Page 72 of No Hope of Rescue

Chapter Twenty-Two

Riley Delgado

Just as we’re landing on the other side of the building, I start to jump out, but Ross grabs my arm and shakes his head. He points to the phone in my pocket. No word from Trent. He may not even have received my messages. It seems too late to bring in the FBI. Plus, we’ve already broken so many rules and lied by omission to the federal government.

I just want someone to tell me what to do, and not this guy in the pilot’s seat. Ross cuts the engine, as two jets thunder overhead. Loveland may be smaller than Denver but it’s noisy.

“Listen,” Ross says, “I know you love him. That you’re in love with him.”

I stare at him. Fuuuuuuck.

“This could cloud your judgment.”

“I’m crystal clear.”

The radio cackles with a question I can’t decipher. “Negative, no assistance required.” Then he looks at me. “We need to get to him.”

I nod. We walk fast, not sure where there might be eyes on us, and as we round the corner, I see hangar 16. I pull Ross back, and we come in from behind, running low along the back of the hangars until we reach 17, working our way around until we can see.

The helicopter is on the ground, and I watch, feeling absolutely nauseated as Brock, sitting in a forklift, backs out slowly with a large oblong package wrapped in a clear plastic tarp.

“I bet they’ve got a gun on him,” Ross says. We’re crouched down now, and I notice Ross’s hands are gloveless. I can’t believe this is happening, and I say as much to Ross. He looks at me.

“Your job is going to be making sure you don’t get hurt. Okay? I already have a strike against me apparently. I don’t need him coming after me because you got a bullet in you.”

Ross pulls me back behind the side of Hangar 17, unzips his jacket, and flashes the handgun holster that’s across his chest.

“I have a weapon. I’m trained to use it. Well trained, in fact. You, however, do not have a weapon. So, you are to stay behind me until you get to that back wall. Got it?”

“Yes,” I say. I realize we’re going in. He means to do this. I push off, and he throws an arm out.

“I just said, behind me.”

An alarm goes off in my brain. “He hasn’t come out. He went in but he’s not coming out.”

Ross immediately tries to make me feel better. “Well, we haven’t heard any shots. We’re still close enough we’d hear a silencer.”

To my horror, my thighs start to shake. Ross kindly ignores this.

“Change of plans. You run along the back now,” he says. “Find him. If you hear shots, flatten out on the ground. I’m going in between the hangars.”

I give him a thumbs-up and duck behind him, moving to the back of the hangar and rounding the corner. Bending over, I run, scuttling along the cement block wall till I reach the end. Careful not to be seen, I close the space between the hangars in less than a second.

Tufted grass makes the going rough. As I get closer there’s dime-sized holes in the sheet metal. I’ll be able to see. One, off to the right, is about shoulder height. I bend my knees to take a look.

My breath catches.

In the semidarkness, Brock is on his knees, not six feet from where I hide. We are only separated by a thin sheet of metal. His hands are folded above his head, and his face, in profile, is impassive. His eyes are closed. There’s a guy all in black seated with a gun trained on Brock’s head. I look, wide-eyed for Ross, but he’s nowhere.

He must still be trying to get between the two buildings.

I can’t understand what’s happening. All I can do is press myself to the thin corrugated wall and keep watching through this little hole. A bald guy raises his arm, and he’s putting the pistol right against Brock’s forehead. Three men are all yelling at once.

It’s too noisy to hear what they are saying. More jets take off overhead.

Brock sways slightly on his knees, then he stops and opens his eyes.

He says something quietly that I can’t hear, and the heavy bald man lowers his weapon. But it’s a false promise. The other guy swiftly raises his.