Beyond the Fire

by Cheryl Pierson

  “You can curse me in English, Taylor.”

  “Want to make sure there’s no misunderstanding, you pedazo de mierda. Cursing in your language—there’s no margin for error.”

  Sanchez laughed. “You’re a fighter; I’ll say that for you. Though you speak my language well, I think you must have been taught by a mestizo, Taylor. It isn’t pure. Nothing about you is pure. You will always be a filthy...American...dog. You don’t deserve to breathe. I think I’ll stay and watch Bull at his work. You may decide to talk sooner than you think.”

  The whip came down again, scorching a white hot line across his bare back.

  Jack jerked awake.

  Chapter Three

  Kendi bit her lip as she worked over Jack’s back. She had a washrag in her right hand that she was using to clean the dried blood and dirt out of the wounds as best she could. She watched as he stirred beneath her gentle ministrations, knowing he would soon be fully awake. Sighing, she bent to start on the next welt across his shoulder blades, grimacing in empathy as he gasped and winced under her touch.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered for the hundredth time, even though she knew—she hoped—he couldn’t hear her. Not until she was finished. It was too cruel to have to live through it once. She had to tell herself he was only partially aware and not feeling the full brunt of the cleaning, suffering through it all a second time.

  She reached for the small basket of meager medical supplies she had on hand. A tube of antibiotic cream was not going to be nearly enough, even though it was new. His whole body was covered with cuts and bruises. Her gaze was drawn, once again, to the deep cuts across his back. What kind of men would do this? What kind of man would become one of them, undercover, to stop the evil they perpetrated?

  She drew a deep breath at the thought. This man had. What drove him? What would make him give up everything to try to stop drug dealers...or die trying?

  He needed rest, and he wasn’t going to get it with her working over the lashes he’d taken. She decided to let him sleep in peace. There would be time enough for taking care of the rest of those later.

  She cleansed his right hand in a soak of soapy warm water, followed by one of Epsom Salt water. She applied some of the antibiotic cream liberally, then gently wrapped his palm in gauze. After taking a cursory glance at his left hand, her stomach almost rebelled at the burns and deliberate cuts his tormentors had inflicted.

  The water had cooled, but for the burns, that would be best. She gently draped his left wrist over the bowl, allowing his hand to submerge for a few minutes. Working with only the dim light of her nightstand lamp, she washed his face and neck.

  Even through the swelling and injuries, she could see Jackson Taylor was a very handsome man. The swelling of his split lips had receded some with the application of a cold, damp cloth. She had been afraid an ice pack would have been too heavy, but had nestled a piece of ice inside the wet washcloth. The puffiness of his pummeled eyelids had also abated a little, though they were still purple and raw-looking.

  She was sure his nose must be broken, but was just as certain it wouldn’t be the first time. In fact, it seemed this man was no stranger to violence or pain. He wasn’t afraid of either—just accepting, as if they were an everyday part of his world.

  But, somehow, it didn’t fit. She sat by his side for the next three hours, until the gray light of dawn filtered through the curtained window. She’d laid a fire earlier, realizing the house was colder than she liked. When she drew back the curtain and peeked through the blinds, she was surprised to see that, during the night, the freezing rain had become snow.

  The time had come to see what she could do for the rest of his injuries. He lay on his side, his back fairly easy to reach. He’d muttered something under his breath as she’d started to clean the furrows in his flesh. She stopped, hesitant as to whether she should continue or not. But looking at the bloody stripes made up her mind. She couldn’t stop now. She’d been honest with him—she had no medical expertise; but he’d told her not to call 911. She couldn’t go against his request. There had been worry in his tone, but not for himself. His concern was for her.

  Why? Because I helped him?

  As she began to gently trace the path of the next lash mark, Jack tensed and jerked, rolling forward, farther onto his left side. He groaned and swore, trying to struggle up from the bed. His dark hair fell across his face, his olive skin, colored with a heated flush.

  “No, Jack!” She reached for him, stopping herself just before she grasped his bloodied shoulders. As soon as he put his weight on his right hand, the pain forced the muscles and tendons to give way, dropping him back to the soft, white pillows.

  The impact of his cracked ribs against the mattress left him breathless with agony, his face turned toward the pillow to hide it from her.

  She reached to gently stroke his hair back. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I thought I could get done before you woke up—” She broke off, realizing he probably wasn’t hearing a word. His breathing started to slow and he shifted, finding a spot where he could get his ribs easy in the bed.

  “Go ahead,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Am I...turned far enough?”

  Kendi nodded. “Uh...yeah.”

  Muscles tensed as he waited for her to continue.

  She got up and walked around to the other side of the bed, kneeling on the floor so she could look into his face. He slowly opened one eye, and she smiled. “Want some coffee first?”

  “You said—”

  “I know. But I made a big pot of it and you haven’t even had one cup yet. How do you like it?”

  “Black.”

  “And strong, I’ll bet.”

  “You’d bet right.”

  Kendi laughed as she stood up. “Wait right here, Mr. DEA man. I’ll be back.”

  “Like I’m going anywhere,” he muttered as she walked away. She needed a few minutes respite, and she figured her handsome patient did, too. She poured him a half a cup of the coffee, unsure as to how it might settle in his stomach, and started back to the bedroom.

  Just before she came through the doorway, she blew gently across the top of the liquid to cool it some. She walked around the bed, setting the cup on the nightstand before turning to poke the fire up and add another log. At the small noise behind her, she turned quickly to see Jack reaching for the coffee.

  The poker clattered to the floor. “What—wait!” She put her hand on the cup just a second before his fingertips touched her skin. He didn’t realize how badly he was hurt. She met his eyes, kneeling beside the bed once more. “You’re gonna have to let me help you, Jack. At least, for right now, anyway.”

  “I figure I can hold a cup.” His teeth began to chatter and he shivered as a hard chill swept over him.

  Proud. Kendi watched as he unsuccessfully tried to fight the fever back. And stubborn. It was probably what had kept him alive so far. She’d have to be careful.

  “I figure you can, too, Jack. But you get coffee on my sheets...well, you know, it doesn’t wash out.” She matter-of-factly held the coffee cup out to him once he’d settled into a half-sitting position. She could see it took all his effort to prop himself up and take the cup from her. His lips compressed as he formed his bandaged right hand around the cup.

  He took a sip, closed his eyes, and savored it. “I guess...blood comes out easier in the wash.”

  Kendi grinned. “Actually, there are instructions on the inside of my washing machine lid about how to get blood out.”

  He took another sip, then gave her a grudging half-smile, looking down at the contents of the cup. “I’m not gonna give you any trouble, Kendi,” he said quietly. “And I’ll buy you some new sheets, okay?” He grimaced. “I’ve ruined these for you, even without the coffee.”

  His arm began to tremble, and he drank the last few sips of coffee quickly, wordlessly. He handed the cup back to her, and she set it on the nightstand.

  “Thanks. You make it
just right.”

  For some reason, his offhanded compliment gave her a warm feeling of closeness. “I’m glad you liked it.”

  He slid back down against the sheets carefully, surprising her as he reached a finger out to trace her hand. “I...haven’t thanked you for...for everything.”

  Kendi shook her head. “It’s not necessary, Jack.”

  “It’s very necessary...to me. You didn’t have to do anything but walk away. Call the cops.”

  “You...but that was the first thing you asked of me...not to call them.”

  He smiled. “Most women would have done it anyway.”

  “I’m not ‘most women’.” Her chin came up a notch.

  He smiled again. A killer smile, even with the injuries. Her heart melted at the look he gave her.

  He gave a short laugh. “You never have to remind me of that, Kendi. You’re the most special woman I’ve ever met. One-in-a-million.”

  Somehow, the honesty of his heartfelt comment embarrassed her. She wasn’t ‘one-in-a-million’—at least, no one else thought so. And she couldn’t afford to be made a fool of again. Her trusting heart was a curse, sometimes. Her eyes met his briefly as she stood up. “I guess we better finish cleaning up your back. I know I hurt you before. I’m sorry, but there’s just no way around it...no matter how careful I try to be.”

  There was a moment of silence as Jack turned and lay in the position he’d been in earlier. Kendi sat beside him on the bed and picked up the wet cloth again, squeezing it into the basin.

  “I told you, you’ll do fine,” he murmured. “And you are. The hurting—that’s just part of the healing. Can’t have one without the other.”

  Like a broken heart, Kendi thought. She carefully cleaned the next two strips of jagged flesh. “Do you feel like talking?”

  He sucked in his breath, releasing it slowly. After a moment, he nodded. “Yeah. I suppose you’ve got some questions. Plenty of ’em.”

  “I do, but maybe it would be better if you just start at the beginning. Tell me—everything.”

  “It’ll take some time,” he warned.

  “When you get tired, just tell me, Jack. We’re going to be here awhile, anyhow.” She looked at the clock on the cable box—9:34. This would probably take at least another hour. Maybe talking would keep his mind off what she was doing.

  “You can trust me, you know.” Her hands stopped their movement across his back, waiting.

  He looked over his shoulder through slitted, puffy eyes. “I know that, Kendi.” He lay down again, trying to relax into the mattress as best he could. “Like I said, you never called 911.”

  “And that’s how you know you can trust me?” Kendi’s lips quirked. Fever must be setting in again to make his mind work like that.

  “If you had,” he said quietly, “we might both be dead already. So—yes. You trusted me enough to do what I asked. How can I not trust you?”

  ****

  Jack let his eyes close as his mind wandered. Where should I begin? With this particular operation—or even further back? How much does she need to know? And, he asked himself, how much do I need to know about her?

  Everything. And maybe it wasn’t so much a “need to know” as a “want to know.” Kendi Morgan was one beautiful woman—even with no makeup and no sleep.

  “You...you sat up with me, didn’t you?” There had been a few moments of lucidity during the remainder of the night. She’d sponged his fevered flesh, spooned ice chips between his parched lips, and murmured soothing words that had no meaning for him, save the comforting cadence and tone.

  Kendi gave a short laugh as she began to clean his torn flesh again. “Guess by now you realize I wasn’t lying about not knowing what to do. It sure wasn’t Nurse Nancy tending you.” She fell silent as she worked, and he knew she was trying not to delve too deeply beneath the lacerated skin. After a moment, she said, “I’m not very good at this, Jack.”

  “You’re better than a lot of doctors I’ve been subjected to,” he countered. “There are some ham-fisted sons of bitches out there.” He winced as she let the edge of the rag drag a little too deeply under the cut.

  “Sounds like maybe you’ve had your share of...ah, injuries.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed, shifting before he stopped himself. “I guess it’s my line of work.”

  Kendi stopped and waited as he shifted to find a comfortable position. “Ever have thoughts of maybe...selling insurance?”

  He gave a mirthless chuckle. “That’d see me to a boring end.”

  “Better that than being executed.” She broke off, a sudden shakiness in her voice. She swallowed hard and dipped the rag into the pink-tinged water, applying it once again with a little too much vigor.

  Jack winced. “Hey! Easy, there,” he growled, trying to look over his shoulder at her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He sighed heavily, angry and frustrated with himself. She was doing the best she could and wasn’t sure of him yet. He didn’t want to scare her. “So’m I, honey.” This time, he turned to look at her, rolling back against the sheets so he could see her face. “You thought I’d been shot.” He remembered the horror in her eyes at what she’d expected to see when she’d turned him over out there in the downpour. “How much did you see?”

  She looked down. “All of it. Two men, dragging you out of the truck, one of them volunteering to ‘do it’. He pulled up your head and put the gun down close, and—” She covered her face with her hands, unable to stop the sudden tears.

  Swearing harshly, Jack pulled her down to him, heedless of the cracked ribs, the bandages around his palms, or the rest of the wounds across his chest and arms. He held her tight against him and let her cry it out. He stroked her hair, inwardly cursing the swath of gauze that kept him from actually feeling its silkiness.

  “I’m hurting you,” she muttered after a moment and tried to pull away from him.

  He held her fast against his too-warm flesh. “Shh...you’re okay.”

  “Your ribs—”

  “It’s all right, Kendi,” he insisted. The feel of her against him more than outweighed the pain in his side. “Just lie down with me and rest.”

  She lifted herself gently over him to the other side of the bed and lay next to him in the dim daylight, the fire adding a cozy bit of warmth to the room. “I want to know what I’ve gotten into,” she said softly.

  Jack let his hand rest in her hair. Even though he couldn’t feel it through the gauze, he could imagine. She deserved to hear it. He’d said he would tell her. Now...

  Kendi turned her gaze upward to the higher part of the scrunched pillow to look into his eyes. “I’m ready.”

  He smiled at her tone, as if she was preparing to hear her own death sentence read in court. The smile faded as he felt her body shake. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for him to know the depth of her fear for him, for what he was about to tell her.

  He sighed. Maybe it would be best to get it out—let her know what she was dealing with. “I’ve been an agent now for ten years, but I’ve worked undercover for half of that time.”

  ****

  Kendi began to relax as he spoke, the richness of his deep voice washing over her with its slow, southwestern drawl.

  “My partner, Don Elder, was killed about eighteen months ago.” His tone changed, becoming more hard-edged, rougher. Kendi knew Elder’s death had been job-related. She moved nearer to Jack, aware of his unspoken pain at losing someone so close.

  He shifted, letting Kendi settle beside him before he continued. “Don... He and I had been together a long time. Losing him was...uh—” He broke off, then finally finished with “—hard.”

  Kendi remained silent, though there were a thousand questions in her head. Plenty of time to ask later, she knew. For now, he needed to tell her the rest of the story. She could only assume Jack had witnessed his partner’s death, or felt somehow responsible, by the way he was choosing his words.

  “I took a few weeks off
—after it happened—and just tried to get my head on straight. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to come back to this or not.”

  Kendi heard the self-derisiveness in his tone. After what had happened last night, she knew he was thinking it probably wasn’t the best decision he’d ever made. “But—you did,” she prompted.

  He smiled. “Yeah. I did. They partnered me with an agent from Chicago, name of Clint Rivers. Nice enough, but—” He stopped abruptly, and Kendi finished his sentence.

  “But, he wasn’t Don Elder. Right?”

  His silence was like a shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve wondered if it was that, or... There was just something different about him.”

  “Yeah,” Kendi muttered. “He was from Chicago. That might do it.”

  Jack chuckled, his cheek near the top of her head. “You have experience with Chicagoans?”

  “My older brother... He went to law school and moved to Chicago to practice. We never heard from him again. At least, not like before he moved. Must be something about that place—I don’t know.”

  “No matter what, Clint and I were partners. And I owe him my life. He was the one you saw with the gun. It was his job to kill me last night—a test of his loyalty.”

  “Wait. I don’t understand.”

  “We’d been working on bringing down an American cartel for seven months, and we were close. Then, somehow, my cover was blown completely. When you work with someone else—your partner—that closely, you have to wonder whether it was just your cover. Or have they somehow made your whole sting operation and everyone involved? Once they made me, I knew it wouldn’t be long before they dug deep enough to figure out I wasn’t working alone. Clint’s in a lot of trouble, either way.”

  “Uh, excuse me, Mr. Taylor.” She looked up at him. “You’re in a lot of trouble here, too.” She propped on her elbow, close to him. Their eyes held for a long, breathless moment. Then, Jack slowly lifted his arm, his bandaged hand caressing her hair. His eyes scanned her face, his fingers filtering through the auburn-red strands gently. Something flared between them—something Kendi realized as the long forgotten sensation of trust.