Shadow Soldier (The Gunsmith Book 2)
Page 29
“Who are you?” he snarled.
In English, just my luck.
I snarled right back, “No one. I’m not here. You don’t see me.” So much for my power-generated armor. It faded with the first test.
“Come here, woman.” He motioned with his rifle, expecting me to surrender to him. More fool he. Didn’t he see that I, too, had a gun? One of the Germans’ own, in fact, that I’d been carrying for hours.
When I’d first picked the gun up, a replacement for the empty Smith & Wesson, I’d assumed it was a carbine. I’d since found out differently. What I had was a splendid 7.63 mm Broomhandle Mauser, from which I’d removed the stock so I could more easily use it as a pistol. But the mere fact of my possession apparently didn’t faze him. Maybe he didn’t expect me to use it. Maybe he didn’t think I could.
“Go away,” I said, one last warning. I raised the Mauser, so he would know I meant what I said.
My eyes flickered. Over the German’s shoulder, I glimpsed a running man. He whipped by so fast, how could I be sure? Yet I was sure. The man was Caleb. And there was the shadow of a big black dog at his heels. Had McDuff⏤
My attention wavered from the German. For a moment, the world simply spun in dizzying spirals. Euphoria? Too mild of a word. I felt as if I could explode into a starburst. I’d found him!
But, of course, this didn’t make the German go away. As I hesitated in that instant, he shot from the hip.
And suddenly, I did explode—the starburst came and it hurt horribly—horribly. All the air was sucked from my lungs. Black pinpoints expanded from the center of my vision.
“Caleb,” I heard myself cry.
In an automatic reaction, my forefinger closed on the Mauser’s trigger. The gun fired, and kept on firing. The soldier fell away, gone out of my narrowing field of sight, but I couldn’t seem to release the pressure.
Oh. God. So this is what it felt like to be shot—to die.
FAST as he’d been moving, Caleb hadn’t been fast enough to escape entirely undetected. Several of the soldiers following the tank abandoned the vehicle’s hypothetical safety to chase him. He burrowed deeper into the rubble of the bombed-out building with his heart pounding and his breath going in and out like it was driven by pistons. His leg ached like a root canal waiting to happen.
He’d no more than got himself turned around, marveling over the fact he was still alive, when the tank blew up. The track broke in half, parts of it flying up and wrapping around the turret gun, while the tank body slewed sideways. The driver and gun operator pushed open the hatch and swarmed out, surrounded by flames. They jumped, landing on the American side of the barricade where Caleb could no longer see them.
“Way to go, Garrett,” Caleb heard himself cheering at the top of his lungs. By God! Garrett had pitted himself against a tank and actually won. Caleb hadn’t ever been sure it could be done. He felt certain the victory would break the back of this attack.
Squinting into the glare surrounding the burning tank, he snapped a couple of shots into the rush of soldiers who’d followed him. The men were nicely grouped he saw with satisfaction. Just about in position. When they funneled into the breached wall after him, he’d strike. A few seconds more, that’s all.
And then he saw her—Boothenay, outlined by the fire, and fighting for her life. Two dogs were moving in circles around her. They’d found each other, and in so doing, found Boothenay.
With heart-stopping agony, he saw that Boothenay was losing the fight.
He stood, taking the soldiers by surprise, and in the lapse, slammed the grenade to the ground in front of them. Then he was up and running again before the noise had faded.
I THOUGHT I must be seeing double. Two dogs—McDuff had multiplied. My eyesight swam.
When it became absolutely imperative, I chanced taking a small breath. Instantly, my ears drummed a protest and I felt myself swaying. Better if I was not so far from the ground, I decided, and sank to my knees.
I squinted, trying to concentrate on something except the pain. Trying not to give in. There really were two dogs. I saw them clearly now. And I saw something—someone—else, too.
Caleb! Was it really him wavering into view? He seemed to be floating, ghostlike out of the dark.
My vision sharpened. Another man stood at the corner of a building, barely visible in the shadows beyond Caleb. I thought I recognized August, blowing on a whistle. Is it his whistle I hear, I wondered, or is there really one shrilling inside my head? One that calls, over and over, with a mourning screech. The sound pierced me from the inside out, or felt as if it did, sharp and painful.
I knew I was about to go under, unable to hold onto consciousness any longer. Caleb was with me now. I felt his hands on me as he tried to stop the bleeding. Pressure came against my chest.
“Ah, Jesus, sugar, what have you done to yourself?” he was saying. “Why doesn’t your stupid, damn magic take us home? What’s it waiting for? Enough blood for a freaking battalion?”
He was babbling, and so white—paler even than me, I’ll bet—but beautiful in my eyes. Joy soared in my heart. I didn’t care about the blood.
“I found you,” I said, as if he didn’t know. I was so glad to see him I could just die.
No. Wrong word. He didn’t want me to die. Fine. So I wouldn’t. I only wished that damned whistle would stop. I guessed I’d have to go and shut it up myself. But not by myself.
CHAPTER 29
In the way things have of never turning out like you expect, when we finished the tumbling, falling, freezing transition between the old days and our own time, we landed back in the shop, snapped there like a spit wad out of a rubber band. More precisely, we wound up in the vault, from which Caleb had begun this horrific odyssey.
Caleb was still wearing his doughboy uniform, sans jacket, and I had on Beatrix von Fassnacht’s riding outfit. We both bore bloodstains and mud, stank of terror, and reeked of war.
Besides all that, we’ d somehow brought the two dogs forward with us. Being a trifle discombobulated by the transition, when they caught Gabe’s scent, they started whining. This, of course, brought Gabe to the head of the stairs. He bayed like he had a cougar treed, angry and protective of his territory. I’d never heard such a din in my life. A shelling by Big Bertha could not begin to compare.
All of the sudden, the whistle stopped, which helped a little. “Briards,” I exclaimed, immediately aware my lungs were drawing air in and pushing it out as they were designed to do. The pain was no longer overwhelming.
“What are you talking about?” Caleb hadn’t let up the pressure on the right side of my chest, though I knew it was no longer necessary. Since I liked his hand there, I simply hugged it closer.
In the manner the magic has of changing things, I had still been shot and the wound still hurt, but I knew I wasn’t going to die.
“The dogs,” I said, as if this was the number one question and of premier importance. “Their breed—Briard. I knew all the time. Just couldn’t remember until this very minute.”
Caleb was holding me, and I saw his green eyes flash. “Jesus, Boothenay. Is that what we’re going to talk about? Dogs?” He practically had to yell to be heard over the racket the dogs were making. The noise was terrible within the tiny vault, ricocheting off the metal walls.
I didn’t care. Not about the dogs and the noise, about the dirt and not about the blood. Not any more.
“No,” I said. “We’re not.” I didn’t want to talk at all.
With desperate passion, I grabbed hold of his ears, drew his head down to mine and ground my mouth against his until my lips went numb. This was all I wanted; all I ever wanted.
Pretty soon I let go his ears and eased the ferocity of our kiss. “I thought you were lost,” I said, feeling again the desolation of my fear. I burrowed my face into his neck. “I couldn’t find you, couldn’t reach you. Not anywhere.”
“I was afraid you weren’t looking,” he said.
“I’d l
ook for you in hell if I had to,” I told him fiercely. In fact, I had a hunch maybe that’s where we’d both been. A kind of hell. August’s personal hell.
Caleb appreciated the sentiment. Everything feels so much nicer when your lips aren’t numb and when you can breathe soft words and say, “I love you,” against each other’s mouth.
When Dad came downstairs a second later, breaking up what threatened to become a full-blown dogfight while he was at it, I noticed his lips looked permanently pursed and white around the edges. I have no idea how long he’d been blowing the whistle I’d left on the table the other morning, and kept on blowing it after a less resolute man might have given up. Long enough, anyway. Caleb and I were here to attest to that.
“The whistle worked,” I said, somewhat surprised myself. “I heard it so clearly when . . . before . . .” I hesitated to mention how close I’d come to not getting back. I clung to Caleb’s hand, unable to let go, needing to feel his touch against my skin.
Caleb looked at me, shaking his head a fraction. He didn’t want me to voice how close a call it had been either. Dad’s dicey heart, you know, although I could have told him Dad was getting fairly well-inured to the dangers I faced.
“There was another whistle,” Caleb said, cocking his head in a puzzled way. “I can’t quite put my finger on where the noise was coming from, but I heard it. I heard your Dad, too.”
“August had the other whistle. He came to help us home. I think.”
“Who?” Caleb asked, frowning. I’d forgotten Caleb didn’t know August. That he had fought and suffered on the behalf of a stranger. A stranger who was of the enemy, no less.
Dad listened to my stumbling explanation, sighed deeply and disgustedly, and shook his head. He and my brother, Scott. They both purely hate this magical stuff I do.
WE HAD one more thing to see to before this adventure could be put to rest. Without bothering to change clothes, although I threw a sweater on over my bloodstained blouse, we all, including Dad, crowded into the front seat of Caleb’s pickup.
Things were not so quiet this evening at the Bethany Home. An ambulance blocked the entrance door, though we managed to squeeze past. Paramedics were gathered in August’s room.
“Here she is,” Mrs. Tweety-bird chirped to someone. “Here’s his granddaughter.”She meant me, which I can safely say disconcerted my dad quite a lot. This helpful, if misguided, information got us into the room where August lay stretched on his bed.
More helpful, Caleb knew one of the medics, who said, eying Caleb’s attire doubtfully, “Nice menswear, doc. Where’d you find that outfit?”
Without missing a beat, Caleb said, “Authentic World War I. I’ve been doing some re-enactment.”
I hoped the paramedic couldn’t smell us, for I was aware the stench of blood and battle clung to our clothes and skin. Fortunately, Dad, seeing my frantic expression, engaged the man in a discussion about the patient, which allowed me to squat next to the bed.
August seemed not to have moved since the magic had taken us away, although now every single one of his hundred plus years was etched clearly upon his face. His complexion was gray, but he was still alive. His eyes swiveled toward us when we entered.
He didn’t bother about Dad at all, instead taking a long, hard look at Caleb. Then he smiled faintly and closed his eyes.
“Sis,” he whispered.
I bent down. “We made it, August. But why did you come back? I thought you wanted to stay?”
“The Colt wouldn’t let me.” He opened his eyes. “Not until I knew you’d be all right. It will now. Please⏤”
Caleb’s hand tightened on my shoulder. Helplessly, I said, “August, I can’t. I don’t have the gun. And even if I did⏤”
He interrupted. “Under my pillow. With my will. Send me back, witch lady. Send me back.”
I couldn’t, you know. But it didn’t matter. He went on his own.
A LOOK AT CROSSROAD (GUNSMITH SERIES BOOK III) BY C.K. CRIGGER
Boothenay Irons is a most unusual gunsmith who is accustomed to the mysterious power within the antique guns in which she deals. That power is a catalyst, able to carry her into the past. What she isnt prepared for is a time-traveler from the future named Teagun Dill in need of her expertise. Dill kidnaps her and thrusts her forward in time. He needs her help to fight an outlaw gang who has taken over the Dill familys Crossroad Hotel. His promise to help her return to her own time causes her to consider her plight as well as his. Stranded and angry, unable to utilize her own power, Boothenay finds she must help create a future, instead of relive the past.
COMING SOON FROM CITY LIGHTS PRESS AND C.K. CRIGGER
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C.K. Crigger
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C.K. Crigger was born and raised in North Idaho on the Coeur d’Alene Indian Reservation, and currently lives with her husband, three feisty little dogs and an uppity Persian cat in Spokane Valley, Washington.
Imbued with an abiding love of western traditions and wide-open spaces, Crigger writes of free-spirited people who break from their standard roles.
Her short story, Aldy Neal’s Ghost, was a 2007 Spur finalist. Black Crossing, won the 2008 EPIC Award in the historical/western category. Letter of the Law was a 2009 Spur finalist in the audio category.
Find C.K. Crigger Online At:
citylightspress.com/authors/c-k-crigger/
Table of Contents
Copyright
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
A Look at Crossroad (Gunsmith Series Book III) by C.K. Crigger
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About the Author