He’d been one of only six men who’d made it back from that raid. He decided he would tell them anything they wanted to know, as long as the conversation didn’t turn to that day.
No-Ears shuddered slightly and tried to be inconspicuous. Those gold cat eyes scared him almost as bad as the knife. He could hardly wait to lead that charge tomorrow.
*
It was time.
Michael grabbed his Uzi and a uniform for the woman. He flowed back through the woods until he was well inside their perimeter and made himself comfortable. It was all over now but the waiting. And, of course, the doing.
He glanced at the eastern sky: half an hour till first light. He should have been tired, but he wasn’t. He heard the men in the camp beginning to stir. Early risers.
He waited and as he sat there he thought of Ellen, wondering if he would ever see her again, or if he was going to get himself killed trying to free a total stranger. He also wondered why he was allowing his thoughts to drift so dangerously. Normally in situations like this he was what he called focused and what those who knew him well called intense-with-capital-letters.
Suddenly, he understood. The courage, strength of character and forceful presence the woman projected reminded him of his wife. He smiled, knowing now that he wasn’t attempting to save this woman just because she was brave, or because she had information he and his friends might need, but because he could see a lot of Ellen in her. And he could never turn his back on that.
A slap and muffled curse sounded some fifty feet to his right and behind him. The breeze had died down and the bugs were out. Stupidity! Far better to leave the mosquitoes alone. They drink less blood than my blade, he thought, then turned away quickly from any thought even remotely connected to drinking. His bladder was demanding his attention, even though he had relieved himself before approaching the encampment earlier. Nerves. He ignored the building pressure. The sound of urine splattering, or its acrid smell in the still morning air could give him away.
The sky was brightening and the pulse of the camp was quickening. Men were moving among the tents. He should enter their camp now, before the sky got any lighter. He checked that the lookouts behind him were actually looking out, instead of in towards the camp, then stepped from the bushes that concealed him. Four quick strides took him behind a barracks tent.
He brushed stray pine needles and dirt from his uniform, pressed a few wrinkles out with his hands and straightened his cap. Deciding he looked as presentable as most of these guys he walked from behind the tent and joined a line of half-awake men stumbling toward the latrine. His bladder was bursting. He hastened along in the slightly hurried, pigeon-toed walk men use when they have to go. He avoided eye contact, grumbling whenever he brushed against someone. No one paid him any attention at all.
As he stepped from the latrine a squad of about twenty well-armed men on horseback loped past on their way out. Probably going looking for the lost patrol, he thought.
He merged with the tide of men who were now making their way toward the mess tent, toying with the idea of grabbing a quick bite before deciding he didn’t have enough time. He sidled along the side of the tent to the spot he’d selected earlier, picked up a shovel and started digging a hole.
Michael Whitebear’s rule number one for infiltrating an enemy camp: Nobody ever questions a soldier with a shovel, a clipboard, or a paintbrush in his hand. Digging also loosened muscles that had tightened and tensed as he waited in the bushes just outside camp. He was less than sixty feet from the Captain’s tent. Soft, pink dawn glow brushed the mountain tops.
Ten minutes later the assembly whistle sounded and Jim launched the first grenade into the crowd emerging from the mess tent, killing and wounding several.
The effect was electrifying! Everybody froze briefly, in shock, then dove for the ground. A few seconds later, as there were no more explosions and the wounded began to shriek, heads started to pop up. Somebody suggested that maybe the cook-stove had blown up. Another wit added they should be so lucky.
The second grenade exploded about fifteen feet above the far side of the formation doing God only knew how much damage.
The surest way to spread panic is to act panicky. Michael screamed, “Mortars!” and bolted for the woods. Dozens leaped up and followed. Sure enough, everyone who wasn’t frozen to the ground fled. The Captain and the Sergeant were running around screaming orders few were listening to and threatening to shoot those soldiers who were running.
Good luck, Michael thought. Right now they wouldn’t have enough bullets.
It only took Michael a few seconds to reach the bushes he had hidden in earlier. He scooped up his Uzi and daypack, which contained extra clips of ammo and “her” uniform and dashed to the rear of the Captain’s tent.
Grenades were raining down with ever-increasing speed.
Michael’s bowie parted the canvas wall and he stepped in, meeting the woman’s angry eyes with his own.
“Michael Whitebear, ma’am. I’ve come to get you out.” He slashed her bonds and threw the uniform at her. “Disguise--hurry!”
“Sara Garcia,” she answered as she recovered from the surprise, “and thank you.”
A dim thundering reached Michael’s ears, growing by the second. Darting to the front of the tent he peeked out. He could only stare in amazement as Minowayuh and his friends stampeded the enemy’s horse herd right through the middle of the camp, shooting anything that moved and trampling anything that didn’t.
“I’m ready,” came from behind him.
He turned to lead her to safety but his inner alarm went off. He was spinning back toward the door when the Sergeant barged in, collided with Michael and sent him sprawling, his blade slipped from his fingers and skittered across the floor. He reached for his other knife before he remembered Minowayuh had it.
“What the hell are you doing in here, soldier?” the Sergeant bellowed. Then his eyes took it all in--her, Michael’s knife and the Uzi, which was now pointed squarely at his belly.
“We’re leaving now,” Michael said, locking eyes with the Sergeant.
The man hadn’t risen to be Top Sergeant by being a coward.
“Over my dead body,” the Sergeant responded, as he tensed to attack.
A vision of him dragging Sara by her hair and backhanding her--of blood, burns and bruises on her body, flashed across Michael’s mind.
“A pleasure,” Michael snarled, his finger already tightening around the trigger.
“No! Please!” Sara cried, freezing both men in place.
Michael gave her a puzzled glance as she stepped past him and, without coming between the Sergeant and Michael’s Uzi, kicked Sarge’s balls so hard that his eyes rolled up and he dropped like a stunned ox.
“I owe this bastard more than I can pay,” she said, her voice trembling with the force of her hatred. “He did things to me...,” she choked, faltered then steadied, “I may never recover from.” Her voice had gone cold and machine-like. She bent over him, her body hiding what she was doing.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said, glancing at the door. “But you’ll be all right if we get out of here fast.” The urgency in his voice meant nothing to her.
“I mean now! We don’t have time for games,” he demanded.
The sound of gunfire was increasing outside. The enemy was recovering from their surprise. Michael risked a quick peek out of the tent in time to see No-Ears and company being mowed down as they charged the camp.
“There,” she sighed, as she straightened up. Only then Michael saw she had picked up his knife and there was fresh blood dripping from the tip. She smiled down at the Sergeant, a smile Michael hoped he’d never see aimed at him and said, “Feel better now?”
Michael could see the look of horror growing in the man’s eyes. He started to say something, or from his expression perhaps he started to scream something, but she jammed an old sock deep into his mouth to gag him, then turned to Michael and said, “Let’s go.”
“You want to leave him alive?”
“Oh dear God, yes!” she replied with fervor.
Michael stripped the man’s pistol and holster from his strangely unresisting form and as he was handing them to her, he understood.
“You paralyzed him,” he said with a touch of awe in his voice.
“From the neck down,” she answered, adding, “I’m a surgeon.”
The sounds of gunfire were lessening. The enemy was recovering from their surprise alright, but they would still be on edge--spelled trigger-happy. Cautiously, Michael and Sara slipped from the tent, into the woods and through the trees, taking great care to avoid any soldiers who were still blundering around the forest.
Leading her around a large hill toward a gold-tinted aspen grove where he’d left the horses, Michael’s thoughts kept returning to the mystery of what she knew that could launch such an extensive manhunt. No-Ears had revealed they were but one small group of many sent to look for her and the old man. He helped her across a small creek. Her grim, tight-faced expression told better than words of the toll this pace was taking on her tortured body. Yet she didn’t complain. She endured.
He wanted to ease up, to spare her at least some of the pain she was experiencing, but he couldn’t. Every second counted. It was full light now and if the enemy wasn’t already searching for them they would be soon. The mounted patrol the enemy had sent out earlier would probably be back any minute.
The two of them entered the aspen and were almost to the horses when Michael heard a slight clunk. That wasn’t the sound of a horse’s hoof hitting a rock or a tree root. He stopped so fast Sara almost ran into him, then he gestured for her to stay there while he checked it out.
Seconds later he parted the leaves to peer at the horses and saw Jim hog-tying an elderly man. Jim stood up and without turning around said, “Hey, Michael. Getting noisy in your old age?”
Michael snorted and stepped into the clearing. “Who’s your guest?”
Jim pointed to the small white-haired figure and said, “Michael, meet Raoul Garcia. I found him sneaking around our horses just now. He thinks I’m one of the bad guys.”
“Obviously a perceptive man,” Michael said. “I’ve got his daughter,” he added, making an erroneous assumption. “Maybe she can convince him we’re on the same side.”
Jim’s hand on his shoulder stopped Michael as he turned to go. “I don’t know that we are, man,” he whispered, “He had this.”
In the palm of Jim’s hand lay a small black pill.
“A cyanide capsule?” Michael shuddered. He hadn’t seen anything like it since the war. He shook his head and disappeared into the trees, reserving judgment until he’d had a talk with the Garcias.
Chapter 10: The Secret
All day, while clouds built and the sky darkened, the four rode hard, putting many miles between themselves and the King’s men. Up Castle Creek they galloped, pushing their horses over the rocky pass and down into the Taylor River drainage, following the river toward Cottonwood Pass. Michael rode point, scouting the trail, his mind overflowing with unanswered questions. Why was the King so interested in these two? What did they know that was so important? And foremost, was it wise, or even safe, to bring them into the Freeholds? Hell of a time for second thoughts.
Sara had been reeling in the saddle for several hours but she stuck it out. Her courage and toughness added to the respect Michael had for her.
Questions danced through Jim’s mind as well, stirring confused emotions. He wanted to believe that Sara and Raoul were good people caught in a bad situation and his gut told him they were decent--but that jet black capsule said spooks and Jim didn’t trust spooks. Neither did Michael.
Jim shook his head, pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his free hand. Like a stubborn dog chasing its tail, his mind was going in circles about Sara. He plopped his hat back on and shifted in the saddle, seeking comfort that just wasn’t there, making an effort to shove all thoughts of her out of his mind. But as their horses wound along the game trail, his eyes were continually drawn to her.
Thunder growled, accompanying empty stomachs. They had missed breakfast and weren’t stopping for lunch. They pushed on.
Finally, when lightning danced on nearby peaks and the clouds opened up, pelting the four with the soft hail mountain people call graupel, Michael relented. In the waning light, he led them away from the river, bearing east from the marshy flats that marked the remains of the Pothole Reservoirs until he found an old mine shaft that went back far enough into the mountain to shelter them from the storm and allow them to have a fire without being detected. They were exhausted.
Jim helped Sara down from her horse, amazed at the electricity that passed between them when he touched her. Bruised and beat-up as she was, disheveled being entirely too kind a word, she actually fussed with her hair a moment before realizing the futility of the gesture. She smiled up at him, shrugged and said, “I’m glad I don’t have a mirror.”
Jim offered her his jacket against the evening chill and said, “You look just fine,” with a touch of wonder in his voice.
As he draped the jacket over her shoulders and met her soft look with one of his own, he stood taller and everybody there knew that whether she needed one or not she had gained a protector. Jim had decided to go with his gut feeling.
Michael shook his head as he gathered kindling to start a fire. Chemistry! It was hard for him to believe this was the same woman who, just a few hours ago, enjoyed slicing a man’s spinal cord. His lips twitched in a fleeting grin. He’d have to remind Jim not to annoy her.
Then his hand brushed against the lump the suicide pill formed in his pocket and his smile vanished. For his friend’s sake, he wanted to trust Raoul and Sara. His own instincts, dating from when he had first seen Sara, told him they were alright...if it wasn’t for that damn pill!
He finished laying the small fire and sparked it off with a magnesium fire starter. He knelt and gently blew the spark to flame, feeding it slowly until it grew to a decent cook fire. Going over to his horse, he stroked the animal’s neck, silently apologizing for having to leave it saddled. No telling how sudden they might have to leave. He reached into his saddle bags and pulled out a vacuum sealed bag of dehydrated mixed vegetables, some beef jerky, a pot for water and the small bag of coffee he’d salvaged from the enemy patrol.
Food first, questions later, he thought. He walked to the mouth of the mine, but there were no answers there, only darkness and wind and rain.
He held the pot under a rivulet until it filled with water then headed back into the mine. The thought that he was going to taste some honest-to-God coffee was almost pleasant enough to overcome the dread building within him. He trudged reluctantly along, ignoring the rustling and squeaks of bats overhead, feeling like a kid walking alone in a cemetery at night--spooked and uncertain.
*
“Sara.” Michael paused for a sip of coffee, then met her gaze across the fire. There was no right way to begin. “Why were they torturing you?” He saw her stiffen and winced inwardly. Subtle, Michael, always subtle.
“I don’t know,” she replied with a worried glance at Raoul. “It seems to be their style.”
“Normally,” he admitted with a nod, “but not this time. This time they wanted information.” His voice was slightly harder now that she had attempted an evasion.
“How do you know?” Jim placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
With a sigh, Michael reached into his pocket. He grasped the deadly pill between his thumb and forefinger, his flesh crawling like he was picking up a live spider. He held it up into the light of the fire. Flames reflected off the oily black surface and the shadows beyond their tiny circle of light seemed darker, as if hiding something evil. When Michael spoke again, his voice was so soft the others had to lean forward to catch his words.
“I was in the last war.” Nightmare images of mutilated bodies flashed through his mind. He pulle
d the pill back and stared hard at it. “A friend of mine in military intelligence told me about these--not a pretty way to die. He also told me about the people who carry them.”
Their silence was deeper than the darkness. Michael let it grow.
“Ahem,” Raoul broke the silence speaking hesitantly, his voice strained. “I’m sorry. I know the two of you risked your lives to help us, but we just can’t...” His voice faded as he struggled to find the right words.
“Why not?” Michael demanded.
“Because it’s too terrible...too...” Shaking his head he looked to Sara for support, but she was staring fearfully out into the darkness, lost in memories better left behind.
Michael sent a glance at Jim that said, jump in any time, then switched tacks. “Look, Raoul, everyone here survived The Dying Time. Nothing can be worse than that.”
Raoul gave Michael a pitying look, full of suffering and sorrow. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Something can.” Tears trailed down his cheeks. He bowed his head.
“What?” Michael insisted. Dammit, he hated this. Part of him wanted to reach out to the old man and part of him was getting angry.
“Stop it!” Sara leaned over and put her arms around Raoul, sheltering him. “Please,” she looked at Michael, her eyes full of tears. “Years ago, his wife,” her voice caught, “my grandmother, was tortured to death to get him to reveal what he knows and he told them nothing.” Her eyes blazed. “You saw what they did to me and I revealed nothing.”
Michael opened his mouth to speak but her glare stopped him. “That hideous pill you’re holding was to insure we didn’t give anything away. Don’t you see? We don’t want...we can’t...,” she collapsed against Raoul, sobbing, her tears mingling with his.
The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time Page 10
