Damnation Road Show. James Axler

I was just going to call you.” There was surprise, and maybe just a hint of fear, in his response.

      “You shouldn’t be calling. You should be on your way back here by now.”

      “I know. But I’ve got her.” There was pride in his voice now, bold and unapologetic.

      Both his confidence and his pride would need to be squashed. He was a tool—a valuable and necessary instrument on occasion, but still just a tool—and he needed to be reminded of that fact.

      “I didn’t tell you to get her. In fact, I didn’t tell you to go anywhere near her.”

      “But I know you wanted—”

      “You don’t know anything about what I want unless and until it is expressed in terms of a direct order.”

      He didn’t respond. He knew better than to speak out of turn again.

      A.J. let the silence grow, felt his tension mount, before asking, “What about Courtland?”

      “He’s in pursuit. We’re waiting for him to get close enough to—I mean, we, uh, we’re waiting for orders to, uh, eliminate him.”

      It was satisfying to hear the stammer, to know he already recognized his mistake.

      “You’re going to wait a while longer,” A.J. said. “What I want now is for you to get on the next plane to Pennsylvania.”

      There was a pause as Peart fought to swallow the silent “but” that hummed across the line as loudly as if it had been spoken.

      To his credit he managed to conceal his dissent and respond, “I’ve already made plans. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

      “He will be buried tomorrow.” A.J.’s voice had lowered, thickened with just the slightest hint of what might have been grief. In reality, it was excitement—the anticipation of opportunity overshadowing any remnants of sorrow. Tomorrow, finally, all the key players would be in place. “And we have some serious planning to do.”

      “What—” he hesitated, aware that he was treading on dangerous ground. “What about the woman?”

      There was a pause, long enough to make him sweat, before the response. “I’m not going to commend you for over-stepping your bounds, but I recognize the value of the offering and I will decide how to deal with her.”

      “Of course.”

      A.J. smiled at the submissive response and disconnected the call.

      Peart was falling in line, as so many others had already done, recognizing the rightful heir to the throne of power.

      Zane Conroy’s authority had been absolute, his name spoken with reverence; his orders obeyed without question. He’d been unforgiving of mistakes, intolerant of fools and ruthless in dealing with any hint of disloyalty.

      He’d been a truly great leader.

      A.J. would be greater.

      Chapter 3

      Shannon didn’t know how long she’d been underwater when the level of air in her tank forced her to surface. She was grateful when she did so to find that the first rays of light were starting to lighten the sky.

      She had no idea how far she’d come, she could only hope it was far enough. But when she looked toward the island she’d focused on as she’d gone into the water, the hope slipped through her fingers.

      The land mass was closer now, but still so far away. What had been an admittedly foolish and reckless impulse at the time seemed even more so now. She was a strong swimmer, but the ocean had far more breadth and endurance.

      No, she couldn’t think like that. She’d come too far to give up. She would push forward, ignoring the fact that her muscles were already screaming with the pain of exertion. She would embrace the pain, knowing that as long as it hurt, she was still alive, she still had a chance.

      But how much of a chance? How could she ever have expected to succeed in this battle against nature? Maybe she couldn’t. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to give in, either.

      She would persevere—in a minute.

      For now, she just wanted to float. She used the last of the air to reinflate the life vest, then dumped the empty tank. Her limbs felt heavy and weak. She was exhausted, physically and mentally, and shivering uncontrollably. She was tempted to give in to the fatigue and the cold, to close her burning eyes and let herself drift into the blissful oblivion of sleep.

      Logically, she knew she had to keep moving, she was still a long way from the island. How many more strokes would it take to reach the shore? One hundred? Two hundred? More? How was she ever going to find the strength when her arms and legs were already numb?

      The questions shook her already-faltering confidence. Weariness weighed down her limbs; despair filled her heart. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was supposed to be on vacation—a much-deserved holiday before she accepted the promotion she’d been offered and moved to Paris.

      She’d always wanted to visit France—stroll the Champs Elysées, cruise the River Seine, climb the Eiffel Tower. There was so much to look forward to; so much she might never get a chance to do.

      No, she refused to succumb to negative thoughts. She would swim and swim until she couldn’t lift her arms or kick her legs anymore. She would make it to the island. She would.

      But for now she tipped her head back and let her eyelids drift shut—just for a second.

      More than two hours had passed since Mike had watched Shannon slip over the side of the Femme Fatale and into the ocean. Two hours during which he’d tried to anticipate and match her path through the dark water. Two hours without a single glimpse of her.

      He’d seen her climbing overboard, but he’d been too far away to reach her before she submerged. And he couldn’t signal to catch her attention because doing so would alert Peart’s men to her movements and his presence. So he’d watched, silently, helplessly, as she’d disappeared into the sea.

      She had to be very brave or completely desperate to think she could survive such an escape attempt. He guessed she was a little of both.

      He squinted against the brightness of the rising sun as he scanned the water again. During the night, the ocean had seemed black and treacherous. In the light of day, it was gloriously blue and temptingly inviting. It wasn’t, however, any less deadly. And with every minute that passed, the likelihood of Shannon’s survival decreased and his feeling of failure intensified.

      He refused to give in to it; refused to give up. He refused to fail again.

      But the memories hovered at the back of his mind, haunting him, taunting him. Memories so real he could almost smell the heavy scent of the Righarian jungle, feel the drip of moisture from the sodden leaves down his back, taste the fear that had risen like bile in his throat. And he could see—all too clearly—the picture of his friend as he lay dying: his helmet knocked askew, his blond hair matted with crimson blood, his dark eyes wide as they stared unseeingly at the man who’d let him down.

      They’d been through so much together, seen so much death and destruction. But nothing they’d seen had prepared Mike for the shocking horror of Brent’s usually smiling visage hideously twisted with pain.

      He blinked in an effort to dispel the gruesome image. The picture didn’t disappear, it only changed. The blond hair grew longer, darker, until it was brilliant auburn, the dark eyes softened to the color of green moss, the lips became wider, fuller, yet remained twisted in an expression of unbearable agony.

      No—he refused to believe he was too late.

      He started the engine again, steered slowly through the choppy water.

      Shannon jolted, blinked into the bright sun.

      She was tired and cold and so incredibly thirsty. She licked her