Unearthed Treasure (11 page)

“Lower your weapons or you’ll force our hands,” one of the military men snapped out insistently.

“Older guy’s thighs,” Chelsea whispered to David. There was a pause of about a second while he seemed to think about her request. Then with a single nod of his head they both fired.

Chelsea started with one of the more seasoned men. She shot once, catching her target in the upper thigh on her second round. It was undoubtedly painful, but in the fleshy part of his leg. While the wound bled, it didn’t gush and she breathed a sigh of relief.

He went down with a grunt, hit, but nothing vital or not easily repaired. David had only needed the one shot. Both the military men were on the floor, effectively disarmed. Both the younger guards had instantly raised their hands in the global gesture of surrender the moment they’d fired.

David waved his gun, indicating for the men to step aside, which they did with haste.

“Throw your communications into the corner over here,” David shouted harshly. “Walkie-talkies, earpieces, the lot. Now, or the next lot won’t be in your thighs.”

There was a pregnant pause. David and Chelsea simultaneously cocked their weapons, the sound echoing clearly across the room. The other men obeyed, the equipment hitting the parquet floor with a clank.

David and Chelsea edged around the chamber, placing as much distance as possible between themselves and the guards. David dropped and picked up some of the units in a quick motion. Just as they reached the doorway another shot rang out. Chelsea’s heart leapt to her throat, fear pounding in her veins.

One of the ex-military men had lifted himself onto his shoulder, his face twisted in pain and his black pants soaked with wetness. His gun was lifted and directed at David. Her shoulder was grabbed, David held her tightly. He growled in her ear.

“Run, now!”

Chelsea reached out her free hand and gripped David’s shirt, refusing to let him go.

“How bad are you?” she snapped out, fear causing adrenaline to surge and her tone to sound far harsher than she intended. They both ran full tilt for the front entrance and escape.

“What?” David said, his attention clearly diverted. “Just hold on, we’re almost there.”

Everything became confusing. Chelsea felt that she was missing something. David’s words didn’t make sense to her. Was he delirious?

Puffing now, she was surprised how draining she found their run, coupled with the fear and heart-pounding surge of adrenaline.

The columns of the Gallery’s outer entrance loomed ahead of her as they crossed the enormous front foyer. It seemed strange, almost unbelievable that only twelve or so hours ago she’d been walking inside across this very floor when a rocket launcher had decimated the outside.

She giggled, and wondered if hormones and her body’s reaction to the stress were making her hysterical.

“Just a little longer,” David said. “You can make it, love.”

“Of course I can,” she insisted, not understanding what he was talking about. Only a dozen paces from the front doors she saw numerous men racing backwards and forwards in a dizzying manner.

“Well, we did want distractions.” She chuckled, not quite certain why she found it so funny to watch. There was an enormous fire out on the street. It took a moment for her to realise one of the security jeeps was burning.

“Those will be Thad’s missiles,” she said.

David grabbed her arm, halting her before they could push through the doors. Without a word he took the earpiece out of her ear and replaced it with one of the ones he’d taken from the guards they’d shot.

“Clip this to your belt,” he said, handing her a walkie-talkie as he removed their crew’s earpiece and replaced it with a stolen one. “Now, act hurt. Turn your shoulder so everyone can see the blood.”

“Sure. I’m…hey, what?”

Chelsea looked down to her arm, shocked to see a dark, wet stain covering most of the slender limb. Pain rolled over her, like being hit in the face with a bat.

“Holy fuck, that arsehole shot me.”

David opened the door and turned when she didn’t immediately follow him. He reached out and tenderly took the hand of her unhurt arm. As he tugged her, she noticed the worry and fear etched onto his face. She felt sick to her stomach, certain for one horrifying moment that she was going to throw up everywhere in an ignoble fashion and ruin her reputation.

Her mouth opened, but no words came to her lips. Shock—cold and heavy—blanketed her body, the pain of her shoulder beating at her.

“Darling,” David crooned to her, urgency underlying his gentle tone. “I know what to do, please trust me, but we have to move. Now. Please, love.”

Chelsea breathed deeply, surprised at how the simple act made her shudder. She let him lead her, willing her feet to move. It took an immense amount of mental power to force her body to react. She’d often heard how fear could freeze a soldier, that terror killing almost as many warriors as any other weapon.

Until this moment she’d pooh-poohed the idea, not understanding how shock could literally take over your will and body with such force.

“That’s it,” David urged her warmly. “Let’s go. I’ll get you patched up. You’re fine.”

The tone of his voice more than the actual words gave her strength. David kept his face on her, his gaze steady, giving her the stimulation she needed to gain momentum once again. She pushed the pain from her mind, compartmentalising it. She’d scream bloody murder later, she promised herself. Right now they had to live, to escape and finish the mission. As they moved, walking a slow trek down the flight of stairs and past the crumbled pillars, heading towards the burning car, her energy gradually returned.

“I’m okay,” she insisted, though her tone was thready and faint.

“Of course you are,” David replied, clearly not believing a word. A shout rose up as they were noticed. Chelsea trembled in fear, certain they were about to be shot—or, worse, arrested. She did not want to explain their last-minute fuck-up to McIlroy or the London branch of the Agency.

“I’ve got you,” David said in a low tone, just to her. He then turned his head to the group of guards heading their way and shouted in a commanding tone.

“We’re on Murphy’s team. We were just ambushed in the Eastern corridor in section five, two hostiles. Murphy and the others are down but alive but I need a medic here—my partner’s been shot.”

David pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt and lifted it at the men, his head turned so they could see the earpiece they’d all been issued. Relaxing, half the men turned around and returned to their post. Two came closer.

“We heard about that, but then we lost contact. What the fuck is going on in there?”

“I have no idea,” David insisted, still steadily leading Chelsea towards the barriers and their freedom. “We were attacked, exchanged fire. They’re on the run, though. The two we saw weren’t carrying anything. I think we got to them before they achieved their goal. My partner needs attention, though. Where are the medics?”

The guards waved over to the far side of the street. Chelsea could see the flashing lights of an ambulance.

“Thanks,” she said faintly, pain clear in her tone. The guards nodded and let them pass without further comment.

David and Chelsea made a beeline for the ambulance, leaving the hectic insanity of the Gallery behind. The guards all but ignored them now, focused on what was occurring inside, talking on their radios and trying to make contact. Once they’d passed the barriers and roadblocks David cast a brief glance behind them.

“Okay, we need to jog—not run, but move fast. Will you be all right?”

“I’m fine,” Chelsea insisted. In truth she felt shaky, but damned if she’d let David carry her out on his back—which she knew he would, should it come to that. Her legs wobbled dangerously at the thought of running, but she forced her self-doubt down. She could do this.

“You lead, I’ll follow,” she promised him.

He cast her a worried look, but didn’t comment further. David took her hand, holding her in a firm but steady grip. “This way,” he said, and they set off.

The street around them blurred. All Chelsea could focus upon was remaining upright and placing one foot in front of the other as quickly as possible. David led them both between cars parked at all kinds of angles—diagonally across the street and some even half up on the footpath. She found the pain in her arm was moving down the side of her torso, sending shots of agony burning along her body and into her stomach. Chelsea pressed her lips tightly together, refusing to make a sound that would distract David.

Breathing heavily through her nose, she found by focusing on David she gave herself something to think of beside the pain and her wobbly legs. David swivelled his head like a damn motion detector. Left to right, right to left, left to right, back and forth. It took her an astonishing amount of time to understand that he was surveying around them, making certain they didn’t draw unwanted attention.

Guilt beat at her for a moment. She was dragging him down, a liability. She was putting his life and safety at risk.

“David,” she panted, shocked at how wheezy and thin her voice was. She gasped for air, wanting to tell him he needed to run and get away, finish this and put Thaddeus, Luke, Kent and whoever the main Boss they answered to was away in jail for life. She could just sit quietly in some nice dark corner and happily pass out.

David’s gaze rested momentarily on her, but then he continued to jog outside the perimeter that had been set up around the Gallery.

“We’re close,” he promised. “Do you need me to carry you?”

“No!” she protested as strongly as possible. “You should go, hurry. The docks.”

Further speech was beyond her, the pain intensifying.

“You better hope that’s the shock talking there,” David said grimly. “If I was the one shot and you leading us to safety, would you ditch me?”

Chelsea sighed, too exhausted to admit he was right. Pain beat at her, but if she were honest she’d carry David to hell and back out again if necessary. She narrowed her mental focus to the running, too winded to speak more. On some subconscious level it depressed her that she was too exhausted and drained to even argue. That alone told her how low she’d been brought.

Her injured arm had gone numb, thankfully. A part of her mind knew that wasn’t a good thing, but the temporary relief overshadowed any worry she could muster.

It could have been minutes or half an hour later when David led her into a small alley. Chelsea had lost track not only of where they were, but also of the time. Heaving to catch her breath, she leaned against the brick wall while David upturned an old crate.

“Sit down,” he said gently and helped her to sit. “I need to call the others, make sure they’re safe and the exchange is still happening on the docks at two.”

“What’s the time?” she panted. It cost her to focus, was unbelievably difficult, but she forced herself.

“We’ve got time. It’s only half past midnight.”

Chelsea leaned her head back against the bricks, her eyes fluttering shut. Pain washed over her and she let it beat against her senses, hoping that she could let the worst of it pass before they needed to move again. She heard the sound of a zipper, then the faint
click, click
as David typed in a number on his phone.

“Phillipe? Yeah, it’s Greer here. Chelsea and I are out. You both got away with the package?”

There was a pause. Chelsea was too tired to try to eavesdrop further. That would have required moving, and energy—things she wasn’t keen on just then.

“Chelsea’s been hit. It’s not serious, but I want it taken care of before the exchange. Are the details the same?”

There was another short pause before David wrapped it up. “Okay, we’ll see you then.”

“If he can stab us in the back, he will,” she murmured. David pressed a palm to her forehead, his touch beyond tender.

“He’s already effectively proven so,” David replied, “when he made us take the harder route out. He’s a coward, exactly as you warned. Don’t worry, I won’t be trusting him—you have my word.”

“How far are we from the car?”

“Only a few streets over. I have anti-inflammatories and some hard-core painkillers at my place. I’m worried about your fever, though. Do you have medical contacts here? This would be an awful time to ask favours from the London office, but I’d deal with Lucifer himself if I had to.”

Chelsea frowned. She had a fever? Lifting her head, she waited a moment, then sat forward on the crate, only to feel her top sticking to her back where sweat had dampened the material.

“Is there an exit wound?” she asked, concerned for the first time.

The light in the alley was atrocious, and when David bent her a few degrees more forward pain shot like fire across her back. She cut her cry off almost the second it had escaped her mouth, but she’d rarely seen such concern in David’s dark eyes.

“The bullet is still in you somewhere. Thank fuck that arsehole aimed high. Your wound is right up the top of your chest, just below your collarbone. Small calibre, the blood has already clotted and stopped itself. I’m sure you’ll have a glorious scar, but it can’t have hit anything important. But the shock, your sweating and general disorientation have me terrified you’ll run the risk of infection. We might need to call in a favour.”

Chelsea shook her head.

“We don’t have time to mess around with codes and making calls. Do you have tools at your place?” David was silent. Chelsea groaned impatiently. “David, I trust you. I’d far rather have you digging around in my body extracting a bullet than some random bloody stranger who might call other agents to isolate and contain us rather than take our word.”

“I’ve got the tools,” he said with evident reluctance. Chelsea sagged back, wrung dry.

“Then lead the way.”

Chapter Seven

David had never felt anything remotely to what he’d experienced in the last fifteen minutes. Chelsea had fluttered in and out of consciousness on the drive back to his rented flat. While part of him had craved running every red light and speeding like a demon, logic had dictated that with the police on alert and the Gallery partially in flames and ruins, now would not be an ideal time to be caught breaking such a mundane law. Particularly not when his travelling companion was a black-clad, beautiful woman with a bullet lodged in her shoulder.