Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15)

by Irish Winters

  The door creaked open behind them. “You can see him now,” Miss Day announced.

  Shea turned away from Murphy to go to her husband’s side. Eric had lost a shade of his handsome tan overnight, but his eyes were open. Black and blue. Swollen. A little red where the white should’ve been. But open.

  He lifted a weak hand and let it drop back to the blanket covering him. “Murphy says you’ve got skills. Talk to me. What happened?”

  Twining her fingers with his, she went over her encounter with Bagani, hitting the highlights, but making sure Eric knew Bagani was now incarcerated. Next came the story of the Tango with Carlson. Disgust rippled up her spine knowing what she knew now. For two cents, Shea wanted to go back in time and shoot Carlson the second he’d laid a finger on her.

  Eric’s eyes grew heavy, but he still squeezed her fingers. “Love you,” he whispered.

  She laid her head gently on his bandaged shoulder, needing to be closer to him than his condition allowed. “Not as much as I love you.”

  He huffed, on his way back to sleep. “You owe me a dance. In a red dress. With wings.”

  Shea placed a soft kiss on his lips. “Count on it.”

  Eric lost track of time. The only constants in his current state of delirium were a beautiful elf in a shiny red dress that took extra special care of him, and, oh yeah, a cat that talked. Aishling came up with the weirdest things, assuring him he’d live one moment, then saying something off the wall like, “Gordie’s back,” the next. Even a delirious man with a fever knew headless guys just didn’t do that.

  At last Eric woke. The room spun and damned if that black cat wasn’t sitting square in the middle of his chest. He peeled his gritty eyes open and stared at her.

  Aishling purred, her pretty blue eyes half-open, as if too comfortable to stir. Her nose twitched. “Avoid travel,” she whispered in a soft, kittenish voice. Half air. Half make-believe.

  He wrinkled his whole face at that nonsensical comment. There was no logic to anything this cat said. Talking felines? Just plain weird.

  “Go away,” he groaned, wishing he had the strength to put her back in that Harley saddlebag.

  “Ah, you’re up.” Shea lifted out of the nearby chair. “What did you say?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “This cat talks, you know. She’s bugging me.”

  Shea leaned over him and planted a kiss on his forehead. “What cat? There’s no cat here. Aishling is back at Murphy’s. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  Eric patted his chest with both hands. Sure enough. Aishling was gone. Damned good thing. He shoved a hand over his face, needing a shave and an aspirin for his headache. “What’s that smell?”

  “Gun cleaner,” Shea whispered, nodding toward the open bedroom door. “Jordan’s obsessed. He’s cleaned your weapons three times already this morning.”

  Eric lifted his head to view his buddy just outside the doorway. The poor guy looked like shit with his arm in a sling and one black eye. But damn, he was earnestly absorbed in his work, his head bent over a disassembled pistol.

  It was called field stripping, the process of partially disassembling a weapon to clean it. A man broke his rifle or pistol into its biggest components: barrel, slide, rod guide, frame, and magazine. Then, with cleaning rods and bore brushes, little wads of patches and solvent, each piece got meticulously scrubbed until those patches came out clean and mostly dry. Then lubricants. There wasn’t much to it, unless a guy developed a titch of hyper-awareness and over-compensated by cleaning the same four weapons over and over again. Like Jordan was doing.

  Obviously, he needed to focus on a work well done, even a simple job. That was why he cleaned and re-cleaned. It was his way of putting the past behind him.

  Simple logic. After every mission failure, lost battle, or loss of life on the warfront, when a guy was feeling like crap and his squad was sure they were a bunch of losers, their commander called them together. Sometimes they got their butts chewed. Sometimes the chaplain was there to talk about—stuff. But after that come-to-Jesus hard line meeting? The CO assigned hours, maybe days, of menial, back breaking labor. Housework. Scrubbing barracks, walls and floors. Swabbing decks. Redundant FOD walks on desert AF tarmacs. Simple chores, done right always restored confidence and boosted moral at the end of a blistering, sweaty day. Any jarhead knew that.

  Shea busied herself helping Miss Day in the kitchen. Delicious aromas overcame some of the smell of the solvent. Bread baking. Some kind of soup, maybe chicken noodle.

  Eric pushed his tired bones up from the bed where he’d lain too long. He needed away from the smell of solvent. By the time he’d pulled on a clean pair of jeans and shrugged into a dark blue T-shirt, he could barely manage a slow shuffle to the bedroom door.

  Shea came to his side, one arm at his waist, the other on his chest to hold him steady. “You’re up.”

  “For now. Sit outside with me?”

  No sooner said than done. Miss Day took over kitchen duties while Shea dragged a chair outside. Shuffling past Jordan and his gun cleaning station, Eric paused. “How’s it goin’?”

  Jordan grunted without looking up. “Almost done.”

  “You ought to do this outside. Come on. The fresh air would do you good. Join me and Shea for a breather.”

  “Nah.” He wiped the clean pistol in his hand with a soft cloth before he lifted his eyes. “I didn’t give you up, bro. I wouldn’t do that to you, at least I don’t think I did.”

  Eric waved the apology off. “I don’t hold grudges, not when truth serum kicked both of our butts.”

  Jordan pushed off the floor, his emotions etched on his face. Instead of a handshake, he pulled Eric into a man hug. They slapped each other’s backs, and Eric winced, but called it good. “Is one of those clean enough for me?”

  “Sure.” Jordan clapped a full magazine into one of the pistols and handed it over, grip first. “Yours. Loaded. Ready to go.”

  Eric tucked the weapon in his waistband and gave Jordan a fist bump on his way to all that fresh air. “How many days have we been here?” he asked Shea.

  “Just three.”

  “Three’s too many.” He dropped his butt into the chair on the porch, tired of being sick and sick of being tired. A man needed to work to stay sharp, damn it.

  Shea lowered to the top step of the porch. Tipping back, she peered into the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready. Are you hungry?”

  He nodded, grumpier than he’d expected. “Think we can walk to the road and back first?”

  She bounced to her feet, a genuine light in her eyes. “Sure. Ready?”

  And that was another thing. He hadn’t felt a single spark for his wife since he’d gotten beat up, and it bugged him. He wanted his old mojo back, every last inch of it. Groaning out of his chair, Eric kept both palms on the armrests like an old man with bad knees. Finally upright, he wobbled, but damn it. This weakness bullshit stops here.

  It took an extra minute to take that one step to the ground, but Shea was patient. Didn’t that irk him too? He didn’t want a nurse. He wanted his woman. In bed.

  The afternoon sun had grown warm. By the time he’d gone a few feet, Eric felt better. Straightening his back, he cocked his elbow like a gentleman, and he took his pretty wife for a real walk. “You like Ireland,” he observed.

  “I do. Right now it’s peaceful and everything’s green. Ireland has as many wild flowers as Washington State. And look at the wild rhododendrons. They grow two stories tall here.” She pointed to the cascade of purple flowers to their left, her voice filled with contentment.

  “Shea. Look at me.”

  “Yes?”

  Warmth flooded his chest, the good kind of warmth. “Nothing baby. I just wanted to see those pretty eyes. For a while there, I thought I might never see them again.” He zeroed in on a post at the side of the road, his turning point.

  She clenched her fingers around his. “Murphy went to the market to buy a pregnancy tes
t kit. I want to know if we’re going to be parents.”

  Just hearing the excitement in her voice lit a familiar fire in his belly. “You’re ready?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I want us to be a family. Will you marry me?”

  That took his breath. He stopped short to tug her under his arm. “I never signed those divorce papers, baby. We’re still married.”

  Those pretty turquoise pools turned misty. “But I think it automatically takes effect after a while if you don’t sign it, doesn’t it?”

  He wrapped her up in his arms. “I don’t know and I don’t care. I never agreed to divorce you, so there.”

  A cry hit the back of her throat and suddenly, his body sprang to attention. She clutched his chin and tilted up on her tiptoes to reach his mouth. Threading his fingers through her short hair, he reeled her in to his lips. God, I hope we’re pregnant.

  They kissed. More like they devoured each other. She tried to be gentle, but her rowdy nature kept getting in the way. Eric wanted to pick her up, but his broken ribs protested too much. At last, he came to his senses. There was no convenient place to lay her down and molest her from head to toe. He had to calm his raging hard-on for now.

  Easing her feet back to the ground, he murmured, “I want you” to let her know this was not over. Just postponed.

  A lighthearted giggle lifted out of her. “Miss Day will be wondering where we sneaked off to.”

  “Let’s head back.”

  He’d no more than faced the cottage when a creepy feeling slithered up the back of his neck. The rule was simple. If you sensed you were being watched, you probably were. “Go to the cottage,” he ordered, his inner sniper on high alert. He shook her fingers free and grabbed his pistol. “Run, Shea. Go! Now!”

  “But—”

  “But nothing?” He stabbed a finger at the cottage. “Get inside!”

  The bullet came out of nowhere. Eric never heard it. One tap to the head. Just like he would’ve done.

  “Let me go!” Shea screamed, throwing her elbows into the muscled wall behind her. She was desperate to reach Eric before he died. “Jordan! Help me! Help!”

  An idling engine sounded nearby. A gloved hand covered her mouth. The man who’d grabbed her grunted when her elbow connected with his throat. She threw another, but had no traction, not off the ground like she was.

  Jordan’s angry face appeared at the cottage window, then at the door. “Shea!”

  Miss Day ran to his side, a shotgun in her hands.

  The idling engine drew closer.

  A black bag descended over Shea’s head, and still she struggled. The brute that had hold of her shoved her to her knees into a vehicle. She hit the seat face first before he laid a solid hand on her ass and pushed her to the floor.

  The door slammed just as Jordan hit the side of the vehicle. “Give her back!”

  A gun discharged. Then another. Shea cringed. Not Jordan! Please not Jordan, too!

  Panic climbed up her throat. Thrashing, Shea was still determined to run, but her kidnapper caught her left wrist and twisted it behind her back. Then her right. He snapped something onto each wrist, and she was immobilized.

  An awful scent filled her nose. She’d come across it just once in her life. Blood.

  She’d been caught by the man in the black robe, Abdul-Mutaal.

  The vehicle came to a grinding halt when another gunshot sounded, and Shea dared to hope. But then it roared forward, fishtailing as it screeched onto asphalt.

  Then she knew where she was going. Straight to Hell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Then tell me what happened,” Murphy demanded somewhere off in the ether. “Because no one—NO ONE!—should’ve been able to find this place. It’s not on any maps, damn it! Not a one!”

  Cuss, cuss. Swear, swear. Murphy was one angry son-of-a-bitch. He kept stabbing at Jordan’s chest. Jordan kept backing up. Didn’t seem to matter. Murphy clearly wanted to fight someone. “Pull your head out of your ass, Hannigan. Are you a black operator or not! You were supposed to keep her safe, not let them get her.”

  Eric lifted his head, dizzy, and not sure why it felt as if it had split wide open and all his brains were poured out. He pushed up from the bed, needing to know what had pissed Murphy off. His words kept rolling in Eric’s skull like a penny in one of those department store games that goes around and around.

  Keep her safe.

  Keep her safe.

  Keep her safe.

  “Shea!” He jumped to his feet. Not a good idea. The floor bucked beneath him, but he stayed upright. Clinging to the wall, but good enough. “Where is she?”

  Murphy turned on him. “Why the hell did you have her outside? What are you, Superman? Hell, I almost lost you, too. Could’ve lost all three of you damned stupid kids! What were you thinking?”

  Eric had no answer. Murphy needed to pick a spot and hold still. Jordan, too. The two of them kept bobbing like prizefighters. It took a few seconds to realize that he was the problem. Dropping to his knees, Eric rolled to his butt before he fell down. He’d been shot, his hard head grazed. Upper left quadrant. Stitches. Ice pack. Painkillers.

  “Where is she?” he bellowed until his head split wider at the sound of his own roar.

  Murphy crouched at his side. “Now, take it easy, son. You’ve been shot and—”

  “Where is she?” Eric demanded more quietly, sick of the bullshit. “Tell me.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, Murphy let it go in a huff. “She’s gone, damn it. I’m sorry, but she’s gone, and I don’t have a stinkin’ idea where they’ve taken her.”

  “Who did it?”

  Murphy lowered his gaze to the floor. “I don’t rightly know, son. Jordan tried to stop the car. Mercedes. SUV. V-8. Bronze.”

  “You get a plate?” Eric knew better than to ask.

  Jordan hadn’t yet shaken off the effects of the truth serum overdose. He shook his head, his eyes wide with guilt. “I got to her as soon as I heard the gunshot, but he already had her inside the car.”

  “Who, damn it?”

  “A big guy. Mideastern. Dark skinned like… like…”

  Shit. “Like Abdul-Mutaal?” Eric asked, his voice thin and brittle.

  “Yes,” Jordan croaked. “Only I don’t think it was him. Look.” He handed Murphy a dried piece of a branch and Murphy passed it to Eric.

  Something tan smudged one whole side of it. “What is this?”

  “Grease paint. You know. Make-up,” Jordan answered. “Whoever that bastard is, he just wants us to think he’s Mideastern. Whoever killed your wife’s friends staged it. He’s not the real ISIS leader.”

  “Their deaths sure as hell weren’t staged,” Eric snapped. “Neither were the tortures.”

  Jordan shoved both hands over his head and down the back of his neck. “God, I’m sorry. It all happened so fast. I shot at the driver, but bulletproof glass, man. Elsa fired, too. These guys were prepared. The back windows were blacked out. No license plates, either. They knew exactly how this had to go down.”

  And now that bastard has Shea.

  “Elsa?” Eric asked, his brain throbbing.

  “Miss Day. The nurse,” Jordan answered.

  Another sledgehammer coursed through Eric’s hard head. He lowered his chin to his clenched hands, both elbows on his knees. Weary as hell. He did the only thing a desperate man could do. Eric pushed up off the floor, dizzy and spent, but focused on getting Shea back.

  Breathing hard, he planted his feet to shake off the nausea that accompanied the minor concussion of a head wound. A man kept going, damn it. Cocking his head at Murphy, he growled, “I need one AR, and an eight-inch blade. Extra ammo. You got ’em?”

  Murphy knew better than to argue. He opened what looked like a basement door just off the kitchen and disappeared through it.

  Eric held out his palm to Jordan. “My pistols. Extra mags. Now.”

  Jordan scooped them up from the floor, the pistols already tucked in
a double holster. “I’m coming with.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Eric growled as he slid the holster over his shoulders.

  Murphy was back by then with more weapons than what Eric had requested. Apparently he thought he was part of this op, too. He spread them on the kitchen table with an apology to Miss Day and a curt, “I’ll be in touch.”

  She nodded, but didn’t obey. “You’d better have a holster there for me.”

  Eric looked at her then. Diminutive, but athletic. Close to the same height and weight of Shea. Bright blonde hair. Blue-eyed. A dimple in her right cheek. Drab gray scrubs. She’d taken a shot at the getaway vehicle?

  “Who are you?” He had to know.

  Her chin lifted as she stared him in the eye. “Miss Day to most people, but Elsa Finnegan to my friends. Uncle Murphy’s my dad’s brother. You didn’t think I was just a nurse, did you?”

  Eric looked to Murphy, but the old guy just shrugged. “I told you I like to be prepared.”

  That actually explained a lot. Eric stiffened his spine for the chore that lay ahead. He needed Shea’s tech-savvy skills now more than ever. Using the landline, he called one of the only other hackers he could think of.

  Mother picked up on the first ring.

  “Find Hugh Carlson for me,” he ordered.

  “Yes, Eric,” she replied without her customary nosy questions. “Hold please.”

  “What are you thinking?” Jordan asked. “That Carlson tracked us here?”

  “No way,” Murphy groused. “I checked before we left the castle. He couldn’t have. My truck is clean. There was no tracking device stuck to it anywhere. Check it again if you don’t believe me.”

  Eric nodded once at Jordan to go and do just that. A tracking device would pin Carlson’s ass to the wall. “Take a flashlight. It’s dark out there.”

  Elsa took the hint and grabbed a flashlight out of the kitchen drawer and tossed it to Jordan. He caught it in midair and left through the front door.

  “Carlson’s at Shannon Airport,” Mother reported in his ear.