Page 80 of Protecting the Nerd

I didn’t miss the way his hand hovered near his holster or the tense set of his shoulders. We moved quickly, stowing our bags and sliding into the back seat of the suburban. The leather was cool against my skin, the interior dark and quiet.

As the convoy pulled away, I couldn’t shake the dread clinging to me like dirt under my fingernails. I scanned the reflections in the windows, the rooftops, the deserted streets we passed, but everything was quiet.

We left Forestville and headed for Seattle, where I assumed we’d be boarding a plane. Whatever safe house the FBI had picked for us wouldn’t be near here. They’d want as much distance as possible between the terrorists and York, so maybe somewhere on the East Coast? I’d feel so much better once we were on the plane. We were too vulnerable here.

York held tightly to my hand, his body taut as a piano wire. If only I could reassure him everything would be fine, but I couldn’t get the words past the tightness in my throat. Still, I wanted to acknowledge his stress, so I turned toward him. “How are you?—”

BOOM!

The world exploded in a cacophony of shattering glass and twisting metal. An orange blossom of fire engulfed the lead vehicle, a monstrous bloom clawing at the sky.

“Down!” I barked at York. I ignored the ringing in my ears and threw myself on top of him as the shockwave pummeled our suburban, rocking us violently. The car lurched, the wheels skidding as they fought for purchase. Our car stayed on the road—that driver had some serious skills—and we came to a hard stop.

“Fuck!” the driver shouted. “Oh, fuck.”

“Stay down,” I growled at York through gritted teeth, my instincts kicking into overdrive. I unbuckled both our seat belts and pulled us down on the floor, my body on top of his and my gun in my right hand.

The stench of burning rubber stung my nose, and some kind of liquid poured in through the shattered front window. I took a peek, and my stomach sloshed and swirled. Figures emerged from the black smoke. Six men, all heavily armed and dressed for combat, their faces covered with baklavas.

Fuck.

The two agents in the front seat fired their weapons, and one assailant went down, but the other attackers advanced, weapons drawn, their intentions clear. I squeezed the trigger, the report of the gun deafening in the confined space. Another assailant went down, a clean shot. But there were more—too many.

I fired again, but the car door was yanked open. A crushing blow to the back of my head sent stars exploding across my vision. I crumbled on top of York, struggling to maintain consciousness. The last thing I was aware of was York’s hand gripping mine fiercely, desperately, before darkness consumed me.

Awareness clawed its way back, dragging me from the abyss with ruthless insistence. I peeled my eyelids open to a blurry, hellish landscape. Acrid smoke burned my throat, and I coughed violently, each spasm sending daggers of pain through my skull. Blood trickled into my eyes—a warm, sticky reminder I was still alive.

I pushed myself up on shaking arms. They must’ve pulled me out of the car. I was in a ditch that cradled my battered body, rocks and debris biting into my skin. A smoldering carcass of what used to be our escort vehicle lay nearby, its skeleton grotesquely twisted by the explosion’s kiss. Flashes of blue and red lights danced in my periphery.

My muscles screamed as I hauled myself to my feet, the world tilting precariously, then settling. The two FBI agents who had been in the front seats of our car lay both sprawled across the torn earth, their bodies mangled but chests rising and falling with the stubborn rhythm of life. Relief at their survival was a fleeting ghost, chased away by dread as I continued my search.

But I already knew York was gone.

I stumbled a few steps forward, legs protesting, and surveyed the grim tableau. Three dead attackers lay among the wreckage, their lifeless eyes accusing, even in death. I had killed at least one of them, maybe two, put them down without hesitation. But it wasn’t enough. Not when York was missing, likely in the hands of those who’d orchestrated this nightmare.

How much time had passed?

“York, hold on,” I whispered into the chaos, my plea swallowed by the roar of sirens and the crackle of flames. Panic, raw and unfiltered, surged within me, an inferno that matched the blaze before my eyes. The taste of iron filled my mouth, whether from blood or fear, I couldn’t tell. I needed to move, to act, to save him, but I was swaying on my feet.

The red and blue lights pulled up right next to me. Auden jumped out, his face pale and taut. “Quillon…”

“They have York. You need to call the FBI.”

“They already know and are on the way.”

“You need to…” A wave of nausea barreled into me, and I dry-heaved.

“Sit down before you keel over.”

“I can’t. I need to…” I shoved past him, ignoring the sharp pain radiating from my side. Blood soaked through my shirt, warm and wet, but I pushed it aside. Pain was irrelevant. York was all that mattered.

Auden’s arms came around me in an iron grip, and he forced me on the ground. “Sit the fuck down before you pass out or bleed out. You need medical attention.”

“I need to find York. Please, Auden.”

“I’ve called it in. We’ll find him, Quillon.”

I bowed my head, surrendering to the inevitable. I’d failed York, and now he was missing.

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