Fallen Angel of Mine (Overworld Chronicles #3)

He shook his head. "I don't know who delivered them."

I led the group of ten women to the back. Most of them wore only bed robes, lingerie, and slippers. Apparently, the vampires used them for their blood and other sickening purposes I didn't want to think about. This Victoria's secret was one I didn't want to know.

Before we left this place, I was going to do something about Franco and Marcel. Much as I hated to do it, the only way to ensure they never did this again was to kill them. My guts knotted at the thought, but I felt like I had no choice.

The women and doctor gathered in a tight circle around me as we stood near the exit. I felt their expectant eyes on me, like bayonets pressing hard against my back, urging me to show them a way out of this hellhole. I didn't have a clue what I was doing. For all I knew we'd be mowed down by automatic gunfire twenty feet from the compound. The jet might be gone, leaving me stranded in the middle of the jungle with pregnant women who were turning into vampires. I couldn't think of anything stranger or more frightening.

One of the pregnant women took my hand and squeezed. I looked into her eyes as they cycled between honey brown and crimson red. She smiled. It was a weak, worried smile, but a smile nonetheless. I didn't know this woman. I owed her nothing. But she was counting on me to rescue her from a life of degradation and slavery and, damn it all, I had to try. I might not be able to plan my way out of a paper bag without burning it to the ground, but for these people, it really couldn't get much worse. I would burn this place to ashes if I had to.

I smiled back. Squeezed her hand. "We'll get out of this," I said with more confidence than I felt.

I don't think she spoke much English, but she nodded anyway and let go of my hand.

The gun battle had dwindled to an occasional random shot punctuating the night. Our return to the airstrip necessitated passing by the unconscious vampires, so I let the doctor lead the way while I thought about the best method for executing the evil duo.

Franco and Marcel still lay where we'd left them.

One of the women shrieked and rushed Franco, kicking the unconscious vampire in the ribs as tears poured down her face. Another woman shrank behind me, sobbing, while yet another grabbed a nearby shovel and pounded Franco on the face until blackened blood oozed from the ruin of his nose.

I grabbed her arms and took the shovel away. "Doc, get them out of here. I'll meet you in a minute."

"What do you plan to do?"

I sighed and found the pistol Franco had tried to shoot me with earlier. "We can't let them live."

One of the women, a short pregnant girl who couldn't have been much older than me, said something in Spanish and held out her hand, presumably for the gun.

"She wants the honor of putting them down," the doctor said.

I almost gave the scrappy chica the gun, but what kind of man would I be, letting a woman do the dirty work? Maybe I was being a pig for not letting her, but it just seemed wrong, letting a pregnant woman shoot two unconscious people—rotten disgusting jackasses or not—in cold blood. I aimed the gun at Franco's head. My hand shook and sweat gathered on my brow. A cramp tightened in my guts and a little voice in my head screamed, No! You'll scar yourself for life!

My mind flashed back to Diego and his muscular friend, Jose. I'd killed them. A sick feeling rose in my stomach and I tasted bile. Things had been so hectic and crazy I hadn't given it much thought. Strangely, I didn't feel all that guilty about Diego and his pal, even though the gruesome memory played over and over in my head. But I remembered Sherriff Skinner. I'd killed him by slamming him into a wall. Then again, he'd just tried to kill Elyssa. He'd tried to harm someone I loved.

Just because these two deserved death, did that mean I had the right to carry out their sentence in cold blood?

A gentle hand touched mine and I flicked my gaze away from the vampires to see the pregnant girl looking at me with big brown eyes. "Bad."

I nodded. "I know. Dammit, I know, but I don't think I can do this. I don't think I can kill them like this."

Something whistled through the air. Instinct took over and I swayed left as a silvery dart flashed past my shoulder and caught one of the women in the cheek. She stiffened and collapsed even as my ears detected more projectiles coming our way.

"Duck!" I shouted, and followed my own advice by diving to the side and rolling behind the tin shed the doctor and I had used for cover earlier.

Unfortunately, none of the others were as quick and slumped to the ground like a pile of abandoned marionettes.

"He's behind the shed," someone shouted.

"Flank right!"

A dark figure flitted beneath one of the street lamps and my heart seemed to pause mid-beat. I'd recognize the wearers of that night camo anywhere.

Templars.

Chapter 19

Demonic energy thrummed in my blood. Even so, I doubted I could race through the forest at top speed, make it to the jet, and convince the pilot to take off before a dozen or more well-trained Templars caught up and beat the snot out of me. Then again, these guys weren't giving me much of a choice. I looked down the road leading to the jet. The doctor told me it was less than a mile. I hoped he was right.

I'd already learned the perils of running blindly through a rainforest. Namely, I would be more likely to beat myself bloody against branches than get anywhere very fast. So I sprinted down a nearby path and raced behind a garage, hoping to reach the road leading to my destination. A nearby shout told me they'd spotted me. My legs spun beneath me, churning up loose gravel and mud. I dashed down the awful excuse for a road. Risked a glance back and spotted several dark specters streak beneath one of the few street lamps bordering this area.

The Templars were probably as fast, if not faster. Sure, football practice trained me not to fall on my face every time I ran at super speed, but I hadn't exactly honed my skills to ninja level ninety-nine. Running from hellhounds and evil shadow people had, at least, taught me to run without wetting my britches.

What in the hell were the Templars doing here, anyway? Either this was a raid on rogue vampires or Thomas Borathen had found me and sent a squad to finish me off once and for all. Elyssa's father took the definition of "overprotective" and "obsessive" to terrifying new levels.

Despite the wind rushing past my ears, another noise caught my attention: the roar of jet engines powering up. The pilot must have heard the shooting or been alerted by radio because it sounded like my ride out of here was going buh-bye.

I invented a few new curse words and sped up. The road terminated at a clearing the length of several football fields. A narrow strip of asphalt ran down the center. I saw a small jet turning around at one end of the runway, prepping for takeoff. Veering right, I angled for my last chance out of here, some hundred yards away. The plane straightened out. Turbine engines roared at full blast. The vessel charged down the runway.

My brain recalculated my escape plan. The only way to get inside that jet was to somehow open the door on the side, maybe even rip it off all while it was moving. Such damage would undoubtedly make the aircraft hazardous to fly. I looked back. My night vision picked up at least six dark figures racing across the field after me, their legs blurred with speed. Flying in a broken plane suddenly seemed like a very viable plan. My brain analyzed my assessment and pointed out the swirling turbines just behind the wings and the tiny external handle on the door I'd have to grab to avoid being sucked into the deadly blades. Super healing or not, those things would inhale me and spit out incubus-flavored chop suey.

I'm going to do this whether you like it or not, I told my brain. It responded by flashing gruesome images of my body whirling like a frog in a blender after my sweaty fingers slipped off the red handle on the jet's hatch. I wondered if the door was locked from the inside. Considering the way things usually went for me, I felt certain that it was locked. Or jammed.

It didn't matter. In a few seconds, the jet and I would intersect and I'd have to hope I was quick enough to grab that door handle. I focused my eyes on the target and noticed the handle sat in a shallow circular recess on the door. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. The pilot, however, had other plans. Maybe he'd noticed the ominous figures dashing after him, or maybe he was just a jackass who hated me, because the jet lurched forward with a sudden burst of speed. My breath came in ragged pants as I willed my tired legs to speed up. But they were already going flat out. I reached the runway a split second before the aircraft roared past.

My eyes locked onto the prize: the tiny red lever about a foot long. I dove. My fingers touched it. Slipped. Caught on the edge of the recessed area. Agony shot through my arm as my tendons, muscles, and bones groaned at the sudden change of direction. I flung my other hand toward the lever as wind tore at me, threatening to tear my sweaty hand loose, tossing me into the roaring maelstrom.

The aircraft lurched. Angled upward. Left the ground. Gravity yanked my guts downward. The wind clawed, making my eyes water so fiercely I could hardly see. Something thudded behind me. I risked a glance back and saw two black-clad figures gripping the wing.

Seriously?

The air buffeted the aircraft violently and one Templar banged against the wing, his feet less than a yard or two from the roaring engines. The other lost his grip on the tip of the wing and tumbled forty or more feet back to the ground. I would have gulped except my mouth and throat felt parched as the desert. I hoped the remaining Templar's hood hid a terrified expression as well. Or maybe Templars were so badass this was no worse than using the bathroom to them. My right hand found a metallic rung inside the recess and clung to it with manic force. I gripped the red handle and pushed on it. It didn't budge.

Of course!

Since the handle hadn't moved while pushing it, I gave it a yank. It moved a fraction but stopped as if it had hit something. Something told me I was turning it the right way, but it was definitely locked. I spared a glance back at the Templar. He shuffled his hands along the edge of the wing and reached the junction between it and the nacelle. My legs flapped up and down at the mercy of the wind. He reached for my foot. I tried to curl up, but my leg muscles had already given up the ghost and gone on vacation. A gloved hand clenched my calf.