“You couldn’t have stopped me.”
“I know that, honey.” Her smile twitched, widened. “I never wanted to be an obstacle in your path. You’re your own woman. Always have been. And I know there are things in life that you have to do. I won’t ever try to talk you out of them. But.” Fresh tears filled her eyes and she tried to blink them away. “I’m going to be scared. And I’m going to cry sometimes.”
Trina couldn’t respond, filled with overwhelming love and gratitude. So she pulled her mother into a tight hug, and they clung to one another in the bright bar of sunlight that beamed through the window.
“Come home safe,” Rachel whispered.
“I’ll do my best.”
~*~
“Bit of an enthusiast,” Trina’s Uncle Raymond said, lifting his ball cap to scratch at his receding hairline, gesturing to the interior of the outbuilding with his hat.
She’d known that he was, but enthusiast was too delicate a word for all of this. The shed, secured with a heavy padlock, held rack after rack, trunk after trunk, all of it loaded with weapons of every type. Long guns, handguns, great cases of ammo. Knives, and emergency flares, and MREs, and tactical vests and pants. Targets, and scopes, and safety glasses, and headgear.
Trina stared agape at her uncle.
He shrugged. “We all knew the stories. We thought an arsenal might come in handy someday.”
Lanny whistled. “That is some arsenal.”
Nikita stepped into the building without hesitation, going straight for the wall-mounted case of handguns.
Trina made to follow, but felt a tap at her shoulder. She turned to find her grandfather standing behind her, in his usual uniform of jeans and flannel. She’d always thought he’d looked so much like her dad, and now she knew that he looked like his own father, too.
He motioned over his shoulder back toward the house. “I’ve got something in my closet I think you ought to take with you.”
~*~
He laid it out on the patchwork quilt that covered the bed, and it gleamed in the sunlight: faint and diffused on the wood, bright and sharp on the blue of the barrel.
Katya’s Mosin-Nagant.
Trina held her breath until she felt light-headed, and then let it out slow, hand shaking as she reached to touch – to almost touch. She stopped at the last moment, pulled her hand back.
“Go on,” Kolya said.
“Is it…?”
“Hers? Yeah.” When Trina glanced at his face, he was smiling fondly down at the rifle.
Slowly, carefully, she set her fingertips to the stock, felt the smooth cool wood and marveled at the knowledge that her great-grandmother had touched the same place. Had snugged the butt tight into her shoulder and looked with one eye down the barrel; had taken a Nazi commander in the head, right through the swastika on his cap.
“She kept it in working order right up until the arthritis got too bad, and then I took over,” Kolya explained. “When we were children, she would clean it at the kitchen table, at night, after the dinner dishes were cleared. Father – Pyotr,” he stumbled over the name. He’d always known about Nikita, but Pyotr was the man who’d raised him. “Would sit and keep her company sometimes. They would pass a cigarette back and forth, and talk too low for us to hear. I remember standing in the doorway, thinking they couldn’t see me.” His voice grew distant as he remembered. “But then Papa would turn and see me, and I’d squeal and run, and he’d chase me.”
He shook himself and cleared his throat. “It was normal at the time. Mama and the target practice. Keeping it clean. But now, I think – well, I think she was waiting for another war. She had ghosts in her eyes. I don’t think she ever could have exorcised them. And maybe she didn’t want to.”
He looked up and met Trina’s gaze. “You’re so like her, Trina. You carry too much on your shoulders.”
“Gramps–”
“You do. You’re a warrior, like she was. Warriors need wars. And warriors need weapons.” He gestured to the gun. “You should take hers with you.”
“But…but it’s an heirloom,” she said, feeling dizzy, helplessly knocked off her guard. “What if something happens to it? What if I break it?”
“Weapons need wars, too,” he said, patiently. “Take it, Trina.”
“Shouldn’t Nikita have it instead?”
He shook his head, smiling. “Nikita never needed a sniper rifle. He needed a sniper.”
~*~
She’d fired shotguns and rifles before, but the Mosin-Nagant was heavier than she’d anticipated. It belonged to an age when everything from cars to household appliances were made of solid, clunky metal. A weighted age.
She took a deep breath and snugged the butt into her shoulder, willed her arms to support the rest of it. Pressed her cheek to the stock and closed her left eye. Ignored the strange echoing rush of her pulse against the ear protectors; let the fields and the people around her fade away. Until it was only her, and the rifle, and the target: a water-filled coffee can set on a tree stump at an alarming distance.
Inhale. Hold–
Katya had saved her men, saved her country, saved herself.
Slow pull of the trigger.
An explosion of sound. A vicious kick against her shoulder. A shower of water as the coffee can exploded.
–Exhale.
Trina lowered the rifle and pulled down her headgear to the sound of applause.
Lanny wolf-whistled.
She twisted around and saw her grandfather beaming at her.
And behind him, arms folded, the faintest hint of a smile gracing his lips, Nikita gave her a single nod. Well done.
She nodded back.
29
Farley, Wyoming
He loved her.
While Red kneaded dough with Vicki, while she dusted the board and rolling pin with flour, the conversation kept sliding away from her, her thoughts returning to last night, to Rooster’s confession.
He loved her.
He loved her, he loved her.
She’d known that, in an abstract sense. Like she knew the sun would come up in the morning; like she knew they had to keep running. She’d known there was some feeling there on his part, because no one was that selfless, were they? But she’d doubted. She’d wondered. She’d felt guilty for tying him down.
But he loved her.
“You’re sure in a good mood,” Vicki commented, and when Red glanced over at her, she winked.
Red felt herself blush and turned her attention back to the dough. “I am,” she said, hoping for casual.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain someone, would it?”
When Red snuck another glance, the woman was giving her a sly look. The kind of look women gave one another in movies; it thrilled her to be on the receiving end of it. Made her feel grown up in a way that no calendar date could.
“Mmhm, I thought so,” Vicki said. “Here, hon, we’ll add a little lemon zest over the top.”
The knowledge of Rooster’s love carried her through the next hour – a fleet of balloons tied to her heart, making her buoyant and light in her own skin – as they prepped seven batches of cookies, an iced pound cake, and two loaves of banana bread. When her stomach started to growl audibly, Vicki called a halt to baking and dipped them up bowls of homemade chicken noodle soup from the slow cooker working away on the counter.
“You two are coming to the bake sale tomorrow, right?” Vicki asked, like it was already a given.
Red hesitated, spoon hovering in front of her lips. “I’m not sure.” She and Rooster hadn’t talked about it again, but something about their embrace last night, about sleeping tucked under his chin, had felt like acquiescence. She wanted to go.
She wanted, she realized now, to stay in Farley. At least for a little while. To see if they could find work, and maybe a little house like this. To sit on front porches, and make friends with the neighbors, and not have to worry about anything but getting their grocery store coupons
in order every week. All the normal little things that most people found boring or bothersome; those were the things she craved.
Vicki set her spoon down, expression growing serious, and Red felt herself do the same. “Listen,” Vicki said. “I get the impression your boy isn’t the type to appreciate being told that he needs help of some kind. He’s like my Jack that way. And, like Jack, I think he could probably stand to let go of a little of the war he brought back home with him.”
Red swallowed hard, and didn’t say anything.
“I don’t mean anything by it, honey,” Vicki said, reaching forward to lay her hand on Red’s arm. “It happens to the best of them – sometimes I think it’s worst for the best of them. They bottle everything up and try to be strong for their families. But inside, they’re hurting. They’ve seen things they can’t get out of their heads. He’s got the ghost eyes, your Rooster.”
Red nodded, and even that felt like a betrayal.
But Vicki smiled kindly at her. “After the sale tomorrow, there’s going to be a meeting. They’re all a real good bunch of guys. Mostly Vietnam vets, but some Gulf War and Iraq War, too. There’s even old Edgar, who was in the Pacific Theater in ’44.”
Red could see where this was going. “I – I don’t think Rooster would go for that.” She knew he wouldn’t, but there was no sense being rude.
Vicki searched her face a moment, gaze narrowing, and Red thought she could read all the things she was trying to keep to herself. Finally, she nodded and turned her attention back to her soup. “Well, I figured I’d tell you about it. Rooster is of course welcome to stay. All us girls are going out for a quick bite while they meet. The boys usually come down and join us at the diner for dessert, afterward.”
She could envision it: melting milkshakes in old-fashioned glasses, the gentle chiding of friends, low laughter, clink of silverware and a sense of belonging somewhere. Being with people who only cared about what you could contribute to a conversation, not about what you could conjure from thin air.
Red took a deep breath. “I’ll ask him.”
“That’ll be good, sweetie. Eat your soup before it gets cold.”
~*~
Rooster spent the day laying down new floor and staining it. Red brought him a ham and Swiss sandwich at lunchtime and they sat in companionable silence on the new carriage house porch while he ate it. Every so often she’d let her elbow slide over, and his would echo the movement, and it almost felt like holding hands. Then Vicki called her back to the house, and Rooster drained the last of his Coke and returned to his task.
By six-thirty, the white oak floors gleamed beneath a fresh coat of poly, and Rooster’s arms and shoulders burned pleasantly from exertion. He wiped his face with the scrap of rag in his back pocket and looked up when a man-shaped shadow filled the doorway.
For a moment, an initial flicker of nerves, he thought to reach for the gun he’d hidden in the shaft of his boot. Calculated how long it would take to draw and fire, wondering if the intruder was armed and could beat him to the punch.
But the shadow said, “Hey, it’s just me,” and revealed itself to be Jake, from the garage.
Rooster’s heart pounded painfully, and his fingers twitched, but he nodded. “Hey.”
Jake shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped carefully onto the little square of tile just inside the door, which put him closer than Rooster was comfortable with. “Place is starting to look a lot better.”
“Haven’t done much yet.”
“Still. Those floors were awful.”
“Yeah. Had to replace most of the boards.”
It was awkward. The kind of awkward so oppressive it would have been a relief to turn and take a swing at the guy.
“Okay,” Jake said. “This is awkward.”
“No shit.”
He took a step back and leaned a shoulder in the doorway, which put a few more precious inches between them. “Okay, I was gonna try to come at this a little more gracefully, but I don’t think that’s gonna work. So I’ll just say it.”
Rooster sent him an unimpressed look.
“I’m guessing you know about the VA bake sale tomorrow.”
He gave a sharp nod. “Ruby wants to go.”
“I figured she would if she’s in there helping Vicki.” He chuckled. “I walked through the kitchen on my way out here and got diabetes just being the room with that many cookies.” When Rooster continued to stare at him, he pressed on. “Some of us at the VA are gonna help work the event.”
“Us?”
“I go to meetings.” Jake shrugged. “It’s been a help. Even though I didn’t think it would be.” He lifted his brows, and suddenly Rooster knew what he was getting at. “I used to run a place in Cody, and I just transferred here a week or so again, took over for my uncle. Moving around like that, being displaced…” Another shrug.
Rooster frowned. “Look, I don’t need–”
“There’s a meeting after the sale,” Jake said. “We’d be happy to have you if you felt like it. Just. Think it over, yeah?”
Rooster snorted and glanced away.
“You’re not the only one who got blown up,” Jake tacked on quiet. When Rooster snapped toward him, prepared to see derision, defiance, he found only a soft sort of melancholy. And something truer that he didn’t want to examine too closely. “There’s no shame in talking to others about it.” He turned to go.
“What happened to you?” Rooster asked, and wasn’t sure why.
Jake hesitated, one hand on the doorframe, but thankfully didn’t turn around. He gazed out across the yard, its dappled shadows and willow limbs swaying in the breeze. “Head injury,” he said, flat, like he was reading it off a file. “What about you?”
Rooster didn’t answer, and eventually Jake ducked his head and walked off into the evening.
~*~
Vicki sent them home – well, back to the motel – with a sack dinner for the two of them. Red unpacked it on top of the desk and found roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and broccoli cooked with garlic, butter, and caramelized onions.
“Jesus,” Rooster said, taking a bite of a yeast roll that was still warm. “Why doesn’t she open her own restaurant?”
Red chuckled and laid out the paper plates, napkins, and silverware Vicki had sent along. “I asked her the same thing. She said her knees would be the death of her if she was on her feet that long every day.”
“I hear that.”
The sat down on the end of her bed and ate in front of Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives. For once, the food they were eating tasted as good as the food on TV looked.
Red swallowed a bite of broccoli and said, “Um–”
He said, voice heavy, “I know what you’re gonna say.”
“No you don’t,” she said, automatically.
He sighed. “You wanna talk to me about the bake sale. And the meeting after it.”
She set her plate aside and turned to face him fully.
He dragged the tines of his plastic fork through the potatoes, turning them over and over, a deep groove pressed between his brows.
“Okay,” she said, feeling bolder than last night. Maybe bolder than ever. “Let’s talk about it.”
His jaw clenched, tendon in his throat leaping.
“I know you’re worried about being in public. We’ve already talked about this. I know.”
He took a deep breath, held it, let it out slow. “I just…” He set his plate beside hers and linked his hands together between his knees, clenched them so tight his knuckles turned white.
Her stomach sank. “We don’t have to.” She rested her hand on his shoulder, and he leaned into the touch. “We can just keep waiting for the truck.”
He waited a beat. Long enough that she thought he would nod, and say that was best, that he was sorry, but their lives were always going to be this way. That’s just how it was.
But instead, he said, “I want you to have the things you want.”
“Rooster–�
��
He turned toward her, eyes wide, worried. He was trying. He was showing her his fear, and trying to work through it. “We’ll do it. Just…just be careful. And smart. Okay?”
She dropped her head down onto his shoulder and smiled. “Okay.”
~*~
Spence peeked one last time through the window, then pulled the blinds and came to join them at the table.
There were seven of them total. Jake dealt mostly with Ramirez, because she was his second in command and he’d entrusted her to handle the daily inquiries of the others. Spence he knew, to an extent, but the others – Jones, Flannagan, Esposito, and Farrell – were just faces and files. Tonight, those faces didn’t seem to belong to men who thought too highly of his leadership.
“I don’t get it,” one of them – Jake thought it was Flannagan – said. “We know where they are. You’ve made contact. Their vehicle is locked up downstairs, so they have no way to flee. Why haven’t we made our move yet?”
“Yeah,” several of the others chorused.
“Palmer’s not even our objective,” Esposito said. “He’s completely expendable. We can take him out, apprehend Russell, and be back on schedule.”
“I gotta say, boss,” Spence said, shrugging apologetically. “I don’t disagree with them.”
Jake looked to Ramirez, and she arched a single brow. Asking, waiting to see what he’d do, but not pushing in either direction. At another time, he might have found that helpful. Right now, he could have stood someone in his corner.
He kept his tone calm, authoritative. “Russell is much more dangerous than any of you are anticipating. Palmer is a Marine; he’s heavily-armed, twitchy, and just looking for an excuse to shoot someone. But that’s nothing we haven’t all dealt with before in active combat. No, Miss Russell is a whole different breed of dangerous, and I won’t make a move until I’m sure we can do so successfully, and without putting ourselves at serious risk.”
Red Rooster (Sons of Rome Book 2) Page 29
