Scarecrow

by Zoe Dawson

  Wicked screamed, “Grenade!” But there wasn’t enough time for anyone to move. Scarecrow looked down, and in a split-second, as time started to blur, without thinking, without hesitation, he threw himself on the device.

  “Crow,” Wicked cried in anguish.

  Between one breath and the next, he exhaled, expecting the explosion that would end his life. But it didn’t come. He immediately rolled over, went to his knees, picked up the grenade and threw it toward the back of the room. It sailed out one of the small square windows as Wicked grabbed Scarecrow by the back of his fatigues and dragged him toward the front hall. They took cover with the two commandos, waiting for the explosion. Suddenly, a booming rent the air, echoing in the rock around them.

  Other than the sound of them breathing hard from adrenaline and reaction, it was strangely quiet. Finally, one of the commandos turned to Scarecrow and simply said, “Thank you, mate.”

  “What’s going on?” Ruckus said into the mic.

  Scarecrow keyed his own. “Just a dud grenade,” he said.

  “That didn’t sound like a dud. Everyone okay?”

  “No,” Wicked said. “I lost ten years of my life when Crow covered it with his body.”

  There was complete silence for several seconds. “Brief me later. If everyone is good, let’s get this show on the road and get the hell out,” Ruckus growled. There was nothing but relief in his tone.

  Hollywood’s voice came over the radio. “The back tower is clear, LT.”

  Then after several seconds, Kid’s triumphant voice said, “We got the warhead. It’s secure.”

  Scarecrow’s Residence

  San Diego, California

  The knock came early in the morning. Scarecrow had been up for a couple of hours, getting in his run and workout along with a hearty breakfast. There was a knot in his gut that wouldn’t go away. He was sitting on his balcony overlooking the bay, his apartment situated not far from the beach. “Come in,” he called out. The door opened, and Ruckus and Wicked came inside.

  They entered the balcony and both of them sat down.

  Scarecrow looked over at them and gave them a smirk. “What is this? An intervention? Either Ruckus is here to order me or Wicked is here for muscle. Which is it?”

  Ruckus reached out, a piece of paper in his hand. Scarecrow sighed. It was as if he offered Scarecrow a live grenade, just like the one he’d belly flopped on two days ago. His mom had left a message, and he’d listened to it several times. Her voice was watery, and she was still upset he had missed the funeral, even though it had been months ago. She tried to understand, but he knew she couldn’t. Unless a person was a Navy SEAL, they could never really understand the amount of commitment, the dedication or the sacrifice involved. He didn’t fault her for that. He was fighting evil, and he was well-equipped for the task. It didn’t help that he felt like a bastard anyway for causing her distress, especially with her vulnerability at the loss of his dad. He was feeling more than a little raw himself.

  “This is a ticket home. You’re officially on leave. Get your ass packed.”

  Scarecrow turned to look at Wicked, his expression taut and controlled.

  “No help here, bro. I got your back, but Ruckus is calling the shots,” Wicked said, his voice flat.

  “I’m large and in charge. I don’t need Wicked for backup, but I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” This was the tone none of them pushed against. Ruckus wasn’t going to budge. He would have to face what he’d been avoiding for some time. Purposely avoiding.

  Frustration bordering on anger churned in his gut, and he sat forward, focusing on the ocean, the blue sky beyond. “You’re forcing me to go on leave? There are still assholes out there with warheads.”

  “I’m aware, thanks to your excellent recon. But we’ll work on that problem as we go. You have things on your mind that would be best to get resolved. So, get your ass packed. Don’t make me come back here.” Ruckus rose and glanced at Wicked. “Make sure he gets to the airport.”

  “Copy that.”

  Ruckus stopped on his way out and set his hand on Scarecrow’s shoulder. “Go home, Arlo. Get your shit sorted out.” He squeezed briefly and then let go. “Take some R&R. You deserve it.”

  He relived the moment he’d landed on the grenade and sweat broke out on his temples. It wasn’t fear he felt; it was the fact that he could have died with unfinished business. Not that he would regret one moment of his action. It was his intent to save the lives of the men in the room with him—that was the main motivation. It was only hindsight rearing its ugly head that was making him rehash the incident.

  He’d been damned lucky and, in his mind, had gotten a second chance. Ruckus’s orders weren’t to be denied. Scarecrow was resigned to going home and dealing with his dad’s death, his infirm mom and all the decisions he had to make, especially the one that involved selling his boyhood home. For an instant, he remembered his roots, his family, especially his cousin who had made his life hell, the bruises and the bullying that Scarecrow had to endure in the name of family. It was the first time he’d seen evil.

  He'd been sitting on the stairs while his parents and his uncle argued. Scarecrow had often found his uncle was mean, even meaner when he was drunk. As usual, his dad was shielding his mom. His uncle’s outbursts, sometimes spoken in French, always seemed to be directed at her. Scarecrow figured that’s why his uncle had hated him. His aunt Eva had been a timid mouse of a woman, barely remembered as she’d receded so far into his memory like a ghost. He just recalled the shock when she up and disappeared one hot summer. They’d never heard from her again.

  Scarecrow rose. He glanced at Wicked. “I’m going to pack my shit. I would appreciate a ride to the airport. But first, I’ll need to call my mom.”

  Downtown

  Red River Parish

  Bellise, Louisiana

  Scarlett stepped off the curb, her white, strappy sandals clicking as she walked across the hot pavement. Her destination was a food truck down the block. Her stomach rumbled even louder, and she pressed the palm of her hand to her middle. She’d come to town to pick up some fertilizer for her growing, almost ready to harvest, chili peppers. She shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.

  As covers go, this was a pretty interesting one. She hadn’t expected to enjoy it so much. The soft crooning of a saxophone slid through the moist air. She paused, the sound of it a creamy murmur with sultry undertones and so beautiful it hurt her heart. She turned, drawn by the sound, and stepped up the opposite curb, following the music, ignoring her stomach.

  The street musician was a black man, his dark skin already showing signs of the heat that would only increase in this humid place. Being a Brit, she had only been exposed to this kind of humidity when the British Isles had a brief but suffocating heat wave.

  Yet, here in the South, there was something more to the very air, a sense of moving slower, hips that swiveled in a sensual slide when walking, the sheen of perspiration that coated the skin in a golden glow, accentuating shapely breasts peeking above a low-cut blouse or the toned curve of a calf muscle, highlighted in a pair of heels.

  Even the air she breathed was…hot.

  She turned to find an adolescent girl on the verge of puberty staring into the local diner. Her eyes were on the food that was being served, hunger in every line of her thin body. Memories stirred and cascaded, dissipating the heat until the very core of her was nothing but ice cold.

  She wanted to turn away, wanted to bolt and forget every image the girl evoked, but Scarlett couldn’t move. The smoky vibration of the sax sent tremors through her. She found her will and opened the small purse she carried. Drawing out a twenty, she dropped it into the sax player’s open case. He smiled at her, but she couldn’t find the cheerfulness to smile back. Instead, she just nodded. He was a superb musician. But the gray pall that had slipped over her from her memories froze anything bright inside her. Reaching for more bills, she walked over to the child and crouched down.
<
br />   “You hungry, little bird?”

  The girl’s attention reluctantly left the plates of food and focused on Scarlett’s face. Her eyes were a deep, rich brown with flecks of gold in them. Her gauntness couldn’t hide the beauty in her delicate features.

  “You sound funny.”

  Scarlett smiled, the innocence of the child as pure as the color of her eyes. “I’m British, love. That’s my accent. You have one, too.”

  “I do,” the girl drawled, frowning. “I sound like everyone else here.”

  “Exactly. Pretty, Southern drawl. It’s like honey.”

  The girl licked her lips. “What’s your name?”

  “Scarlett.” She smiled as some of the ice melted. “What’s yours?”

  “Annamae.”

  “That’s so pretty, just like your accent.”

  The girl smiled, and it transformed her face.

  “How about you pop in there and order yourself some breakfast, yeah? Then buy whatever groceries you might need at home?”

  Annamae’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open at the twenty, then the fifty-dollar bill Scarlett set into her small hand. “Gosh, ma’am, that’s so nice. My momma is tryin’ hard to make ends meet, but it’s hard cause my daddy is out of a job.”

  “Your dad needs a job?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about you give him my number.” She wrote it on the little girl’s hand. “And I’ll see what I can do.” Scarlett wished she had known her dad, the memories of him may have dimmed, but they hadn’t ever faded. Her heart couldn’t handle the emotions and she locked them up and kept them there. Going it alone made it easy to care only for herself. But damned lonely, she admitted to herself.

  Scarlett rose, the sound of the music winding around her again. She rubbed Annamae’s head, her hair soft against Scarlett’s fingers. “Go ahead and eat. Enjoy it.”

  “Thank you, Scarlett,” Annamae whispered and disappeared inside. Without making eye contact with the sax player, she made her way back toward the food truck.

  Back in her car, she drove home, her temporary home, to the plantation, the fertilizer smelling loamy and earthy. How was it a city girl found the scents so…enticing? She’d never gardened, didn’t have any connection to plants at all, yet she couldn’t get enough of the aroma.

  Pulling up to the shed, she got out and headed to the house. She paused at the sight of a pair of boots and looked up the legs encased in jeans to the man who sat in one of the rockers on the big porch.

  She sighed. Hank Marshall. Smarmy. He was her neighbor across the road, Rosemary Porter’s nephew and nothing at all like his sweet and generous aunt.

  He had brown hair, a little too long, pale blue eyes, and a serious personality deficit. He was always around her property when she least expected him, always with a valid excuse. Some women, shallow ones maybe, would think he was handsome, but there was something about his eyes and a slant to his mouth that told her he had the kind of meanness in him that was innate, even something that he enjoyed.

  He reminded her of someone as a shiver went down her spine. Yet she couldn’t seem to isolate that little memory that made her skin crawl each time he came near her.

  “Ooh-wee, little lady. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  She sighed again. His accent was getting on her nerves. The twang was grating. “Mr. Marshall,” she said coming up the porch steps.

  He dropped his gaze down the length of her body, taking her in with one greedy gulp as he lingered on her breasts. “Now, hon, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Hank?”

  Someone please shoot me.

  He rose as she went for her front door. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Nope. Just being neighborly. I’m checking on my aunt since my cousin has been away. He didn’t even have the decency to come home for his daddy’s funeral.”

  That was the other thing she’d heard almost nonstop. Hank went on and on how terrible a person his cousin was. Arlo Porter, Aunt Rosemary’s son. Boy, that woman got the wrong end of the stick. She was going through a hard patch, but that wasn’t Scarlett’s business. She was just leasing the land she needed for the chilis from her.

  “Sure is hot out here,” he said, angling for an invitation inside. Not on his life.

  “It really is. Thank you for stopping by, but I’ve got to get some stuff done. I’ll see you later,” she said and didn’t wait for an answer. Unlocking her door, she slipped inside. He stood on the porch for a few more seconds.

  “All right. You have yourself a good day, sugar pie.”

  She watched him get in his car and head to the road. He turned left and drove away from his aunt’s house. She snorted. Visiting his aunt her ass.

  She glanced across the street, but it was quiet over there. Ever since her husband, Mason, had passed, Rosemary Porter only came outside to water her flowers.

  As the day passed, she found herself checking the window more often. Had she missed Rosemary? It wasn’t her place to keep track of an old woman, but Rosemary had been so kind to her when she’d needed to lease the land.

  She went outside and stood on the porch fighting with herself. She wasn’t here to get attached to the locals. This was just temporary. Muttering under her breath about how weak-willed she had become, she went down the drive and up the Porter’s walk. Knocking on the door, she waited for Rosemary to appear.

  Finally, the door opened, and Rosemary stood there, her eyes red-rimmed. Without a word, Scarlett opened the screen door. “How about a spot of tea?” she asked.

  Rosemary smiled, and Scarlett called herself a fool all over again.

  The next day, early in the morning, she couldn’t seem to break the habit. She looked across the street and sighed again. Hank’s aunt was on her porch…crying her eyes out.

  Scarlett turned away from the window. It wasn’t any of her business, dammit. She was here to find a mass murderer, get back her family heirlooms, get justice.

  She took two steps, then gritted her teeth. “Arrgghhh,” she whispered under her breath. Well, this was good. Keep Rosemary happy and malleable. She might need Rosemary on her side. That’s what she told herself.

  Trying to stay detached, she pulled open the front door and headed down the driveway. As she approached the porch, she could hear the woman’s distress, and it tightened her gut up. What the hell was she doing getting involved in her business?

  When her foot hit the bottom stair, Rosemary looked up. “Oh, Rosemary,” Scarlett said softly.

  Once she had gotten her some lemonade and seated her in one of the beautiful rockers, Scarlett took her hands and asked, “What is the matter, love?”

  “It’s Arlo. He’s coming home, and I can’t remember where I put my car keys. I’ve been so absentminded lately. She rubbed a tissue against her eyes. I’m not this scatterbrained. I promise.”

  “I know you’re not. You’re brilliant. You remember who I am.” That got her a watery smile. “There we go. How about I pick him up from the airport for you?”

  “Oh, would you? You are such a dear. I’ll just get his flight information.”

  3

  Scarlett was staying on Rosemary’s good side, and a one hour and forty-five-minute early morning ride to the airport was the price. She was going to be a tad early, but that would give her a chance to scope him out before he got a bead on her.

  She parked in the deck and walked to the baggage claim area. The flight had just landed, and he should be here soon to claim his luggage. She waited impatiently, tapping her toe. She had things to do back at the plantation… Her thoughts scattered as her eyes went to a tall man in camouflage pants heading toward her. She had only one thought.

  Testosterone.

  He walked like he owned the ground. An alpha attitude in every line of his body—lines that spelled danger in capital letters. He was devastating, like an explosion going off in her life.

  He exuded an animal magnetism she knew all about and where it could
take a girl. And every single woman on his flight and in the airport from young to old knew it, too.

  From his mum’s description, this had to be Arlo Porter.

  But her words hadn’t done the man justice.

  He strode toward her, his focus direct, the energy in him off the charts. He looked like he could climb a mountain or forge a raging river without any effort. The black T-shirt he wore molded across a wide, well-built chest and stretched over broad shoulders. The sleeves of the shirt were taut over arms that bulged with mouth-watering biceps and muscular forearms, his skin smooth and tanned. He filled out those pants belted to his lean waist and hips, tapering down to thick thighs and sure feet encased in polished black boots. Her breath caught as he got closer, his vibrant green eyes locking with hers. His gaze was very serious, so very watchful of everything going on around him.

  So very fierce.

  It caught her in an iron grip, that fierceness and the way the high arch of his cheekbones intrigued her, and the lean angle of his jaw. His golden-brown hair was cropped short, which was no surprise. Coupled with the camouflage pants, it was clear this guy was military, special ops if her MI-6 intuition was correct—and it usually was.

  He had a well-formed nose, adding a nobleness to his chiseled features. His brows lowered over those intense eyes, his skin flawless. Beard stubble darkened his strong jaw, lending a disreputable air to him. His mouth was wide and firm with a delicious bow on the upper lip. She wanted to suck it, and that thought made her wonder how he would taste. She had to chalk that up to the most disconcerting thought she’d ever had about a male stranger…ever.

  Damn her luck. She had Rambo living across the road from her.

  Damn it, this was a warrior—the heightened awareness, the physicality, and the predatory alertness of his expression. He was made for trouble, and he was not to be trifled with, not if she wanted to keep her real purpose here under wraps. She’d waited a long time to corner the bastard who had committed atrocities in her town, killed her family, and left her homeless in a war-torn country when she’d been three years old.