Page 39 of Omega

“Tomorrow you become my wife.” He sounded as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

I felt the same way, but I was too near to sleep to form words. “Mmmm-hmmm,” was all I could manage.

His breathing matched mine, and then we slept.

8

LIGHTNING STRIKE

Four short, sharp raps on the door jolted me awake. I glanced out the window and saw that it was probably an hour or two before dawn, the sky still black but with muted shades of gray staining the horizon where it met the rippling, glinting sea.

“Mr. Roth.” It was Alexei. “Your presence is required, sir. Immediately as possible, please.”

I was still blinking myself awake as Roth scrambled out of bed and jumped into his shorts, not bothering with underwear, shirt, or shoes.

“Stay here,” he commanded as he glanced briefly at me.

“Fuck that. I need to know what’s going on.” I was out of bed too, grabbing an ankle-length stretchy cotton sundress, not bothering with any undergarments either.

“I said stay, Kyrie.”

I pushed out the door past him. “I’m not a fucking dog, Valentine.”

Alexei was waiting just outside the door, dressed exactly as he had been the last time I’d seen him, but now his jaw was dark with beard growth and his eyes had circles under them, although his gaze was as alert and sharp as ever. He had his finger along the outside of the trigger guard on his weapon, I noticed, rather than just casually gripping the handle. The webbing on his body armor now held three magazines of ammunition, as well as two grenade-like objects which I assumed were flash-bangs.

Something significant had happened, I realized.

Something bad.

Another man dressed and equipped identically to Alexei stood at the back door of the kitchen, rifle held in both hands, his finger as well snugged across the trigger guard, rifle butt tucked against his shoulder. I glanced out at the darkness of the forest beyond the courtyard and saw a shadow move in the darkness, starlight glinting on a gun barrel. Another figure emerged, this man wearing a pair of night vision goggles on his face, which he lifted as he approached us, leaning close to Alexei and muttering in his ear. Alexei keyed his mic and spoke into it in Russian.

Looking from Roth to me, Alexei simply said, “Follow me.”

He jerked his head toward the dense forest, and set off toward it at a quick walk. He had his rifle tucked into his shoulder, held at the ready, moving in a crouch and sweeping the barrel from side to side. The man with the goggles brought up the rear behind Roth and me.

“What the fuck is going on, Valentine? Where are Layla and Cal?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I know as much as you do, but I’m certain that Harris has Layla and Cal under protection.”

There was no clear path that I could see, but nonetheless Alexei led us unerringly between the trees through near complete darkness to a long, low building. He held open a thick steel door and ushered us in. I glanced back the way we’d come and realized I’d never be able to find the house by myself; a few yards into the undergrowth and everything looked different. Wilder, less tamed. And this place was hidden well, screened by foliage. The building was surrounded by a good twenty yards of clearing—for sight lines, I figured—but until you were right at the clearing, you’d never see it.

The building was windowless, lit only by fluorescent tubes. One entire wall was taken up by a bank of monitors, each screen showing a room in the main house. Most rooms, including the beach itself, were shown from two different angles. There were even cameras positioned in the forest. Opposite the bank of monitors was a floor-to-ceiling case containing an arsenal: assault rifles like those I’d already seen, as well as a huge assortment of handguns, shotguns, sniper rifles, machetes, flash-bangs and actual grenades, body armor, night vision goggles, and even something huge and terrifying that I thought might be a grenade launcher.

Harris was sitting at a metal table, a map spread out in front of him, a red pen in one hand and a ruler in the other, marking lines and Xs on the map. He was dressed like the rest of his security force: gray BDUs, black body armor, black “A1S” ball cap, sidearm, knife, and a rifle hanging by its strap from the corner of his chair. He had extra magazines on his body armor webbing, as well.

Harris didn’t just have a security company; he had a small mercenary army, each man armed to the teeth, loaded for bear.

So what had them on high alert?

I was about to ask when the door opened, and another member of the security team entered with Cal behind him. Cal looked overwhelmed and bewildered, and not a little amazed.

“Holy shit, Key,” he said. “You people don’t fuck around, do you? What’s going on, you have any idea? Ivan here won’t tell me.”

“Name is Sasha, Mr. St. Claire,” Cal’s escort said, his voice thick with a Russian accent.

“No, Cal, my people do not fuck around,” I said, “and no, I don’t know what’s going on. I think we’re about to find out, though.”

Cal went over to the rack of weapons. “Fuck me running, dude! Is that an M-203?”