Bowman's answering curse echoed off the dank, block-granite walls. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and the trim goatee that darkened his chin. "Try them again. Do it now."
"Yes, sir." She already had her comm device activated, speaking the command that would connect her to the team en route. It took only seconds before she gave him a grave shake of her head, big brown eyes serious with concern. "Still nothing."
"Son of a bitch." Something was wrong. Something worse than the obvious complication that took place at Ackmeyer's house a few hours ago.
Bowman wasn't about to sit around with his dick in hand, wondering and waiting. He'd hated the taste of that inactivity from the moment he gave the okay on this job. Now it burned like acid in the back of his throat.
Combat boots striking hollowly on the concrete floor of the abandoned military fort, he rounded a corner to head deeper into the bunker, toward a hand-hewn tunnel leading underground to the gun battery that served as the rebel base's small fleet garage.
"I'm sure they'll be here any minute," Nina said, jogging to stay alongside him. "I'm sure they've got everything under control now."
Bowman grunted, kept walking. If only it were that simple to just sit back and wait it out, knowing how badly things had gone off the rails out there.
"What are you going to do? You can't mean to go after them . . ."
He didn't answer, didn't slow down.
Damn it, he never should have put this job into play. He'd had a bad feeling about it to start with, but after waiting months for the opportunity to make his move on Ackmeyer, he hadn't been willing to risk losing that chance simply because it was a daytime grab to be conducted under less-than-perfect conditions.
Less than perfect seemed the understatement of the century as he stormed down the long corridor with Nina racing behind him, making another frantic attempt to reach Brady, Doc, and the others.
How long had they been developing their plan to get close to Ackmeyer? Nearly a quarter of a year of meticulous espionage, of putting out the right feelers to the right people, of waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It might have taken months more to get the necessary pieces in place. Too long, and hesitation could prove catastrophic, if Ackmeyer was permitted to continue his work. All the worse, should he decide to profit from the formidable fruits of his labor.
That was the argument that persuaded Bowman to green-light the mission this morning, despite its numerous risks. Last-minute intel had arrived from one of the rebels' Boston contacts. Ackmeyer would be making a rare public appearance in a few days, as part of the peace summit gala. And as the celebrated guest of none other than Reginald Crowe.
There could be no more waiting, no more guessing. Ackmeyer could not be permitted to arrive on that stage.
The consensus among Bowman and his rebel crew had been immediate, and the plot to grab the reclusive scientist was put into motion. He'd trusted in the team sent to carry it out. They were capable and skilled, proven in the field time and again. He'd been counting on them and never doubted they'd succeed, with or without him leading the charge.
They would have succeeded, he was certain, if not for an unexpected obstacle.
After taking great care to avoid such a problem, he had now stepped into direct conflict with the Order. He only hoped his crew - hell, the rest of the world in general - didn't end up paying for his mistake.
Bowman picked up his pace as he neared the mouth of the tunnel leading to the nearby battery. No sooner had he reached the yawning maw when he heard a distant commotion of voices spilling toward him through the darkness.
"Is that them?" Nina asked, worry creasing her forehead.
A woman's scream tore loose in that next second. Then a man's sharp, angry shout.
Bowman spared Nina only a fleeting glance before taking off like a bullet onto the lightless path ahead. Chaos was erupting - more shouting and commotion. A metallic clatter, punctuated by the sudden olfactory punch of spilled blood.
He emerged from the tunnel just in time to see Doc on the floor near the van with a fresh stab wound from the dagger lodged in his abdomen. Vince slumped next to a bound and unconscious Jeremy Ackmeyer in the open side-panel door of the vehicle. The rebel's left arm was wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet from what appeared to be an injury that had been tended to en route. He had bruises on his face, clothing shredded in several places. Meanwhile, Brady and Chaz tried unsuccessfully to subdue the hooded, partially restrained female who fought like a demon.
No, Bowman mentally corrected in the second he watched her, she fought like a warrior.
The warrior he knew her to be.
In that fraction of time, between the moment he was simply the leader of these renegade soldiers and the one that held him motionless in awe and respect for a woman he had betrayed so long ago, Bowman didn't think to look in Vince's direction.
Not until it was too late.
Face twisted with rage, Vince launched himself into the fray. He had something in his hand - one of Doc's pressure injectors. He hit her with it, tearing off her black hood and shoving the dosing gun up against her neck. He pulled the trigger and she went down like a rock, limbs crumbling uselessly beneath her.
Bowman's roar shook the entire fortress.
One minute he was standing at the open mouth of the tunnel, the next he was holding Vince suspended by the throat, his fingers all but crushing the man's larynx as he bore down on him in total, murderous fury.
"What have you done!" he snarled.