Wolfsbane

by Ronie Kendig

  “And you said you’d get me the money I needed.”

  “I did get you that mon—” He clamped his mouth shut. “No! What’re you planning to do?” He shook his hands in front of himself, eyes wild. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “Why?” Bruzon let his laugh echo off the marble floors. “Are you afraid of what you’ve helped bring about? Tsk-tsk.” He laughed again at the way the puffed-up American had fed right into his hands. “Michael, I will be sure to thank you before I launch. And for the pleasure of your daughter.”

  The man’s face reddened. “You can’t do this to me!”

  “But I already did.” Bruzon looked to Navas, who’d paced them and waited quietly, as he had for so many years. He gave a somber nod and turned as the man withdrew a Smith & Wesson revolver.

  “No!” The senator lunged toward Humberto.

  Even as Navas caught him, wrangled him into a stranglehold, Humberto could not help but admire the stealth and skill of his man.

  With a nod toward the french doors, Navas said, “Toss him to the American dogs. They can finish him.”

  An idea. A good one. Except … “No, they are more likely to drag his sorry carcass back to America and put him on trial.” He sneered at the man. “And this one will squeal like a stuck pig.” He lifted his chin. “Finish him.”

  As Humberto stepped into the frenzy of the attack, the loud bang of the revolver followed him. He smiled. It’d been too easy. The Americans were just too easy.

  As Canyon rushed for cover, two lithe women crouch-ran along a hedgerow. Hidden from the gunmen—and if he judged the angle right, the rest of the team—the women made swift progress. Shadows, the cacophony of battle, and the lightning stabbing the tortured sky made it difficult to see the women. But … He squinted. They both had long, dark hair. A grunt ricocheted across his hope of finding Roark. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Like 98 percent of women in this country.

  But then it hit him where the women were headed. Toward the hidden complex the Old Man told them about. Which was also the same direction away from the estate and away from the city. Why would they head that way?

  One of the women tripped and went down. The other skidded to a stop and rushed back—her face clear. And beautiful.

  “Roark!” Her name leapt from his lips before he could stop it. He jerked back into the shadows, eyeing the building, the shooters, hoping he hadn’t drawn their attention and fire.

  To his nine, dark shadows coalesced into men. Bruzon and Navas—that no-good traitor!—running straight for the women.

  He darted a look to Roark, who tried to help the other woman from the ground. Had she seen the men? Couldn’t have. She wasn’t moving fast enough. What if Bruzon caught her again? Or Navas? Canyon’s breath lodged in his throat.

  Shouts. He snapped his attention back to the house, to the men. Bruzon hollered, but the din engulfing the grounds swallowed his words. Navas lifted a weapon and aimed it at her. Adrenaline raced through Canyon’s limbs as he watched the scene unfold. If Roark didn’t wake up, she’d get shot. Killed.

  Panic flung his heart out into the open—and apparently, his body went with it.

  But it was too late. Bruzon raced up on Roark. Slipped an arm around her throat and hauled her backward, away from the second woman. Screams pierced the night.

  Canyon snapped his weapon to the ready. “Bruzon!” Aligning his sights on Navas, he waited for the guy to swing toward him.

  Bruzon came around, Roark caught in a choke hold as a gun swung toward Canyon. “Let me leave or I’ll kill her.”

  “Let her go!” Canyon locked his gaze on the man. If Canyon fired, though, he could hit Roark.

  “No. She is why you’re here. She is why the general came, yes?” Bruzon’s face beaded with sweat. “We both leave and she lives.”

  “Not happening!” Frogman’s voice came from two meters to Canyon’s left. “Let her go. We will take you down.”

  “You won’t because you want her to live.”

  “You’re dead, Bruzon.” Frogman inched forward, his M4 trained on the psychotic man.

  Canyon’s hands grew slick watching Roark, her frantic—but controlled—fear as the man negotiated the space between the team and the house.

  When Bruzon shifted and started back toward the patio, Canyon fired a warning shot over the man’s head. “Stop!”

  A spark flew—and flared blue. What caused that?

  “We have a sniper ready to put a bullet in your skull, Bruzon.”

  “You won’t kill me. Your dirty secrets will be exploited.”

  Where’s Navas? Where’d he go? Canyon tried to use his peripheral vision to locate the traitor, but the guy had bled into the darkness.

  “Frogman,” Cowboy’s quiet, formal voice cut into the chaos. “Line of sight is obstructed.”

  Read: Shooting Bruzon could nail Roark.

  Frogman edged closer.

  Bruzon swung toward him. “Stop or I’ll kill her.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Navas!”

  “It ends tonight,” Canyon shouted.

  “Navas!”

  The general had lost his back.

  Canyon rolled onward another two feet.

  “Come closer and I will kill her.” A wicked gleam lit through the man’s face.

  Canyon fired.

  A bright flash winked at him—east side of the house. Navas! He’d fired.

  White light blasted through Canyon’s senses.

  Boom!

  A fiery inferno devoured his vision. Blinded him. Air sucked out like a hypervacuum. Then rolled back. Plowed him backward. Lifted him into the air. Flung him around and slammed him into the earth.

  “Augh!” As he pulled himself off the ground, Canyon rapidly assessed his aches. Nothing broken. A few bruises come morning, but he was okay. Staggering to his feet, he realized day had turned into morning.

  No, not morning.

  He peered toward the house—and jerked away at the intensity.

  Fire roared into the sky. Wood sizzled and crackled.

  A ball of fire vaulted into the air, licking the branches. It danced through the black of night. Smoke snaked out in angry tendrils, reaching for him. Choking him. An explosion. The spot where Roark had stood sizzled and popped beneath the fury of the fire.

  “No!”

  No, she couldn’t be gone. She couldn’t …

  “Roark!” He rushed forward. His leg buckled but he stumbled toward the flames. Numb. Angry. “Rooooaarrrk!”

  CHAPTER 32

  Debris littered the yard as fire streaked through the heavens. Heat so intense his weapon warmed in his hand, the flames roared and danced.

  Hands on his head, Canyon dropped to his knees. Nothing but rubble, smoke, and ash remained where Roark had stood two seconds earlier. “No!” The half groan-half scream radiated through his chest. The release proved painful. There was no relief here.

  “God, no …” Holding his head, he felt the wetness sliding down his face. Didn’t care. She was gone. Dead. No way she could survive that blast. This is my fault. She wouldn’t even have been here if he’d put this whole mission in God’s hands. Not in his own. Not trusted in himself when his trust should’ve been in God.

  If he’d been alert. If he’d … prayed.

  Canyon stumbled past the guilt. “Roark!” He trembled, pushed forward, reaching for the fire. On his feet, he tripped but straightened. “Roark, where are you?”

  Hands gripped him and yanked him back.

  “Let me go! She’s there,” he growled. “She’s got to be.”

  “It’s no good,” Squirt said, shoulder pressed against Canyon’s stomach as he held him back. “It’s no good. You can’t do anything. She’s gone.”

  Agony matched the explosion. “Noooo!” Canyon rammed a fist into the man’s neck. Squirt went sideways and fell away, enabling Canyon to step over him. “Find her. She’s got to be here.” Had to be. “God, help me! Help her!”

  “I am a refuge and hel
p, an ever-present help in times of trouble.”

  At the words, heat radiated through Canyon, reassuring. “Show me—Roark!”

  “Midas!”

  The shout to his three yanked him around. More than two yards off, Aladdin knelt beside a chunk of roof and timber that lay on the ground.

  His man called, “I … I don’t think she’s breathing.”

  Beneath the pile, Roark’s head and shoulders peeked out.

  Canyon sprinted over the yard, wiggling out of his pack as he did. He threw himself to his knees, skidding over the grass to her side.

  Squirt and Aladdin hoisted the large piece of the roof aside.

  A support beam lay across Roark’s chest. Canyon’s gut twisted and churned at her neck cocked at an angle. Unconscious and dust—lots of dust—covering her face, she lay silent and still. As he shifted closer, he tensed at the dirt and drywall that coated her beautiful face. Coated her nose and open mouth. As if she’d been gasping for air and inhaling the gritty stuff.

  Unable to discern a breath, he wondered if she was breathing. Panic rolled through his chest, lodging itself against his own agony. He wiped off her mouth and … stilled. Blue. Canyon jammed two fingers against her carotid artery. Head tucked, he focused on locating her pulse. Ignoring the men trying to move the beam off her. From the fire and screams.

  C’mon, c’mon … where are you?

  His breath backed into his throat at the almost imperceptible thump. Thready. She was dying. He’d have to straighten her neck to open her air passage. But if she had a neck injury, he could permanently paralyze her.

  Better than dead.

  Canyon placed his hands on the sides of her face, reached beneath her head—where the slickness of blood dribbled against his fingers—and gently straightened her neck and head.

  A moan wheezed through her chest. Her eyes fluttered.

  “Roark.” Breathing in the ash-laden air made it difficult, but watching her collapse on him like this made it impossible. “Roark, can you hear me?”

  Her head shifted—and he held it firm. “Don’t move. Are you hurting?”

  Words slurred and faint, Roark mumbled something.

  “I can’t hear you. What hurts, Roark?” He looked up as Frogman and the Kid raced toward him. “Medevac!”

  “En route.” Frogman dropped to his knees. “What can I do?”

  “SAM Splint.” Holding her neck still, Canyon nodded to the pack.

  Frogman dug through the supplies and found the gray-and-black splint material. He shifted to Roark’s head. “Roark, don’t move.” As Canyon held her head in place, Frogman carefully wrapped the aluminum-padded material around her neck.

  Squirt bent toward them, hands on the end of the beam. “Will it hurt her more?”

  “Move it,” Frogman said.

  Once her neck was set, Canyon used a portable suction to clear the blood and saliva from her mouth and throat. He swept a penlight over her pupils, listened to her lungs, then gently palpated her abdomen. “Roark,” he said as he lifted her hand. “Squeeze my hand.”

  Relief swirled at the squeeze—faint but present. He repeated the same on the other side. After taking her respiration counts, he checked her blood pressure. Noticed her drifting.

  He checked her pulse. He pressed his finger under her jaw, letting the din around them drown out. He pressed firmer. Where … where was it? His gaze slid into her chest. Agonal breathing.

  “We need to bag her.”

  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He was the one who screwed up. He should be lying on his back, struggling to breathe. Not Roark.

  “Roark. Stay with me, baby.”

  Unintelligible, slurred words seeped from her mouth. She coughed. Her face knotted in pain. “… neck … can’t …” She breathed, long and painful. Then, nothing.

  “IV.” Canyon nodded to Frogman who plucked the large-bore needle and tubing from the pack as Canyon slid a j-hook into her mouth to keep her teeth apart.

  “Not supposed to happen this way,” he muttered as he intubated her. “C’mon, Roark. Don’t do this to me.” He worked quickly under the light of the blaze consuming the house as he slid another large-bore IV into her arm and let it run wide open. Noting the blisters over her flesh, he cringed and prayed those weren’t what he thought—second-possibly third-degree burns.

  Another cough.

  “Tell me what’s hurting. You’re still wearing the necklace I gave you?” He needed something—anything—to keep her this side of eternity. But it felt like he was fighting a losing battle. When he checked her pulse this time, his own heart stuttered.

  “We’re losing her.” Everything in him slid off the cliff of despair. “Roark!”

  The thwump-twump-thwump of a chopper droned past the quieting flames.

  “Roark, breathe!” He manually pumped air into her lungs. To Frogman, “Compressions!” Frogman leapt in and together they keep her alive.

  Wind whipped his clothes and face, torrential, stirring up the smoke and fanning the fire.

  “C’mon, Roark. Breathe, baby! Don’t do this to me.”

  Hands pawed at him.

  He resisted, concentrating on saving her life.

  “Midas, move!” Frogman shouted over the scream of the chopper.

  A man in digitized camo squatted next to Roark with an immobilization board. He bobbed his head for Midas to clear out. “We’ve got her.”

  Beside him, a gloved hand slid over his, taking over.

  Reluctant to stand aside, Canyon eased out of the way. Within seconds, the two medics had Roark on the board, strapped down. The lead medic keyed his mic. “Base, we’re coming in with a female, midtwenties, possible spinal injury, no pulse.”

  Undisclosed Location in Virginia 22 May

  “Did you talk to Lambert?”

  Matt Rubart stood at the door, watching through the small square window as the little girl played with one of the agency’s psychologists. “Hasn’t returned my calls.”

  Hartwicke frowned. “It’s been almost a week.”

  Matt nodded, admiring the resilient child with a beautiful smile. “Look at her. She’s oblivious to what’s happening.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  Unfazed by Hartwicke’s antagonism, Matt answered. “Her world has been torn apart and turned upside down, her grandmother is dying two doors down, she’s about to become a ward of the state, has no family or siblings …” Matt let out a deep sigh. “If we can’t get this done—”

  “No.” She shoved a finger in his face. “You’re the one always telling me not to go there. We focus. Get the truth. Flip the case.”

  “Truth?” He pried himself off the doorjamb. “Carrie, the woman is dying! She’s so sick she can’t give us any more. Our chances of clearing—”

  “Shut up.”

  “No, I’m not going to—”

  She whacked his gut. “Shut. Up.” The bit-out words surprised him, then she nodded over his shoulder. “Hi, Willow.”

  Dichotomous feelings erupted in Matt as he turned: Dread that his case could be exposed. Thrill that the most beautiful and intelligent woman he’d ever met stood just outside the elevator doors. He harnessed his wayward thoughts. “What’re you doing here?”

  Willow Metcalfe sauntered down the hall, suspicion dancing over her stunning features. “Hello to you, too.” She shot an appraising look to Hartwicke. “Carrie.”

  Hartwicke pinned Matt with a glare. “Ten minutes.”

  He shifted nervously, praying Willow hadn’t heard him and that the psychologist wouldn’t come out anytime soon. The last thing they needed was for Willow to see the little girl. It was a long shot, but he had to find out if she’d overheard them. “I thought we were meeting for dinner.”

  Willow’s pink lips wavered into a smile. “Uh-huh.”

  “What?”

  Her gaze darted around as the smile fell.

  Bent, he looked into her eyes. “Willow, what’s wrong?”

 
She huffed. “Our date was last week.” Hurt played a mean serenade in her blue eyes. “I haven’t heard from you in ten days,” she whispered.

  “That’s not true.” His pulsed skidded around her pained words. “I called you—”

  Lips tight, she stuffed something between them. A baggie.

  Only then did he see the toothbrush wrapped within. “You brought it.” Relief rushed through him. “Great. Thanks.”

  She hid the windows to her soul as he tried to take the toothbrush. But she wouldn’t release the baggie. Slowly, her eyes came to his. “What have you found?”

  Defeat hung a choke collar around his progress. “You know I can’t discuss my cases.”

  More hurt. No, worse—disappointment. “It’s about my brother and you can’t tell me?”

  “I can’t even tell your brother.”

  Something flickered through her irises. “Then, no toothbrush.”

  “Willow, please—don’t. I can get it with a subpoena.” Fail. What’d he’d meant as a joke flatlined as soon as it left the tip of his tongue.

  Her eyes widened. She stuffed the brush at him, spun around, and stalked off.

  Way to wreck it, Rubart! “Willow, I was teasing.”

  The clicking of her heels quickened over the slick floors. Matt had to jog to catch up with her. “Willow.” Gently, he caught her arm and pulled her around.

  Tears streaked down her face.

  Surprise forced him to retreat a step. Then regret had him taking her into his arms. “I’m sorry. It was a joke—a bad one.” Hand cupping her face, he thumbed away the tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Well, you’ve done a brilliant job.”

  Schink. Click. Thud.

  They both glanced to the side as Dr. Calla and Tala emerged. He must’ve tensed or something because Willow noticed. Her gaze bounced to his. She went rigid. Her eyes wide. He heard the quick intake of breath as her mouth dropped open. Her gaze went to the toothbrush.

  In the seconds it took for her to blink and look back to the girl, a woman and a man with a shoulder-mounted camera stepped out of the fire escape well. Reporters. Unbelievable! How did they know?

  “Hey!” He pointed to them. “Out!”