Three down.
The fourth fled to the only chance at leverage left to him. The rear of the hangar. To Izza.
“You think I won’t kill her?” he growled, crouched behind Izza, taunting Connor with his pistol stuck in her neck. The fool should’ve taken his one and only chance while he had it. Connor didn’t pause for a split second to reconsider probabilities or physics after he caught sight of what they’d done to Izza.
Red, hot fury flamed to life in the deepest depth of his soul. Never had Connor felt more righteous or more full of the power of an angry god. When the idiot peered over Izza’s right shoulder and pulled her ponytail to force her unconscious and battered face forward, Connor’s wrist snapped the borrowed weapon to target. He needed no spotter. No crosshairs. No conscience. He was judgment incarnate, the final horseman of the Apocalypse come to wipe the wicked from the face of the earth once and for all.
Reaction time diminished with every step.
Not once did Connor slow or hesitate.
He was sent to bring death and death he would bring.
Connor could hear the man’s heart pounding. The idiot didn’t get it. He was already dead.
“I’ll do it,” the stupid man declared like he had a prayer of living another ten seconds.
“No.” Connor fired one quick killing shot in reply, and one only, with the celestial sneer of an archangel sent to earth on a divine mission. “You won’t.”
The cartel’s finest jerked backward with the only headshot Connor had allowed. Bloody spray and brain matter smeared the wall behind him as his lifeless body slipped to the floor, the pistol grip caught in his limp hand.
Four down.
The men who’d beaten Izza were dying or dead. And it was good.
Connor holstered his weapon, the blessed fury in check once more. Alex stood suddenly at Connor’s side. “You shot them all,” he declared with a twinge of awe, but Connor didn’t care for shooting records. That day was done.
He knelt at her chair, his heart climbing out of his chest at the sight of Izza’s bloodied face. Cradling her head tenderly in his palms, fear grabbed hold. Was he too late after all?
“Oh, my God,” he cried. “What have they done to you?”
Alex pulled a knife from his pocket and sliced the ties that held her. She slumped forward into Connor’s arms, her battered face against his chest, streams of blood running down her neck and arms. For a moment, her swollen eyelids fluttered. She looked up at him through slits, her voice as faint as air. “They... kicked... me,” she rasped faintly. “My baby....”
Hot tears streamed down his face. He pressed his hand over her swollen belly, but nothing stirred beneath his fingers. No tiny elbows or knees. Nothing.
“You listen to me, Izza. You’re both going to be okay, you hear me?” Easing her off the chair, he lifted her into his arms and stood. But Izza didn’t speak again. Connor cradled her, weeping for the woman he loved and his unborn daughter as he strode out of the hangar.
Alex stood with his cell phone. “I need paramedics at—”
“No, Boss,” Connor declared. With Izza safely tucked into his body, and his pistol in the other hand, he was ready to kill the bastards he’d left writhing on the tarmac. “Not for these guys you don’t. They’re mine.”
“Connor. No!” Alex barked sternly.
“Yes,” Connor hissed, his decision already made and clear as hell. These men deserved death for what they’d done to Izza and her unborn baby. Mad dogs had to be put down. Brutal men were no different. These bastards needed to beg for their lives or pray to die. Either way, Connor intended to deliver the same hard truth. Don’t ever mess with my woman!
“Boston.” Izza’s sweet endearment came to him on the breeze. He looked down at her. She hadn’t spoken. She couldn’t, curled up in his arm like she was. The word hadn’t come from her. And yet....
Izza and this baby were everything. His world. His heart. These last two pigs on the tarmac weren’t worth the kinetic energy of a wasted .9mm round. Connor holstered his weapon, wrapped both arms around his life and walked away. He had what he’d come for.
Let Alex make the call. Let Alex clean up the mess. Hell, let him shoot the sons of bitches if he wanted to.
He sat outside emergency surgery not sure he’d have a reason to smile again. Alex had just brought another cup of bad hospital coffee. It was just one of those things a person did while they were waiting and praying – and holding their breath. Connor didn’t touch it.
Four men against one little woman were not good odds even for a tough Hispanic chick who could easily whip Connor’s ass. And he’d give anything if she’d come charging out of surgery right now and do just that, all bent out of shape and mad as hell like she used to be. Somehow he’d known all along that behind that dammed up hate and anger was love. It was just hard for a girl to know how to love softly when all she’d known was how to fight to live.
He sat with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He couldn’t look his boss in the eye, his fear too close to the surface. He felt worthless on so many levels. His gut hurt. His head was dizzy one minute and throbbing the next. But his heart hurt the worst. And they wouldn’t let him see her. They made him sit. With Alex. And wait.
“Izza’s one of the toughest gals I’ve ever known.” Alex sat with his arm across the back of Connor’s chair. “She’s one helluva shot, I can tell you that much. I watched her last firearms certification. She could give Zack a run for his money. I hired her because of that coin you showed Murphy. Remember?”
Connor nodded. Of course he remembered. It was the same one she’d accused him of stealing. But that day was another day to remember. She’d boasted she could take out that center palm tree on the coin no matter how far away it was. So he egged her on. Against the sun. An extremely tough shot for sure.
The girl had eyes like a hawk. Sharp. Angry. Loving. And he wanted to see them again. He knew now why he’d kept that stupid coin. It was all he had left of her and that perfect day. It was all he had left of Jamie, too. Connor raked his hands over his head wanting to pull his hair out or scream.
Alex kept talking and bugging the hell out of him. “You don’t know this, but Izza came to me for the job. I’ve never had that happen before. Guess I’m a male chauvinist, but I was only looking to hire men until I met her. I’ve got to change that stupid mindset of mine. There are some damn good women snipers out there.”
Connor couldn’t speak. The conversation seemed so damned trivial while Izza and his baby’s lives hung in the balance. Alex needed to shut up and leave him alone.
“You were her only reference.”
“Say what?”
Alex nodded. “You were her single reference on her job application. She said you’d vouch for her.”
“How’d she know that I—?”
Alex shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to ask her, won’t you?”
“Yeah, so move your sorry ass over.”
Connor looked up at those unexpected words. There stood Roy Hudson, his hand gripping a walker. Connor stood to make room for his senior agent, but Roy grabbed him in a big ole bear hug instead, smacking his back as he suffocated him. Connor collapsed against him, the sight of another friendly face finally too much. He’d forgotten all about Roy’s injuries in the crisis of finding Izza. “I’m sorry, Roy.”
Roy straight-armed him. “You have got to stop saying that, you hear me, boy? You got nothing to be sorry about. You didn’t shoot me anymore than you shot Jamie Ramos back in Iraq. You’re not responsible for any of this. You listening, son?”
Connor stared at his friend, too emotional to respond.
“Yeah, I know all about Izza’s brother. And I know that smart-mouthed little gal in there has been blaming you for what happened to her brother, ain’t that right? It took me awhile to figure out why she was throwing up so much while we were in the canyon. She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”
Connor nodded.
“And t
hat baby is yours.” Roy’s dark eyes glowed with concern, and maybe a little pride.
Tear welled up in Connor’s eyes. “Yes. It’s a little girl.”
Roy hugged the young man again. “Well, I hope you and Izza got your differences worked out, cuz any daughter of Izza’s is gonna give you one helluva run for your money. How’s our girl doing?”
“Still waiting for the doctor to come tell us something. They’ve been in there for a while.” Connor helped Roy sit and stored his walker next to his chair.
Roy turned to Alex. “I’ve never had more female trouble on an operation than this one. And damned if Connor wasn’t smack in the middle of it like always.” He had his hand in the middle of Connor’s back as soon as he sat down again. “One minute I’ve got him and Cassidy making goo-goo eyes at each other. The next thing I know, Izza’s square in between them and ready to fight everyone and anyone.”
“That’s Izza, all right,” Connor said quietly, his voice tight and sad. My Izza. My baby girl.
Roy smacked his back. “She’s damn tough. How are you doing?”
But Connor didn’t have time to answer. The doctor at the door waved him into the next room. The minute he took Connor’s arm in a firm hold, his heart stopped. The man’s gray eyes were too serious. The hospital walls swayed.
“Ms. Ramos had a bruised spleen and a couple cracked ribs. She’s pretty banged up, but she’ll be fine. She’s in recovery right now. We’re treating her for dehydration. That’s the real problem right now.”
“How’s the baby?” Connor tried to focus with the walls still weaving behind the doctor’s somber face. Dry fear clutched his throat. It was difficult to read this man. Even now his face blurred. He shook his head, as if—
“I’m sorry, Mr. Maher, but we had to take the baby.”
What? Connor’s heart crashed to the floor in a thousand pieces. He choked, not exactly sure what he’d just heard. Poor Izza. Does she know yet? “So the baby, she’s—dead?”
“Oh, no. She’s six weeks premature. She’s up in NICU, the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit on the second level.”
“She’s alive?” Tears sprang to his eyes. The doctor swayed. Lights flickered. Connor steadied himself with a palm flat to the wall and still the doctor swayed like a drunken sailor.
“Congratulations, young man.” He grasped Connor’s hand as if Connor had a clue what was going on. “You have a beautiful baby girl. She’s going to be fine.”
He sagged to the floor, his knees too weak to hold him up anymore. The doctor caught him by the elbow just in time. “Whoa, now. Up you go. Let’s get you back on your feet. Can’t have you passing out now, can we?” He assisted Connor back to the waiting room. “You go join your friends. The nurse will come by in a few minutes to take you to see your wife and daughter.”
Connor looked at those serious male faces waiting for him in the waiting room, more serious because of the doctor holding him up. But all Connor could do was sit in his chair and cover his face. He sobbed at the doctor’s word—your wife and daughter. His mother’s smiling face came to mind. He wanted to tell her most of all. She’d be so happy. So proud. But first he wanted to hold his wife and his daughter.
Alex was at his side. Heck, even Roy stood in his walker. Both worried. Still waiting.
“Connor?” Alex asked, the alarm clear in his voice. He had his hand on Connor’s shoulder, rock solid and ready for anything that might come. “Tell us, son. How is she?”
Connor raised his bleary tear-filled eyes. “Boss,” he choked. “I’m a dad.”
Twenty-Eight
At that very happy news, Alex grabbed a wheelchair and rushed Connor to the ER for his own emergency surgery. Connor leaned back onto the narrow bed with a groan as the nurse attached an IV line in his forearm. “Thanks, Boss,” he muttered, closing his eyes.
“No problem,” Alex said as he stood aside and watched. Somehow Connor’s good looks always aroused the same curious behavior in women. It was an interesting phenomenon. Ladies seemed to go into some kind of high-energy, high-alert mode around him. The kid just seemed to have it, whatever it was.
Even now, this particular nurse gently washed his face and tried to make small talk. She was very pretty and happy to see him. Short blond hair, bright brown eyes, everything that Connor liked in an available woman, but his eyes had closed the minute his head touched the pillow. He lay on the narrow bed relaxed, finally ready to have his wounds properly attended to.
“You should have come in earlier with this kind of an injury,” she scolded. “My goodness, where have you been?”
“Working,” he answered, completely missing the gentle flirting going on around him. “Hope this doesn’t take very long.”
The nurse shot Alex a cool look. “Your boss must be a slave driver to make you work in this condition. You poor thing.” She washed Connor’s neck and proceeded to his arms while another nurse came in with a surgical tray. Watching her gentle administrations, Alex noticed again how gaunt his junior agent was.
“No. He’s a good man,” Connor said calmly, his eyes still closed.
Alex grunted. Connor had it wrong. He was the good man today. For as unsteady as he seemed on the ride there, he’d transformed into some kind of deadeye gunslinger the minute his boots hit the asphalt. He never really aimed, just pointed, squeezed off round after round, and kept walking until he’d saved Izza and shot everyone in his way.
Alex stepped away to make another call to Mark. No answer. He dialed his two guardian angel techies still on twenty-four-seven duty on the East Coast.
“Anything from Mark yet?” he asked Ember quietly.
“Alex,” she bit out. “We’ve got a live satellite feed. It looks like a war zone down there.”
“Is Libby in the air?”
“Yes. I have Rory’s parents’ number in Nebraska. Should I call them?”
“Not yet,” Alex replied somberly. “DEA has a man inside the SC. He better be damned good.”
“How’s Connor?” Ember asked. “How’s Izza?”
Alex glanced back at Connor. “He’s out cold in the ER, finally getting his wound cleaned and stitched. Izza is in recovery. And their little girl is five pounds, two ounces, and breathing on her own.”
A blinding explosion lit the gate of the hacienda, throwing several guards clear off the ground. Mark closed his eyes tight. Automatic fire roared to life behind his and Rory’s position. What the hell? For a split second, he feared crossfire, that armed guards had circled behind them, that he and Rory were sandwiched in a meat grinder, a kill zone.
But then another rocket propelled grenade ripped over his head and hit the gate, aimed again from somewhere behind him. More guards flew. The cartel halted their forward march. Mark still couldn’t see who was firing, but the men ahead of him suddenly turned and scrambled back behind the safety of the high hacienda walls. That much was a good thing.
He looked over to where his junior agent laid deathly quiet. Except for the blood smeared across his face, dark-haired Rory looked like a kid asleep, his face in the dirt, his arms still hugging his rifle and his baseball cap on backwards. Instant tears filled Mark’s eyes. God. Not Rory.
He rolled to his back. A bright spotlight advanced toward his prone position, the glare in his eyes. He squinted. Three dark silhouettes approached. “Mark Houston?”
Mark didn’t recognize the Hispanic male’s voice.
“Mark Houston!” the voice boomed again. “Alex Stewart sent me. Is that you?”
He raised his left hand. “Yeah. Here. We’re here.”
The same man barked an urgent order into his headset as he crouched at Mark’s side. “Send the medics up to the front. Two men down. Arriba! Ándale! Ándale!” A swarthy Mexican, his strong voice exuded authority and calm. “Stay down, Mark Houston. You and your friends are safe now. We have your Agent Dancer and the Ramirez girls in our custody. Let us clean up the rest of this rat’s nest. Is that acceptable with you?”
Mark s
agged limply against the dirt. A dozen or so heavily armed men marched past him on their way into the hacienda. “Who the hell—?”
“I am Carlos Santiago, a friend of your Governor Baxter. You and your team are badly outnumbered, I think.” Carlos peered anxiously down at Mark. “Yes?”
“We had ’em... right where we wanted ’em,” Mark muttered, surprised how weak his voice sounded.
Carlos smiled kindly. “Yes. I believe you did.”
“My man.” Mark pointed at Rory with is one good hand.
Carlos nodded grimly. “Medics are coming. You stay still. I will attend to this dirty business, but I will be back.”
With that Carlos rejoined his men. They continued firing into the hacienda compound. Finally, the noise of the battery ceased. Mark listened to the strangers making several not too gentle demands of their prisoners. And threats. Harsh death threats. Ahh. Music to a dying man’s ears.
Dozens of Mexican police poured around Mark and Rory. Medics followed close behind. A very kind man knelt beside Mark, several at Rory’s side. They had tourniquets, compresses and whatever it was in that hypodermic that felt so—good.
“How is he?” Mark shouted to the medics attending to Rory. “How is....”
He never heard the answer. The medicine swept through him, a soft, sweet wave of pain free euphoria.
It was the middle of the night when he got out of the emergency room, but he didn’t care. Connor went straight to Izza’s room. She lay there asleep, wrapped in warmed hospital blankets, her normally olive skin pale against the stark white bedding. Black hair, all shiny and washed, lay in soft tendrils around her poor battered face. Between the butterfly bandages, bruises, swelling and stitches, it was hard to recognize the sweet woman he knew for sure lay beneath. He wiped his eyes and went to her side, afraid to wake her and yet hoping he did.
“Hey there, Papa.” She smiled one of her half-crooked smiles as she squinted through two purpled blackened eyes.
Connor (In the Company of Snipers Book 5) Page 28
