and glared—as if things weren’t what he expected, either. “Go up to that box.”

As they approached what appeared to be a wooden birdhouse on a rickety stick, the driver put his window down—

A gruff, disembodied voice spoke out of the thing: “I gotchu. Go through the gates.”

Like magic, the “distressed” gating system split right down the middle, moving apart smoothly and silently.

The road beyond was snow-packed but tended to. And some distance later they came to another barrier. This one was less flimsy, and taller, too, made of chain links that were rusty, and yet seemed solidly affixed to their posts. This time, they didn’t have to stop—the fencing split before them, letting them pass through.

And so it went.

As they progressed, the gating systems became ever newer and more imposing until they came up to something that looked like it belonged in a government installation: Concrete pylons as big as the ones under Caldwell’s bridges anchored a solid metal panel the size of a billboard. And stretching off in either direction? A twenty-foot-tall wall that had barbed wire up top and warnings to trespassers every ten feet.

Kinda Jurassic-parky, Sola thought.

“Impressive,” the driver drawled.

As with the other entries, the way was opened before they could halt at the obvious check-in point, with its keypad, speaker, and monitoring equipment.

“Is this … an army base?” Sola mumbled.

Maybe Assail was an undercover cop—in which case … “Do I need a lawyer?” she demanded.

“For what?” Assail stayed focused on whatever was coming up, staring out the front windshield like he was driving the vehicle.

“Are you going to arrest me?”

His head whipped around, his brows down low. “Whatever are you talking about?”

Sola relaxed back into the seat. If he was lying, he deserved an Oscar. And if he wasn’t—well, maybe this was God’s way of answering her prayer: One sure solution for keeping her out of the life was to throw her into the court system.

The underground tunnel they entered was worthy of a Lincoln or a Holland with its fluorescent lighting and yellow line down the middle, and the descent tilted the Range Rover forward at an aggressive angle.

“Are we in Caldwell?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Assail eased back, and in the now-abundant lighting, she saw him duck his right hand into his parka.

Sola frowned. “Are you … why are you palming a weapon?”

“I trust no one with you other than myself.” He turned to her. “And I made a promise to your grandmother. You shall be returned to her unharmed, and I am a male of my word. At least in this.”

As she met his eyes, she had the oddest sensation settle into her chest. Part of it was fear, and that confused her. With the situation she’d been in, her savior had better be packing a forty and prepared to use it.

The other half of it was … not anything she wanted to look too closely at.

The tunnel terminated in a parking facility that reminded her of the one underneath the Caldwell Arena: shallow ceiling, plenty of spaces, the rising elevation that disappeared around a corner suggesting multiple floors.

“Where are we?” she asked as they pulled up to a closed door.

By way of an answer, the thing was thrown wide and a medical team came out, doctors, nurses, gurney and all.

“Thank the Virgin Scribe,” Assail muttered.

Oh … shit. The white coats weren’t alone—they were accompanied by three huge men: a blond with a face that belonged on the big screen, a military guy with a brush cut and an expression hard as a butcher’s block, and then a truly terrifying backup who had a skull trim and a scar that ran across his cheek and curved into the side of his mouth.

No, this was not the U.S. government.

Not unless there was a covert hard-ass department.

Assail reached for the door. “Stay in the car.”

“Don’t go,” Sola blurted.

He glanced back at her. “Be not afraid. They owe me this.”

Her savior reached out again, and this time he didn’t stop himself. He brushed her jaw so lightly that if she hadn’t seen him do it, she wouldn’t have noticed.

“Stay.”

And then he was gone, the door shutting solidly. Through the tinted glass, she watched as a fourth man came out of the brightly lit hallway. Yeah, that was no accountant over there … With a floor-length fur duster and a cane, he was dressed like an old-school pimp, his cropped Mohawk and sardonic smile fitting the image perfectly.