Chapter 25
His bed vibrated. His very hard, very cold bed. And his side ached like he'd been kicked by a mule. Not that he'd ever been kicked by a mule, but it was an appealing description of the heavy, deep pain in his right side that throbbed with every breath.
He recognized the pain. He'd been shot, more than once if he remembered correctly. And the vibration was paired with a whine and ker-pop that after some thought he identified as a Boeing 747 with fuel line issues.
He wasn't alone, wherever he was. There were at least two other people in an enclosed space with him, probably three based on the rhythm of their breathing. Their voices echoed tinnily, like maybe he was in the plane's cargo hold. "Hey, Cross," a deep male rumble said, and something prodded him in a buttock. It felt like a steel-toed boot, but he didn't open his eyes to find out. He was tired. He was supposed to be dead. He wanted to be dead. "Got a proposition for ya."
"He's still out," a second voice said, higher, a bit on the too smooth side, like a man who kept his voice under control as part of his professional bag of tricks. "You have another epi pen, medic?"
"Hey, man, not a great idea. He could start bleeding again," a young male protested.
"Naw, don't bother. He's awake," voice one said. "Hey, Cross, better open your baby blues or we're all going to be dead."
"Why should I care?" Aaron rasped without moving. He felt it was a valid question. He'd sent Marta away and now he wanted to be dead. Apparently, he hadn't quite made it there yet.
"You care because Marta Shearing is on this plane too," voice two told him. "Get up and save her."
Voice two must have had a withholding mother, Aaron decided. He was a whiney pr*ck. Rolling onto his pain free left side, preparatory to rising, he discovered that he had been lying on a thick pallet of cargo pads piled on a plane's bare metal deck. Moving hurt but his body was already rearranging his synapses to damp the pain down to bearable levels. Soon he'd forget he'd been wounded at all. Soon, but not yet. Right now it hurt like h*ll. "Prove it," he said. "I want to see her."
"Whoa, whoa. Hold it there," the third voice, the young male, murmured. Aaron recognized the soft manner. This was a medical professional. His head turned slowly toward the voice. Yep, a young man with a pair of red cross logos on his shoulders. "You've been shot." Well, duh. Obviously a medical professional who needed some in-service on bedside manner. "You'll open up the wounds if you stand up."
"Wrap me tighter," Aaron said. "Helps. Been shot before. Trust me." The medic looked at a well-groomed, vaguely familiar dark haired man for direction. Ah, Marta's ex. Peter Boyd. He'd seen his picture among Marta's papers. The animal guy. And, from his voice, the Boyd he'd called to arrange Marta's future. Mystery solved.
And apparently Boyd was now the man now in charge of Aaron's life. Boyd nodded his approval of the re-bandaging. While the medic got out his supplies, Boyd gestured at the third man - a grey-haired muscular military type with a nodding acquaintance with sixty - and said, "Goldberg here claims you can fix this plane. We're over the Bering Sea and the pilot says one of our engines is out and another is thinking about it."
"Help me stand up," Aaron told the medic. "You'll get a tighter wrap." Once on his feet, he weaved a little but spread his stance and stabilized. The medic started wrapping a broad elastic bandage over the existing bandaging and Aaron grunted with pain. Boyd and Goldberg practically tapped their feet with impatience. Aaron felt for the plane's acceleration, oriented himself port and starboard and said, "Boeing 747, outfitted for cargo. Sounds like it's about half empty. Port fuel line feed has a problem, probably about there," he pointed at the indicated spot with his left hand.
Boyd nodded thoughtfully. Goldberg said, "That agrees with what the pilot said. So, how do we fix it?"
The medic finished wrapping and started fastening off. He'd gotten the bandage tight enough to make breathing a challenge. Perfect. "First I get to see Marta."
"She's sedated. Freaked when you were shot and knocked down two of my men so we had to calm her down before she hurt herself," Goldberg told him.
He gave Goldberg a cold look. "I want to see her." If they'd hurt her, they'd die, but there was no reason to threaten them. He was as good as dead himself and he didn't want to create problems for Marta's new future at Candent when he was gone.
Boyd looked at his watch. "If we don't get moving along here, we're not going to see anybody but God. Marta can wait. " He was afraid and thought he was in charge. A bad combination.
"Your f*cking pilot's panicking," Aaron snapped. What had Marta ever seen in this man? "We'll be fine until he has to adjust altitude."
"Fine," Goldberg said. "Five minutes. Let's go." Boyd sputtered but Goldberg stalked out and rather than be left behind he followed.
Marta had better accommodations than Aaron's, a small forward cabin, insulated from most of the jet noise and equipped with a narrow bed, a cot really, a chair and a desk, probably for the relief pilot to use on long haul trips. Not that she could appreciate it. As Goldberg had said, she was out cold.
Aaron sat on the edge of the bed, and pushed a curl back from Marta's forehead. He had five more minutes with her, five minutes to create a memory to carry with him. Whether he lived or died, he would probably never see her again. Her skin felt cool so he pulled a blanket from the foot of the cot and wrapped it around her, bending over as he did so to take a last deep breath. Her sweet female scent still had that slight difference that he'd noticed in the penthouse. He closed his eyes. His pain had eased down to nothing.
They hadn't sent a friendly welcome-back-to-Candent representative to pick up Marta at the penthouse, they'd sent a full capture force. They'd expected violence, resistance. They'd expected him. He'd said he'd be there. When he'd seen ten soldiers carrying automatic weapons, his reflexes had kicked in and he'd fought back. After that it had all gone to hell.
It was his fault Marta lay here drugged down. He should have left as soon as he'd finished the call to Boyd. He'd made yet another bad decision.
Boyd and Goldberg stood watching. Boyd cleared his throat. "Got a proposition for you, Cross." Aaron didn't look at him. He'd rather watch Marta. "My boss wants you dead. Your files make you sound more American than Yankee Doodle so our Chinese customers would rather grow their own Outcome agents. Not to mention your little viraling out issue." Aaron looked a question. "You got no kryptonite, man, no weakness. You don't need chems and you don't need support. They think there's no way to control you." He snickered. "I, on the other hand, know better. I've got your Lois Lane, I've got Marta."
Aaron kept his mouth shut. Boyd would get to his point sooner or later.
"You're not going to make Ziang happy," Goldberg said.
"Don't worry," Boyd told him. "They won't let Cross live long. Ziang says I can keep him for my behavioral research. Outcome and LARX both have some kinks. He's willing to indulge me … to a point. That point being where Cross here steps over the line."
He turned to Aaron. "But you'll be a good boy for Marta's sake, won't you, Cross? It'll be simple. She thinks you're dead. You stay dead. If you even think about contacting her, she'll lose her rock star status and you'll be f*cked."
Aaron stood up. "And if you hurt her, so will you." He took a step in Boyd's direction. Boyd scampered back like a rat, but it had been a hollow threat, something to confirm what he'd already suspected - that Boyd was a physical coward. With a pair of bullet wounds, Aaron barely had strength to walk without staggering.
Goldberg stepped between them. "Calm down, Cross. Don't make me shoot you again."
From behind Goldberg, Boyd said, "Don't threaten me, Cross. I'm holding all the cards here."
"And here I thought you wanted me to fix your plane." Aaron found that he really enjoyed snarling at Boyd. This man used to f*ck Marta.
Boyd seemed to realize that he was hiding like a little girl. He stepped forward, away from Goldberg. "You're bluffing. You wouldn't let Marta die. Don't be a fool."
"We'd better get on that. Right now," Goldberg said.
Aaron dragged his eyes away from Boyd to look at Goldberg's square, honest face. "I'll need to talk to the pilot and I'll probably need someone to crawl around for me and make repairs.'"
"Done and done. Let's go." Goldberg started toward the front of the plane. Boyd moved out of his way, looking annoyed which seemed to be a perpetual condition for him.
With a last look at Marta, Aaron followed Goldberg.