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The Crystal Grotto my ass, Gage thought as he wheeled the Charger into a space beside a mud-spattered dually. No images of elegant merfolk and jewels to go with a name like that. It was just another dark and dingy roadhouse, pretty much like the others they’d stopped at the last two days. The half-assed pile of cinderblock squatted by a gravel parking lot about a half a mile from the one-street town of Rossum, Montana. Thirty miles from Fort Hurley, it was the first place that looked like it might offer up something resembling dinner. Not that he was sure Embry would eat. To say that their reconnaissance at the base hadn’t gone well was like saying pneumonia was just a sniffle.
She said nothing as they both stepped out of the car and headed inside. The smoky haze stung his eyes and made it amply clear that nobody had been by to actually enforce the state-wide smoking ban. Twangy country was punctuated by the crack of pool balls. Gage paused just inside the doorway to scan the interior, taking in the half-filled row of booths along one wall, the scattering of abused looking tables and chairs in the center, and the pair of crude signs indicating the restrooms—Poles and Holes. Classy.
Seated at a table that gave him clear view of the bar, as well as the entrance, he grabbed a menu. Embry’s eyes wandered over the crowd, scanning and assessing as he had, then turning back when she determined none of them were a threat. Her gaze flicked to the approaching waitress, then dropped to the menu she clearly wasn’t reading. Since she seemed disinclined to decide, Gage ordered beer and cheeseburgers for them both. “Oh, and ranch dressing on the side for her.”
“You remember that?” Embry asked. But he detected no warmth or pleasure in her voice at the fact.
“It was floating around in there somewhere.”
The waitress left and silence descended at the table. Embry dropped her eyes and wouldn’t look at him again. She was focused entirely inward, using considerable effort to keep the emotions that fueled her fire banked and under control. Considering that this mission was fucked six ways from Sunday, he couldn’t really expect anything else.
When the waitress came back with their beers, Embry took a long pull before setting the bottle on the table with a thump. “This is hopeless.” Her words fell between them like stones as she stared at her beer.
Gage wanted to contradict her, to say something that would wipe that dejected, grieving look off her face. But he’d been with her on the ridge overlooking the compound. The place was fucking impregnable. A veritable Cheyenne Mountain, complete with single road access and mandatory ID badge and fingerprint scanner for entry. Easily two dozen highly armed soldiers stood watch at regular intervals along the two-story, electrified, chain-link fence surrounding the facility. There was no back door. No accessible ventilation shaft or utility tunnels. They had no schematics. And without him being able to Walk, no way to acquire additional intel of any kind.
He’d failed again last night. Though Embry had said nothing, it was the white elephant that had ridden with them across the better part of two states. Her lack of faith pissed him off, but at this point, maybe she was right. He wasn’t any closer to Walking now than he was two days ago. Not that he was about to be the one to suggest they abandon Adan.
“There has to be another way,” he said. “Maybe we can somehow infiltrate their ranks.”
She lifted her gaze to his then dropped it again. “That’s a long term op with a slim margin for success. We don’t know if he has that long.”
The regret in her eyes sliced him deep. He was letting her down in the worst possible way. Curling his hand around hers, Gage said, “He’s not dead yet, Ember. We’re going to find a way in, and we’re going to get him out.” He infused his voice with a conviction he wasn’t absolutely certain he felt. He needed to find some faith and fast.
Before Embry could make any kind of response, the door banged open, grabbing their attention. Five men spilled inside. Though they were dressed in civilian clothes, Gage knew instinctively that they were military. It was in the way they carried themselves and in the barely there buzz cuts.
A sudden movement in one of the booths drew Gage’s attention. A youngish Native American guy sat stiffly in his seat. A worn, shearling-lined denim jacket draped awkwardly across his lap, sliding as his knee bounced. His hands shook a little as he shoveled the last of his fries and sandwich in his mouth. He left a few bills on the table, and slid out of the booth, one hand going swiftly to the knife on his belt then away again, as the newcomers finished jamming two tables together. One of the meatheads stepped backward right into the kid as he walked by.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, Tonto.”
For a moment anger flared in the kid’s face. But he was gawky and lean, not yet grown into the promise of his frame. He seemed to think better of reacting and dropped his gaze, mumbling something as he tried to move on past.
The soldier grabbed him by the arm and hauled him back around. “What was that, Walks With Tiny Dick? I know you didn’t just disrespect me, boy.”
Seeing the situation heading south, Gage was already on his feet and moving by the time the kid opened his mouth to make a reply. Whatever he said was drowned out by the instant smack of fist on flesh and the crash of the kid’s body falling into another table.
Gage stepped in as the next fist went flying and smacked right into his hand. He felt the sting of it up to his shoulder as he closed his fingers around the other man’s hand and twisted. Meathead’s face went red with outrage, shock, and pain as he struggled not to go to his knees and failed. “You’re gonna want to stop that right about now,” said Gage equably. But in his mind he could already see the guy surging up from the floor, plowing into his gut in a tackle. At the first sign of movement, he stepped to the side. Meathead stumbled awkwardly and crashed into another table.
“You son of a bitch!”
As Gage went through the motions, he was vaguely aware of the Native American kid slipping out. Good. No need for him to get caught up in this shit. After a couple of minutes, he tired of the dance, of trying not to truly engage, and nailed the meathead with a left cross that knocked him on his ass, where he stayed. “Seriously, you really don’t want to do this, man. You’re outclassed as a fighter here.”
One of the other soldiers stepped in. “And what exactly is the Ultimate Fighter doing in a shithole bar in Montana?”
Gage flicked his gaze to the man who’d spoken. “Tryin’ to have dinner without having to intervene in somebody else’s stupid.”
Meathead scrambled to his feet again, fists clenched.
“Stand down, Stegman. You’re done here.”
“Fuck that, Sarge. This asshole made a fool outta me.”
The sergeant slapped a hand against Stegman’s chest. “Simmer down, Private. I think we can find a way to satisfy everybody here.” He turned his eyes to Gage and studied him with interest.
“And how’s that exactly?” asked Gage.
“An exhibition match. You against one of ours. May the best fighter win. You game?”
An exhibition match? I could take these guys in my sleep.
“Where?”
“Fort Hurley. Our guys could use some entertainment.”
A way in. Halle-fucking-luia.
“When?”
“Tomorrow. 19:00 hours. Be a good dinner break.”
“We’ll be there,” said Gage.
“We?” The sergeant’s gaze swung toward Embry, who had stood back from the fight wearing an expression that looked like amusement to anyone who didn’t know her.
“I’m his manager,” she said easily. “He doesn’t fight without me being present.”
After a few humming beats, the sergeant nodded. “Fine. We’ll wait for you at the gate.”
***
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