Fracture

by Amanda K. Byrne

  I’d thought I’d have a few more minutes with Murat. I’m not ready to say goodbye to the man who shared his home and his booze with me. His grin goes a little crooked, and I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze tight. “Thank you.”

  “You made life interesting. No thank you necessary.” But he hugs me back, and when he eases away his smile is a little sad. “We will see you again. You buy the vodka.”

  Choking out a laugh, I hug him one last time and climb into the passenger seat. He shuts the door and thumps the roof, which Ismael takes as his cue to start the car and drive off. The streets slip past, the sun shining on beaten–down buildings, civilians hurrying along the sidewalks. Over the dull roar of the engine I hear the familiar sounds of a firefight starting up, guns cracking, people shouting. A siren going off.

  Out in the open. A moving car, a moving target. There was fighting nearby, last night, bad enough and close enough we didn’t decamp for my flat. Where is it today? Is it sleeping, a dragon waiting to be woken with a fiery screech? I slump in the seat and twist my fingers together, trying to quell the rising shakes. I have no idea how close we are.

  Ismael whips the car around a corner. People are running through the intersection up ahead, and he rolls down his window as he slows to a stop. Shots fired, loud and clear. Smoke wafts through the window, and he curses.

  “The fighting must be up ahead. We will have to go around.” Throwing the car into reverse, he executes a tight three point turn that has me scrabbling for the door handle. He speeds toward the street we’d turned off of.

  This happens more and more often the farther we go, the streets Ismael turns onto blocked off halfway down or leading us farther into the fighting. Dread pools in my stomach and forms a hard, heavy lump. The fighting’s getting worse. Ismael’s grip on the steering wheel is tight enough to snap it off, his curses becoming louder and longer.

  Another turn, another blocked street, and Ismael curses one last time before jerking the car into an alley. “Get out. This is as close as we can get. It should not be much farther.”

  My ass becomes cement. I can hear the screams from here, the small explosions and crack after crack of gun fire. Walk through that? Through hell? With violent projectiles flying in every direction? “No. Keep driving.”

  He grunts, opens his door, and hauls himself out of the car. Terror blooms as he stalks around the hood of the car and jerks open the passenger door. He unbuckles my seatbelt and yanks me out. “Walk. You want to get out. You walk. We can avoid more fighting this way than in a vehicle that is too big for certain spots.”

  He has a plan? A route? A safe route? I can’t stop trembling as I try to melt into the brick wall at my back, watching as Ismael helps Declan maneuver his way out of the back seat. Something blows up, a siren goes off, and the shouting gets louder.

  Someone shoves a bag into my hands. Declan. He cradles my head and forces me to meet his gaze. “We’ll be all right. Okay?”

  It’s not okay. It’s never okay. Looping the camera bag he hands me over my head, I grip my bag tight enough to cut off the circulation in my fingers and fall in behind Ismael.

  Chapter Twenty

  This is a place worse than hell.

  The fighting is near enough I can make out individual words. They must be commands for the rebels or the soldiers to follow. Flank out. Man down. Go. Go. Go. It doesn’t matter that I’m unable to understand what they’re saying. War is a universal language, and you don’t need a translator to know what’s being said. Kill or be killed, you idiot.

  Ismael inches out of the alley to check the street, and I edge back, thinking if I can get back to the car I can drive back to my flat. Declan wraps an arm around my waist from behind, and I stiffen.

  “We’ll be fine.” His lips whisper over my ear. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  Right.

  He nudges me forward at a wave from Ismael. We creep across the street to the next alley, just as dark and narrow as the last. The sounds of the fight lessen as we hurry along, and I allow myself to relax slightly. Declan’s right. We’ll be fine.

  And we are fine. We’re fine as we walk as fast as Declan’s cast will allow, a straight shot through alleys. We’re fine as Ismael decides to take a chance and cut over a block, bringing us closer to our final destination. We’re fine right up until someone blows up a car fifty feet from us and the shrapnel and flames send us to the dirty sidewalk.

  Declan crawls over and covers my body with his, and I’m too limp from shock to protest his smothering weight. A second explosion rockets through the air. More shrapnel. More shouting. The air’s clogged and laden with smoke and burning fuel and rubber.

  My brain jumpstarts at the blood trickling from his temple. “You’re bleeding.”

  He smears it with his fingertips and curses. “We’ve got to move.” He rolls off me and struggles to his feet, stretching out a hand to help me to mine. “Ismael?”

  Bleeding from several small wounds, his jeans dirty and torn at the knee, Ismael staggers to his feet and turns to glare at the fireball of a car. “Move. That way.” He points at a tiny crack between buildings, and we hobble over to it. It’s another alley, barely wide enough for a person to fit through. Shifting the bags so they’re in front and behind us, we stumble through the alley to the other side.

  It’s clear and strangely quiet, like the battle being waged a few blocks away is happening in another city in another country. I dump my bags on the sidewalk and reach for Declan, scared by the blood still sliding down his face. He makes a face but puts up with my questing hands.

  There’s a rip in his sweater and another cut on the back of his neck, a few scrapes on his palms, but he’s otherwise okay. He flashes that charming grin, and I scowl as I turn to Ismael.

  He’s not nearly as patient with me as I check him over. I’m about to pronounce myself satisfied when I see the spreading blotch low on his abdomen. Panic threatens as I yank up his sweater and see the dripping, seeping wound. “You should have said something.” I rip off my sweatshirt and ball it up, applying pressure to the wound.

  “Said what? It is not serious. We do not have much time left, and farther yet to go.” But his face is pale and damp with sweat. He hisses when I press harder.

  “We need you get you some help.” Glancing around at the empty street full of empty storefronts, my stomach sinks with every passing second. It’s like Ryan’s beating all over again. No one will help. “Declan, can you start knocking on doors?”

  Ismael shoves my hands away, taking care to clutch the sweatshirt and hold it to his stomach. “We will keep going. Zlata will not be pleased if you do not get out of here like you were promised.”

  Despite myself, I raise a brow at his mention of Zlata. “Oh?”

  He nods, teeth clenched, and jerks his head in the direction he wants us to go. “So we go.”

  Not convinced he shouldn’t get medical help immediately, I hesitate. Declan hands me one of his camera bags. “He’s right. Likely missed vital organs. He’ll be all right for a while yet. And this close to the fighting, no one’s going to open the doors. He comes with us, they’ll patch him up and drop him someplace he can be thoroughly examined.”

  Stubborn. Stubborn and foolish. But two stubborn men against me isn’t a fight I can win, not when one of those stubborn men is Ismael, who can outstare a cat. Hefting my bag, I stalk off in the direction Ismael pointed.

  A few minutes later we’re moving at little faster than a stroll, thanks to Declan’s cast and Ismael’s gut wound. A battered SUV sits on the next block, a couple of men grouped around it. Declan raises a hand and catches the attention of one of them.

  “Declan Moran! What the bloody fuck happened to you?” A small man in black combat gear hurries toward us, a scowl on his ruddy face. He stops short when he sees me and flushes a deep red. “Beg pardon, missus.”

  “Knock it the fuck off, Sean. Nora’s mouth is as filthy as yours.” Declan limps up beside me and lowers his du
ffle to the ground. “Got more important things to worry about. Man needs some help, and then we need to drop him somewhere safe.”

  Sean grumbles and snatches the bag from my hands, leaving Declan’s sitting on the ground. “Cheerful sort, isn’t he?” Declan puts his hand on my lower back and pushes me after him.

  All told there are three men. They’re dressed similarly in black, boots scarred from use. The other two men are brawnier than Sean, and the red–haired one, Aidan, is downright happy. He takes the rest of the bags and slings them into the car.

  Rob, the third man, has Ismael stretch out on the back seat while he looks at the hole in his gut. “Not too deep.” His accent is thicker than the others, and he seems to take great joy in poking Ismael in the stomach.

  Declan and Sean are out of earshot, arguing from the looks of it, leaving me to listen to Ismael’s grunts or try and make conversation with Aidan and Rob. I climb into the front seat of the car instead and crouch between the seats.

  Ismael’s eyes give him away, even as his jaw tightens. “I’ll be sure to tell Zlata how stoic you were,” I say dryly. He cracks a grin, one quickly wiped away at another poke from Rob. “Can’t you be a little more gentle?”

  Rob doesn’t look up at my snarly tone. “Needs stitches.” He rummages around in the kit he’s placed in the footwell, coming up with a needle and thread. Threading the needle, he wipes the edges of the wound one last time with an antiseptic wipe and lowers his hand, needle pointed at flesh.

  “Wait! Aren’t you going to use anesthesia?” He’s not just going to pull Ismael’s skin back together, is he?

  Rob finally looks up, annoyed. “You see any around here?” he snaps.

  “S'all right.” Ismael’s words are slurred with pain. “Do not need it.”

  “Hmph.” I clamber out of the front seat and jerk open the rear passenger door. Cold air drifts through the car, and goose–bumps pop out. I’m going to be freezing once the adrenaline fades. “Lift your head.” He’s done more for me in the last two years, however grudgingly it might have been. The least I can do is offer him some comfort. I settle his head on my lap and grip his hand, trying not to think of the blood smearing across my palm.

  Ismael rolls his eyes, but his hand tightens with the first plunge of the needle and every one thereafter. Rob pronounces him good twelve stiches later and ties off the thread. A streak of antibacterial cream and a soft cotton bandage and Ismael’s ready to let go of my hand and get his head off my lap.

  Rob helps him sit up, and he tugs his shirt back into place. He refuses to look at me. Typical Ismael. But he picks up my hand and rubs it between his own, soothing out the cramps from where he gripped it so hard.

  Declan climbs in beside me. “About two hours’ drive from here.” He lowers his voice as he slips an arm around my shoulders. “We need to talk. Later.” He punctuates the cryptic statement with a nip to my earlobe.

  Sean shoves his way into the back seat, drawing a hiss from Ismael and a muttered curse from Declan. “Move!” he barks. The car rolls forward, and I can’t help but duck my head as we speed through one intersection after another.

  We pass lots where buildings were leveled, shops and homes with no glass in the windows. A smattering of people are on the streets. No one lingers. They keep their heads down while they hurry to the next safe place. A beautiful, proud city, reduced to this. Again. Those years of hard won peace, gone. I’m surprised the stones aren’t crying from all the pain they’ve absorbed. Sarajevo is determined to tear herself apart.

  Several turns later we stop in front of a neighborhood clinic, and Rob and Ismael get out of the car. Ignoring Aidan’s orders I stay in the car, I scramble out after them.

  “Ismael! Wait!” I don’t know what it is about me he doesn’t like, but I owe him. He looked out for me when he didn’t have to, and he helped when I asked. Careful of his injury, I hug him, and to my surprise, he hugs me back. “Don’t get yourself killed,” I whisper. “Zlata would never forgive you for it.”

  He eases back and smiles, an actual smile, one as sweet and wicked and charming as Declan’s. “I will worry about Zlata. Next time, you buy the vodka.”

  “Murat said the same thing,” I mutter. “Go. Stay whole.”

  Declan lifts his arm when I slide in, exhausted and cold as the survival rush drains in a blink. It could have all been over then. Blown to bits. Bile rises, and I force it down, drawing in a breath, blowing it out. In, out. Repeat.

  He holds me tighter as we drive up to a barricade. Aidan treats it like it’s no big deal guns are being shoved in his face and offers his papers to the soldier, who squints at them, then into the car, then back at the paper, like squinting at it will clarify things. It’s when he goes off to consult with another soldier I start getting even more nervous, and Declan rubs my arm, up and down, stroke after soft, soothing stroke.

  Finally the soldier returns with the papers and waves us through, and I bury my face in Declan’s neck until we’re clear. The men stay tense and alert, constantly scanning the road, Sean twisting around to watch behind us.

  “What are they doing?” I murmur.

  “It’s not all that safe out here, either,” he murmurs back.

  Fires in the fields, soldiers and rebels tramping along the roads, guns strapped to their backs, blockades and tumbled–down villages are sights I didn’t expect to see as the countryside zips past. The war has spilled beyond the city’s borders, and it’s getting harder to keep my stomach in place.

  The explosions in the distance don’t help matters.

  I’m sick and weak by the time we pull onto the small airstrip. The plane is larger than I’d expected, but after the sights on the drive over, I’m scared to get out of the car. It’s only after another barked command from Sean that I reluctantly slide out, jolting when Declan’s hand lands on my lower back.

  From the size, I thought it would be some sort of executive jet, luxuriously appointed in leather, possibly with a bed in the back. There’s no bed. There are several seating arrangements, the seats wider than your standard commercial jet. He guides me toward the rear of the plane, pulling me down as I hover uncertainly.

  The rest of his team is finding their seats, and he shoves the arm up between our seats and laces our fingers together. It’s odd, how well they fit, his hand swallowing mine. Like they’re built to automatically adjust. His fingers are longer, wider, rougher, yet they’re comfortable against mine.

  “We’ll be in Galway in a few hours.” His thumb rubs over the back of my hand. “Sean’s found an attorney to help with your terrorism case, but he’s warned against filing for divorce too quickly. It would draw more attention than we need. I’m sorry, lass, but you’re stuck being married until you can start proceedings in the US. Given how long it takes in Ireland, you’ll have better luck once you’re home.”

  “What do you mean, how long it takes?”

  His mouth thins, and he shoots a glare at the back of Sean’s head. “This is why I said it wouldn’t work.”

  “Stop stalling.”

  He blows out a breath. “Divorce in Ireland is a tricky business. The couple must be separated for four consecutive years before it will be granted. According to Sean, though, if you file in the States, and remain there, Ireland will recognize it at the time it’s finalized.”

  Stuck. I’ve left the ninth circle of Hell for…this. This bullshit on top of crap. If it had been anyone else, he might have had the decency to wait for the plane to take off, for the fear to drain away. This is Declan, though. There’s no mistaking the frustration in his voice. If I’d had my doubts, the annoyance glinting in his eyes would have sealed it. Stupid. Stupid of me to forget this man wants no attachments of any kind. I let out a shaky breath, trying to squash the hurt, allow the anger to rise to the top.

  “You really know how to make a girl feel special, don’t you?” Slowly, deliberately, I free my hand from his and place it in my lap. When he reaches for it again, I link my fingers togethe
r to keep from punching him in the face and stare straight ahead.

  Once the captain gives the all clear, I unlatch my seatbelt and stand up. “Nora?”

  “Every time you open your mouth you just make things worse. So why don’t you shut up?” Anger a slow burn in my belly, I walk to the front of the plane and take one of the empty seats near the door.

  If I’d known there’d be more pain waiting for me beyond the gates of Sarajevo, I would have insisted on staying. At least there I knew what the pain was. I don’t have a name for this. Betrayal, I guess. Selfishness. Tactless.

  Something hollow and aching. Something that will never be filled. Not by Declan.

  Chapter Twenty One

  He slides into the seat next to mine. I ignore him.

  He doesn’t get it. Of course he doesn’t get it. He’s male. Those burdened with the Y chromosome never understand when they’re making asses of themselves until we point it out to them.

  “Not talking isn’t going to fix the problem.” I have to give him credit. At least he’s astute enough to realize there is a problem.

  I turn away from the window. “Go back to your seat, Declan. Yes, there’s a problem. It’s a private problem, and we’re not going to talk about it here.”

  “Tell me what I’ve done to piss you off this time.”

  “You haven’t done anything wrong.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize they’re true. He’s been nothing but honest and up–front about everything. I didn’t go in blind. “I’m angry, yes. I’m just pissed at myself mostly. Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

  He glares at me, and after I give him a bland look in return, one that costs me far more than he’ll ever know, he heaves himself out of the chair and clomps down the aisle to his seat.

  I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, but I do, and the nightmares close over my head, Ryan’s begging mixing with Declan’s hoarse pleas for me to leave him. Hands and feet flying. Curses. Smoke and dirty, sooty air, blurring my vision, rolls of thunder as buildings crash to the ground.