Apparently, neither had Miguel. The blade clattered to the floor.
“Sideways, slowly, until you’re lying facedown on the bed. You so much as brush against Alejandra and you’re a dead man.”
Miguel edged carefully away. The rifle moved with him.
“You okay, Alej?”
Ah-lay. A name she hadn’t heard in far too long. She couldn’t say all of the things that welled up inside her, didn’t dare let them out in the world yet. Digging deep, she found something else. “Could do without the goddamn ropes.”
Keeping his rifle shoved someplace dark and nasty, he pulled out a big military knife and slashed her bonds.
Her clothes were in tatters. She went and found some others stashed in a dresser: women’s, a wide variety, some close enough to her size. Bastard.
She came back and picked up the knife Miguel had dropped to the floor and shifted around until he could see her holding it close by his nose.
“How would you like to fuck a knife, Miguel? Be glad to hold it for you. I’ll put you down just like I did your rabid dog of a son.”
Chapter Eight
I need information first,” Hector had to slow her down. Not that he could blame her. He felt the same way.
To find Alejandra after all these years and then to come so close to losing her again made him sick. What Miguel had planned for her…the fury rose in a wave that threatened to choke him.
But the 75th Rangers had taught him how to rechannel fury, saving it to focus on the battle moment. Then Delta had taught him how to turn hot fury into cold, until it was a finely-honed weapon.
It didn’t take long to get Miguel to spill everything: hierarchy, contacts, combinations to safes, and passwords to his computer. He’d tossed Alejandra a recorder and she’d held it close to his mouth to make sure they didn’t miss a thing. How she didn’t rip his face off in the process was one of the most impressive displays of restraint he’d ever seen.
Before he let Miguel get dressed, he yanked his rifle free, and shoved a small breaching charge for blowing open locked doors up the guy’s ass.
“See this?” he held the remote up close for Miguel to see. “One press of the button and you explode from the inside out. We clear?”
Miguel nodded hurriedly.
Hector tossed the control to Alejandra who caught it one-handed, then looked at him thoughtfully but didn’t say anything.
On their way back to the garage, the three of them walked as if everything was okay, Miguel imperiously waving guards aside. They made a few stops along the way. A small knapsack was soon filled with the contents of Miguel’s safe, though Hector didn’t bother with the cash. Instead he left an incendiary for whoever opened it next. They picked up Miguel’s laptop and smartphone along the way, dropping them into foil bags to avoid anyone tracking them.
In the garage, the bus and most of the SUVs were gone.
“Tell me you have a plan, Hector,” Alejandra had picked up several weapons along the way until she was almost as heavily armed as he was. It looked damned good on her. “My sister’s out there somewhere.”
Hector loaded Miguel and his files into the trunk of the Ferrari—thankfully he wasn’t a big man. Then Hector hit him with enough morphine from his Delta med kit to keep a horse down for a day.
He and Alejandra slid down into the soft, black leather of the bucket seats.
Yes, he had a plan. But he had a mission to finish first.
Chapter Nine
From the start, Alejandra decided that she was really glad that she was on the same side as Hector. He definitely put the bad in badass. And then he kept getting better.
In the Ferrari—which was one of the coolest rides she’d ever had (it grabbed low and yanked her ahead like a sexual shot)—they’d caught up to the bus and the escorting SUVs close to the border station.
Hector had simply waved a hand out the window as they passed, for the SUVs to keep following the bus. He’d slipped in ahead of them all just at the border.
Whatever ID he showed the border guard had certainly gotten his attention. After a few whispered instructions, the guard let the Ferrari and the school bus roll through.
Hector stopped the car before the bus was fully out of the border crossing control lane, trapping it there.
The SUVs had hung back at the last moment, truckloads of armed guards didn’t just roll through border crossings.
Hector pulled out a remote control just like the one he’d tossed to her earlier. He had trusted her—trusted her to not kill Miguel unless they needed to, and to do it in an instant if it became necessary. He’d been right on both counts. No one had ever known her as well as he did.
“I didn’t want to risk getting them mixed up,” then he flipped up the cover on the activation switch of the one he held, offered her an evil grin, and pressed down on it with his thumb.
The three SUVs still on the other side of the border thumped hard, brilliant light shining out all of their windows. Remote control flashbangs.
In moments, the Mexican border patrol, rifles raised, had everyone out of the vehicles and lying on the asphalt, along with a big enough stack of weapons to make sure they spent a long time in prison.
The next moment, their own vehicle and the bus were surrounded by the US Border Patrol.
INS agents gathered up all of the women and children. A very small team in an unmarked black SUV emptied the still-unconscious Miguel and his files out of the Ferrari’s trunk. Their eyes had gone a little wide when she handed over the remote trigger on the breaching charge, and told them exactly where it could be found. Then they were gone.
She and Hector turned to watch as the INS began reassuring the frightened women and children. One was handing out blankets, another with water bottles, and even a few stuffed animals for the youngest to cling to.
“Should I give your sister a contact number? Though I’m not sure if someone that sexy should be allowed into the US.”
“You are a bastard, Hector. I’m the one you’re supposed to be calling sexy.” But it was hard to put any real heat behind it with the way he was smiling down at her.
Then she thought about it.
Hector was offering to give a contact number to Marina. It would be his contact number, to call if Marina wanted to reach Alejandra. That meant that whatever happened next, she herself would be with Hector. Discovering that the tiny shred of hope that had nearly died during the evening wasn’t so tiny after all just blew her away. That was way better than being called sexy.
“Sure,” Alejandra managed after a deep breath to make sure her voice was steady. “She is my sister after all.”
He pulled out a slip of paper, wrote his name and a phone number on it and then handed it to her. At his nod, Alejandra stepped into the crowd of women being corralled onto the bus by the INS agents, this time into the seats rather than the hidden compartments.
She couldn’t think of anything to say. Some fit of Marina-jealousy had cost her five years of being with Hector. But it would have been five years in the hell that was a Mexican town on the wrong side of the border. Now she was on the north side of the border next to a top US military soldier. It wasn’t up to her to understand how this screwed-up world worked, but she would absolutely make the best of it.
Alejandra handed the slip of paper to her sister. Marina might be a sex-crazed maniac, but she immediately understood what it meant for both of them.
Marina’s “Sorry” was the only word that passed between them as they hugged, but it was a long hug and her little sister’s smile wished her joy.
Alejandra waited until they were loaded and gone, waving as the bus disappeared into the night.
She turned and saw Hector leaning against the hood of the Ferrari, his big arms crossed over his chest. He’d shed his weapons into the trunk. The black t-shirt that had been under his vest showed just how wonderful his chest had become over the years.
Alejandra stepped up until she was standing between his wide-brac
ed feet.
“What’s next?”
“East or west? Your choice, Alej.” His deep voice was as soft as the darkness.
“What’s waiting for us?” He didn’t flinch at the us. Instead he unfolded his arms and slipped his hands onto her waist. It was the first time they’d touched in five years and it felt as if they’d never been apart.
“To the east about a day’s drive is Fort Bragg, North Carolina. If you’re interested, my unit is starting a testing course for new inductees in a couple days. I already called in and got you clearance while you and your sister were talking. I swore up and down that you’re a shoo-in. Which is a safe bet because you are. The test is brutal, but I got no doubts.”
Alejandra leaned up against him and his arms came up around her. It was the best place she’d ever been.
“And to the west?” she could barely speak past how tightly he was holding her.
“About a ten-hour drive out of our way is Las Vegas. They’ve got these twenty-four hour wedding chapels. Again, if you’re interested.” She couldn’t see his smile because she had her nose buried against his chest, but she could hear it.
Once more that surge of everything she wanted to say to him shot through her. She dug down and sought for something that would keep his ego in line. That would let him know that she wasn’t that easy. That he couldn’t just sweep back into her life after five years and change everything in a day.
Except he already had. A job, the best lover, a team to belong to. A home. He had changed things; he’d made a dream she hadn’t even known about come true.
“One question.”
“Uh-huh?”
She looked up into his beautiful eyes, knowing now it was something she’d get to do for the rest of her life.
“Ten-hour drive?”
“Uh-huh,” he sounded pretty damned pleased with himself at her response pointing them west.
“But isn’t that in, like, a normal car? That is a Ferrari you’re leaning against.”
This time he smiled along with his grunt of satisfaction.
She didn’t bother answering yes before she pulled his face down and kissed him.
Their love was so big that it didn’t need to be said.
If you enjoyed this, you might also enjoy:
Heart's Refuge
Brody Jones flies Lifter Rescue—diving down into the hazards of Low Earth Orbit. There he saves who he can of Earth’s last refugees.
Captain Karina Rostov of the Future Night Stalkers can’t understand Brody’s career choice—neither his commitment to Lifter Rescue nor his refusal to fly with her.
When a rescue flight forces them both to confront their pasts, each must finally face their own Heart’s Refuge.
Introduction
When I reread this story, I find myself inclined to think that it has a similar theme to the prior one—it totally doesn’t.
For this story, I reread the year’s first story, Love’s Second Chance, to see if there was another story wrapped in there I wanted to tell. I thought I’d try the same theme, simply placing it in a new setting to see what I learned this time. Writing is always exploration and discovery and I’d thought to plumb these depths further. However, all I did was carry over the theme of regrets and atoning for the past as a starting point for the next story.
The core of this story lies in the much broader theme of the on-going global refugee crises. I’ve read a lot about it but didn’t want to write about the geo-political ramifications (which are vast and are addressed in Peter Zeihan’s books and especially his 2017 newsletters). What interested me was the people. The ones who climbed onto marginal craft to leave Cuba. The ones who spent weeks in sealed cargo containers to escape China. Those who hoped for the promised land by leaving their homes in Syria, Afghanistan, and Northern Africa, and risking everything to reach Greek or Italian beaches.
How that must change a person.
How even being exposed to it in the miniscule ways I have, has shifted my thinking about home and the desperation that forces someone to leave all they know in trust for the unknown future. I have huge admiration for their courage. And I wanted to think about how they’ve chosen to stand up in the future of their new homes.
That was the core of this story.
As an aside (nerd alert), I spent nearly as long getting the orbital mechanics and range of fire of the IndiaBeam correct as I did writing the story itself.
Chapter One
Brody Jones worked his way around the Mod18 ship, checking her over in case there was a rescue mission today. Fifty meters of spacecraft that had seen too many flights but, like a beater truck in the old vids, was always game for another round. He liked its tenacity even if he felt sorry for it sitting in this particular hangar.
His ship was parked in a narrow space at the end of the Number Four hangar—thankfully inside Brit Habitat One rather than out on an umbilical space-dock on the outer hull. It let him do inspection and service without a spacesuit which was a major plus. However, it also meant that his old Mod18 was parked alongside five sleek, military Stinger-60s that belonged to the Night Stalkers. They were beautiful, lethal craft.
The white finish on his Mod18 was tinged from a partial reentry burn which she’d never been designed for. The massive NAS logo—Non-Aligned Ship—was nearly obliterated with solar bleaching. In space, paint cheap enough to afford didn’t last long. He and a few likemindeds had scraped together enough to run the one ship and keep her maintained. “Pretty” was outside their budget.
Non-Aligned Ship, as if his old Mod18 was somehow crooked. Lifter Rescue wasn’t associated with any government. In fact, if they hadn’t been given hangar space at Brit Habitat One—parked out at the Lagrange 2 point beyond Luna—there wouldn’t be any Lifter Rescue operation at all. However, with the Brits’ stamp of approval, the other remaining governments of deep space were forced to cooperate as well.
The thruster nozzles showed no signs of cracking. The primary and secondary cooling fins weren’t so fortunate, but they were still serviceable—for a few more flights at least. He came around the nose cone and spotted a woman leaning against the closed airlock.
It wasn’t Felice, his Number Two. She never hauled herself out of her rack this early unless there was a rescue alarm.
When he saw who waited for him, with her arms crossed and her glorious dark hair flowing to her shoulders, he was torn between irritation and being seriously pleased.
“Hey there, Karina.” Night Stalker Captain of Stinger-60 Number One-Four-Alpha—the toughest bitch in space, by her own proclamation. That was the irritating part about her.
“Hi, asshole,” but over the years her standard greeting had almost become affectionate…or at least kind of friendly.
“Well, at least some things never change.” She was also one of the best pilots in the entire system; only the very top ones made the Night Stalkers. A challenge that he’d never even wanted to try. Still, he had liked piloting beside Karina in flight school and still missed that, five years later.
“Some things never do,” she sounded particularly grumpy. “Like you going out again in this flying hazard.” The seriously pleased part was that she actually spoke to him, listened to him, occasionally drank with him—though they’d hardly gone past that. There’d only ever been one night between them. Not a night actually, really just a moment, but he’d never forgotten it. No matter who he’d bedded over the years, and there’d been some incredible women, it wasn’t enough to erase that memory.
He also appreciated the contact because almost everyone else socially plas-walled the people who flew for Lifter Rescue, as if what he did was worthy of contempt. She was perhaps his sole champion among the most powerful military in space—even if there wasn’t much she could do for him there. At least she didn’t revile his chosen career in public, only to his face.
Brody shrugged. It was an old argument. They’d agreed to disagree long ago and even that hadn’t stopped it entirely. He leaned bac
k against her Stinger-60, garaged by some weird fate next to his Mod18. There were twenty of these ships stationed at Brit Habitat One all the time, in addition to an equal number on upsystem patrols. The likelihood of his ending up beside her craft seemed beyond chance. For whatever reason it had happened and he liked the opportunity to see her more often—even when they exchanged little more than friendly snarls.
Lift Rescue had been a point of contention between them, ever since graduation day from flight school. She hadn’t spoken to him for at least a year after that. There were fewer missions every year, but he didn’t care.
Earth still had the occasional Lifters, people so desperate to leave that they built their own ships to climb the gravity well. And almost every one needed some help to make it out. That’s where he and his Mod18 came in—a role that hadn’t even existed in the first three phases of humankind’s climb to space.
First had come The Exploration—brave lunatics atop chemical-filled bombs.
The Expansion had been far safer—mag-lev rail launches that had delivered settlements from the Senegalese on Mercury to the Swiss out on Pluto. There were rumors of some settlements all of the way out in the deep Kuiper Belt, but if they survived, they weren’t talking. No surprise really as it would take a serious dose of paranoia to climb so far.
Even during The Exodus, most of the craft had been purpose-built or were salvaged from Expansion-era craft.
But toward the end of the Exodus, they began running out of ships and Lifters had gotten creative. They’d even salvaged the ancient chemical rockets from The Exploration. Nobody had the power or the skills to climb out to Luna anymore—most didn’t make it into orbit. Lifter Rescue tried to help those who didn’t disintegrate at launch or punch a brief hole into the ocean after a failed lift.
The Ides of Matt 2017 Page 3
