"Of course she is," April nodded. "She's under God's control."
Robert sneered and stepped back. What did he care if April Madden got torn to shreds by Sydney's dogs? All that mattered was getting Sydney out of there. She was being used by someone, and that someone wasn't him.
April began to run after Sydney, and Bobby jogged behind her, pulling out his phone.
"Get the helicopter. Meet me on the hospital roof in Surama," he yelled at Deacon.
"Surama?"
"The city is under attack. Prepare yourself."
"Yes, boss."
Maxim put the phone back into his pocket and continued to follow Sydney. April had sprinted ahead of him, and lined herself up with the dogs, as if she was one of them, one of the pack moving through this city, the Daesh army fleeing in fear before them.
The Pershmergas were coming from the other direction.
Robert sent up a small prayer, a holdover from his childhood, thanking the Lord that he'd worn his bulletproof jacket that day.
Old habits die hard.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Mulberry
Mulberry crouched in the small space next to Zerzan, who drove the thing like she was born to it. The inside of the tank stank of oil, gasoline, and stale sweat. And it was hot as fuck.
He loaded a shell, the artillery round smooth against his sweaty palms. Then he turned his attention to the periscope, focusing on the building that was the source of the rifle fire pinging off the armored vehicle.
The adrenaline of battle drove through his veins, and his hand shook slightly as he swabbed the sweat from his brow.
He pulled the trigger. The artillery round blasted into the second story, creating a crater, spilling chunks of plaster on the street below. As the dust settled, exposed rebar framed the fallen bodies of the soldiers inside.
The Peshmerga troops moved into the street, keeping cover by staying close to the buildings, working their way house to house. This was urban warfare.
The tank progressed, rolling over broken concrete, fallen bricks, and dust-covered corpses. Zerzan chattered on the radio, and Mulberry loaded another shell. "Mulberry," Zerzan's voice sounded strange, and he looked over at her. She kept her gaze fixed on the street in front of them. "I'm getting reports that a woman," she cleared her throat, "and a pack of dogs are on the other side of the city. She came down from the mountains. Do you think it's Sydney?"
"Yes." His heart surged. "I need to get to her."
He went to stand and bumped his head on the low roof, jolting him back into the seat. Zerzan glanced over at him and frowned. "There is a city filled with Daesh soldiers between us."
"I can move through it. I can get there." He grabbed a rifle. "Let me out."
Bullets pinged against the tank's armor. "You'll get shot."
"I won't. I promise."
She laughed. "You sound like her."
"I am Her."
She turned in her seat. "Have you found religion?" she asked with narrowed eyes.
He grinned. "No, I'm just fucking with you."
"Quite a time to pursue love," she snipped, but she was smiling. "I need you with me. Alone in this tank, I'm just a driver. We need the weapon. Our cause is bigger than her."
Mulberry recognized the truth of her statement. Of course he couldn't abandon Zerzan. Couldn't run through the streets like this was Paris, and he'd agreed to meet the love of his life at the Eiffel tower. He had a duty. He'd made an agreement. But Sydney was so close. His chest ached at her nearness.
"Please," Zerzan said, her voice tight. "Can you take out those snipers?"
Mulberry pushed a shell into the gun and turned to his scope, aiming at the building to their left, a three-story cinderblock structure with a black flag flapping on its roof. He aimed for the third floor, where he could see the puff of smoke from a gun.
The tank shook as the artillery round catapulted to its destination. "We will get to her," Zerzan promised. "Just keep fighting with me."
Mulberry loaded another round. He would do as she asked for as long as he could. But his body wanted to flee, to run to where Sydney had been spotted. He resisted the urge to throw open the hatch and escape, instead concentrating on his scope, on the battle at hand.
The tank rumbled onward, grinding into the pavement, steadily taking back the city. Mulberry was watching through the periscope, his sights fixed on the street ahead, when the swirling, dancing smoke shifted, and a black, withering mass appeared.
It swarmed toward them. The Daesh army was running right at them, a line of bodies. They were so exposed. And easy to hit. The black-clad soldiers fell under heavy fire from the Peshmerga fighting force. Mulberry launched artillery rounds into their midst, and men flew into the air, popping up like random spray from an ocean wave. But the wave didn't slow.
They weren't running toward the Peshmerga. They were running from something. They were fleeing from Sydney Rye.
The wave of Daesh soldiers poured around the tank, the Peshmerga forces firing, a battle suddenly hot…no more of this grinding progression, this building to building. It was all happening here, now. Through his periscope Mulberry watched hand-to-hand combat break out, the Daesh soldiers butting into the camouflage-covered Peshmerga fighters.
The tank jolted to a stop. Zerzan cursed in her native tongue. The sound of boots on the tank. A Daesh soldier had climbed on them.
The tinkling sound of a grenade in the barrel of their weapon.
Zerzan pushed the hatch open, and Mulberry followed close behind her. She fired, and a man screamed. Mulberry came up out of the tank, and Zerzan had already leapt into the fray. Gripping a Kalashnikov, Mulberry followed her.
The whoosh of hot air from the grenade’s explosion forced him off his feet, and he stumbled into the battle.
Mulberry's rifle felt like an extension of himself. His body moved in fluid, unhurried motions. The battle waged around him, and yet he did not flinch at the explosions, or shy away from the gunfire.
He felt no fear. Only purpose.
Battle brought out the best in him, his big body useful, powerful, impenetrable.
Time lost all meaning. He could have been fighting for hours or minutes. He could fight forever.
Through the thick dust, a gauze made up of singed paper and floating motes of cement, Mulberry saw her: Sydney Rye, Blue by her side, a Kalashnikov pumping in her hands. A pack of giant dogs circled close, keeping her safe.
Mulberry paused, his big body going still. He'd found her. He'd found Sydney Rye.
Blood pooled on the streets, bodies lay broken and moaning around him. Bullets flew. But all Mulberry saw was her.
Sydney's gaze fell on him, and he watched the shock of recognition jolt through her body. His feet moved then; they carried him toward her at a run.
She just stared at him until Blue let out a warning bark, and she turned to take out a thin, black-clad man, who fell to the ground ten yards from her.
She turned back to Mulberry, her hair covered in the gray dust of destruction, her eyes burning like the sun behind storm clouds.
Sydney Rye ran toward him, her mouth opening in a yell. But he couldn't hear her. He had to touch her.
Then suddenly he was on the ground, his legs no longer carrying him. His head rang with the concussion of violence, the sound of bombs, the ringing of wounds. His heart stammered, and his mind stuttered.
Sydney was kneeling by Mulberry, her rifle up, firing behind him.
She looked down at him. "Mulberry!" she yelled, his name almost swallowed by the sounds of violence around them.
"I love you," he said, his voice hoarse, his mind floating above his body, his cheek pressed to the pavement.
"Don't you fucking die on me!" she screamed, rolling him over. Mulberry raised his head and looked down his body. His left leg was gone. That didn't make sense.
He decided to watch Sydney instead. Her hair was loosening from a ponytail, curling around her face. She was gaunt, pale, but totally herself.
"Don't you dare fucking die on me," Sydney said again.
"I won't," he promised as his vision narrowed. He stared at her profile, at her beautiful lips, her elegant neck, the line of her nose…he could stare at her for the rest of his life…
His eyes fluttered shut, but the image of her was burned into his irises. A shiver ran over his body, chased by a numbing cold. He needed to sleep.
Hands shook his shoulders. "Mulberry!" Sydney's voice, thick with tears. "Don't leave me."
I won't.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Sydney Rye
It must be a nightmare. It just must be.
Mulberry's eyes were closed, his dark lashes fanned out on ashen skin. Bits of debris and chalky dust stuck in his hair. His breath was shallow, his heartbeat fast. The lower half of his left leg was gone. Pulverized into a bloody, pulpy, mess.
Robert Maxim appeared at my side, crouching over Mulberry. He moved quickly and assuredly for someone I wasn't quite sure was actually real. A lock of Robert's hair fell over his forehead as he unbuttoned his shirt. It was covered in gray dust, like the rest of him.
Robert pressed his shirt to Mulberry's stump and whipped his belt off, looping it around Mulberry's thigh and pulling it tight, the muscles in his arms straining with the effort. Robert glanced over at me, his blue, green gaze steely and determined.
"Let's get him to the hospital."
I nodded, hard and sharp. That made sense. Robert stood, and I followed his lead. Robert knew how to handle these situations. That's probably why I'd included him in this dream.
I grabbed Mulberry's shoulders and began to lift when someone moved in close to me. Turning quickly, I reached for my weapon where I'd left it next to Mulberry's prone body.
I whipped it up and froze in confused panic. My mother. Her face streaked with tears, hair covered in that same gray dust coating everything else in this hellish city, eyes bright—I'd never seen them like that before, she looked almost fevered.
"Joy, honey, let me help you."
She grabbed Mulberry's other arm. I looked over at Robert but he didn't catch my eye, he was too busy lifting Mulberry's legs…what was left of them.
"This way." Robert jerked his chin behind him. I followed Robert Maxim. Fighters in all black and those in desert camo clashed on the streets. The pack of dogs I'd come down the mountain with surrounded us, protecting us. The fighters gave us a wide berth. Both sides appeared terrified of me.
Blue stayed close to my hip, his nose rhythmically tapping, reminding me that he was there. But he was letting me lead. He recognized I was out of the haze.
Could any of this be real? My mother, Robert Maxim, and Mulberry all on the same battlefield in a Daesh-controlled city.
Me alive?
That in itself was wrong.
Was this hell?
We rounded a corner, and the hospital appeared before us.
Injured soldiers hobbled toward it. Civilians leaned on each other as they made their way through the double doors, marked with black Daesh flags. "How are we going to get Mulberry help?" I asked. This hospital was under Daesh control.
"I have a helicopter coming. We'll get him to the roof."
No soldiers guarded the entrance, and when the other injured saw us coming they stopped, stared, and let us pass. We stepped into the waiting room filled with broken bodies. Women wailed, children screamed and men moaned. It stank of blood and excrement.
My heart clenched. So many children.
"Tell the dogs to go," Robert said, indicating the mastiffs that filled the doorway.
"Go? Where?"
"They can't all fit on the helicopter. They should return to their master." He looked down at Mulberry then at me again. "There isn't much time."
I turned and looked at the pack, at once familiar and not. I didn't know their names, but remembered their presence…safety and comfort.
"Go now," I said. "Return to her." Blue gave a low growl and a soft bark. The dogs turned and jogged away.
Robert started moving again, and I followed. "It's okay, Joy," My mother said. "Everything is as it should be."
"Shut up," I ground out.
"The elevators are too much of a risk. We'll have to take the stairs," said Robert, hefting Mulberry’s body and pulling us toward a doorway.
The staircase was sweltering and narrow, and sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes. I gripped Mulberry's giant shoulder, helping push him up the stairs. I let one of my fingers rest against his neck, feeling the muscle, his warmth, feeling a subtle heartbeat at his throat.
He can't die. Not even in my nightmares.
My mother climbed just behind me, her mouth set in a determined line, as she panted up the steps. What was she doing here? Why was there a Kalashnikov slung over her shoulder?
We came out onto the rooftop, Mulberry now draped between me and Robert. A harsh wind from the helicopter blades blew debris into my eyes, making me blink.
Two men jumped out. We'd worked together. A tall Texan, whom I recognized as Deacon, took Mulberry's legs, and the other, a bald man with a deep scar on his face—Conner?— tried to relieve me of my weight, but I shook him off.
We loaded Mulberry into the back of the helicopter, where the scarred soldier pulled out medical equipment and began to work on his leg. Deacon climbed into the pilot’s seat.
The chopper lifted off and tilted away from the city. I held Mulberry's hand. It felt real. "Will he make it?" I asked.
The scarred man pursed his lips, not answering or looking up from his work as he placed an oxygen mask over Mulberry's mouth. Below us the small metropolis spewed smoke. The buildings had crumbled into the streets, filling them with rubble.
The chopper arched up one of the mountainsides, chasing that steep grade toward the sky. My eyes leapt from boulder to boulder as my body had done earlier.
The throbbing ache of my injuries, the burning of my muscles, the searing in my lungs grounded me. If this was a nightmare, it felt awfully real.
I saw her then. A burka-clad woman standing at the apex of the mountain. A bright white dog sitting next to her.
Blue pressed close to me, following my gaze, and whimpered softly.
"The dog is pregnant with his puppies—actually she must have given birth by now," Robert said to me, his hand falling onto my shoulder. I turned toward him. His chiseled jaw was splattered with blood, hair streaked with pulverized cement, eyes wary.
"How do you know that?
"I saw them. When I was looking for you." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "It appears Blue cares. He was very protective. That's unusual for a male dog."
I looked down at Blue, and his brown and blue-eyed gaze caught mine. "I promise we'll go back."
Robert's hand tightened on my shoulder at my words.
My eyes focused back on the woman as the helicopter flew directly over her. She raised a hand in a small wave, sending a chill down my spine. She could see me. See right through me.
I was free, but still her prisoner. And she wasn't done with me yet.
<<<<>>>>
Turn the page to read an excerpt from
Flock of Wolves (A Sydney Rye Novel, #10) now.
Flock of Wolves
Chapter One - I Will Survive
Sydney
The doctor flashed her penlight into my eyes, and I blinked against the bright ray. My dog Blue sat on the floor next to me, his head resting on my knee. My fingers curled around the edge of the exam table, gripping onto the seat, hoping I could hold onto reality.
Robert Maxim stood by the door, his arms crossed and face shadowed. He watched us, reminding me of a simmering pot, one just on the cusp of a rolling boil.
The sound of thunder rumbled in the back of my brain. The stringent scent of the hospital tickled my nose. My heart echoed in my chest, pounding out Mulberry's name.
He'd ch
ange my life, Mulberry—helped me when I needed it and when I didn't. Touched me when I asked and stayed away when I insisted. Now, if my mind was to be believed, his life teetered on the edge, his leg blown off, the veins opened, his blood spilled onto the battlefield, rushing away from him.
I should be the one dying.
I should be dead.
The doctor stepped back, a woman in her early 40s with straight black hair and big glasses that slipped down her elegant little nose. "You've suffered major trauma."
Thanks Captain Obvious.
"I think…” She cocked her head, narrowing her eyes, inspecting me like a gardener might a plant that refused to grow toward the sun. “We need to get you back to the States." She turned to Robert.
Thunder rumbled louder, crackling in my ears and blotting out her voice. Lightning sizzled across my vision, and I blinked against the bright, white light.
A woman's voice whispered through the storm…You are a miracle.
I shook my head, trying to shake free of the hallucinations, but they clung to me like fog hovering over a harbor—thick and dangerous, but intangible, impossible to touch or avoid. There and yet not.
Had my worst nightmare really come true? Mulberry, the man I loved, in dire danger. Me, powerless to help.
I stayed away to keep him safe.
Everyone I love dies.
Blue scooted closer, his weight warm and welcome against my leg. I rubbed one of his velvety ears.
According to Robert Maxim, Blue had fathered puppies. I glanced up at the man, blinking away the shards of light still crisscrossing my pupils.
Robert spoke to the doctor, his expression calm and controlled, like he owned the world. Like nothing in it could hurt him.
I could.
That's what that simmer was about—that anger bubbling just below the flat surface of Robert Maxim. It pissed him off that I existed, and he didn't own me.
I looked at Blue. Did I own him? No. We were partners, connected in a way that left me tethered here. Attached to this world. As tall as a Great Dane, with the long, elegant snout of a collie and the thick coat and markings of a wolf, with one blue eye and one brown, Blue made this feel real.
In Sheep's Clothing Page 18
