Bullets.
Jenna's eyes found his through the thin smoke and fumes that were closing in on them inside the wrecked vehicle. "He must have another gun on him. He's shooting at us."
Brock didn't answer. He knew the Minion wasn't trying to hit them through all that metal and machinery. He was firing on the car itself.
Trying to create the spark that would ignite the exposed gas tank.
"Hold on to me," he told her, bracing one hand against her spine as he reached with the other for the crushed seats that had Jenna trapped. With a low growl, he ripped them loose.
"I'm out," she said, already scrabbling free.
Another bullet struck the car. Brock heard an unnatural gasp from outside--a rush of air that preceded the sudden, swelling stench of thick black smoke and the gust of heat that said the Minion had finally hit his mark.
"Come on!" he said, grabbing Jenna's hand.
He pulled her clear of the vehicle, both of them tumbling out to the pavement. A plume of fire erupted from the overturned car as the gas tank exploded, shaking the earth beneath them. The Minion kept firing, bullets zinging dangerously close.
Brock covered Jenna's body with his own as he grabbed for one of the semiautos holstered on his gun belt. He came up onto his knees, ready to shoot--only to realize that his sunglasses had come off in the tumble from the car. Between the wall of heat and roiling smoke, and the searing light of day, his vision was virtually nil.
"Shit," he hissed, wiping a hand across his eyes, straining to see through the agony of his scorched vision. Jenna was moving beneath him now, scrambling out of the shelter of his body. He reached for her, his hand casting out blindly, coming back empty. "Jenna, damn it. Stay down!"
But she didn't stay down. She took the pistol out of his hand and opened fire, a rapid hail of bullets that cracked loudly over the roar of flames and heated metal beside them. Across the lot, the Minion cried out sharply, then went utterly silent.
"Gotcha, you son of a bitch," Jenna said. An instant later, Brock felt her fingers wrap around his. "He's dead. And you're burning up out here.
Come on, let's get the hell out of this place."
Brock ran with her, hand in hand across the open lot, toward the Rover. As much as his pride wanted him to argue that he was good to drive, he knew he was too cooked to even attempt it. Jenna didn't give him a chance to protest. She shoved him into the back of the vehicle, then jumped behind the wheel. In the distance, the howl of police sirens sounded, human authorities no doubt responding to the apparent accident near the docks.
"Hang on," Jenna said, throwing the Rover into gear.
She seemed unfazed by the whole thing, cool and collected, the total professional. And damn if he'd ever seen anything so hot in all his years.
Brock lay back against the cool leather of the seat, grateful as hell to have her on his side as she stomped on the gas pedal and floored it away from the scene.
Chapter Twenty-one
The drive back to Boston had taken the better part of four hours, but Jenna's heart was still racing--her concern for Brock still fresh and unrelenting--as she swung the Rover through the iron gates of the compound and headed around to the fleet hangar in back of the Order's private estate.
"We're here," she said, parking the vehicle inside the large garage and cutting the engine.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, checking on him for about the thousandth time since they'd set out from New York. He'd been quiet in the backseat of the SUV for most of the trip, despite shifting around in obvious agony as he'd tried to sleep off the effects of his ultraviolet exposure.
She pivoted around in her seat to have a closer look at him. "Are you going to be okay?"
"I'll live." His eyes met hers through the darkness, his broad mouth quirking into more of a grimace than a smile. He tried to sit up, groaning with the effort.
"Stay there. Let me help you."
She crawled into the back with him before he could tell her that he could manage on his own. He looked up at her in a long, meaningful silence, their eyes connecting, holding. All of the air seemed to abandon the space around them. It seemed to leave her lungs, as well, relief and worry colliding inside her as she stared down into Brock's handsome face. The burns that had been livid a few hours ago across his forehead, cheeks, and nose were all but gone now. His dark eyes were still moist and leaking wetness from their edges but no longer bloodshot and swollen.>Jenna.
Although he had no blood bond with her to alert him that she was in danger, he felt the certainty of it clawing at his gut. She was no longer in the federal building but back in the garage, across the sunlit street.
Something had gone terribly wrong, and it had everything to do with TerraGlobal--with Dragos.
No sooner had the thought formed, when an unmarked gray Crown Vic burst from the garage exit. As the sedan roared away, he saw two men in the front seat. The passenger was pivoted around to face a single occupant in back.
No, not men--Minions.