by J. J. Cagney
“It’s been a pleasure getting to know you, Reverend Cecilia.”
The vehicle from the east grew closer faster—no wonder Anton took that side. He wiggled around, no doubt organizing his weapons. Cici pulled hers out and lined them up within easy reach. She took a deep stuttering breath and raised one of the pistols Anton had given her. The grip was still warm. Otis’s, then. Tears pricked at Cici’s eyes but she blinked them back with ruthless efficiency.
Aci, if there was ever a time to do that spectral help thing, now’s it.
Anton began to fire. The Jeep’s engine hissed to a stop. Someone yelled in a language she now knew to be Russian.
The helicopter drew in lower, brought about by the gunfire, no doubt.
Anton continued to shoot. His breathing remained slow and easy. Cici readjusted her grip on the pistol in her hand.
A man burst into her view, running. He wore a bandolier of bullets slung across his chest, carrying a machine gun.
Cici remembered her father’s words to her when he’d taken her to the shooting range. She was maybe ten. She’d hated being there, hated the smell of the ammunition and heating metal. Hated aiming at paper body outlines.
“Always aim for the torso, Cecilia. It’s the largest part of a person and the hardest to miss.”
If Cici didn’t shoot this man, he’d kill both her and Anton. They’d come so far together. Been through so much.
She couldn’t let Anton die.
I’m sorry, Sam. I should have told you I was upset instead of running away.
Cici leveled her gun. Her breathing steadied.
This went against everything she believed—everything she preached.
Her finger tightened on the trigger.
Easy, Cecilia. Her father repositioned her hand. Don’t force it. Ease into the trigger.
The helicopter was overhead.
Cici’s forefinger squeezed.
She missed. The man hefted his machine gun and turned the barrel toward her.
Cici squeezed the trigger again.
The man fell, landing with a thud. Cici’s heartbeat kicked up like an engine revving in the red zone. She turned toward another man skirting a large juniper about two hundred yards from her location.
Anton cursed and dropped one of the guns. It hit the ground with a metallic clank.
“Two more, twenty-three rounds,” Anton said in a soft voice. “If I’m hit, don’t let them take the stone.” The second time it had been mentioned. The gambler-god’s stone, his talisman of good luck—until it wasn’t.
Cici no longer found the story fascinating, but she couldn’t focus on that anymore because Anton dropped one of the small grenade-shaped objects into her lap. Cici tried to swallow but her throat was too tight.
The helicopter hovered overhead, its blades flattening the sparse vegetation and lifting loose grit from the ground.
Anton said something. Cici couldn’t hear him. She refocused on the man running toward her.
They were going to die. Cici narrowed her eyes and took aim as the man hefted his weapon and began to fire at her.
28
Sam
Forget injuries, never forget kindnesses.― Confucius
Cici and the spy were behind a large boulder, its back to a taller slab of limestone above, pinned down by enemy fire. A few more men poured over the lip of the mesa, caught by the dirt and tumbleweeds, bits of juniper branches and pebbles spraying back toward them, thanks to the helicopter.
One of the men lifted his machine gun and began to fire up at the helicopter.
The pilot turned the chopper in a hard bank to the right as the headset chirped to life.
“Shots fired. Shots fired.” One of the Army guys sitting next to the pilot called out. All of them were outfitted as Sam was—with high-capacity rifles and parachutes in case, as Jack Peterson explained, the situation was “too hot” to land the aircraft.
“Where’s the shooter?” Corporal Hansen asked. He checked his gun before leaning forward to look out the front window. The sergeant pointed. Sam craned his neck. Cici returned fire at the machine gunners now aiming at the helicopter. With a pistol.
“Jiminy Christmas, that takes balls,” the corporal muttered into his handset. “Shit. She hit him.” His incredulity rippled through the ranks.
Ah, Cee.
Sam understood what these men did not—for Cici, the act of taking a life ripped at her own. How far had she been pushed out here?
“Damn, they’re good,” Sergeant Peterson said with a whistle, his eyes trained on the attackers.
“Which side?” Jeannette asked, her voice dry. “Our two are surrounded.”
“We need to take out those three, creeping forward. See?” Sergeant Peterson said.
Another three men broke into view from the west, forming a loose semicircle around Cici and the man who remained unflappable as he pulled the trigger of his weapon. He must have lots of hours of practice under his belt.
Two of the men moved in closer, bearing down on Cici.
“What’s the plan, Sergeant?”
Sam winced as Cici ducked in an attempt to avoid the spray of bullets now slamming into the rocks around her. Any one of those could rebound straight into her body at any moment. He needed to get down there, now.
“We dive in behind them now,” Sergeant Peterson said. “I want to bring in as many of those fuckers as we can. Wound, but don’t aim to kill. Got it?”
The pilot positioned the chopper out of range, behind the Russians closing in on Cici and her spy companion. When Sam, Peterson, and Hansen jumped, even though they were only a few hundred feet up, they’d be easy targets as they parachuted to the ground.
Sam nodded. Corporal Hansen was the first one out the side door, firing his weapon in from behind the Russians, even as Cici and the spy fired from in front.
Sergeant Peterson followed. Then, Sam was in the air, and he counted the obligatory ten, firing at the Russian’s before he clamped his hand over the parachute’s release cord and yanked. Hansen continued to spray bullets toward the Russians as he, Sam, and Peterson lowered toward the hard-packed earth. One of the Russians turned his back on Cici and began to fire toward Sam and his colleagues. Three more of the special ops guys were in the air above them now, all returning fire at the men.
Sam had never been to war, but it had to be like this. Bullets and debris sprayed through the air. Men shrieked and grunted. The noise from the bullets caused Sam’s hearing to shift and warp. He concentrated on shooting at the men still focused on Cici.
Not easy to do with the gun’s kick, but he managed. Bullets sprayed from the air assault at the five probable Russians. Hansen hit the ground at a run and Sam tried to follow suit. His knee nearly crumpled, but he managed to keep moving forward and unhook himself from the chute before he got too tangled in the material.
None of the men still stood. Many of the Russians bled from multiple wounds. Sam didn’t see any bright-red arterial bleeding, which meant they’d live. Well, as long as they received medical attention.
He hoped the spies pulled through of their wounds because the US Army needed the intel and Jeannette needed the win. He held his weapon out, as he’d been trained, keeping an eye on the men. But his new Army buddies were already surrounding the Russians, kicking guns away and searching them for knives and explosives.
He turned, charging up the slight incline toward Cici’s last stand. She wasn’t there. The adrenaline from the jump, from seeing her being shot at hadn’t worn off yet, and now he was jittery, gaze skittering around the area as he sought her telltale dark hair.
Hansen and Peterson called his name. He ignored them. Where was the damn spy who’d been with her?
More importantly, where was Cici?
Please. Please let her be okay.
“Sam.”
He heard her over the ringing in his ears, the moans and cries from the men on the ground, and the loud sweeping rotation of the helicopter’s rotors as it settle
d into place about a hundred yards to the east.
He turned toward her voice, his own body humming with relief. She picked her way down the rock face—how she’d gotten up there, he didn’t know. Her eyes were alight even though blood dripped from a cut on her cheek and she sported a nasty-looking contusion on her forehead. Her arms were covered in a zig-zag series of scrapes, a few deep enough to bleed profusely—from the rock debris no doubt. Her T-shirt was spotted with dirt, sweat, and more drops of blood. Her chest heaved with exertion and adrenaline.
God. He’d missed her. Just being able to look at her, in this moment, made his heart sing.
He kept the presence of mind to hold on to his weapon as he made it toward her.
A flash of light to the right—the opposite direction from the phalanx of gunmen they’d seen above—glinted off something metal. Sam turned, raised his gun and began to fire low, keeping in mind not to aim for anything vital, as he worked to jump in front of Cici. From the corner of his eyes, he watched her roll over the side of the rock, away from the bullets, even as the man Sam assumed to be Cici’s companion, jumped down right where Cici stood moments before.
Cici’s buddy followed Sam’s lead and fired. The shooting from the right stopped.
“Sam,” she cried again as she staggered down the incline before falling onto her rump in a rough tangle of limbs. She groaned.
Sam held his gun out in front of him as he ran to where Cici struggled to sit up. She winced, pain evident in the set of her mouth and the chalkiness of her skin.
“What hurts? Are you shot?”
“Same ankle that I sprained up on Aspen Trail,” she gasped, clutching her lower leg. “And I sat on a cactus.”
Sam grimaced in sympathy. Those spines hurt.
“Cici,” the spy said. “How bad is the leg?”
“Bad,” she gasped.
“Good of you to wait until we had reinforcements,” he said. He eyed her struggle but didn’t move in to help Sam get Cici to her feet. Sam wasn’t sure if he should thank the guy or yell at him.
“Ha ha,” Cici replied, but her lips curved up. “Always with the jokes, Anton.”
A fist of jealousy slammed into Sam’s gut. Did she like this guy? They’d been alone together for more than two full days. He must have saved her life more than once. A dank pit opened in Sam’s stomach. Had Cici gotten attached to him?
Cici struggled to stand, but even with Sam’s gentle assistance, she sank back to the ground with a weary sigh. She winced, shifting off one hip. “I can’t yet. Just…just give me a second.”
Sam glared at the man, who quirked an eyebrow.
“I take it you’re Sam, the man Cici put so much faith in these past few days.” He raised his eyebrows. “The man she knew would come to her rescue.” Censure wrapped around each of his words.
“I am.”
Sam stood over Cici as he and the spy each swept the area around them, ensuring no other threats lurked. Satisfied, Sam crouched down in front of her and brushed Cici’s long, tangled hair back from her face. “Can I help you up? You ready for that?” he asked.
“No,” she said on a sigh and an anxious glance at her foot. “But let’s do it anyway.”
Sam shuffled even closer to Cici, bending down to grasp her under her armpits.
The spy-guy—Cici had called him Anton—Anton hovered nearby, obviously protective of Cici, also covering them in case another threat homed in on Cici. Sam decided to appreciate his concern. And his help. Because he wanted to focus all his attention on Cici.
Cici stood, wobbled, and winced. Sam glanced at the back of her pants and grunted. Cici’s right hip was a pin cushion of cactus spines.
“Hold on to me,” Sam said. “I can’t lift you into my arms until I pull out the spines.”
Cici rested her cheek against Sam’s chest, her arms wound around his neck. He took a moment to press his own cheek to the top of her hot, sweaty head, his arms sliding tight, protective around her back.
“Missed you, Cee,” he managed to choke out.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving.”
“Want me to pull those out?” Anton said.
Sam sighed, hating Anton for ruining his moment. The glint of mischief in the dude’s eyes spoke of his understanding of Sam’s plight.
“Hold on to your man, Cecilia,” the spy said. “I’ll start yanking.”
“Sam’s not my—oh. Ow.” She moaned into Sam’s ear.
Sam held her, rubbing her back with his palm, speaking soothing nonsense into her hair.
“All done,” Anton said. “You were a right pin cushion there.”
“I know,” Cici said on a sigh. She didn’t loosen her arms from around Sam’s neck.
Jeannette hurtled up the hill, speeding over the rough terrain. Sam swept Cici into his arms. She shivered a little, her eyes still shut tight.
Jeannette hustled toward him. Anton lifted his weapon.
“Whoa there, bucko,” Jeannette said, flashing her badge.
Anton dipped his head and lowered his weapon. “You in charge of this op?” he asked.
Jeannette nodded, eyes roving the field. Two of the Army Rangers bent over one of the Russians, performing first aid. The other two stood with weapons at the ready.
Satisfied, Jeannette nodded. “Mostly. Chastain’s on the team,” she said, giving Sam more credit than he expected. He smiled at Jeannette, and she dipped her chin, face remaining serious and trained on Anton.
“A word,” Anton said.
Jeannette and Anton stepped toward one of the Jeeps—the working one the Russians left at the edge of the rise, no doubt in an effort to have an exit vehicle. Jeannette and Anton stood close, heads bowed. Jeannette’s face fell into grim lines as she listened to whatever Anton was telling her. She pulled out her satellite phone and moved farther away to make a call, all the while her eyes trained on Anton.
Sam collected Cici tighter to his chest. He looked down at Cici who stared back, the lids of her eyes red with fatigue.
“I have some things I have to say to you,” he murmured.
Cici sighed, her eyes closed, her lashes laying against deep purple bruising under her eyes. “I want to hear them, but not right now, okay? My head aches. And so does my butt.”
Anton turned his gaze toward Sam, no doubt taking in the tight way Sam held Cici or her relaxed body and the way she pressed into him.
Sam flicked his gaze back to Jeannette, who nodded, which Sam took to mean Anton’s story matched with whatever information Jeannette received via the sat phone. She tipped her head toward the helicopter. Anton shook his head, pointing instead to the Jeep he hadn’t shot up during the firefight. Yep, Anton had intentionally left that one intact. Jeannette eyed him for a long moment before she acquiesced.
Anton glanced back at Cici, who continued to lay against Sam’s chest—a very un-Cici-like experience. He wasn’t sure how to deal with her silence or her lack of willfulness.
Anton stopped a couple of feet from Sam and said, “I have to go.”
Cici nodded, not opening her eyes. “I figured. Remember what I said about Rebecca. And the ghosts.”
Anton cracked a tiny smile. “As if I could forget.” Anton met Sam’s gaze. “She’s a hell of a fighter.”
“I know,” Sam said. “Always has been.”
Cici lifted her head from Sam’s chest but kept an arm around him. Sam thrilled at her desire to remain in close contact.
“Stick to the city,” Cici said to Anton. “And remember what I told you about all creation.”
Anton’s face softened, as did his stance. “I remember everything you said to me, Reverend Cecilia. And I won’t forget how you saved my life. Even though it wasn’t worth saving.”
“I saved it at least twice,” Cici said in a shaking voice.
“It was three times,” Anton said.
A ghost of a smile played over Cici’s lips. “I know it’s worth saving. Though the work you’re doing is scary as shi
t,” she said.
Anton threw his head back and laughed. “Too true.” The skin around Anton’s eyes crinkled a little as he stepped in close enough to press a brief kiss to her cheek.
“The United States government thanks you for your service,” Anton murmured, barely loud enough for Sam to hear. He pulled back and turned toward the vehicle, keys already in his hand. Sam had no idea how he’d gotten them out of the Jeep. He shrugged. Not his problem.
“I expect them to replace my SAR pack,” Cici called, finally lifting her head. “And you better do that other thing I promised on your behalf, mister. They have nothing but time to plan revenge.”
“Noted,” Anton said, his voice dry. His eyes were warm when they lifted to Sam’s. “Take care of her. She’s special.”
Sam nodded.
Jeannette stepped in, hand on the butt of her government-issued pistol. “Let’s get you and Cici out of here first. He said there could still be more Russians wandering about, and I’m not taking any chances.”
Sam cursed his stupidity. He’d simply stood there, an open, easy target. He began to trot toward the helicopter, slowing his pace when he saw Cici bite her lip.
One of the Army guys yelled a warning to his comrades and raised his gun.
29
Cici
Your life is what your thoughts make it.― Confucius
Once again, bullets sprayed across the ground. Sam tucked Cici close to his chest as they sprinted toward the helicopter. Pain leached up her leg with each stride, but she bit the inside of her chewed-up cheek, not wanting Sam to slow.
The helicopter blades sped up with the first shot, slamming hot air and bits of sand into their faces. Sam clambered aboard, placing Cici in a seat before turning back to Jeannette, who grabbed Sam’s proffered hand and leaped into the hovering helo. At this point, the Army Rangers dragged two of the Russians onboard, one kicking and screaming what sounded like curses.
