Hot Streak

by Susan Johnson

  She couldn't stand pressed against the wall forever. Gathering her courage, she raced toward the study across the thirty feet of marble, through the partially open door into the sights of two rifles poised to fire.

  Catching a glimpse of the rifle barrel and two shadowy forms, she dove for the floor just as she heard Carey mutter, “Oh, Christ…”

  As she lay on the floor, he stalked over and stood silently over her, making no effort to help her up.

  “You could have been killed,” he growled.

  “So could you,” she replied. She knew damn well she'd come within a hair's breath of being shot; her pulse rate was still loud as a gang war in her ears, and she was bordering on hysteria.

  He'd put a hunting jacket over his white T-shirt so he was dressed all in khaki. The only color catching the moonlight was his pale hair.

  “You don't follow orders very well.”

  “I don't follow orders at all.”

  “I don't have time to watch you.”

  “You don't have to, and Mariel's in control.”

  He sighed and put out his hand to help her up. He didn't have any more time to argue. “Welcome aboard,” he gruffly said. When she placed her hand in his, he pulled her up without effort.

  “Thank you,” Molly said. Standing before him, she was dwarfed by his size, but felt a new competence. “I'm a very good shot.” She wanted to tell him she had a girl scout badge in marksmanship and was always a tomboy, but knew how ludicrous it would sound under the circumstances. So instead she said, “I can help.”

  He laughed, a dry humorless sound. “They don't say ‘Take 2' if things don't go right, you know. You're risking your life.”

  “You are, too.”

  He shrugged. “You should think of Carrie.”

  “So should you.”

  “Okay, Honeybear. We'd better make sure we do this thing right, then. She needs us.” And, putting his arm around Molly's shoulder, he gave her a hug. “Egon,” Carey said, “we have backup now.”

  “Mariel's doing fine,” Molly assured him. “She's determined to be brave and help you.”

  Even in the dim light Molly saw Egon's expression change to one of tenderness. “She's a remarkable woman,” he said.

  “Great,” Carey said, wanting Egon to keep his mind on the problem at hand. “Now, if we're all ready.” He looked at Molly. “You'd better take one of these jackets. You'll need it for your ammo.” He passed it to her, and reached over for a handful of cartridges. Filling her pockets, he gave her a quick kiss and a shove in Egon's direction. “Follow Egon, he's going to lead the way around the house from the servants' entrance. I'll follow you. We're looking for their car first, in case they left a driver there we don't know about.” With Molly between Egon and himself, he could protect her best. But her presence set his already taut nerves on edge.

  They slipped out the back door without incident. Concealed by the shrubbery growing close to the stairway, they descended the steps. Every receptor on alert, they crept along the shadows of the kitchen garden wall, passed through the gateway separating it from the south lawn, and immediately stopped. The car was parked at the edge of the lawn where the rose garden boundary began, perhaps thirty yards away.

  “I'm going to check the car out.”

  “There's no cover,” Egon warned.

  “They won't be watching the car. You two keep an eye on that tree line.” And he was gone before the arguments could start. Carey operated best on intuition and impulse-always had. Racing forward, he instinctively tumbled into a rolling dive milliseconds before the barrage of tracers reached him. He'd felt it like a sixth sense and dove for cover behind the car as if his guardian angels were still on full alert.

  They wouldn't be firing like that at the car if they'd left a guard inside, so he could take a quick breath. They wouldn't attack in the open, either. Rifat's hired killers weren't looking for dead hero status. He wanted to look inside the car, though, hoping to get his hands on an assault rifle. It would even the odds considerably.

  Egon and Molly watched with horror as the pattern of tracers sailed toward Carey, the flash and clamor erupting in the tranquil evening air. Then they fired into the trees in an attempt to protect Carey. The sharp retort of their rifles was distinct from the rapid barrage of terrorists' weapons.

  But as suddenly as it began, the fusillade ended, as if in a freeze frame of time. All the participants waited and watched, poised to determine the next move. Normal night sounds and scents once again filled the moonlit scene of open lawn and car and bordering foliage: the low, muted whir of night birds and insects, the rustle of leaves stirred by the ocean breeze, the sweet fragrance of roses incongruous in this drama of death.

  Ceci, Deraille, and Reha waited to see if others would join Count Fersten. He'd been recognizable by his size and gilded hair-and by his competence. Ceci was more cautious now. Count Fersten was an altogether different adversary than Egon. Had he brought reserves with him? With a brief movement of his hand Ceci indicated an extremely cautious advance toward the car, keeping well hidden in the shrubbery bordering the lawn.

  During the pause Carey had crawled to the south side of the car and opened the back door. Raising himself a scant six inches, he glanced inside and was profoundly delighted. An assault weapon lay partially assembled on the floor. Risking another six inches of elevation, he reached for the pieces and carefully drew them forward. The process seemed endless in the intense silence of the night; in fact, eight seconds elapsed.

  Then Carey scanned the area for movement. Assured they weren't within yards yet, he braced himself against the car and began working frantically assembling the weapon. As he snapped the pieces into place, repeating the never forgotten litany like a nursery rhyme from childhood, a flashback of horror materialized in his mind.

  Charlie had overrun the perimeter wires in screaming waves at three A.M., and everyone was scrambling for their weapons, firing like maniacs, trying to stay alive when their minds were still sluggish from sleep. Carey had been firing at oncoming VC from a spider hole he'd found, but they just kept coming. The stack of belts at his feet was diminishing. He aimed a head shot at the enemy charging at him, and his M-16 jammed. Dropping down into the blackest corner of his hole, he'd feverishly broken his weapon down, trying to unjam the firing mechanism. He was halfway through, screaming in frustration and rage, when a VC came over the top firing. At the advice of a special forces cowboy he'd met one night in a hot tub in Saigon, Carey whipped a deadly knife out of his shoulder sling. He caught the attacking Charlie just under the rib cage with his blade and ripped him in half clear up to his head.

  The assault had abruptly ceased moments later, as though Carey's victory had signaled retreat.

  Shoving the magazine into place, he shook the disturbing images aside. Forcing away the bloody sights of death, he felt pleased Rifat's men had chosen a Kalashnikov. They never jammed.

  Egon saw the small flurry of movement first. Molly nodded as he silently pointed out its location. “See them?” he whispered.

  She nodded. “I'll take the last one, you take the other.”

  Their rifles poised and tracking, they followed the slight stirring as a branch shifted and a shrub quivered.

  Carey was just rotating the selector to full automatic when Deraille and Reha opened fire on him. He rolled away from the rounds kicking up the lawn around him, scrambling backward and shoving the indicator onto automatic hard. Half-seated, he fired in a sweeping arc at the distant foliage just as Egon and Molly emptied their magazines into the trees. There were screams, but no one was able to determine their origin as everyone desperately reloaded. There was no time for conversation, no time to think; only speed and accuracy mattered now. Molly's hands trembled as she forced the new magazine into the breech. She was almost as fast as Egon, he noted as he whipped his rifle in position again and sighted in.

  If he'd taken a second longer in his reloading, he would have been too late to see Ceci step out of the b
ushes behind Carey.

  Egon's scream tore through the sultry night like a machete through gauze, a high-pitched, piercing wail of rage and appeal. “No-o-o-o!” And it echoed above the report of his rifle shots as he ran across the open lawn firing.

  Ceci swung round at the cry and aimed automatically at the running figure, allowing Carey the split second he needed to redirect his weapon at Reha and Deraille as they came out of the woods at a run. It was his nightmare over again, and he held his finger solidly on the trigger as they came at him-a VC flashback of death and terror.

  Egon staggered backward. Hit in the shoulder, the bullet had passed through his lung with the impact of a freight train. His arms flew outward as he slammed into the ground as if he'd been thrown by some giant hand.

  Molly watched in horror as the man behind Carey who had just shot Egon, took careful aim-this time at Carey.

  Focused on Deraille and Reha's assault, firing at the two killers who seemed to keep coming at him despite an onslaught of bullets, Carey was unaware of Ceci's objective.

  There was no time for finesse or even thought; she barely had time to superficially sight in. Not realizing she was shrieking above the deafening roar of gunshots, Molly fired.

  He fell, but like a marionette on strings, he pulled himself jerkily upright and stumbled back into the black shadows of the trees. She emptied her rifle into his back, but he wouldn't fall. Like a scene from a horror movie where ghoulish creatures survive every conceivable means of death.

  When her ammunition ran out, she finally halted her own shrill cry. The silence was almost more ghastly than her wild howl.

  Egon was spread like a crucified Christ on the manicured lawn, the bloody wound on his chest visible even from her position yards away.

  There was no sign of Carey.

  No sound.

  And Rifat's men could be waiting in the trees.

  Gulping back the suffocating sob caught in her throat, she forced herself to reload her rifle.

  She counted her remaining magazines aloud in a low murmur to still her fear, as if the sound of her voice was protection from the danger surrounding her, as though the sound of her voice would guarantee Egon wasn't dead and Carey wasn't dead and nothing she saw would be real. She could create her own reality with her voice and ignore the one before her eyes.

  As she counted the six remaining magazines, she looked up briefly to steady her nerves. Her fingers were shaking. She saw the pale glisten of Carey's head slowly appear above the automobile hood.

  Dropping the rifle, she ran toward him without thought or consideration, without heed for his shouted cry, “Go back!” He's alive! The words clamored through her mind with such deafening fanfare, all else was obliterated. Perhaps she had a guardian angel, too, or perhaps her intuition was as splendid as Carey's. Without care for Rifat's men, she ran past Egon and past the spot where Ceci had stood only moments before. Falling to her knees beside Carey, she threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely.

  Carey hugged her back with one arm only, with the other he slowly swept the foliage with his assault rifle.

  “You're alive,” Molly whispered between sobs and tears and damp kisses. “You're alive!”

  “You took a helluva chance,” he murmured gruffly. “We don't know where they are.” Carey was cold-eyed and tensely alert, though the feel of Molly next to him was sheer heaven.

  “Egon's shot,” Molly said, her voice suddenly unsteady. “He may be dead.”

  Carey didn't answer, his gaze still on the trees. Were Rifat's killers waiting for them to stand up and become better targets, or were they dead or wounded? His decision to stay quiet a few moments longer reminded him of all the rotten choices he'd been obliged to make day after day in Vietnam. They were wretched choices like this, selfish and cruel and pragmatic. The kind that kept you alive.

  “In another minute I'm going to stand up very slowly and we'll see if they're dead or gone or still around.”

  “Don't,” Molly pleaded.

  “I'll take it real slow. We've got to help Egon… he saved my life.” Carey hadn't seen Ceci until Egon's scream warned him, and without that alarm he'd have been cut in two with rounds. Taking a deep breath, he slid his arm from around Molly's shoulder. “Don't move,” he cautioned. And very slowly, inch by inch, he raised himself from the ground until he was standing. “Stay here,” he ordered, “while I check for bodies.” And in the shuddering aftermath of the nightmare she'd just lived through, Molly didn't raise her voice in dissent.

  Carey had to be sure. Even though Egon may be bleeding to death, he couldn't take a chance they were using Egon for bait. He stepped into the shadows of the trees and disappeared.

  The minutes Carey was gone seemed like a thousand terrifying lifetimes as Molly sat huddled by the car, alone in the silent, moonwashed night. She strained her ears to catch some sound of Carey's direction, but it was as if he'd left her alone in an alien world, and she felt fear creeping closer like an unseen enemy.

  It seemed like terrifying hours, though it was only minutes later when Carey reappeared, carrying two extra weapons. “Two dead,” he said, “and a trail of blood down the mountain. The third man.”

  Egon felt like he was suspended in air, his whole body floating somewhere above his head. His collapsed lung only allowed slow little sucks of breath, and he waited for the blackness to descend-the kind he'd always heard described before death. The low murmur of Carey's voice drifted across the lawn. He tried to shout to him, but he couldn't draw enough air into his lungs. Then, as he lay there waiting to die, and no blackness or dazzling light appeared, it occurred to him that perhaps he wouldn't die. And a spirit of hope possessed him. He moved his hand slightly, feeling the damp grass. But when he tried to move his legs, they wouldn't move, and the effort brought choking blood into this throat and mouth. He thought with despair: I'm going to bleed to death. The silence became alarming instead of comforting. Was Carey dying, too? And Molly? Would Rifat's men find Mariel and kill her also? In agony he lay bleeding into the grass, unable to move, suffocating from lack of air in his lungs.

  He closed his eyes. When he looked up again, Carey was kneeling over him, his face a mirror of despair.

  “I can't feel my legs,” Egon said, but his voice was so weak Carey had to put his head next to his lips to hear him.

  “It's all right, Egon,” Carey said. “You're going to be all right.” And he looked away so the lie wouldn't show in his eyes. Egon's right shoulder was torn apart, and the sound of his lungs was like so many he'd heard in Vietnam before the blood choked off all the air.

  “I did fine this time, didn't I?” Egon whispered. “I stood up to Rifat.”

  “You were great,” Carey said, tears welling in his eyes. “You saved my life.”

  Molly knelt near Carey, tears streaming down her face. Wanting some miracle to make Egon whole again, she watched him struggle for air.

  “You… owe me… now.” Egon's words were the merest whisper of sound, and the smile he attempted the most stirring act of courage Molly had ever seen.

  Carey nodded, not capable of speaking.

  “Mariel-” Agitated, Egon tried to say more but, gasping for air, he fell silent.

  “I'll take care of her,” Carey promised. “My word on it.”

  And the panic on Egon's face subsided. “Love you,” Egon whispered.

  “I love you, too,” Carey murmured, his voice husky with emotion. As Egon's eyes closed, a strange anger overcame Carey… as though he could fight death or stay its hand. He wasn't going to let Egon die. He'd breathe air into his lungs if need be, and replace his blood with his own. But he needed a doctor most. Galvanized into action, he stood in an abrupt movement. “Stay with him,” was all he said as he ran toward the house.

  He got a call through to Jess, and said, “Get a helicopter. Egon's wounded. Bring a doctor. He'll know where Le Retour is. Hurry.” And he hung up, slamming the receiver down and reaching for a drapery at the same time. Pullin
g the curtain down with a rough jerk, he tossed it over his arm. Grabbing a tablecloth off the dining room table, he ran back to Molly.

  Outside, Carey tore the cloth into strips and began bandaging Egon's bleeding shoulder. Molly watched him gently pack the wound and bind it tightly until the worst of the bleeding was under control. Then he covered Egon with the heavy velvet drapery to prevent shock. While he dressed Egon's wound, he kept looking up, listening for the chopper, pausing for a second in the hope they'd hear the sound of its approach. “You'd better get Mariel. They could be here soon,” he told Molly.

  When Molly brought Mariel down, she knelt beside Egon, took his hand in hers, and prayed. He was no longer conscious. His breathing was shallow and labored, his skin completely drained of color.

  No one spoke.

  In the aftermath of the horror she'd witnessed, Molly felt drained and lifeless. Carey held her in the security of his arms. She leaned back against his chest, letting the emptiness in her mind calm the memories of the awful destruction. When she began to shake, Carey's arm tightened around her, his voice soothing. “It's over. Hush, hush, it's over.” Carey placed his other hand over Egon's, as if he could pass his own energy into his friend, as if he could protect both people he loved with his own powerful strength.

  He looked like some great white hunter in khaki jacket and shorts, both stained with Egon's blood. His feet were bare, his tanned body sweat-sheened from his exertions, his gilded hair in spiked disarray under the tranquil tropical moon. He was disheveled and bloody, but steady, and cool, alert for the sound of Jess's approach.

  For a disquieting moment she thought: I don't know this man, this unflagging, proficient killer who can go through all this untouched. She sensed the inherent power he possessed, like some inhuman machine without feeling or sentiment.