Magic, Mayhem and Murder

by January Bain

  Racing to the side entrance to get inside the camp, he struggled for each breath. He was not used to the lack of oxygen at the high altitude. Oh, God. What needed doing first?

  Captain Krill raced into view, gesturing for him to follow. “Some kids got hit from these rounds. They’re at the front gates.”

  His began moving, running after Krill, wanting to go faster still, lungs burning. He followed the captain around the corner and thirty yards away some of his fellow soldiers were opening the front gate. Crying, distraught Afghan civilians began pouring through. He kept running.

  Then he saw the kids. Heard their screams. Some thrashing in agony in their parents’ arms, others lying still. He dropped his rifle, tore off his helmet and dumped his body armor in the dirt. Sprinted the last stretch.

  “Grab them!” one of the soldiers screamed over the din.

  A loud argument broke out, slowing them down.

  “They’re insisting you take the boys first,” one of the soldiers explained, a translator who understood what Jake couldn’t.

  “Take them all!” Krill ordered.

  Other soldiers picked up the few left alive while Jake scooped up the nearest child, turning to follow the others to the aid station. He glanced down at the child after a few steps. A little girl, no more than five, so light in his arms he almost thought he’d imagined her. She wore a dress made of burlap, rough to the touch, and had bright emerald-green eyes, deep and filled with pain, and long raven hair plastered to her skin from tears and blood.

  He kept running, cradling her head and shoulders in his right hand, her slight body pressed against his ribs, a thigh by his left forearm. Her tiny arm flailed about. She gasped, screaming again and again, never stopping.

  “Shush, it’s okay. It’s okay, little one,” he said it over and over as he ran, each step an agony of taking too fucking long.

  An image of his niece seared his brain. Cute as a button with big blue eyes and long brown curls. Dressed up in a fancy dress for Sunday School and giving him the biggest grin. Emily was about this girl’s age. Maybe a little older.

  Keep moving.

  Her breathing changed. Grew ragged. Her screams lessened. Her eyes were growing dull. She stared up at him, this stranger in the uniform, and her abject terror faded.

  Warmth spread down his chest. What was it? His legs operated on autopilot as he ran, his eyes fixed on hers.

  She screamed one last time, the sound hoarse and weak. The warmth spread to his hip and trickled down his thighs. What was it?

  He had to look. When he did, his brain shut down. Horror consumed him at the one tiny bare foot, perfectly formed and covered in brown dust, and the other a torn chunk of burnt flesh below her dimpled kneecap. A bloody stump. A white bone jutted through the ruined skin and muscle. Horror. Beyond all horrors.

  He stumbled, lost his stride. The little girl let out a shaking breath, dark and raspy.

  “It’s-okay-it’s-okay-it’s-okay.”

  One more step. One more step.

  Her neck grew slack under his arm. The warmth spread down his body.

  He glanced down once more. Her fear gone, the spark of life gone. All gone.

  The world around him dropped away. Muffled. Soldiers ran by in slow motion. Parents cried in the distant. Others barked orders he could no longer hear, the horror in his head masking everything else.

  * * * *

  Drenched in sweat, Jake raised a trembling hand to adjust his sunglasses, scanning the rooftop, his eyes staring and scratchy with pain. A flashback that intense during daylight hours had not happened to him for a while. It must have been the change of circumstances, a one-off. God, make it so. He swallowed hard, trying to calm his breathing, and the harsh sound sawed at the air. He needed to keep his mind in the present, do a good job today and maybe Max would make room for him. He’d hinted enough in the past, trying to get Jake to think seriously about things. About his future.

  Yeah, it was time to do just that. Beyond time. Jake nodded. At least Max would need him for a while, considering how much the flu had set his friend back. He owed the guy that much.

  * * * *

  The seconds ticked by while Silk O’Connor peered through the scope of the .300 Winchester Magnum. It wasn’t her usual choice of weapon. She preferred something a little more up close and personal in her job as a PI.

  “Murderer!”

  “Justice for Ashley!”

  It was time. The news conference was starting. She shifted from her prone position and stretched out farther on her stomach, moving her body slightly forward.

  She’d held the stance for the past hour with the rifle braced on bipod legs, situated eight hundred and sixty yards from the Los Angeles Superior Court, Stanley Mosk Courthouse Grant Street entrance, with its distinctive terra cotta figures. They had been designed to represent the Foundations of the Law, the Magna Carta, English Common Law and the Declaration of Independence, but today the classically robed men of honor standing so nobly for justice might have wanted to crawl down off that façade if they knew how the concept had been bought and paid for in the courthouse beneath their feet, by an uber-corrupt rich man.

  The people screaming from the sidewalk as the asshole was hustled out of the entrance were right. The shit-bag was scum. He was evil incarnate, hiding his murdering proclivities for partying and driving drunk under a handsome mug that made her want to puke. She spat out her now tasteless gum onto the flat tarred roof softened by the harsh L.A. sunshine, the air percolating with the oily fumes.

  She squinted through the scope. Her vantage point, reconnoitered weeks ago, gave her an unobstructed view of the press conference. She was primed to catch the split second. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her she’d neglected to eat that day. Later. Do the job first. But even her well-trained mind could not help reliving the crime that had led to this exact juncture. The images stalked her, day and night, the ghosts demanding justice for their murder at the hands of a psychopath who’d had no qualms taking chances with another person’s life, driving drunk one time too many.

  The call had come at about ten in the morning from her contact at the LAPD. She had raced to the scene of the two-vehicle crash only a few blocks away from the house in North Hollywood she’d shared with her sister—her only relative. They’d been living together since college, offering each other support over losing their parents then their beloved brother Jackson. He had paid the ultimate price of war six months earlier while gaining one more medal for his broad chest during his second, and final, tour of duty in Iraq.

  Violent images tore into her, pointed shards scraping her soul bare. The crunch of the hydraulic jaws of life, the firemen struggling, grunting and groaning, to extract her blood-covered sister. She’d died reaching out to touch Silk’s arm, murmuring, ‘I’m sorry, Silk, I have to leave you now. Take care of my baby,’ her bloody white hand pressed to her pregnant belly. The white face of the other driver as he’d staggered under the influence, reeking of alcohol, and collapsed on the ground, whimpering that he was sorry.

  Too little. Too late.

  She pushed the harsh images aside and took careful aim through the scope. Perfect conditions. Not a trace of wind and the air quality was fairly decent today. One of the lawyers stepped up to the podium. He adjusted the microphone. Her finger froze in place on the trigger and she waited. Time to correct a wrong. This scumbag was not going to get away with murder. Not while she was alive to mete out fair justice. Even if she paid the ultimate price of her own life. She had none left, anyway.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. I want to thank—”

  The outside world silenced. Firing a rifle over such a long distance was a confluence of many things. Chemistry, mechanical engineering, optics, geophysics and meteorology—all taught to her by an excellent marksman, a former Marine sniper who also happened to be her own brother. She knew the exact distance she needed to aim above the target to allow for the curvature of the Earth and the pull of gravity to put the bullet ex
actly where she wanted it to go. This rare day of calm air would help. She’d watched the leaves at the courthouse and nothing had moved. She aimed the muzzle ten feet above the target to assist nature in curving the bullet downward to find its loathsome home.

  Now, only ancient biology stood in the way. She slowed her heart rate and breathed in and out, waiting between heartbeats. The roaring in her ears ceased as her brain calmed. The vibration of her body lessened.

  Ashley—this is for you.

  She squeezed her forefinger gently on the trigger. She breathed out. One heartbeat. Another heartbeat. A third heartbeat. She fired.

  The gun recoiled, but not before she was slammed to the ground, the bullet flying off target and going harmlessly up into the empty sky, spinning outward at nineteen hundred miles an hour, its hand-polished copper jacket flying straight and true to the exact wrong spot. The heavy sound of the shot cracked and echoed off the buildings almost a full second later. She accepted the instant repercussion in her shoulder from the stock of the rifle as a heavy body landed right on top of her, driving all the air from her lungs. The odor of sulfur instantly filled her airways and she gasped for breath, the gun hot from the recoil burning her hands.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get off me!” she screamed, in instant pain. Both mental and physical. She had failed. The worst possible outcome.

  “Is anything broken?” a strong male voice asked, the low timbre of the tone vibrating through her.

  “Who the fuck cares!” She attempted to push him off along with the rifle she still clutched. He pulled it from her hands, checked that the safety was reengaged and laid it aside.

  Instead of letting her up, he rolled her over and straddled her hips. He grasped her hands as she flailed about, striking out at him, wanting to cause him pain. Tears rolled down her cheeks. A sob escaped from her, loud, as all the terrible anguish that had built up since the accident broke free, a tidal wave of emotion born of pain and loss.

  He held her steady when the tsunami flooded through her, a force far beyond her control in charge. Unavoidable. Unstoppable. It pushed her heart to release its crushing burden. The pain of the accident. Images of her sister in her coffin at the funeral. The pitifully small number of mourners to say goodbye to a young life cut so tragically short. The first clod of earth hitting the top of her casket—all the heart-bruising moments locked in her brain of the past few weeks, fucking her up. Then the images from further back came. Happier memories of her and Ashley in simpler times. Watching a movie together. Playing a favorite video game. Cooking up a feast to celebrate one of their birthdays. And her sister’s favorite—shoe shopping. All the record of her sister she would have to last a lifetime.

  Her loud sobs eventually turned into soft hiccups. A catharsis born of the trauma and guilt she could no longer escape left her fighting exhaustion, yet strangely eased, some of the overwhelming tension that had driven her for weeks gone. Her other senses rushed in to fill the void. She became aware. Too aware.

  She renewed her struggle to release herself from his tight grip. He held on and she stared up at eyes protected by lenses too dark to see anything through. But what she could catch sight of around the sunglasses shocked her. Thick black hair cut military style, a lantern jaw with a scruff of dark shadow, well defined cheekbones and a black T-shirt stretched tight over broad shoulders tapering to a trim waistline. And perhaps what was most unexpected, most surprising of—tribal tattoos snaking down his golden forearms. His thighs felt powerful through the thick black fabric of his jeans. A big strong man. A warrior in his prime. And his body pressed hers to the hot roof.

  “Let me up! This roof’s scorching my ass.” She wasn’t as embarrassed as the occasion would normally demand. He deserved her tears, stopping her from administering justice. She owed him nothing. Nothing.

  “I need to search you for weapons first. Then, if you promise not to shoot me, I’ll let you up.” His low voice spilled into the air like musical notes from deep inside his broad chest. He was so close that she couldn’t help breathing in his aroma, the fragrance of something undefinable tickling her senses. A distant memory of a similar wonderful scent buried somewhere in her past escaped and demanded attention. Sandalwood and citrus with undertones of musk.

  “Yes. I promise I won’t shoot you, for heaven’s sake. Not unless you drove drunk and used your vehicle as a killing weapon—” She took as deep a breath as she could manage with the man pressing into her. He seemed to become aware of her discomfort, easing himself off a bit, though not letting her go entirely. If he would only take off the damn sunglasses. His eyes might give the game away.

  The seconds ticked by.

  She swallowed hard.

  New thoughts crept in. Strange thoughts. Adrenaline-infused thoughts that fired in her brain, forcing it from revenge mode to survival mode in an instant—or maybe it was lust mode, created by the nearness of death staring her right smack in the face. She still couldn’t be sure she’d leave the rooftop in one piece, but something told her this man would not harm her. At least not intentionally.

  Perspiration broke out, the heat of his groin as he straddled her beginning to get her full attention. Her nipples tightened. She prayed it wasn’t noticeable. Her thoughts disgusted her and excited her, all at the same time. Being held so tightly, unable to do anything about it, was making her hot. Too hot. She renewed her struggles to push him off. God, I’m no Anastasia Steele, right?

  “I’m going to search you now. Nothing personal. It’s standard procedure.”

  Holding her wrists tightly locked together, he roamed his free hand around her body, down her sides and under her breasts, before checking between her legs. Oh. My. God. He pressed his large hand against her crotch. Heat surged through her, so damn hot she nearly combusted from the instant wave of lust. The final straw was him pressing against her, his nostrils flaring wide as he discovered the budded nipples, her breasts sensitive and swollen.

  He eased his grip and she sat up, rubbing her wrists. She pulled a tissue out of the pocket of her overalls and blew her nose, beyond embarrassed. Her terrible grief had left her open and raw. She sought for excuses to justify her insane response. Her body had been neglected for far too long and now it wanted something more, something not born of despair but created from life and lust. Well, it can damn well shut the fuck up. She had no time for its demands. Not now. Not ever.

  He stood, pulled her to her feet and loomed over her, at least six foot four of hard-packed special ops-type muscle. All masculine and hardened by soldiering, and so like her brother that she swallowed hard against the memory. But at least the pain was welcome. That, she understood. The other reaction was impossible to comprehend.

  “I’m Jake Marshall. Who are you?” He took off his shades, exposing his eyes, eyes the deepest shade of flinty blue. The whites around the intense color of his irises were marred by traces of redness. Hangover or drugs?

  “Silk O’Connor.”

  “Well, Silk O’Connor, I think we’d better hightail it before someone else figures out the position of the shooter.”

  “What?” Shocked, suspicious, she hesitated. “You’re not arresting me? And what’s this ‘we’?”

  “What for? The guy’s still walking upright. But just for my sake, care to share what you think you were doing?”

  “Seeing justice done.” The bitter tone of her voice came as no surprise to her. These past weeks had been a fall into bitterness as she’d made her plans. Ignoring him, she unzipped the camouflage-patterned overalls, exposing black pants and a T-shirt. She stepped out of the thin, loose covering and tossed it aside. She added the latex gloves she’d been wearing to the pile, folded it up and placed it in a carryall bag she’d planned on disposing of later. She spied the spent .30 caliber casing and picked it up then pocketed it. The gun would be left. Untraceable. And she’d worn gloves.

  She felt his gaze as he waited for her to finish dealing with the incriminating evidence. He remained s
ilent, opening the roof door when she nodded that she was done. She’d braced the door earlier with a brick.

  They hurried down the outside back staircase one story to the main floor, their muffled footfalls barely registering on the carpeting. No one on the staircase could be seen from the businesses inside the short, two-story strip mall unless someone happened to push through the door at the bottom of the stairs. And they wouldn’t, not when a screwdriver jamming the lock had taken care of that possibility earlier. She took a moment to remove it, adding it to her bag. She took the lead, heading to the outside door and into the narrow alley. They’d almost made the parking lot and the safety of her small car when a noise alerted them to company.

  “Halt! Stop it right there! Put your hands up!” a loud voice demanded.

  “Fuck!” Jake let fly the curse as he recognized one of the other security agents hired for the detail, legs spread, a gun braced in both hands. One of Max’s LA team, a guy he’d met just that morning.

  He strode forward to intercept the man. “Sticks, right? I’m Jake. We’re on the same side today, buddy. I’ve got this.”

  The man lowered his gun, but his expression remained wary. “Why isn’t she in handcuffs?”

  “She’s a witness. The shooter got away. I’m taking her into my protective custody until we nail the bastard.” He prayed she understood the precariousness of the situation. But damn it, now he’d lied, he was also involved. A fucking accomplice. What had made him do it? It was unlike him. But something about the desperate woman had brought out his protective instincts. And she had felt amazingly good beneath him. He had to wonder, was she as turned on as he had been? She’d fought him at first, letting out her grief in her tears. But then her nipples had budded on her full breasts, nearly driving him to distraction, and her flowery fragrance underlaid by womanly musk was a complete turn-on. If the situation had been less worrisome, he would have had her right on that hot roof. Burning flesh and all.