Connor (In the Company of Snipers Book 5)

by Irish Winters

  Gentle fingers traced the line of his jaw. Izza wiped a wet cloth over his face, pausing at his eyes to clear the grit and sand gently away. Connor lay very still lest he open his big mouth or do anything else that might make her stop. She dabbed the cloth around his nose. When the gentle administration ended, he heard water sloshing and what sounded like a rag being rung out. Then more sloshing. Izza had found water. They were going to live.

  “Open,” she said softly.

  He obeyed, parting his lips as another lukewarm stream coursed over his tongue. Connor swallowed, not wanting the moment to end but hoping she hadn’t just given him a drink off the same rag she’d washed his bloody face with. The dumb things a dying man thinks of.

  “You’re still bleeding, but I’ve packed both wounds. Are you strong enough, Boston?”

  That word, her nickname for him from a tender moment overcome by tragedy, almost sounded sweet again. But God, he hoped he was strong enough to live. Maybe strong enough to survive Izza.

  “I’m—”

  She stopped his answer with a fingertip to his lips. “Shhhhh. Rest now. Talk later.”

  He had no choice but to obey. A swirl of blackness reached up from the treacherous floor and swallowed him alive. Connor went willingly, just another leaf caught up in a very dark and dry wind.

  Twelve

  What Alex Stewart didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  He owned The TEAM. His covert consultant business included two offices, one in Alexandria, Virginia, and one in Seattle, Washington. He employed forty agents in all, twenty at each location. But Mark was the lead agent in charge of a miserable operation in Utah, and Alex was still in the air. Besides, he trusted Mark, didn’t he?

  Mark was about to find out. He phoned The TEAM’s over-qualified woman in charge of everything—Mother.

  “I need you to track Miguel Ramirez for me,” he ordered.

  “Already doing that. Alex has Ember and me following Ramirez and his wife’s GPS signals. The downside of owning cell phones, huh?”

  “Where are they?”

  “Alejandra is going south through Arizona at the moment, but Miguel Ramirez is still in Salt Lake City. Hold on a second. I can tell you exactly where he is.”

  Mark listened patiently as Mother worked her usual miracle from the East Coast.

  “He is at a bar on the west side of town, the Rio Palms.”

  “Address?”

  Mother provided the address, but by then, Mark had another idea. There was a better way to deal with the man who thought he could come to Utah and kill as he pleased. Ramirez had spread nothing but death and mayhem since he’d created the Sonoran Cartel. It was time to return the favor. Let him stay in Utah and think he was untouchable. Mark planned to show him otherwise.

  “Thanks, Mother,” he said as he prepared to hang up.

  “There’s something else.”

  “What?” Mark held his breath.

  “I found the missing migrant workers you were worried about.” Her tone held no hint of good news. “Remember when Governor Baxter closed the canyon after Connor shot the cartel guard? Well, something happened just before the Utah National Guard was in place. Three big rigs with horse trailers pulled out of the canyon, all three headed south on I-15. I contacted the Utah Highway Patrol to intercept, but by then, the rigs were long gone. When UHP caught up, one had already turned east at Fillmore.”

  Mark cringed, dreading what might come out of Mother’s mouth next. “What’s in Fillmore?”

  “Eleven bodies,” she said somberly. “He murdered the men who harvested the crop, Mark. Ramirez had his own men killed.”

  “Not Connor or Izza though,” he reaffirmed, letting out the breath he’d been holding. They couldn’t have been in that trailer. No way. But odd things happened when psychotic killers ran loose. He needed to hear the words.

  “Course not,” Mother said. “I’d have told you if we’d found them by now.”

  “How about the other two trailers?” he asked.

  “They were full of marijuana, a couple cases of small arms, and ammunition. UHP did a great job locating them. No one was hurt.”

  “Still no sign of Connor or Izza?” he asked just to confirm what he already knew.

  “Not yet. We’re not going to find them though, are we?” Her usual perky voice was subdued. “Look how many people get kidnapped every year. Do you know how many of them are recovered alive? It was nine months before they found Elizabeth Smart, and by then—”

  “Knock it off, Mother. We will find them.”

  “Man, I hope you’re right.”

  “I am right. Thanks. Talk with you soon.” Mark ended the cell phone call, but then he turned to the team members in his hotel room. They’d gone to their rooms earlier to clean up and shower, but now Rory, Cassidy and Brigham waited on his orders like he was still in charge. Like he knew what he was doing. Like they’d follow him into hell and back.

  Covert operations were all about taking risks. He paused on the verge of an exceptionally large one. The dividends could go either way. Payoff would mean saving Connor and Izza’s lives, but failure could mean certain death. Mark refused to draw anyone into the next step of his plan unless they made the decision for themselves.

  “I’m going to Mexico,” he said quietly.

  Rory bolted to his feet. “Not without me, you’re not.”

  Cassidy stood. Brigham, too.

  “When?” she asked.

  “As soon as I can get a flight out of here,” Mark answered truthfully. “We can’t take any weapons with us, but they’re easy to find once we’re there. I know a couple guys.”

  “Count me in,” she said.

  Monsters visited Connor as he slept. Hot fiery monsters with sharp licking tongues that ripped the skin off his body wherever they slithered against his skin. They lapped at the hole in his stomach when they got close, sucking at his intestines and the blood that still ran out of him like a red hot river. But it was his to keep, not theirs to take. They had to go.

  He kept his feet positioned between them and him, kicking their heads off when they got too close. Protecting his gut became more important than water, but it took every last shred of strength.

  Eventually, there were too many monsters to fight off. He fell backwards, down into a wall of flaming rock that hurt worse than the monsters’ tongues. Just when all hope dried up, just when he knew for sure he couldn’t hold on another second, a glance of cool, refreshing snow flitted across his face like a teasing kiss. And then another.

  The prettiest angel lifted his head onto her lap and bathed his face and neck in snow. The cooling splash of frosty cold soothed him down to his core. Heaven. He was finally dead and gone to heaven. He hoped. But too quickly the cold turned into shivers that rattled him. The lovely angel curled around him with his head cradled into her warm body.

  The monsters faded. So did Connor.

  When he lifted out of the fog again, someone had washed his face. It couldn’t have been Izza. Still, the grit and dirt were gone from his eyes, nose, and mouth. He flexed his fingers. Both hands were intact. His shirt was missing and his belt was gone. No matter. He could live without those things. With an effort, he pulled himself into a semi-sitting position until a searing pain in his side laid him flat. He groaned on his way to the ground.

  “What are you bellyaching about?” Izza’s sharp voice jolted him, but he couldn’t speak. Not yet. The ground still moved.

  She came closer and sat cross-legged next to him. Connor didn’t open his eyes, too busy concentrating on the plans his stomach had for him. It didn’t matter. She was going to say what she was going to say, and it would all be mean. She leaned closer until he could feel her breath on his shoulder. Any closer and he could have kissed her if he had a death wish. He turned his face away.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Hold it together. It will pass.

  “So, I went through your wallet.”

  Good. Fine. Whatever. Until now he didn’t k
now he still had a wallet.

  “Why do you have this?”

  “What?” Bile crept up the back of his throat with the effort of just that one word. He swallowed it back down. Why is she bugging me?

  “This. Look at it.”

  He could feel something close to his face. He squinted into the dark. She held something round just inches above his eyes, something that looked like—

  Crap. She’d found the Iraqi coin he’d kept in his wallet all these months. Now he was really sick. Damn sick.

  “So why do you have it?”

  “I... I....”

  “Knock off the poor me routine. You’re a man, for hell’s sake. Get up and start acting like one instead of some worthless piece of....” For once, Izza couldn’t finish her insult. She was too mad.

  He didn’t say a word. She didn’t move away. She really should.

  “I just want to know why you kept it. You do know what it is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then say it. What is it?” She spit on him with her angry words.

  “A dinar.” There. He said it. The thing she held was an Iraqi coin called a dinar, but she didn’t leave. That creeping sensation tickled again at the back of his mouth. He cringed. She really should move farther—

  “Yeah, it’s a dinar all right, but it’s not just any dinar, is it, Maher? Say it. Go on. Say it. Tell me what it is.”

  “You need to move.”

  “Yeah, sure. Figures you’d wimp out. You’re nothing but chicken shit, that’s what you are. You can’t even face me like a man and—”

  That did it. He rolled away from her and threw up. Darkness swelled in the stifling cave that was already trying to suffocate him, and now he’d made it worse. He heaved, but not much came up from his gut. Izza shrieked. It didn’t get much better than this, a nut job screaming in his ear while he was sick as a dog. Crap.

  At last the spasms ceased. By then, he was spent and couldn’t spit the vile taste out of his mouth. A drink of water would have been nice, but he knew better than to ask.

  And still she shrieked. “You think I’ve got nothing better to do than clean up after you? I’m sick of it. Sick to death. Do you hear me?”

  His stomach felt better, but his ears sure hurt. She was spitting nails kind of mad, and when she got this mad, her normally all American, mean girl voice picked up a decidedly Hispanic accent. “This is bullshit, Boston. I drag you all the way in here, I save your life, and you do this to me? Bullshit. That’s all you’re good for.”

  Izza scraped up the mess beside him, and then she was gone. It was quiet until he heard her coughing just beyond the entrance to the cave. Hmm. Maybe she was as sick as he was? He knew better than to ask that, too. He felt bad for her. Throwing up was not fun for anyone involved. But then she came back.

  “Here.” She knelt beside him and squeezed a trickle of water between his lips. Even her one word command sounded impatient, like she didn’t want to help him anymore than she had to. It seemed a fair trade. He didn’t want to be beholding to her either.

  “Sorry.”

  “Shut up. You’re nothing but a pig.”

  Yep. Still mad. Connor tried to at least lean up on one elbow so he could see her. Lying flat on his back felt too much like he was in the middle of the Spanish Inquisition.

  “It’s your challenge coin. From Iraq.” He waited. More accusations would surely follow.

  “Yeah.” Her voice went down a couple decibels. “It’s my challenge coin all right. I recognized it because of the hole dead center in the palm trees on that dinar.”

  “You smoked the palms that day. Two coins. Remember?”

  “Yeah. I did.”

  He detected a note of pride in her answer. That was short lived.

  “So why do you have this one?”

  A groan escaped from the back of Connor’s throat. He was not up to true confessions.

  “What made you think you could walk off with something that belonged to me?” Man, she just wouldn’t let it go. “Where’s the other one?”

  “I don’t know. You left them both behind.” He eased his weary body flat to the ground again, already losing the battle.

  “Did not. You stole this one. That’s what happened.”

  “Night raid. We had to leave quickly, but I—”

  “You what?” Even without name-calling, every word out of her mouth was razor sharp.

  “I was going to give it back to you. Honest. I was.”

  “Then why didn’t you? You’ve had it for what, six months now?”

  He hesitated. Nothing he could say would ever make it better. Not if he begged or pleaded, cried or repented for a million years could he change what had happened in Iraq over six months ago. And it had nothing to do with the coin.

  “You know why,” he whispered finally.

  Atonement never came easy, and apparently, forgiveness either. Her lip quivered. All this foolish banter had only dredged up more of what neither of them could change.

  “I hate you,” she said sadly.

  At so many levels, he longed to hold this tough-as-nails woman, to feel her in his arms just one more time. Maybe if he could hug her, all this bitter hostility would fade away, and he could make things right. His gut hurt and his heart hurt worse. The grief in her voice wrenched him like never before.

  For the gazillionth time he said the same old words, “I’m sorry, Izza. Honest. I am.”

  He wasn’t surprised when she launched herself at him, pummeling his chest and arms with hard punches and jabs. At least she didn’t hit his stomach or his broken nose. That was small consolation.

  He didn’t resist, not even one iota, just lay there like the corpse he wished he was and took it. She could never hurt him as much as he’d hurt her. Besides. She was crying, a rare event for Izza.

  But then, so was he.

  Thirteen

  I hate him so much!

  Sitting at the door to their decrepit shelter, Izza fingered the silver dinar and let the tears fall. In caring for Connor’s wounds, she’d come across his wallet in his back pocket, the only one not slashed and emptied. Of course, she snooped. That would teach her. Expecting to find flavored condoms and two-by-threes of porn stars, instead, she’d found Jamie. And she’d been crying ever since.

  How damned stupid was she to rescue a man like Connor? Life had never been fair. It seemed excruciatingly unfair now. A life for a life? She brushed the stream of tears off her cheeks, mad at herself more than anyone else. Once again, she’d drawn the short straw and ended up the loser, lost the brother she adored and for who? A spineless man from Boston? Worst trade ever.

  She rubbed the end of her very sore nose and stared in anger at the world. Her world. And his. Sunset stretched across the beautiful desert, tinted pink with rosy hues of the evening. It would have been pretty if the gnawing feeling in her stomach would go away. She’d walked near and far in search of anything edible. Nothing showed.

  In the process, she’d collected useful trash because her baby needed to live no matter what, damn it. The bottom of an old-fashioned, broken glass soda bottle turned into her fire-starter, which would work really good if she ever came across an animal that would hold still long enough for her to kill it. She built a small campfire just to prove she could do it, but her stomach growled. She’d never hunted animals before. Never needed to. Izza didn’t even know how to start, not without some kind of gun or knife.

  So she kept on walking and collecting. How an old battered tin coffee pot ended up in the desert she didn’t know, but she kept it. Her daily wanderings took her back to the place where she and Connor had been dumped. She hadn’t seen them before, but lying there in the dirt were two canteens, both full of water. Had the cartel meant for her and Connor to survive? It seemed a ridiculous notion. She kept them anyway.

  But why kidnap two enemy combatants in the middle of an ambush in the first place? Why not kill everyone? That was the whole concept behind surprise attacks.
What did that bastard, Ramirez, have up his sleeve that he needed hostages to barter with?

  If she’d still been in Iraq, she’d have been tortured or murdered by now, her body mutilated and displayed off some bridge to prove the decadence of Western society. The surety of that truth shivered up her spine despite the desert heat. She brushed her hands up and down her biceps to ward it off. One thing seemed sure: the cartel would be back. She needed to be better prepared. To fight. To kill.

  And where on earth was she? Could be Utah or Nevada. Izza honestly didn’t know. Hell, this god-forsaken desert could be the middle of Mexico, but she suspected it wasn’t. If the cartel wanted them alive for whatever reason, they’d keep them close to the action, wouldn’t they? That’s what she’d have done with hostages – if they’d lived.

  Connor coughed quietly from the mineshaft. The irony poked at her. Only a couple days earlier, she’d been the one sick to her stomach while Roy stood faithfully by her side to wipe her nose and mouth. Yes, she’d been mad, but she’d also been pretty disgusting, too. Yet he’d stayed. So why couldn’t she cut Connor any slack for the same misfortune? Simple. Everything wrong with her life started that day six months ago. With him.

  Izza rubbed the Iraqi dinar between her index finger and thumb. Jamie was there the day she’d made her record breaking shot. He and Connor were jaw jacking over who was the better long shot until she showed up. Jamie never could resist a dare. His face lit up when he saw her. Connor’s too, only his handsome face glowed like he was more than just happy to see her.

  Man, she had to give it to him. The guy did have some seriously blue eyes. Pacific blue, as if he’d come from an underwater world instead of Boston, Mass. His dark blond hair had lightened in the sun. The sight of him always took her breath and just as easily warmed her from the inside out. They had a connection from the get go, like he was made to command and she was made to follow.

  Yeah, right. Izza growled at that insane notion her mind just came up with. She’d fought her feminine nature for years. Being a woman in a man’s world only bought trouble. She’d go where she damned well pleased.