Escape From Dinosauria (Dinopocalypse Book 1) (2 page)

The scientifically-engineered sword could cut through flesh and bone. Impossible.

Unless you spent a couple mil on a sword nobody else had, then it was possible.

George stared at the floor, his mouth wide open. He stared at the limbs that seemed to be dropping from the ceiling. The spreading blood pools. The limp bodies from which blood leaked as if those bodies had been nothing more than bags of liquid that had been popped by Kenshin’s sword.

In a matter of seconds, Kenshin had managed to flip to the other side of the room. Paint on the walls. Paint everywhere. Red paint.

Not red paint. Blood.

George could see the meaty brain chunks from one of his dead men and he thought of ground beef. Why did all this death remind him of meat? Why did dead bodies look like meat? How could something so important—life—be reduced to nothing in the instant flash of light upon a sword’s edge?

He looked up in time to witness his old friend easily insert the katana into a man’s belly. Kenshin’s stature was low, his knees bent, legs evenly spaced, so that his head was level with the man’s chest. The sword made a ripping sound as Ken twisted it inside the man’s gut, and then slid it out horizontally, Ken’s hands positioned on the sword’s handle as if he were rowing a paddle. A snake-like trail of viscera was dug out of the man’s stomach by the sword, flopping wetly onto the ground with a spray of blood.

The sudden urge to vomit compelled George to turn his head and double over, retching hot, searing bile through his mouth.

His body weak from the effort, he placed his hand on the desk and looked up to see that only one man was left standing against Ken, and Tanaka found himself wondering why he didn’t not want to see Dmitri Kresevich lose.

Ken had betrayed him. Had gone insane. Had killed several of his men. Had murdered a
Velociraptor
.

Kresevich and Ken circled each other, both men careful not to slip on the blood. The big Russian had drawn two large knives instead of his gun. What was his problem? Why didn’t he just shoot Ken and end it?

The Russian laughed. “I have waited years for this.”

Both men met in a clash of steel that rang through the gore-spattered room. The big Russian moved surprisingly fast, and Tanaka couldn’t tell which man was on the offensive.

Finally, he snapped back to reality and pushed a button on the underside of his desk. A silent alarm. Kenshin had thrown everything away, and had to pay the price. The boss opened a drawer and withdrew a 9mm handgun.

The doors opened, and men flooded into the room, many of them caught by surprise at the sight of the massacre. No matter how disciplined they were, nothing had prepared them for such a ridiculous scene, and many of them slipped on blood and shouted obscenities in confusion.

Boss Tanaka fired at the two men who danced the dance of death.

Both of them moved out of the way, and the bullets struck other men behind them in the chest. Kenshin flipped toward Tanaka. The boss thought of a swooping bird. It was the only reaction he could possibly have. Instead of firing again, he watched in awe as his old friend came for him, and moved behind him, and pinned his arm behind his back, and held the katana’s cold edge against his throat.

Boss Tanaka’s honor would not allow him to beg for his life.

The men in the room hesitated, unsure what they should do. Boss Tanaka signed their paychecks, but there was no way they were getting in close.

Sweat dripped down his neck. His heart pounded in his chest. The blood of his men stung his eyes and soured his tongue. He was powerless. All his money could do nothing against Ken. This was shameful. Absolutely shameful, and unacceptable. Better to die now than live with the embarrassment. He had been blinded by the idea of loyalty.

Loyalty was an idea fit for slaves.

“It’s over,” Tanaka said. “You’re a dead man.”

“I have been your friend since we were children,” Kenshin said, his voice calm and smooth, “you know that I do not fear death. But I will always serve the man I swore to protect, even if that man no longer lives in you.”

Tanaka closed his eyes. His bladder let go and warm urine filled his pants.

A rush of air met his face and he felt his body go forward. He was dead. Any second, there would be pain. His body felt light in that brief moment, because it had been unburdened by life.

But he opened his eyes. He was not dead. The traitorous bastard had leapt onto the desk. The fool wanted to commit suicide to prove a point.

Let him.

“Kill him, goddammit!” Boss Tanaka screamed, and then ducked beneath the desk.

Kenshin seemed to move in slow motion, floating backward through the air as the storm of bullets shattered the window into a million thin cracks. Kenshin’s feet were directed at the window, and he soared through the window with a crash and soared downward, feet directed at the earth.

The fall was 110 stories.

George believed the gunfire had stopped, though the roar in his ears remained. The window was completely gone, leaving only the sprinkles of glass shards to glow in the sunshine. Several shards were caked in blood. A cool gust of wind blew into George’s face.

Proudly, Boss Tanaka rose from beneath the desk and approached the edge of the window. Dmitri Kresevich stood next to him, a long vertical slash through the fabric of the shirt, blood trickling over his bulging belly.

Nothing but treetops below them. Treetops and air.

In the distance, the loud, proud roar of an ancient creature that had been cloned by Boss Tanaka’s money.

A piece of paper flew by his head, sucked out of the window. Maybe it had been inside a dead man’s pocket. George glimpsed it out of the corner of his eye as it floated away, and immediately recognized its color and design, even though he saw it for only a moment before the wind carried it away forever. It was the brochure. The brochure every new visitor received when they arrived. Inside the brochure were pictures of smiling families huddled closely next to a
Stegosaurus
or a
Triceratops
.

He also knew what was printed on the front of the brochure.

DINOSAURIA—WHERE EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE!

CHAPTER ONE:

WELCOME TO DINOSAURIA

1

The next asshole who called her “Rocky” was going to get their teeth knocked out.

Almost everyone on the plane had her autograph by now, and most of them should have known that she hated the nickname. Her name was Jamie Rock, for fuck’s sake, not Jamie Rocky. And if these jerkoffs knew anything about her CFI career—Cage Fighter’s International Championship League, or CFI for short—it was that it was her biggest pet peeve. Still, there were a couple people in Jordan’s camera crew who insisted on it, after admitting they didn’t follow CFI at all.

Thankfully, Jordan knew her better than she knew herself. He patted her hand gently. “Hey, you need a bourbon or something?”

Whenever she was in a bad mood, it became easy to take it out on Jordan, who was probably the nicest man alive. Even with all his money—and a Pulitzer to his name—he truly cared for her. Married three times, Jordan Vance wanted a woman to be his companion, and to him, she was more than just an arm piece.

She shook her head. Better to keep her mouth shut—she could feel herself getting ready to blame him for bringing her on this ridiculous trip just for a photo op. He had insisted, and she didn’t want to be here.

Jamie Rock didn’t want to take pictures with dinosaurs.

Jordan offered a warm smile and turned away. In his mid-fifties with his thick, wavy hair dyed gray, he looked the impeccable gentleman, and he acted like it. It was part of his image. It suited him, because he was genuinely the man he projected himself to be.

“Hey Wayne, can you grab two bourbons for us?” Jordan said to a man sitting behind them. “I appreciate it.”

Wayne was a middle-aged veteran of Jordan Vance adventures who looked so much like Jordan he often pretended to be him when the moment called for it. Whether they were scaling Everest or hanging out in Afghanistan, Wayne had been entrusted with Jordan’s life and career. He was the lead camera man, but asking for “Rocky’s” autograph was probably the riskiest adventure he had ever embarked on.

He nodded to Jordan and went to the back of the plane. Jordan obviously wanted to talk to her alone, and Wayne understood the cue.

“I know you’re anxious to start training,” Jordan said, covering her hand with his on the armrest. “That’s why I appreciate you coming with me. Wayne means well, but he’s excited to be working with you.”

“Sure he is. He knows I won’t be wearing anything stupid in any of our shots, right?”

“We talked about it.” Jordan nodded. “Not going to ask you to ride a dinosaur in your bikini. But we’re going to need some unofficial photos from the beach.”

Jamie groaned. She was terrible at public relations, and she hated the skimpy stuff and airbrushing on magazine covers, particularly the ESPN “Body” issue. She had no problem with the idea that maybe she inspired women to look their best, blah blah blah, but she was a fighter first. Being a woman was nothing more than a marketing gimmick her former agent exploited to the fullest. Now, she had Jordan to advise her, so she didn’t need an agent. But he was right about doing the silly shit.

“You agreed I could have a beer this time,” she said.

Jordan laughed. “Sure. It’s part of your image. You need to like who you are. It’s easier to be honest.”

Jamie rolled her eyes. She valued everything her trainers and coaches gave her throughout the years, especially her dad, and Jordan’s little nuggets of wisdom and experience resonated with her.

“I appreciate you coming with me,” he said, his voice and body relaxed, calm.

Wayne returned with the bourbons and Jordan thanked him.

Public Relations. Better to be strapped to a chair and forced to watch eight hours of golf or NASCAR with nothing but a bottle of water to drink and her eyes pried open so she couldn’t fall asleep. Dinosauria was the hottest thing in the news right now, and what better way to get a scoop on the scientific marvel than to feature the world’s toughest woman hanging out with the deadliest beasts?

Jordan’s words.

She tipped the bourbon glass to her lips and downed it.

Jordan took a sip of his and leaned back in his chair. “You know, when I was a kid, I loved dinosaurs. Most boys like dinosaurs. They’re big and ferocious, and those plastic toys are everywhere. But for me, I was into it for a long time. I wanted to be a scientist. Wanted to study them.”

“Why didn’t you?” She felt cranky and tired and the last thing she wanted to hear right now was a speech about dinosaurs, but she didn’t want to be a bitch about it—although the fact that he brought her out here for his own selfish reasons nagged at her.

Jordan shrugged, and looked at her with his icy blue eyes. “I just grew out of it, like most boys. I just feel like I’m sort of in a funk right now. When you’ve accomplished everything, you can get complacent. Lazy. Maybe you lose your way. There’s a part of you that you forget, the attitude or passion that brought you to the top. I was thinking about this after your fight last month. I keep thinking that I want to feel that way again. The way you felt when you held the belt for the first time. And I thought I was starting to lose my edge, but if I challenged myself, then maybe I could keep you from feeling the way I do. I don’t want you to lose your edge.”

It was just like him to turn it around into some kind of “I’m doing this for you” scheme. The first couple months of their romance, she was suspicious of it, thought it was just one of his many strategies that he used for placating people and getting them to do what he wanted. Jordan Vance was one of the world’s greatest journalists for a reason, and no matter how humble he pretended to be, Jordan cared about his reputation and image more than anyone she had ever met. He was a mastermind at managing his persona for the public; he admitted to her once that all of his wives eventually figured him out and got tired of it.

There was another reason why they were going to a dinosaur theme park, and he wasn’t saying.

“I’m not going to lose my edge,” Jamie said. “My first title defense is two months from now, and I should be training for it. I should be watching film, working out, all the shit I’m supposed to do to keep my edge.”

Jordan straightened his fitted suit coat. She had seen him wear a suit to bed more than once.

“Trust me when I say you’ll love the hotel,” he said. “You can still exercise. You can still train. Just give it a day, and I won’t be in your way. I checked to make sure the hotel has everything you might need.”

Damn, he was good. Always had his act together. The most successful journalist in the world was sleeping with the baddest female cage fighter. Sometimes, she didn’t know why she stuck around if she was suspicious of him all the time. But still, Jordan always found a way to calm her down, to balance her out.

There was no use arguing with him. They were going to an island resort that served as a dinosaur theme park—the first of its kind. She didn’t care for dinosaurs.
Jurassic Park
had looked silly to her, and anything that was remotely unrealistic was just beyond her. She preferred things that were real and relevant. Fantasy and speculation weren’t important to her, and neither was this trip. But she was here, and the rest of Jordan’s crew had to put up with her.

Because some of them called her Rocky.

Jordan kept up his act. He was relentless, and that’s probably why she ended up trusting everything he said.

“Did you know that the
Tyrannosaurus rex
wasn’t the biggest dinosaur?” he asked her.

“I didn’t know it was supposed to be the biggest dinosaur.”

“That’s because it wasn’t. The biggest was called the
Spinosaurus
. I have a picture of it on my phone.”

He showed her a picture of a big dinosaur on his phone, and to her, it looked like any other dinosaur.

“Do they have a
Spinosaurus
where we’re going?” she asked.

“That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

2

According to Jordan, it was the third tallest building in the world. Another nondescript ego-trip. A phallic structure made of glass and steel. A hotel-resort designed and built by the mega-rich for the mega-rich. Only the wealthiest could afford the exclusive trip to the most interesting place on the planet, and she couldn’t have given less of a shit.

Jamie watched the tip of the structure pass beneath the plane’s wing and promised herself she would never be a hypocrite. She was among the rich now, too. She was one of
them,
and although she didn’t hate people who were rich, she wasn’t a materialistic person and didn’t understand any of it. She was too busy fighting and living life to sit in her apartment and do nothing. She was too busy to spend money on dumb shit.

Well, not totally. Her parents had state-of-the-art farm equipment now, even though her father had clenched his white-knuckled fists and broke a door when he found out she was giving them things. She knew better. She knew her dad’s quiet rage and hatred for all forms of charity.

“Time to land,” Jordan said. “Finally.”

Three bourbons and a jet-lag headache. What were the chances there was a good gym in that massive hotel?

Wayne didn’t say another word to her the rest of the flight. She didn’t turn down autographs unless she was pressed for time or caught in an awkward spot. She was irritable and needed a nap. She’d give him an autograph later and scribbled “ROCKY LOL” or something silly just to make him feel better. It wasn’t his fault she had been stuck on this plane. Maybe while Jordan explored the dinosaur resort she could catch up on some rest and join him for dinner and not feel like she was trying to be nice to him. He didn’t deserve her shitty mood. A nap would help her reset, get her into a positive mood. There might be people at the hotel who wanted her signature, too. Of course there would be. Hell, most days she couldn’t even take a piss without someone wanting her to sign a roll of toilet paper.

She stared out the window as the plane landed, and she rubbed the medal around her neck for good luck. It was the first medal she’d ever received for fighting, and she loved it more than anything.

The crew got off and retrieved their luggage at the baggage claim, and Jordan made several phone calls, each lasting only a few seconds to save on time. He gave Wayne directions, and Jamie tried to block it all out by thinking about her next opponent: the Canadian featherweight champion, Cindy the Leaf. Cindy was supposed to be the quickest fighter in the world, according to the media and her trainers.

Cindy the Leaf was going to be known for how quick she could be knocked out.

Several well-groomed men wearing sunglasses and suits waited for them at the gate.

“Your kind of folks,” Jamie said to Jordan.

“I guess so. I don’t recognize any of them. Their security guy was going to meet us. He’ll take us to the hotel.”

“They don’t look like security. They look like they’re about to attend a United Nations summit.”

Each man seemed a different ethnicity, and none of them were particularly young, nor were they wearing one specific type of suit.

“Welcome.” A big man greeted them, a full white beard and full head of hair, blue eyes, bulging belly that probably used to be muscle. He seemed confident, and Jamie could hear the traces of an accent in the single word he uttered. He smiled brightly, and offered his hand.

“It’s the dude from the Dos Equis commercials,” Jamie whispered into Jordan’s ear.

Jordan remained serious. “He’s in commercials, but not for beer.”

Tense for a reason that wasn’t obvious to her, Jordan folded his hands in front of him and nodded to the big man. He had shaken hands with presidents and corporate kings and was able to laugh about some of those meetings. Nothing ever seemed to bother him.

“Hi there,” Jordan said, shaking his hand and introducing everybody.

“I’m Dmitri Kresevich. We’re eager to show you our beautiful island. Welcome, welcome.”

Jamie decided it was a Russian accent, and this man was a little too jovial for her current mood.

Now was the time for a bit of that Pacific island sunshine. After a nice, long nap, she was going to find the beach, hit the gym, and shower. She was going to make the most of her time here and study film on Cindy the Leaf while Jordan hung out with dinosaurs for his latest piece, whatever it was. Let him worry about things that had died centuries ago. She would worry about things that had yet to die, but would soon, if she had anything to say about it. That was good. She’d have to use that line in one of the promos.

The airport terminal wasn’t as packed as she expected. Families with young children made up most of the crowd. What could be better than going to the zoo? Going to a zoo with bigger animals, apparently. The rich taking their spoiled children to pet the ejaculations of Steven Spielberg fanboys. What was the point?

Dmitri led them outside to a group of vehicles. The bright, warm sun blinded her until she slid sunglasses over her face. Its warmth felt good and teased her with the idea of a nap and alone time.

Jordan’s crew separated, while he and Jamie followed Dmitri into a black Hummer limousine. Baggage handlers grabbed their luggage and carefully placed everything in the limo. The air conditioning inside was up full blast, and as hot as it was outside, Jamie had her fill of artificial air. She preferred the heat, and wanted to smell the earth, wanted to feel the sweat dripping off her body.