Ever since narrowly escaping his former employer, Christian had known all along that they would never stop searching for him. Killing a trio of agents, relieving them of their gear, and forsaking their corpses for the coyotes to pick at had bequeathed him a proverbial scarlet letter. The valley had never seen any form of aggression on behalf of DHS until his arrival here, and if they were behind these disappearances, accountability could easily fall in his lap. He’d warned everyone of their true aims months ago, but with so much having come to pass since, his counsel had become an afterthought, even to him. The broken families and those missing worried him, but what concerned him most was knowing what he knew: that if DHS was involved, this was only the beginning.
Grace appeared from the hall and shimmied up behind him, embracing him around the neck. “Buenos días, mi amor.” She kissed his cheek and yawned inches from his ear. “I seem to have slumbered through breakfast. Any leftovers? Why is there no coffee made? And why do you have my radio? What the fuck is going on?”
Christian squeezed her hand. “Sorry, breakfast and coffee were omitted. A lot’s happened this morning.”
“Other than breakfast and coffee, you mean.”
“There’s been some trouble. Some kids are missing, Emily Taylor, Brooke Schmidt and two Brady girls.”
“Which Brady girls? Wait—never mind, continue…not like I can tell them apart anyway.”
“Michelle and your dad left a while ago to help look for them, and I’ve been here ever since, watching the radio.”
“You mean my radio.”
“Right.”
Grace counted with her fingers. “Four missing? That’s…I don’t know, scary.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” Christian sent her puppy eyes. “It’s never happened before. It’s worrisome. I’m…sorry about breakfast.”
“No worries, there’s lot’s going on, like you said.” She fidgeted. “Oddly enough, I’m not feeling too hungry. Maybe I’ll just caffeinate. Being pregnant is fucking whacky; it’s like…demonic possession, but from the spirit’s point of view, every morning waking up in a new, alien host body. For the longest time, all I ever wanted was to gorge my face full of anything remotely comestible within reach and lurch it all up an hour later. The first trimester is a cock-and-bull story. All that eating equated to an overextended caloric deficit, though you’d never know it, judging by my weight gain.” She strolled farther into the kitchen. “You should tell them to put together a few search parties and comb the forest.”
“It’s being done now. One team is meeting up at Wolf Gap shortly, and the other in about twenty minutes at the barricade near the Bradys’.”
“Smart thinking.”
Christian rotated in his seat. “Grace, there’s no delicate way of saying this, so I’m just going to say it. I was…more or less, planning to join them.”
Grace didn’t respond.
“And I don’t want you mad at me for wanting to, or for doing it.”
“That’s silly. I’m not mad at you,” she said.
“You’re not?”
“No, not at all.” Grace paused. “And the more I think about it, it irritates me that you’re still sitting here.”
Christian squinted in disbelief. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yep. I feel fine.” Grace giggled. “In fact, it’s the best I’ve felt in a while. Why do you ask?”
“Eh, no reason.”
“Okay. Want some coffee to take with you?”
“No, thanks. I think I can do without.”
Grace regarded the stove and sighed disgustedly. “I’m glad you answered with a roundabout ‘no’. There’s not even one single ember left in here, and it’s going to take me for-fucking-ever to get it going—God, I miss my Keurig…and hazelnut Dunkin’ Donuts K-Cups. And electricity.” She turned and shot a glance down the hallway. “Where is everybody? Where’s Lee? And that Ken dude with the limp? And his hose beast friend who flirts with you? What’s her name? Jem? Jasper?”
Christian smirked and casually pointed his thumb at the door. “Search parties.”
Grace slammed her eyes shut and put the back of her palm to her forehead. “Shit. I’m a dumbass. You did just say something about that, didn’t you? Well, whatever…what are you waiting for? Get out of here, go get dressed or geared up or whatever, and help them. I’ll stay and attempt to come up with a dinner plan, and if the stove cooperates, get some food going. Everyone should be famished by the time they get back. Any requests?”
Christian went to her. He put a hand on her hip and the other gently on her belly. “None. I’m not picky except about this, so hear me out, please. After I leave, lock that door behind me, and keep it locked. If you see anyone you don’t recognize, anyone at all, you call for me—after you shoot them.”
“Christian, please. We’ve been through this a hundred gazillion times. I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can. But do this for me, please. I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s happened, and I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you, especially when I’m not here to prevent it.”
Grace glimmered. Elevating to her tiptoes, she reached for his face and pressed her lips against his. “I love you—for that…and a lot of other things. Worry not, my valiant knight. I’ll remain in the castle out of harm’s way, pending your return. Oh—before you go, can we chat about something? It’ll only take a minute.”
Christian extended and pulled away to gauge her expression. “Yeah, of course. Anything.”
Grace clasped her hands together with enthusiasm. “Yay! Okay, so listen…I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and I didn’t want to make any decisions without your input. So, real quick, let’s you and me discuss names.”
“Names?”
“For the baby, duh.”
“It was a response, not a question. I knew what you meant.”
“Well, I should hope so,” Grace cooed, rubbing her belly through her shirt.
“What have you come up with?”
Grace cocked her head. “Before I answer that, what have you come up with?”
Christian hesitated. “I honestly haven’t even begun to consider any.”
“You haven’t? And why the hell not?”
“I don’t know. I just haven’t.”
“Well, I have…not like I have a choice.” Grace put a hand to her hip and pouted. “You really haven’t given this any thought at all, have you?”
“The baby? Of course I have. I think about it all the time. But baby names? Admittedly, no.”
“Our baby,” Grace corrected. “Need I remind you that we’re going to be parents soon? Like before we know it? I mean, this is real shit here, Christian. Serious freakin’ adult shit. I’m going to be a mommy for my first time ever, and you, sir, are going to be a daddio.”
Christian’s expression humbled. “Grace, you’re already a mommy.”
“Aww, that’s sweet. And you’re charming. And I’m…blarneyed. And thank you. But back to names.”
He pointed to the table, indicating they should take a seat, but Grace vetoed the idea. “Sure, but since I didn’t come prepared for a conversation of this magnitude, maybe you should start.”
“Your sarcasm is strong today. I approve. But whatever. Fine.” Grace took a long pause. “I was thinking of naming him…Isaiah.”
“Isaiah,” Christian repeated, bringing a hand to his chin to contemplate. “I like it. That’s a great name. What made you think of it?”
“Christian, are you doing this to me on purpose?”
“Am I doing what to you on purpose?”
“Jerking my chain. Playing dumb. Pretending you don’t know. And you did it again just now.”
“I did what again?” He halted Grace’s response with a finger. “Never mind, don’t answer that. Let’s sidestep this before you wallop me with another tangent. Just…tell me what made you think of the name, because I really am clueless here.”
Grace studied him. “O
h, silly me…I’m a dunce. How could you have known? Isaiah is Dad’s middle name.”
“Really? No shit,” said Christian. “Now I think I like it even more.”
Grace perked up. “You mean it?”
“Absolutely. I think Isaiah would make a superb name for our son.”
For a moment, Grace’s emotions appeared close to overpowering her, but she regained composure. “Okay, it’s settled, then. Isaiah. But what about middle names? And should he have my last name or yours? Or should we hyphenate?”
“Whatever floats your boat, Grace. He’ll be our son regardless of any name he carries—if he’s a boy, that is.”
“If?”
“Yeah, if. Have you considered any girl names?”
“Girl names?” Grace sneered. “Are you suggesting that the parasitical fetus tap-dancing my uterus into mincemeat at present is devoid a phallus?”
Christian shrugged and rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, neither of us do, but it remains a possibility we might want to think about, don’t you agree?”
Grace pondered his remarks. She didn’t say anything.
“Looks like both of us weren’t prepared to have this conversation,” said Christian.
Grace stared contemplatively away. “I don’t know about this girl shit. I think having a girl would be bad. She could inherit all my rubbish and turn out a lot like me, and that prospect isn’t one of which I’m the least bit fond.”
“Grace…”
“Hush a second. Imagine two mes in this world—two Graces, not one. The pitiful thing couldn’t handle it. It’d probably twirl right the fuck off its axis and tumble erratically into outer space on an interstellar collision course, ruining every orbit in its path.”
“Be that as it may, there happens to be only one of you,” Christian said, nearing her again. “And somehow, I was lucky enough to find her. Our child, boy or girl, is going to adore you.”
“How do you know that?”
Christian tugged at her hand. “Because I do. You stole my heart after only a week of knowing you, and that baby is going to open his or her eyes into a brand-new world after already having a connection with you for nine months.”
“Our baby,” Grace said, gleaming again. “And that’s sweet…but it’s forty weeks, making it more like ten months.”
Christian pursed his lips. “I stand corrected…again.” He gestured to his aft. “I should probably get going if you’re still okay with it.”
“Of course I am.” She stared longingly at him. “You’re already my hero. Go be someone else’s today. Just be safe.”
Chapter 19
DHS Shenandoah Outpost
Tuesday, March 8th
The second Beatrice Carter stepped foot into his office, Bronson hoisted himself from his chair, pointed his finger at her, and angrily ordered, “There! Take her into custody! Now!”
Four uniformed, armed guards went on alert and advanced in hostile fashion without protest.
Beatrice halted at the open doorway, looking askance. “Um, what is all this about?”
“Don’t play coy,” Bronson growled. “You know damn well what it’s about.”
“I suppose I do.” She yawned, then slammed the door shut and fell into a low, aggressive fighting stance, casting the guards a look of pure ferocity. “Gentlemen, you are hereby advised not to engage. Withdraw now, or sure as God made little green apples, I will deliver each one of you the beating of your lives.”
The guards hesitated at the warning. The pair in the lead rotated to seek further go-ahead.
“What are you waiting for?” Bronson snapped. “There are four of you and one of her! Move! Subdue her!”
At his order, the guards turned to face Beatrice and were levied devastating punches to their faces and kicks to their throats consequent to the delay. Stunned, they fell to their knees. Beatrice moved between them with impressive speed and dropped heavy elbow strikes to the base of each man’s neck. They plunged limply, face-first to the floor, their heads thumping the historic hardwood.
She rose quickly from there with clenched teeth, blocking and dodging attacks and grabs from the duo still upright. Clamping onto the guard’s hair to her right, she bashed his chin with a flying knee, crushing his jaw and sending him backward into one of Bronson’s bookcases. Dusty books and encyclopedias fell in pairs and trios onto his limp body as he lay there, incapacitated, his eyes rolling into his forehead.
The final guard squared off with Beatrice, assuming a stance and a matching two-fisted guard resembling that of a professional boxer. He bounced back and forth on his toes, shifting his weight between feet. “Think you’re tough? Think you can throw hands like a man? Come on, then! Let’s throw hands, bitch!”
Beatrice tossed her hair over a shoulder insouciantly and set her jaw, gauging both the distance separating them and the guard’s reach. “You first.”
The guard laughed. “Don’t tempt me. I have no issues with bashing women.”
“Sugar, the only issue right now of which you should be mindful is why on earth you are choosing to take part in a doctrinaire game of fisticuffs with me—over simply drawing your pistol and holding me at gunpoint.”
The guard sneered and sent a fleeting nod. With one hand still balled into a fist and guarding his face, the other felt for his sidearm. He drew it, raised it methodically, and leveled it at Beatrice. “Kind of takes all the fun out of it…but have it your way,” he said, then ordered, “Turn around and assume the position. On your knees, hands behind your head.”
Beatrice obeyed the command. As the guard approached, she pivoted on her knees and snatched his wrists, pulled inward, and brought his chin down onto the top of her head, causing him to bite into his tongue. He squealed like a stuck pig, blood oozing over his lips.
Beatrice rose and acquired the pistol from the guard’s slackened grip, upended it in her palm, and brought the magazine end down in a whipping motion just above his ear. She struck him repeatedly in brutal fashion until the man dropped lifelessly in a bloody, blubbering heap. His screams of agony were brief, interrupted permanently by a bootheel stomp to his throat.
Four aggressors down for the count, most of them permanently, Beatrice Carter cleared the guard’s pistol, let it fall to the floor, and marched deliberately toward aggressor number five, Doug Bronson.
Wide-eyed, as pale as he’d ever been and as sober as he’d ever felt in recent days, Bronson extracted a shiny, small-caliber Walther automatic from the top drawer of his desk and pointed it at Beatrice with a shaky hand.
In return, Beatrice drew the Sig P320 from the small of her back and aimed it at him, now standing inches away from the edge of his desk. “Don’t be obtuse, Doug. You and I both know you don’t have the balls to pull the trigger.”
Bronson froze. His teeth chattered and his lips trembled. The woman was beating him at his own game and was now calling him out while holding a gun to his face. Just shoot her, dammit. Pull the fucking trigger and end this already.
But he couldn’t. She was right, he didn’t have the balls. Ordering others to perform his dirty work was one thing, but actually doing it was something else entirely. Doug had never been fond of getting his hands dirty. Like it or not, and despite all of Beatrice’s misgivings, he needed her—but was it now too late for that? He queried her in a shaky tenor. “Where did you get that gun?”
“It’s a loaner. Got it from the boys in the armory.”
“The armory doesn’t loan guns out anymore.”
“It would appear an exception was made. Times are a-changin’, Doug.”
“I suppose they are.” Doug paused to buy some time. “W-what do you want from me?”
Beatrice’s lips curled into a sneer. Her aim held true and her stance stiffened. She didn’t falter. “Absolute authority to go about as I please, no restrictions whatsoever, full staff support from this point forward. And zero interference from you.”
The Walther PP32 in Doug’s hand felt as though it weighed
twenty pounds. His forearm muscles screamed from the tension of the grip he had on it. “Or?”
“Or your day takes a nosedive into a very unpleasant place. And I take what I want devoid of your sanction.”
Doug nodded, mulling over her offer. “I see. What…assurances do I have should I agree to this?”
“After this kick in the teeth? Not a one. Instead, I’ll offer you a stocking stuffer, a little something you’ve always wanted but have never quite been able to achieve on your own.” Beatrice’s sneer drifted away, her lips drawing a flat line. “Glory.”
Bronson began lowering his weapon, doing so as involuntarily as breathing. She wasn’t catering to his ego anymore or even saying the right words at the right time; she was stomping his guts out and handing them to him. Was glory really all he had ever wanted? Surely it felt better than this. He’d always wanted to feel honored, exalted, like a king or a ruler perched high on his throne, servants at his every beck and call. His current position was close, but nowhere close enough. “Intriguing. And how do you intend to bring this about?”
Beatrice furrowed her brow. “You’re smarter than that, Doug. In the amount of time we have known each other, there is one thing about yours truly that you should have realized by now: I achieve results. We both want the same things, but we differ greatly in the way we choose to reach our goals. You have your way and I have mine. Yours has imagination and shows promise, but it’s idealistic at best. My way is far more…direct.”
“Direct?” Doug probed. “Is that how you wish to term your methods? Beatrice, you have single-handedly brought egregious turmoil into this organization, what was once a finely tuned, well-oiled machine.”
“Don’t kid yourself. This organization was in dire need of a tune-up,” Beatrice began with a snigger. “And I wasn’t trying to purposefully undermine your authority here, though I realize that is what I’ve done, I’ll admit that.” She lowered her weapon and leaned in, locking eyes with him. “But you started this, Doug. You moved on me first…you tried to emasculate me…and that was both your first and final mistake. Mark my words, there will not be another.”
The Heart of War: Book Seven of the What's Left of My World Series Page 15
