Redaction: Dark Hope Part III

by Linda Andrews

  “All right ladies and gentleman.” Ray’s voice boomed around the room, punctuated by the clapping of his hands. “Let’s move out. Nice and orderly exit now. No pushing.”

  People blinked and shook their heads. Someone cried. The shock was beginning to wear off on some. Not all. David could fix that.

  “Rogers, sound the alarm.” David elbowed someone aside. He had to get to the front. A car horn honked. Doorbells chimed. The red and blue cop light bar flickered to life over the exit. He hoped people remembered the emergency drill and went straight to their room.

  “Sergeant-Major, we have armed hostiles in the kitchen,” Falcon growled into David’s ear.

  Shit. They didn’t need a shootout. “Hold ‘em back until the dining hall clears, but don’t engage. I repeat, do not engage.”

  “Copy that,” Falcon bit off. “Wait your turn. You’re the best protected with all this metal around you.”

  David tuned out the white noise. They could handle it.

  Johnson leapt onto the stage. Gun in hand, he swept over the crowd while backing toward Mavis and the general. Manny and Jake tipped over the table and slid it forward.

  With his hands covering his head, Gavin cowered behind the podium. “They’re trying to kill me!”

  “It’s me that’s the target.” Benedict tried to shove him out of the way.

  The school principal hopped onto the stage, turned and helped a well-dressed woman up. The nurse rushed up the stairs, thick ankles flashing under her green muumuu. The civilians linked arms and stared at the audience.

  What the fuck did they think they were doing? This wasn’t Red Rover. Flesh and bone rarely stopped bullets.

  More joined in. A dozen. Then two. Three rows of human flesh, protecting Mavis and Lister. It was a hell of a thing. He broke through the last of the audience.

  “They’ll get to her over our dead body, Sir.”

  “Much obliged.” The terrorists might just do that. Not that he would say so. He raced up the steps. Blood soaked Mavis’s shirt, she stared unblinking at the ceiling.

  “Lie still. Don’t move until I can check you out.” The medic rolled Lister onto his side. A red pool formed under him. “Nurse! I need you.”

  Mrs. Rodriguez broke ranks and hustled to the general’s side. Her place quickly closed.

  “Johnson report!” David dropped at Mavis’s side, clasped her cold hand. She had to be okay. She had to be. Please, God. Why weren’t the medics seeing to her?

  Mavis gasped for breath, rose partially off the floor.

  He grabbed her by the blazer. Oh, God. Was she seizing?

  “Pulse is thready and fading.” Mrs. Rodriguez clamped her lips together. “We’re losing him.”

  “What? Who?” The knowledge crackled inside David’s head. Shit! Lister. The old man was dying. What the fuck? The Marine was supposed to have bullet-proof hide. He couldn’t die. “Robertson! Bring the first aid kit!”

  Blood coated Johnson’s hands and wrists when he pressed the wound. “The bullet didn’t go through but rattled around inside him.”

  Lister coughed, blood came out his mouth. He crooked his finger at David.

  His muscles locked from the tug-of-war between loyalties—his boss or Mavis? Damn. “Don’t try to speak.”

  Mavis squeezed his hand and nodded. “Go.”

  “I’m a General, son. I don’t take orders, I give them.”

  Releasing her, David trailed his fingers across her palm then pushed to his feet. Damn old salt. The bastard was supposed to die old and ornery at his desk, not like this. Walking around Mavis, he crouched by Lister’s head. “Dawson reporting, Sir.”

  “I always knew politics would be the death of me.”

  Johnson blinked rapidly and focused on the general’s wound.

  “Yes, Sir.” David cleared his throat. “It’s a killer.”

  Lister coughed. Crimson dribbled from his mouth. “Won’t tell you your duty. You know it. And you do it almost as good as a Marine.”

  Hell. David’s eyes stung. He didn’t dare rub them, the old man was bound to think he’d miss him.

  “Doctor Spanner,” Mrs. Rodriguez snapped. “Miscarriages are common in the first trimester. You need to lay still until the doctor can check the baby and you.”

  David froze. What? What had she said?

  Humor sparkled in Lister’s pain-dulled eyes. “Sergeant-Major, I need you to follow one last order.”

  “Yes, Sir.” David focused on his superior. “What are your orders?”

  Robertson pounded across the stage. With a flick of his wrist, the first aid kit slid over the metal stage and stopped at Johnson’s feet. The medic didn’t even look at it.

  “Name your son after me. Never could get your woman to say my given name.” Grinning, Lister blew crimson bubbles. His blue eyes lost their spark and his features went slack.

  Johnson removed his hands from the general’s wound and hung his head.

  Ignoring the tremor in his hands, David closed Lister’s eyes. Miscarriage. Baby. Son. He turned to Mavis. Was it true?

  She held out her hand to him. “This isn’t how—”

  “Gun!” A woman shrieked. “He’s got a gun!”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Gun in hand, Papa Rose turned on his heel. The screaming woman had better not be talking about him. He scanned the crowd, bobbing and jumping to see over the men around him. He counted four guns hastily tucked under shirts.

  “Do you see him? Is it the shooter?” the Sergeant-Major barked in his ear.

  “Negative,” Falcon reported. “I can’t even see the speaker.”

  It could be a false alarm. Could be. But Papa Rose knew better. Gunpowder had a distinct smell. And the air stunk with it. “I’m heading for higher ground.”

  The oven and prep counter were out. That left the buffet station.

  Justin Quartermain shoved his way through the knot of people looking every which way for the gun.

  “Falcon.” Papa Rose jerked his chin in Justin’s direction. Two men separated the kid and the soldier.

  His friend nodded and headed for the boy.

  Papa Rose pushed aside a couple balancing on tiptoes and whispering. Something hit his heel. From the corner of his eye, he watched something black melt into the shadows. What the hell?

  “Report!” David barked.

  Give me a fucking minute. Papa Rose hopped onto the rack near the serving trays. Metal groaned. He slapped glass, his sweaty palm squeaked as it slid down the sneeze guard before sticking.

  “He’s the shooter!” A woman shouted. “The one with the hoody!”

  Climbing to his feet, Papa Rose faced the kitchen. Men in jackets glanced around. Women clung to their backs, using them as shields. Who had spoken? Two women stood to the side hugging each other. One stood apart, clutching a knife and wearing a white coat—the chef. Could she have yelled?

  “Papa Rose!” Falcon yelled.

  Papa Rose jerked toward his friend standing next to the only person in a hoody—Justin Quartermain.

  The crowd spied him. Two men in the front charged. “Get him!”

  Justin raised his arms. “I didn’t do it.”

  “It’s Justin. They’re targeting Justin!” Papa Rose leapt into the air. “Send backup!”

  Falcon shoved the kid behind him.

  A burly man in a dress shirt tackled Falcon. “Avenge the Doc!”

  Fists swung.

  Justin cried. “Please I—” He stumbled backward; blood gushed from his mouth.

  Shit! Shit. He was going to be too late. Papa Rose swerved around the couple.

  Two more men rushed forward. The one on the left swung a serving tray, hitting the kid upside the head. He bounced off the stone wall and dropped.

  “Go! Go! Go!” the Sergeant-Major shouted.

  The four men continued to beat Justin when he collapsed. Then they switched to stomping on him.

  Papa Rose fired once. Twice. Stone chips rained around him. A
woman screamed. The odor of urine mingled with the stench of cordite.

  “The next fucker who touches that kid will die.” Papa Rose aimed at the four, moving from one to the other to the other.

  The tray samurai curled his lip. “You don’t have enough bullets to kill us all.”

  “Got your back, Lone Ranger.” Falcon brushed against his shoulder blades. “Between us, we can kill twenty-six of you. Please volunteer.”

  Not quite twenty-six. Papa Rose had already spent a couple rounds. He inched closer to Justin, Falcon kept time like a partner in a dance.

  “Step aside.” Papa Rose waved them farther into the kitchen.

  “He killed the Doc. He deserves to die.” The slimmest of the vigilante four spit on Justin.

  “Doc isn’t dead.” The Sergeant-Major marched into the kitchen sighting the four men through the scope of his M-4.

  Robertson, Ray, Vegas and Folgers followed closely behind, corralling people as they went.

  “The general took her bullet. Now do as my man says and stand down.” When the men shuffled out of the way, the Sergeant-Major jerked his head toward Papa Rose. “Check him.”

  “But he meant to kill the doctor.” The tray samurai hugged his weapon.

  Papa Rose knelt by Justin’s still form. His fingers skimmed the kid’s neck before finding a pulse. Strong and fast. Papa Rose’s shoulders sagged in relief.

  Falcon kicked his foot and cocked an eyebrow. Papa Rose’s partner shifted in front of him, using his legs to block the audience’s view.

  “This is a police state!” a man shouted.

  Asshole. Papa Rose leaned over Justin. Christ Jesus. There wasn’t a part of the kid without a blood veneer. “Play dead, kid. Your life depends on it.”

  He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over Justin. “No breath. No pulse.”

  “He’s dead!” The men exchanged high fives.

  “Get the fuck out of my sight.” The Sergeant-Major growled. “All of you. Return to your rooms. Stay there until I show up to take your statements.”

  Papa Rose remained at Justin’s side while the soldiers emptied the kitchen.

  “Johnson, get your ass over here and confirm death.” The Sergeant-Major winked at Papa Rose before shoving the kitchen’s occupants out.

  Falcon crouched and pulled back the jacket. He hissed through his teeth. “Those four men are gonna learn to fear the dark.”

  Especially when Papa Rose was in it. “That’s a fact.”

  Johnson dropped next to them and opened his first aid kit.

  A woman in a muumuu pushed him out of the way. “Multiple lacerations to his face and hands.”

  Doctor Spanner leaned against the wall. Blood streaked her face. “Will he recover?”

  “With time and rest. Maybe.” Pulling up Justin’s lids, Johnson shone a penlight into the kid’s eyes. “Definite head trauma.”

  “Where is he going to get that?” Nurse Rodriguez straightened the kid’s legs. “The only safe place is in the infirmary and he’d get a lethal dose of radiation if he stays there.”

  “There’s another place.” The Sergeant-Major stopped by the Doc and pulled her against him. “Get him stabilized for transport.”

  “Transport?”

  “He’s going down the conveyor to the greenhouses. Manny, I need you to act dead.” The Sergeant-Major spoke to the cook when he shuffled into the kitchen. “Folks will be expecting to see Justin’s and Lister’s bodies. My men will carry you to the infirmary then you can sneak out when no one is looking.

  Pale and shaking, Manny nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Papa Rose. Falcon.”

  Papa Rose held his breath. This is it. He’d failed to protect the kid. The Sergeant-Major would banish him from the mine. Christ Jesus, what would happen to the munchkins?

  “Suit up with Johnson. You’re Justin’s personal guards until we nail the bastard that really killed Lister.”

  “Yes, sir.” He exhaled quickly. He was going to get another chance. He’d make it right. Somehow.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  David held the curtain to their room back for Mavis.

  “Thanks.” Dried blood flaked off her throat.

  “You’re welcome.” Damn. This was not the way his homecoming was supposed to go. Shep slunk from the shadows. Fangs disappeared and his stooped hunting posture loosened. The German shepherd sniffed David’s legs then Mavis’s.

  “Such a good boy.” She scratched the dog’s head before settling behind his ear. He thumped his tail and his tongue lolled out.

  David’s stomach burned. The dumb dog was getting the attention he deserved. He ran his fingers through his hair. And now, he was jealous of a stupid mutt. That had to be an all new low.

  After one last pat, she crossed to the green crate that served as their dresser.

  Water dripped and gurgled in the silence.

  Yeah, this wasn’t awkward at all. He needed to start small, work up to mentioning the five-hundred pound orangutan in the room. “I’m thinking of assigning you round the clock guards.”

  Her hands stilled over his neatly folded shorts. “Not just Shep then?”

  She added a pair of his underwear to her pile of clothes.

  Jesus! She really was addled. Jay had demanded she spend the next twenty-four hours in bed. David would make her comply, even if he had to tie her down. “No, the dog is good, but you might need someone who can kill faster.”

  “Who?” She bit her lip before tugging out a pair of sweatpants. “You’re spread thin between Operation Gold Dust, the vegetable thieves and now…” She inhaled a shaky breath.

  She couldn’t say the general’s name. Was it her means to cope with an attempted assassination? Or was it something else? David brushed his fingers across her back before walking to her desk. He plugged in the white kettle and filled it from the gallon jug of drinking water. “I’m pretty sure Lister’s death is related to the other investigations.”

  “The frame-job on Justin can’t be a coincidence either. Lots of people must have seen us together on our way to the infirmary. I should have thought of that.”

  “You can’t blame yourself.”

  “I don’t think I can stand it if one more person takes a bullet for me.”

  The kettle ticked.

  He’d been a little hasty sending Papa Rose and Falcon away. Lister’s death had obviously stirred up memories of another’s. The circumstances were different, but the result was the same. And she’d borne witness to both murders.

  But would she talk about her husband’s death?

  Neither of them talked about their pasts, shared the stories behind the scars that marred their bodies. For someone who never wore a uniform, the violence written on her skin chilled him.

  Mavis slogged to the bed and collapsed onto it. Waves traveled from one end of the air mattress to the other. Her fingers shook when she reached for the buttons on her blouse.

  Shep whimpered.

  David snapped his fingers and pointed to the mattress. The dog trotted to the bed and climbed on behind Mavis. He set his head by her thigh and stared at her with big brown eyes.

  A button pinged to the floor.

  Closing the distance, he knelt in front of her and swept her fingers aside. Blood colored his fingers as he tugged the silky fabric from her waistband. A wavy line separated the pristine whiteness from the dark stain.

  “When Lister was there on top of me, it brought it all back.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “Iran. The sand. Jack’s death.”

  “Your husband.” Duh. Any other Jack’s die for her?

  “I’d been sent to look for proof of a nuclear program and Jack went as an observer.”

  Nodding, he peeled the fabric off her shoulders. Observers came in many types, especially where there was the potential of UN inspectors being unlawfully detained and interrogated. Crimson stained her stomach, dyed the white hearts on her bra.

  “We’d gotten word the authorities were
coming to investigate allegations of one of us being a spy.”

  Christ. His mouth dried. The Iranians hadn’t exactly earned stars with Amnesty International for their treatment of prisoners.

  The kettle shrieked.

  Pushing to his feet, he turned it off then added half to the blue wash bucket. Steam billowed around his face. Through the mist, the images taken of Mavis after her rescue formed in his mind. Black eyes. Broken nose.

  “They’d timed the arrests with an approaching dust storm. Communications were always spotty. The local police figured they’d have days with us before anyone noticed we were missing.”

  Three cracked ribs. Burns on her back. Cuts along her spine. He tempered the water with cold then chucked in a rag and a sliver of soap. Bastards. He hoped they’d died horribly. Worse than horribly. He hoped they puked their insides out, coughed out their lungs before shitting out their black hearts.

  “Jack wanted to head directly for the airport. But the others refused to leave the equipment behind.”

  A sprained ankle. Scabs from the chains on her wrists. David plunged his hands into the water and raked up the rag. He strangled the fabric; water rained into the bucket. He ran the cloth along her chin. Pale skin emerged from under the blood.

  “Idiots.” If they hadn’t gone back, she wouldn’t have been hurt.

  “Not really. You’d be surprised how many governments use empty threats to force UN inspectors out so they can acquire their technology.”

  “But this time it wasn’t like that, was it?” He already knew the answer. Lister had left him alone with his computer soon after she’d allowed the general ‘eyes only’ access.

  “Jack’s gut said no. And really, we were all jittery from their treatment.” She lifted her chin.

  He swiped the cloth in smooth arcs down her throat to the swell of her breasts.

  “They were waiting for us at the hotel. Miles went in first. He was supposed to come out and give us the all clear.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Jack drove away with the five of us in the Land Rover. We headed for the airport but there were roadblocks everywhere. About the time the storm hit, Jack found a warehouse and we hid inside.”