Wood, Fire, & Gold

by Jackson, Pam

  ###

  “Fucking great ... Uzis!” Clay growled. He was carefully peering out from around the tree to assess the situation. He could barely make out a figure dressed in winter camo taking cover behind a small oak tree. A narrow clearing of brush and glacier rocks separated the edge of the sycamore grove from pine and oak trees that led down to a deep valley. A sudden flash of white and gray caught his eye: another shooter. Shit! This one was closer to their position and off to their right. Again, a barrage of gunfire slammed against the thick tree trunks around them.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are, my sweet. I want to play,” a male voice shouted out from a more covered position to the left of Clay and Andie. “You’ve been a very bad girl. Tsk, tsk, tsk. I won’t hurt you ... much.” It was a guttural, gravelly voice laced with a heavy German accent. The large figure was also dressed in winter camo, and he changed his position to hide behind a large boulder. Clay noticed his weapon: an MP7 submachine gun, a favorite among the Kommando Speizialkrafte German special forces unit. Its ammunition was exclusive to this weapon: a copper-plated, steel bullet made to travel fast and slice through body armor, wreaking havoc on soft flesh and vital organs. Clay realized this guy was in charge of the three-man assassin team, and from the sound of his taunt toward Andie, he was probably the torturing asshole type.

  “Andie, do you recognize that voice?” he asked, looking into her terrified face. She was lying against his chest, and he couldn’t help but feel how perfect it was to have her so close to him, even at this time of danger. If he ever wanted to feel her body close to his without the layers of down jackets and wool between them, he was going to need to pull a plan out of his ass immediately. He needed to protect her; he knew that animal out there would torture her slowly, and he winced with the vision of Andie’s soft skin being sliced to pieces. Do the job! His own voice echoed inside his head. He knew that foreseeing one’s own death could be debilitating, and if he didn’t get her out of here immediately, she would capitulate to the fear, turning a critical situation into a shit storm in a few minutes.

  “Yes, I know that voice,” she said fearfully. “His name is Luca Eberstark—he works for Tivoli. He’s one of the bodyguards when we travel abroad. He’s a bastard and always frightened me. He has a taste for being especially cruel to women.”

  “Listen to me, Andie. He will not hurt you, I promise. But I need to get you out of here right now. You need to get back to the house,” he commanded, his eyes darting back and forth from her beautiful eyes to her quivering lips. He was working out an impromptu escape plan in his head, and he prayed to Jesus it would work.

  He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up with him. His legs were a bit wobbly from the way he’d been sitting, and he could feel his heated blood flowing back into his lower extremities. The healing wound and raised scar on his leg tingled, followed by a dull ache. Fuck it. Blow it off, man.

  Andie looked at him with panic and confusion. “What do you mean, Clay? I’m not leaving you alone here—they’ll kill you. You’re outnumbered!”

  “Have a little faith, baby.” A wry smile appeared on his face, followed by a wink—all theater to make her feel more confident. He knew damn well that he was outgunned and outnumbered, and at least one of his opponents definitely had training similar to his own. He couldn’t possibly protect her while simultaneously fighting to hold his position. She had to go. He hoped she could pull together the same confidence and tenacity that had made her so appealing to him in the first place.

  “No. I’m staying here with you, and that’s final!” she cried out.

  “That’s not how this works, darlin’. I don’t have the time to stand here and freaking argue with you. I need you to run as fast as you can in a zigzag pattern back to the snowmobile.” He moved his hand to demonstrate the survival tactic that would prevent the shooters from getting the target—her—in their sights. “Follow the tracks back to the house. Inside the kitchen, there’s a cookie jar shaped like a pig. The jar has a piece of paper in it with Paul Krause’s cell number—give him the sitrep and he’ll send an extraction team for you.”

  Confusion washed over her face. “What? Why? And what are you talking about, ‘sitrep,’ ‘extraction team’? You said that Paul was a park ranger.”

  Bullets cracked at the ground around them, but this time they were precisely placed next to Andie’s feet. Clay knew it was Luca Eberstark; he would be a better shot than his henchmen, and the next round of hot metal would surely hit its mark.

  The gravelly, accented voice bellowed out another taunt. “Come on, sweet Andie, I won’t hurt you. I will leave all that fun for Tivoli.” His sardonic laugh echoed across the grove.

  Clay grimaced, hearing the cruelty in Eberstark’s voice. “When I give the word, you run. And whatever you do, don’t look back.” The last thing he needed was for her to see him wounded and bleeding to death in the frigid snow. He realized that she would never make it out of here alive if she watched him die. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll make it. I’ll be right behind you, darlin’.” He changed his tone to one softer and easier, with more confidence, to disguise the sorrow he was feeling. He might never see this beautiful woman again. To think he had been so close to kissing her sweet, soft lips when he was interrupted by the very gunfire that might soon take his life.

  “But your leg. You can’t run that fast. How will you ... ?”

  “Shh, baby. I told you, I’ll be right behind you.” He was desperately trying to fight off the urge to hold her tightly in his arms for the first—and last—time. “Okay, get ready to run on my word.”

  She barely nodded in agreement, but he knew she would do it. She was an Army Ranger’s daughter, and she would take his order—like it or not.

  “Ready,” Clay said. He turned away to get a glance of the assassins in the brush, making damn sure their positions hadn’t changed. As he turned his head back to meet Andie’s gaze, the unexpected happened. Clay felt her warm hands caress his face and she kissed him, hard and fast. Her lips were softer and fuller than he’d imagined, and he tasted the bittersweet brine of salt on his cold, chapped lips when she pulled away. She was crying, and he knew it was for him—she saw right through his tough guy charade and knew that the outcome looked bleak.

  He couldn’t remember anyone ever crying over him—or for him. And here she was, beautiful as any angel could be, a woman completely out of his league, crying for him. His heart ached as he watched the wet, hot tears stream down her face.

  Andie, beautiful Andie, please don’t cry. Those sweet tears melted the steely, emotionally detached machine of a man he’d become.

  He tried to shake off any delusional dreams of love. But maybe this was the strength he needed. His ego was now emboldened by his desire for her. He would eliminate the threats that stood in his way so he could kiss those sweet lips again.

  He would kill them all.

  “Run Andie—go now!” he shouted, and practically tossed her forward. He turned, and with precision, he took his first shot at the assassin closest to him.

  Chapter 10

  “All right, you fuckers, let’s see if you have the chops,” Clay growled, sizing up the enemy. He chuckled wryly, amused that he was about to enjoy this showdown of death now that Andie was on the snowmobile and headed back to safety. He’d been sitting on his ass this past month nursing his wounded leg and working hard to rehab it, but his training was lethally honed, and not even an injury could diminish his skills as a killer.

  He peered around the tree to check the positions of the gunmen. He’d just unloaded an entire magazine to keep them from getting a bead on Andie as she ran to the snowmobile. When he heard the motor fade into the distance, he reloaded, pulled back on the slide, and made a mental note that only two more magazines were left in his thigh holster.

  The shooter closest to him was itching to make a move on Clay’s position. Clay saw the hesitation as the man tried to stand up from his cover behind a rotted, fallen tree tru
nk. This was Clay’s chance to cause some damage—physical as well as psychological. He pivoted around the wide base of the sycamore and fired at the rotting trunk where the man was hiding. Pieces of snow, ice and large wooden splinters flew into the face of the shooter and blinded him momentarily. This was it—Clay knelt on his right knee, aimed and took another shot. This time the bullet hit its target.

  Clay hadn’t aimed for the chest; he figured these goons were wearing body armor, so he hit the shooter in the throat. Bright red blood sprayed from the shooter’s neck as the bullet tore through the carotid artery. Crimson splotches were vibrant on the white canvas of packed snow, and the gunman stepped forward into the clearing, trying desperately to suck air into his lungs. A terrible gurgling sound hissed from the open wound in his neck, and then his lifeless body hit the snow-covered ground.

  The second shooter stood up in an effort to help his fellow mercenary and emptied an entire magazine at Clay’s position. Clay took shelter behind the base of his sturdy tree. Knowing that the second shooter was starting to panic, Clay listened for the distinct click of the Uzi’s magazine release button.

  “Thank you for being so big and ugly.” Clay patted one of the many thick nodules at the base of the sycamore tree. He was so grateful that he’d been able to pull Andie and himself behind one of the largest trees in the grove when the firefight had broken out.

  Now, his concern was not the second shooter. He figured the guy to be a cheap hired gun—a novice who prayed and sprayed his ammo, just hoping he’d hit something besides branches and birds. A true amateur.

  Clay was more concerned about Eberstark; he was advancing slowly and methodically, and Clay could see that Eberstark was closing in to within one hundred meters of the hefty sycamore tree, well within range to do damage to Clay’s vital organs.

  Eberstark wore a knit cap that matched his snow camos, and his dark sunglasses masked most of his face. Clay figured Eberstark was as gnarled and craggy as the mammoth tree Clay was standing behind.

  Clay pivoted around the sycamore to take aim and fire a few rounds at the second shooter. He didn’t want to waste precious ammunition on this guy when he knew that the real fight would be between himself and Eberstark. He needed to mind fuck this punk until he could flush Eberstark into a bad position and possibly take a head shot. Clay didn’t have much choice; sooner or later Eberstark would be close enough to shoot rounds from his MP7, and those tiny, high velocity bullets were deadly.

  “Hey, asshole,” Clay shouted to the novice shooter, “did you like how I decorated the place with your buddy’s blood? You’re next—but this time, it’s gonna be your brains.”

  Rapid gunfire erupted toward Clay’s position, and bits of wood rained down on him after the shooter emptied another clip. Clay heard him reload again. “Keep reloading, mother fucker,” Clay whispered, backing up tightly against the tree and again thanking his new best friend, the big sycamore, for being such a thick son of a bitch. “Yeah, that’s right, use up all your ammo and then I’m gonna fuck your shit up but good.”

  Clay looked to his right toward Eberstark, who hadn’t moved a muscle through the last barrage. Clay knew this standoff would soon be ending with his own spilled blood if he didn’t take command of the situation. Eberstark and his greenhorn evidently had plenty of ammunition to last them into the night, and Clay had left his duffel bag full of weapons and extra magazines on the back of the snowmobile—which, he prayed to God, was on its way back to the house with Andie saddled safely atop its big engine.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and visualized her face with its delicate features and beautiful porcelain skin. Her powerful green eyes. Rich and seductive, her beauty was the kind ancient mariners created myths about. He had to let it go. He’d most likely die here with her beautiful image imprinted on his mind. But he wasn’t going down without a furious fight.

  Taking a deep breath, Clay ran as fast as he could to an adjacent tree that was closer to the second shooter. This tree was not as wide and would not give him the same cover as the craggy, older sycamore.

  Gunfire again slammed all around his position, and he returned fire, hoping one of his rounds would hit the target.

  “C’mon punk ... that’s all you got?” Clay yelled out, aiming for another shot. Suddenly, the distinct sound of a roaring engine caught his attention, and the Uzi fell silent as the engine noise came closer to the small clearing. A wave of snow crested toward the second gunman, followed by the distinct claps of a 9mm being fired—it reminded Clay of the old Westerns he’d watched as a boy, in which drunken cowboys had ridden their horses into an old mining town, shooting into the air.

  Clay could hardly believe his eyes. It was Andie. And she was barely managing the powerful pull of the big machine. She was just a streak of black and red, slicing through heavy, wet snow. If he hadn’t read the word Polaris on the side of the snowmobile, he’d have thought he was hallucinating from lack of sleep. She busted right through the brush and into the clearing where just moments ago he was tangled in the close-quarters firefight.

  She stopped the snowmobile practically on top of Clay, its engine roaring. Eberstark and the other shooter looked stunned by her cavalier maneuver, and they didn’t return fire. Clay wanted to scream at her for coming back for him, but instead he took advantage of every nanosecond that bullets weren’t flying at their heads and jumped on the snowmobile to escape.

  Clay climbed on behind Andie and surrounded her small frame; he pushed hard with his pelvis against her lower back to move her forward, crushing her against the gauge panel. Her delicate hand still clutched his SIG 228, and he eased the gun from her grasp and placed it in the waistband of his jeans. He took control of the steering, and with a tight grip, Andie covered his hands with hers as he squeezed the throttle and they made a sharp left turn leading them out of the grove.

  Clay turned his head to look for Eberstark and the remaining hired gun. They were running in the opposite direction, deeper into the brush—and sure enough, moments later, Clay could hear the distant sound of two snowmobiles following hard and fast.

  “Remind me when we get outta here to kick your sweet ass.” Clay spoke against Andie’s ear so she could hear his words above the screaming engine. “I can’t believe you didn’t listen to me.” His dry lips barely touched the delicate skin around her tiny earlobe as the vibration of the big engine jolted them in their seat. He wanted to sensually bite at the soft, pink flesh, but he figured that to be a bad idea with the amount of bouncing they were enduring along the rugged, snowy trail. Instead, he pushed his large frame closer to Andie and pressed his cheek hard against hers. She stiffened with surprise, and he spoke over the screeching roar of the engine, but not before tasting her sweet skin with a quick kiss to her cheek. “I’m gonna have to punish you hard for this, Andie. Now hold on, it’s about to get wild.” He squeezed the throttle with a vise-like grip and left Eberstark and his mercenary in the wake of fresh powdered snow.

  Clay flipped his dark sunglasses down from the top of his head to protect his eyes from snow blindness and debris. He was ecstatic that he hadn’t lost them during the gunfight, since they were his favorite pair and he thought he looked rather handsome in them—but vanity would have to wait. Right now he had to save both their asses.

  He maneuvered the snowmobile around some of the heavy brush and fallen timber. He needed to lose these guys fast, and he couldn’t return fire, steer the snowmobile, and protect Andie. Although still outnumbered, he was confident he had the upper hand. These mountains were his back yard, his turf since he was a boy, and this was all the edge he needed to get Andie to safety.

  ###

  Clay eased up on the throttle as they descended into the same valley they had cut across to reach the sycamore grove. Andie turned her head and noticed Tivoli’s men gaining ground and quickly closing the gap between them.

  “Why are we slowing down?” she shouted, feeling the panic in her chest as the engine dropped down another gear. �
�What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want them to kill us?” She’d been running on adrenaline since the shooting began, and now there wasn’t much left of her bravery. Her muscles were tight, and the cherry pit in her stomach felt more like a watermelon.

  “Hush, baby. Do you really think that I’d let anyone ever hurt you? My God, if you only knew how much I’ve fallen ...” Clay’s words broke off as he turned onto the plateau where Black Tar Swamp was located.

  Andie stared straight ahead as her eyes watered from the wind and snow glare. She wasn’t sure if she was more shaken up by Clay’s near declaration of love for her, or by the fact that they were headed toward that awful, lifeless swamp where Clay had lost his cousin Sean.

  She noticed him squeezing the brake again. They slowed down considerably, and she could hear an engine roaring up close behind. She wanted to close her eyes and magically jump from this terrible place to a happier and safer one—a place where gun-toting maniacs were not permitted. For a moment, she second-guessed her judgment in coming back for Clay. But no—she had made the right decision, she did trust him, and the look of astonishment on his face when she had kissed him back at the grove spoke volumes to her. She remembered how her heart had ached as she ran for the snowmobile, and she had felt broken and fragile without him. When she had turned to look back, disregarding his command not to do so, she felt something she never had for any man in her life—not Roger, and not her father. She couldn’t comprehend it. What she’d felt was love, pure and flawless, but not sexual. They were like kindred spirits inside a maelstrom of emotion and fear. He hardly knew her, and he was willing to place his life on the line for her. That, she would never forget.