Ember ran her fingers over the little girl’s head. This was not exactly the image of motherhood she had in mind. “If you are Palden Lhamo, I could really use some help right now,” she said softly. “Didn’t you Tibetans believe in fire breathing dragons or stuff like that? Couldn’t you conjure up just one to save the day? A big one? With horns?”
Nima stared, no longer crying, her blue eyes full of trust. Not magic. Not death. Just the childish belief that Mama Ember could do anything. But Ember knew better. She was outnumbered. The odds were against her the minute Rory dropped in the line of duty. There would be no strikes of lightning to waste the murderers at the door. No miracle rescue at the final hour. Only her.
Too soon the screeching sounds of the bars being pulled from other windows in the home told her plenty. She was the only thing standing between Nima and certain death. Gulping a mouthful of fear, she turned it into sheer determination. Nima would not die. Not like this. Not today.
“Go hide in the closet.” She shoved the little girl toward the louvered doors. Nima hid and for a second, the house was deadly quiet, the eerie kind of stillness that precedes an F5 in the middle of flat-as-hell Kansas.
Ember steadied her mind and took a deep breath. I can do this for Nima. For Rory. I know I can. Another deep breath and more footsteps tramped through the hall. I can do this for me.
Automatic fire pierced the bedroom walls, spraying bits of sheetrock and plaster everywhere. The house rocked as another explosion roared. They’d chosen grenades for their final assault. Or did they? Was it C-4? She couldn’t tell. There was so much noise. Heavy boots thundered toward the bedroom door. She crouched in front of the closet where Nima hid.
Ember conjured her own fierce dragon, the one with blue eyes. Alex! Get here! Save us! Right damned now!
But it didn’t matter where he was anymore. He was not there. She was. The bed between her and Nima’s wannabe killers would provide no cover once they breached the door. Every shot from her hand had to count. Men had to die and if she had her way, die they would.
“I love you,” she muttered to the child she’d sworn to die for. I love you, too, Rory.
She took aim, leveling her shotgun as the door blew inward off its hinges and bounced onto the bed. Blinding white light lit the room as an explosive charge roared. Flashbangs. The lights flickered and went out. No electricity remained in the home. No hope, either. She fired blindly, screaming defiance to the overwhelming odds against her.
A hard blow from behind sent her sprawling to the floor. The house had been breached, its walls torn down to get at Nima. Some bastard stepped between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the debris-littered floor. Another tore the weapon from her fingers. At least they’d stopped shooting, but it took a minute to see through the smoke and darkness.
Blinking through stinging tears, she could just make out the arrogant prick who led this pack of wolves. It was him, that lying bastard who’d bugged Nima’s dress. Was he the same guy who’d bugged her black velvet dress, too? Who killed her father? It no longer mattered. The Bastard Monk had Nima. The Creep Monk had Ember. Death had arrived in all its heartless glory.
He held Nima by the scruff of her neck in one hand and raised her high for his buddies to see. “We have her now. Our task is nearly done,” he declared, his eyes glittering despite the dark. Someone ran in with a spotlight, filling the room with stark light and starker shadows. More assassins crowded through the door even as the distinct odor of their dead companions in the hall filled Ember’s nose.
“Let her down,” she growled, her hands pressed to the floor near her shoulders, arching her back against the creep stepping on her, holding her down. Her empty-handed fingers clenched for her missing gun. Her soul longed to kill every last one of them!
Another blunt hit to the back of her head laid her flat again. She stopped fighting, wishing she could instill confidence into her frightened girl. Tears washed Nima’s face. Twisting back and forth in the bastard’s grip, her sad blue eyes searched frantically for Ember.
“I’m here,” Ember called to her. “I’m down here, Nima. Look at me, not them.”
“Not for long,” Bastard Monk hissed, his wicked mouth twisted into a sneer.
A roar went up among the men in the room. The Creep Monk holding Ember in place on the floor stepped harder, compressing the air right out of her. It didn’t mater. God, they smelled of body odor, blood, and the horrible stench that accompanied gut-shot bodies. None of them seemed to care for their wounded buddies in the hallway, if there were any. Ember certainly didn’t. She hadn’t intended survivors.
Bastard Monk swung Nima to the floor like a rug. She landed on her stomach only inches from Ember’s face, staring with shock from the body slam, the wind knocked out of her.
“It’s okay. Mama Ember is here,” Ember soothed, her fingers clenched out for Nima in futility. But I am going to kill that sonofabitch if he hurts you one more time! Too many men’s boots and legs blocked her from reaching the girl.
“Mama,” Nima cried, her face scrunched with fear and her arm outstretched to Ember. “I want Mama.”
The leader of the assassins, Bastard Monk, jerked Nima to her back. He straddled her quivering body, crouched over her until he was nose to nose with her. “Your mother is already dead. I would know. I gave her the drug myself. Your father too, so shut your filthy mouth. There is no power on earth that can save you.”
Nima’s lip puckered and Ember went ballistic. “Leave her alone!” she screamed, struggling for just one inch of movement against the creep’s boot that pinned her. “Don’t you touch her!”
“You Americans.” Bastard Monk sneered, an unforgiving glint in his eyes. “You think your freedom gives you the right to infect our nation with it? Watch while I offer the supreme sacrifice. Be prepared to learn of ways more ancient than yours. Tonight, you will see the evil pour out of this thing while I send her back to hell. And then it will be your turn. I will take your precious freedom and your lying tongue, once and for all.”
He held the same kind of knife that Cold Eyes had threatened her and Rory with during the ambush. She could see it clearly now. Eight inch blade. Embellished handle with brass symbols. A dragon? A tiger? A snake? Maybe.
“Leave her alone,” Ember demanded again, but Bastard Monk was no longer listening. He smiled while Nima sputtered and cried between his clenched knees. Ember offered a quick plea to the Tibetan goddess of war, the ferocious Palden Lhamo, if there really was such a being in the whole crazy universe of organized religions. Now, she ordered the mysterious divinity who scared the shit out of David. Now would be a damned good time to show up and drink somebody’s blood, Palden Lhamo! Start with him. That guy. That Bastard Monk.
Bastard Monk turned as if he’d heard her mental prayer, his face twisted in a devilish smile and his eyes intercepting hers. “You are a very stupid woman to believe in myths and legends,” he spat. “You would do better to believe in this.”
With one quick flick of his wrist, he pressed the point of his blade beneath Nima’s chin, nicking her. Ember would have kicked the shit out of him if she could’ve reached him. Nima squealed, and Ember arched her back, feeling the same pain. But she felt something else, too. Pure damned luck had offered one last chance. She intended to take it.
“And now you will return to Naraka,” Bastard Monk chanted, his body swaying forward and backward over Nima’s still form. He lifted the blade over his head, both hands wrapped around its grip. “I send you back to the deepest depths, back to the hell of uninterrupted suffering and eternal fire. Back to endless karma for all the evil you have wrought throughout your worthless existence.”
“Return.” The other assassins swayed along with their leader, their voices a rising crescendo. Even Creep Monk lifted his booted foot far enough up that Ember could draw in a lungful of air. She needed it.
“Return. Return,” he chanted along with Bastard Monk.
Bastard Monk lifted the ceremonial blade
higher. Ember raised her shoulders and head, enough that she was nearly on her side. Creep Monk’s boot in her back offered almost no resistance. All the assassins seemed fixated on the ritualistic killing about to take place. Nima turned her head, her soft blue eyes radiating no fear. Peace flowed to Ember. The little girl stretched her tiny hand to Ember, her fingers beckoning. Was she ready to die? No way!
Ember eased her right hand up to her left shoulder. She’d only get one chance.
“Return!” Bastard Monk hissed, plunging the blade downward into—
BLAM!
Ember fired her trusty pistol, the one she’d laid out on the floor in advance. Once! Twice! Against all odds, she’d nailed both his hands before he could stab Nima. Before he even came close.
He looked so damned surprised. The blade vanished in a spray of red mist, ricocheting to who cared where. Dark red fountains spewed from the stumps at the ends of his arms.
As if in answer to her prayers, a battery of righteous thunder filled the small bedroom. Deafening, roaring thunder. Bastard Monk dissolved before her eyes. His body jerked with spasms. His neck began to bleed. His head. His eyes. All became blood and gore. Ember cringed, covering her ears at the noise. The assault was not coming from her hand. Her pistol didn’t have that kind of capacity. Had Palden Lhamo finally shown up for the war? It sure felt like it.
Assassins stampeded in all directions, but Ember only had eyes for her little girl. She shouldered her way through the stomping forest of boots and legs until she could pull Nima into her arms and beneath her body. Squeezing her eyes shut, she clutched the child to her heart. Rory had already given his life. Now she would give hers. At least they’d die together.
“Shh,” she soothed, even though she couldn’t hear her own voice. Nima burrowed her face into Ember’s breasts. “I’m here. I’ve got you now.”
The thunder stilled. The smoke cleared. Ember lifted her head to understand what had just happened. There was no dragon, but one assassin still stood over her. Only this guy was different. He held a piercing light in his hand. The beam landed square in her eyes. A spike of adrenaline hammered at her last shred of logic. She still had her pistol. She didn’t need to see him to kill him. No one was getting Nima. She lifted her piece, ready to blow this last demon back to—
“Hey, beautiful.”
She squinted. Blinked. Wanted desperately to believe her eyes weren’t lying. “Rory?” her disbelieving mouth croaked.
“Looks like you’ve got everything under control in here,” he said easily, his hand outstretched to pull her up from the floor. No one ever looked better. Bloody, maybe. Scared, too. But never better.
She scrambled to her feet with Nima attached to her hip. “You’re alive!”
“Coming through.” Harley ducked around Rory. “Hey, Ember. Good to see you. Sorry I’m late. We kinda got hung up in a shootout.”
“You got our girls?” Alex stepped through the hole in the wall behind her.
“I do now,” Rory purred, pulling Ember under his arm.
Her knees threatened to collapse. She tucked her pistol into her belt and soaked up the strength flowing from him. “You’re here,” she whispered, tracing the angle of his brow with trembling fingers.
“Hey, Dennison. Not fair. I get one,” Harley groused, gingerly lifting Nima from Ember’s grip. “It’s okay, little darlin’. Uncle Harley’s got you now. Let’s get you out of here and cleaned up. You want a chocolate bar?”
The blood-spattered child never batted an eye when she transferred from Ember’s arms to her new protector. Harley had said the magic word—chocolate. And Nima could be bought. Off they went.
Rory caught Ember to him. Nose to nose and lips to lips, he was really there. And alive. And he looked like hell.
“I saw you die,” she cried as the memory washed over her again, tracing the sharp corner of his jaw before she cupped it tenderly.
“You saw me get knocked out,” he corrected, his breath warm in her face. Their eyes locked. There was no hesitation this time. He pulled her off her feet with one arm and kissed her, roughly, intimately, and thoroughly, his tongue entwined with hers.
Alex was out there somewhere, but she didn’t care. Let him see. Let him know. She loved this man with her soul. Clenching her fingers into his hair, she kissed back with everything she had. The need to pour her heart into him consumed her. So she did. All her angst, all her sins, and all her love went into her kiss.
His lips were soft and willing, his tongue insistently branding her from the inside out. Nothing ever tasted so good. More. Wow, did she want more. Desperation took over. She’d nearly lost this guy. She couldn’t kiss him hard enough or deep enough.
He came up for air. “Good heck. Do that again.”
Sweeter words were never spoken. If not for the carnage around them, she’d have lain him flat, ripped his clothes off and—
Alex materialized out of the smoke in the hall behind Rory. “Will you guys knock it off and get the hell out of this mess?”
“Boss,” Rory growled over his shoulder, his hands still full of Ember. “How many times do I have to tell you to watch your language? There’s a little girl in the house and—”
“I know. I know. Harley’s got her.” Alex waved Rory’s warning off as he turned and went back the way he’d come. “I cuss. Deal with it. Now move.”
“Are you ready to hang up your six-shooter, Mrs. Dillon?” Rory asked as he turned out of the room with her still secure under his arm. She sagged against him, so thankful for the courage and strength of this particular man.
“I’d like to hold onto it for a little longer. You never know.”
He branded a tender kiss to the side of her sweaty forehead. “Copy that. I’d like to hold onto you for a little longer, too. Hope you don’t mind.”
She melted against him, the words she’d longed to hear at last spoken out loud. The tears came as they stepped over bodies and pieces of the ruined home. Alex shot them a piercing look as they gathered with Harley.
Mayhem had come to D.C. By the looks of it, the assassins had been prepared to destroy anything and everyone in their path to get to Nima. Confiscated rocket-propelled grenade launchers lay alongside dozens of automatic rifles and various pistols on a tarp placed well away from the handcuffed surviving assassins. A heavy-duty truck rested across the curb, the tow strap still wrapped around the security door they’d pulled off the house.
An army of D.C. Metro police and FBI held several more black-clad men under armed guard. Emergency vehicles swarmed the streets. Medics carried stretchers filled with black-clad assassins strapped down tight. A news helicopter hovered overhead, its bright spotlight glaring back and forth over the scene.
“What happened to our FBI support?” she asked, shielding her eyes from the bright glare and dust kicked up from the chopper.
“Same as Maxwell and Fred,” Rory whispered into the side of her head. “These assassins were ruthless. They killed everyone who got in their way. FBI has more than one crime scene on their hands tonight.”
“But how did they know where everyone was?” Ember asked. “It’s like they had ears and eyes everywhere.”
“It’s a scary new world,” Rory muttered. “Look at our own NSA. With enough funding and the latest technology, anything is possible.”
She shivered. Wow failed. Holy shit fit the evil of the day so much better.
“They almost killed you,” she said.
“Mostly likely an RPG hit the Caddie,” he filled in the missing pieces. “Too bad. I liked that car.”
Alex motioned to the paramedics, and soon Rory and Ember were seated at the back of one of their vehicles getting treated; Rory for a bump and laceration on the back of his head and Ember for broken glass that pierced her bicep, but which she hadn’t noticed. “Ouch.” She winced as the medic probed a little too deep and pulled out another sliver of glass.
“You’re officially an undercover operator, now.” Rory smirked. “You’ve got
the wounds to prove it.”
“Ahem. Do you guys want to know what this little lady said to me?” Harley asked petulantly, still smiling that infectious little boy smile of his and holding Nima while the medics checked her over, too. She sported a colorful pink bandage on her chin and a big chocolate bar in her hand. One thing about Harley, he could make a dreary day brighter simply by showing up in the morning. And he knew his way around women of all ages.
“Sure, what?” Rory peered around Ember.
“You two were kinda busy.” Harley arched an evil eyebrow. “When we cleared what’s left of the house, she was fussing, so I gave her a little squeeze.” He demonstrated and Nima willingly wrapped her arms around his neck. “She pats my cheek and, like right out of the blue she looks into my eyes and says, ‘My two warrior sons wait at home.’ How crazy is that? Them are some pretty big words for a little gal, don’t you think?”
Oh, no, Ember mouthed to Rory. Harley and his wife, Judy, had struggled to get pregnant since they’d married. He blamed his drug use in the past for their fertility problems, but if Nima told him that—
“Call Judy,” Alex ordered calmly. “Let her know she’s going to have twins.” It would’ve sounded like a joke if he hadn’t said it so seriously.
Harley cocked his head. “She did have a late doctor’s appointment today. Guess I could.”
“Tell her we’re happy for you guys,” Ember added before he handed Nima off to Alex and stepped away to make the call.
Nima rested her little head on Alex’s shoulder and patted his arm like the comforting little angel she was. “Is your vision done giving yet?” he asked Ember.
“I sure hope so.”
Despite the carnage and destruction, the armies of FBI SWAT and Metro police, Ember felt calm and peaceful. The vision had left out one very important detail—the moment when Rory came back to life.
Rory (In the Company of Snipers Book 6) Page 23
