Nulo looked in the same direction to see a dark silhouette sitting in the dark a few rows back. His gut clenched. Perhaps it was his tío. Waiting for Father to go to bed so he could drag him back home. There would be a beating, its severity dependent on how much money he’d been able to drink away. If he was very drunk, there would be more than just a beating...
Father Francisco turned again to offer him a small smile. “You’re a good boy, Nulo. Jesus loves you very much.”
The priest’s words jerked his attention back to his face. Jesus loves you very much. He didn’t believe that but he didn’t want to make Father Francisco angry so he didn’t say anything in return. After a few seconds, the priest gave him a final nod. “Sleep well, my son,” he whispered before retreating.
Nulo listened to his footsteps, starting to drift even as they faded into the priest’s small room behind the church’s altar. As soon as he as gone, Nulo turned back in the direction he’d been looking but the figure was no longer watching him. No longer waiting.
It was gone.
He didn’t know what roused him. Maybe the soft creak of the garden gate. Maybe the shuffling of shoes treading through dirt. Whatever it was, he sat up, his breath escaping into the frigid sanctuary in visible huffs.
Someone was outside.
He moved with practiced stealth to the window, stopping just short of the glass, staying in the shadows so he could look out without detection. One look told him hiding wouldn’t be necessary. The man in front of him was nothing to worry about. He was young, probably close to his own age. White and clean. Good looking. He’d seen him before.
The girl he carried was more than good-looking—she was as beautiful as an angel. She was also very much dead.
He could tell by the way her head flopped on the young man’s shoulder. The way her arm dangled, soft and loose. Instead of fear, he felt a sort of fascinated anticipation as he watched the man kneel down to deposit her on the bench under a tree. He touched her face, the look on his own drawn tight with emotion. Regret and pride. Lust and fear. He knew without being told that whatever had happened to the girl, the man who knelt beside her had been the one to do it.
He watched as the man withdrew something from the front pocket of his pants—something small and silver. He passed it over the girl’s face, close to her eyes before setting it aside. The man hovered there, looking down at her when the blanket slipped down, exposing the girl’s chest and stomach. He could see what had been done, even from inside the dark church. He could see it and it didn’t frighten or disgust him. Not even a little bit.
The man reached out, cupping her breast while the other stayed to the front of his pants to caress himself. He looked as if he were teetering on the edge of something when his shoulders straightened, the hand at his crotch going still. No longer fondling her, the man pressed his gloved hand to the girl’s chest and watched her as if he expected her to sit up and speak. He stared at her, ridged and unmoving, hand pressed to the young woman’s breast until the low howl of a coyote cut through the night. Without warning, the man stood and casting one last look at the girl, he left.
He waited. Counted to one hundred in both Spanish and English before he moved. He was not afraid of the man who left the girl but something told him he would not be happy someone had seen him.
As soon as he was sure the man was gone, he exited the church, careful to ease the door shut just enough to stop the draft from entering the sanctuary but not enough to lock himself out. Approaching the bench, he felt the sudden rush of fervor. The closer he drew, the heavier the sensation grew, until it was as if he were kneeling before Saint Rose herself.
As soon as he was close enough, he reached out to her, trailing his fingers along her opened palm. His hands were like ice but compared to hers, they felt as if they were on fire and he wondered at it for a moment—how cold she was. How empty. Her lids were held at half-mast—one slightly higher than the other. The eyes behind them were flat. Dull. Blood smeared across the delicate skin beneath them, like tears. His gaze fell from her face to her breasts and he imagined touching them as the man had. How they would feel in his hands.
Suddenly, the lax palm beneath his jerked—fingers wrapping around his with a speed and strength that surprised him. The girl’s eyes flew open, skewering him with a gaze so blue, so piercing—so alive—for a moment, he was certain she could see into the heart of him. That she knew what he had been thinking. What he’d been wanting.
“Nulo.”
Father Francisco’s voice was pinched, almost frantic. He knew he shouldn’t stare. That he was making the priest uncomfortable but he couldn’t stop himself. A grotesque collection of stab wounds littered her stomach. They’d been grouped together—a warning to every other man who would ever look at her.
“Nulo,” Father Francisco tried again, his voice reached out and rattled him from his memory.
“Yes, Father?” a warm flush crept across his neck, shame curling in his belly. He was looking and he shouldn’t be.
“Was there anyone with her?” Father Francisco said. “Did you see who left her?”
“No, Father.” He shook his head and looked away. A lie but much better to tell a lie than the truth of what he saw. “When I found her, she was alone.”
“Good…” the priest said, sounding relieved. Nulo suddenly understood. Father Francisco was afraid one of them had done this. That one of his congregants had committed murder and left their victim on holy ground.
“Go wait with Manuel for the ambulance to arrive,” Father Francisco said. “When it gets here, bring them around back. Not through the church. Tell them to hurry.”
He turned away, starting to move even before the priest had finished speaking. Under normal circumstances, it would be considered a sign of disrespect. One he’d be admonished for but no one noticed. There was nothing normal about this morning.
Sirens screeched in the distance, closer and closer with each revolving wail. Help was coming. The girl would live. She would be taken to the hospital. Healed by doctors and they would confirm what he already knew.
She was a miracle.
2
Kootenai Canyon, Montana
August ~ 2016
The McMillian TAC 50 fit snuggly into the joint of her shoulder and she settled it in, leaning into the stock just enough to secure it. Michael had modified it last week, shaving a few centimeters off to accommodate her slightly shorter arms. Thinking about it made her smile. It was the little things in their relationship that kept the romance alive.
Beside her, Avasa whined softly. “Shhh,” she breathed, touching her cheek to the brace. The dog beside her went quiet, dropping her muzzle on top of her outstretched paws.
Her spotter lowered the field scope and looked at her, doubt plastered all over her face. “Are you sure about this?” she said, her voice thick with apprehension, giving the dog lying between them a commiserating look. “I mean… is it really necessary?”
Sabrina took her eye from the scope and rolled from her belly to her side, lifting herself from where she’d been lying flat in the grass. The McMillian stayed where it was, supported by the tripod that secured it.
“Christina, we’ve been over this,” she said quietly, looking at the girl who lay in the grass, a few feet away. “This is completely necessary—and you know it. Remember what happened last winter? How much trouble he caused?”
It’d been their first winter here and while they made out okay, it could have been a lot worse if they hadn’t been so well stocked.
The girl’s shoulders slumped beneath the pale yellow T-shirt she wore, but she nodded. “Yes, I remember,” she said, repositioning the field scope to her face. “It just makes me sad is all.”
You and me both.
Re-fitting the TAC 50’s stock into the groove of her shoulder. It took her a second to gain her bearings inside the scope but then the terrain popped into focus in front of her and she found her target. A quarter mile away was a Gray Wolf—
male by the size of him—loping along the riverbank that snaked its way through the middle of the canyon they called home. This was the only spot in the river slow and shallow enough to make an easy cross on foot. The only way to get at the cattle they relied on for food. The wolf stopped, dipping its head toward the water before stepping a tentative foot forward, into the river. “Do you trust me?” she said, laying her finger against the TAC’s trigger.
“Yes,” Christina said, sounding more resigned than trusting.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t try to reassure the girl. She just crooked her finger. The rifle rocked backward, gently nudging her shoulder like it was saying hi. Its high-powered report ricocheted around the canyon.
Almost as soon as she took the shot, the bullet found its mark, fifteen hundred yards away, slamming into the water mere inches from where the wolf stood. Water rocketed upward, into the wolf’s face, startling him and he leaped back, front paws wet and in the air. He landed, sidestepping away from the riverbank, even as he scanned the horizon for another assault.
Sabrina slid the bolt back on the TAC 50 to re-load, even as she prayed the wolf would take the hint. The cattle grazing on the other side of the river were off limits.
Determined, he took a testing step toward the river, followed by another. She pulled the trigger again, this time delivering the bullet into the river’s bank. A small explosion of dirt and rock rained down on the wolf and he jack-knifed, falling backward before rolling to find his feet and make good use of them. She slid the bolt back again, watching while the animal took off—unharmed—for safer territory. She didn’t look away until all she could see through the scope was a bushy gray tail, flagging in the distance.
She rolled into the sitting position, taking the TAC 50 with her. Christina was already up, sitting cross-legged in the grass across from her.
“Thank you,” she said, her small hand stroking over Avasa’s flank, her face turned downward so Sabrina felt, rather than heard the catch in her voice.
“For what?” she said, her tone casual as she laid the TAC 50 across her lap to disengage the bolt. The .50 caliber bullet popped out and she caught it—something Michael had recently taught her how to do.
“You know what.” Now the girl sounded irritated, not with her but with herself. Avasa chuffed softly at the sound. “It’s childish of me,” Christina said, looking up to fix wide brown eyes on her. “They kill our cattle—they’d run rampant if you and Michael let them.”
“That’s why we don’t let them,” she said evenly, scanning the canyon. Their canyon. Just under five hundred acres, surrounded on all sides by towering cliffs. They were slung low in the valley, dug in deep. The only way in or out was a narrow mountain trail, barely wide enough to squeeze a truck through. They were isolated. Alone. Completely cut off from anything even remotely resembling civilization. No phones. No internet. Electricity provided by the sun and wind. Water fed to their house through a well. This was a different kind of life. One they were all still trying to get used to.
Sabrina detached the scope from the top of the TAC 50 and stored it in the weapon’s case. “Michael and I will do whatever we need to make sure you’re safe and taken care of—even if it means scaring the wits out of some poor wolf.”
The girl smiled as she’d intended but the glint of it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve seen killing before. I don’t know why it should bother me so much.”
Sabrina folded the legs of the TAC 50’s tripod and secured in its soft case before zipping it up. She stood, pocketing the bullet. Avasa followed suit, pressing her head into her knee, eager to head home. “I think we’ve all had our fill of death, Christina,” she said, slinging the rifle’s case onto her shoulder. She smiled down at the girl and held out her hand. “Come on; let’s go see what the boys made for lunch.”
Lunch was grilled cheese and homemade tomato soup. Sabrina could smell the melted butter and rich tang of tomatoes and cream before they hit the porch steps. Christina shot her a grin, shoving the field scope into her hands before hustling up the stairs, Avasa hot on her heels. Grilled cheese was her latest favorite.
Catching the back door before it banged closed, Sabrina pushed her way through the doorway, stopping to kick the mud off her boots before entering the kitchen. There, she found Michael standing over the stove, bare-footed, spatula in hand, tending a large cast iron skillet full of grilled bread and melting cheese. Avasa sat in front of him, waiting patiently. Christina was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s she go?” she said, unslinging the TAC 50 from her shoulder and propped it against the wall.
“I sent her to wash up,” he said to her without glancing up from the stove. From the corner of her eye, she watched him casually drop one of the finished sandwiches on the floor. It never made it. Avasa caught it, mid-fall, nearly swallowing it whole. She licked her chops and lifted a paw for more.
“I saw that,” she said, face turned away so he couldn’t see the smile on her face.
“No you didn’t,” Michael said, tossing the dog another grilled cheese. “Hungry?”
“Starved.” She reached into her shirt and pulled out the brass key she kept there on a chain. “Alex?” she said, fitting the key into an antique larder, she opened its door. Inside were enough weapons and ammo to take over a small country.
“Sent him too,” Michael said, distracted. She looked over her shoulder, watching him flip the grilled cheese with the same delicate precision she suspected he’d use to defuse an IED. Avasa, knowing a third sandwich would be pushing it, found her bed near the fireplace to work on the beef bone she kept there. “He spent his morning in the woods—again. Walked in at eight, didn’t see him again until about twenty minutes ago.”
She put the TAC 50 inside the cabinet and locked it back up before glancing at the clock. It was half past noon. “What do you think he’s doing?”
“In the woods?” Michael slid his spatula under the sandwich and lifted it from the skillet to deposit it on a platter with the several dozen others he’d made. “I don’t know… but whatever it is, he doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”
Just then, Christina burst into the kitchen, Alex not far behind. He’d gained weight and color over the months. He looked healthy. Strong. Like a completely different kid than the one she’d found naked, cowering in the basement of an abandoned house—as long as you didn’t look him in the eye. On the few occasions he’d allowed it, Sabrina could still see him, trapped in the dark. Sometimes it scared her. Mostly it just made her sad.
“Can Alex and I have a picnic?” Christina said, hopping from one foot the other, a ball of pent up excitement.
“Got your watch on?” Michael said, glancing over his shoulder to see her flash the fat black band and digital face at him. It was an unnecessary question. She never took it off. None of them did. Michael looked at her, his head tilted at a questioning angle.
She shrugged. “I don’t see why not, do you?”
He shook his head. “Okay, just—”
Christina reached past him with an excited squeal, grabbing at the platter of grilled cheese. “Come, on,” she said to Alex, around the sandwich in her mouth, as she ran out the door with several others in her hands. Alex followed her, head down, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. Avasa watched them go, floppy ears pricked forward in interest.
Sabrina caught the door before banged closed. “Beschermen,” she said. The dog abandoned her bone and trotted out behind them to do her job. Protect.
“—be careful,” Michael finished, lifting the platter off the counter and carrying it to the table while she went to the kitchen sink to wash up. “I made twenty sandwiches—she left six.”
“Hmm…” she said, not really paying attention. Through the window she watched Christina and Alex disappear into the woods, Avasa close behind. “Correction—whatever he’s doing in the woods, he doesn’t want us to know about it.”
Behind her, Michael laughed. “He’s not a Soviet sleeper agen
t, Sabrina. He’s an orphan—just like the rest of us…” She heard him move in, a moment before she felt the slide of well-muscled arms around her waist, bumping against the SIG strapped to her hip. “Besides, haven’t you seen the way he looks at her?” he said close to her ear, the slight brush of his lips on her lobe enough loosen the hinges in her knees.
She smiled, turning in his arms until she faced him. “How’s that?” she said, lifting her hands to his hair. Standing on the toes of her boots she kissed him on the mouth, loving how it curved into an easy smile beneath her lips.
“Like he adores her…” He nuzzled her neck, his hands gripped around her hips. “Like he’d do anything for her.” Michael lifted her up, setting her down on the counter’s edge, hands hooked into the crooks of her knees to pull her closer. “I suspect it’s the same way I look at you,” he whispered against her throat, fitting his hips into the cradle of her thighs.
Tilting her head back to give his mouth better access to her neck, Sabrina sighed. “Tell me more of this adoration you speak of,” she said, locking her ankles around his waist, her arms around his neck. “How many grilled cheese sandwiches will it win me?”
He laughed, the breath of it skating across her collarbone. “Is that all you want me for?” Somehow, he’d worked the first five buttons of her shirt loose. “My grilled cheese?” His fingers skimmed along the cup of her bra, tangling her breath around her tongue.
“No…” she tightened the lock of her ankles around waist, pulling him even closer. “That would be unfair to your pancakes.” She grinned against his mouth. “You make fantastic pancakes,” she said and he laughed with her. She’d never get tired of it. The way they fit together. Perfectly…
She didn’t hear it at first. She was too wrapped up in the words being whispered in her ear. His hands against her skin… but when his lips and hands went still she caught the sound of it and by the way Michael suddenly fell silent, he heard it too.
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2 Page 35
