by Linda Ladd
“Don't kill me, I follow orders, I follow orders...."
“I heard you enjoyed your work, Misha,” he said, very low. “I really dislike guys like you who get off hurting people.” Still holding him by the shirt, Booker jerked out his gun and pressed the nose of it hard into the hollow of the man's cheek.
Misha's obsidian eyes bulged, then got moist as he realized the extent of his peril. “Don't kill me, please don't kill me."
Booker ignored his tears. “It's a little different now, right, Misha? I don't see you smiling much so I guess you're not enjoying this little show. You're nothing but a stinking coward without your gun or a steel meat tenderizer, isn't that the truth, Misha?"
“I'm sorry, sorry about your friends."
“Doubt if that'll make their broken bones heal any faster, punk, but I know what would make them feel better, Misha. This is from my friends, Jumbo and Mavis. I want you to remember that. This is from them, got it?"
When Misha gave a slight nod, Booker put his shoulder against the door and shoved hard. Misha screamed as his fingers smashed flat against the jamb, one high-pitched, horrible shriek that died abruptly when Booker grabbed him up again, the gun against his temple.
“But this is from me, understand? Say hello to hell, Misha."
Misha struggled but before Booker could pull the trigger, he caught a movement out the corner of his eye. Senses screaming danger, he lunged to the side, holding Misha as a shield as he got off a couple of rounds toward the bedrooms. He got a bare glimpse of the man firing back from the hallway, heard the muffled phuts of a silenced gun and felt slugs tearing into Misha's body. Booker rolled away toward the front door, scrambling behind the couch and letting loose a barrage of shots that pierced the thin trailer wall and felled the guy coming after him. He couldn't see him but heard him go down, the loud blams echoing in the confined space. He cursed at his own stupidity, angry he'd let the third Russian sneak up on him, but well aware Dmitri would've heard the shots.
Dmitri was outside the car now, moving in, gun in hand. Booker came out firing, getting off a couple of shots at him before jumping off the steps and into the bushes behind the lattice screen. The Russian blasted back, the percussion muffled by the silencer, but his attack shattered a big section of lattice and clematis just above Booker's head, raining wood splinters and torn leaves down on him. The Russian kept shooting, bringing down more of the screen, but Dmitri was at a disadvantage out in the open with nowhere to take cover.
Booker moved, keeping low to evade Dmitri's constant gunfire, making it to the end of the trailer and flattening himself against the wall. Dmitri didn't waste any time getting back to the car. He jerked open the driver's door, a good distance away now, but Booker ran at him, firing as the Russian slammed the car into reverse and stomped the gas pedal, throwing gravel all over the place. Booker stopped, took aim at Dmitri's head behind the windshield and squeezed the trigger, then cursed as his gun clicked, the clip empty. He jerked Misha's 9mm out of his waistband and took off after the wildly careening car.
Dmitri had already made the access road, swerving out onto it in reverse, stopping with a screech of brakes, then gunning the car toward the bridge. Too far away now to stop him, Booker took off on a parallel course along the rocky beach, realizing that Dmitri's desperate escape would take him straight across the bridge where Kate and Mac were waiting. Booker sprinted harder in an attempt to cut the killer off, ignoring the people who'd come out of their campers at the sound of gunshots. They screamed and scattered as he raced among them, pistol in hand. Dmitri would be on top of Kate and Mac before they knew what hit them. They wouldn't have a chance.
Kate was terrified Booker wouldn't make it back in time. She held Joey in her arms, trying to quiet his fussing, but kept her eyes glued on the bridge behind them. Mac had parked the Mustang at the side of the road, under some shade trees about fifty yards from the bridge. She bit her lip, afraid Mac would take off before Booker got there.
“Do you think he's okay?” she asked Mac, sounding as nervous as she felt.
“Yeah, don't worry, Book can take care of himself. He'll be here in plenty of time."
“But he's taking so long."
“Well, there's probably more than one of ‘em.” Mac laughed as if he thought that was funny. Kate's eyes accused him, and he sobered at once.
“Look, Kate, Booker knows what he's doing. I've known him a long time. Seen the guy in action. I'm telling you he'll be okay."
“What do you think he's doing?"
Mac met her worried gaze. “Letting those guys know he doesn't take kindly to people messing with his friends. Book's always been that way. You know, real loyal to people he cares about."
Kate glanced at the bridge again. “Were you in the army with him? Is that how you met?"
“Yeah. Green Berets. I had enough sense to get out. Book didn't."
“Why not?"
“He thought he was fighting for America. For the land of the brave and the home of the free, all that crap. He was as idealistic as the rest of us then, more, I guess."
Kate put Joey down on the backseat where he'd be more comfortable. He quit fussing and kicked his feet, glad to be able to move around, but she was thinking about what Mac said. She had wondered about Booker's past and the suffering he still seemed to endure. Maybe this was her chance to find out more about him. She wanted to know him better, understand him.
“He has terrible nightmares,” she told Mac. “Really bad ones. I was there once and saw how it got to him. I assumed it had something to do with the army."
“Yeah, well, he's not the only one who can't put that shit behind him."
“It must've been something really horrible."
Mac was sitting sideways in the driver's seat, his back to the door while he watched out the rear window for Booker. He nodded and she thought he wasn't going to say more. Then he focused his attention on her face. “Book had it worse than most. I don't suppose he's told you anything about it?"
Kate shook her head. “He told me he was wanted for shooting an officer. He said he served time for it.” She hesitated, wondering if Mac knew Booker was still wanted.
“I know about him escaping from Leavenworth, if that's what you're thinking,” Mac said.
“Why'd he feel he had to escape?"
“He got twenty-five years for attempted murder, served seven in minimum confinement and then went up for parole. They denied it to him when Denton, the guy he shot, came to the hearing and argued against him. Book climbed the fence the next day. I guess he felt like he'd spent enough time caged up in Nicaragua."
“He was in jail in Nicaragua?"
Mac darted a quick look at her. “Guess he wouldn't tell you about that either."
“About what? Please tell me, Mac. I think I should know. He's done so much for us that I'd like to help him, if I can. I can't understand why he's put his life on the line for me and Joey."
“He must've had a reason.” Mac hesitated as if uncertain if he should continue. Kate was glad he did. “He was captured by the Sandinistas, held in one of their hellhole camps a long time before he escaped. God only knows how he managed it."
“Oh, my God, I had no idea.” She tried to absorb that knowledge, felt her stomach turn over. She'd heard about cruelties in South American prison camps, read about atrocities committed by guerrilla fighters. “How long was he there?"
“A little over a year. Had a real rough time. The bastards."
Kate felt sick but she had a feeling she knew what Mac was talking about. He was talking about torture. Again, she felt she had to ask. “I noticed that Booker has a thing about bells, you know, buzzers, stuff like that. Is that why? Does it remind him of what they did to him down there?” Her breath caught and she was almost afraid to hear Mac's answer.
“He wouldn't like me telling you this stuff. He doesn't talk about it, not to anybody. I only know because it came out during his court-martial. All the ugly details how he and his men were tort
ured and starved. It's ugly, Kate, real ugly. The Sandinistas ended up killing every one of them except Book. The whole squad died under torture. It was a damn miracle Book survived all the shit they did to him."
Kate swallowed hard, gruesome mental images welling up inside her head, pictures she didn't want to think about. “Do you know what they did to him?"
“I wish I didn't. They liked to use electricity on the Americans, you know how it works, don't you? They put live wires on him, different parts of his body. That's where he got the aversion to bells. They played games with our guys, mind games. At the court-martial Book said there were some Russian advisors at the camp, you know, assigned to train and arm the Nicaraguans. The Russians were the ones who started the Pavlov shit, you know about his theory of conditioned response, don't you? He's the guy who rang a bell every time he fed his dogs, or something like that, and they began to lick their chops and salivate when they heard the bell ring. Well, the bastards always rang it right before they hit the switch and jolted him.” He looked down, shook his head, blew out his breath. “That wasn't even the worst part.” He locked eyes with Kate and she could read the horror in them. “Sometimes they'd put Booker and one of his men face to face, tied down in chairs. They'd let them ring the bells themselves to stop the current but the only thing was, when they rang the bell to stop the pain, it got sent to the friend in the chair across from them. They had to sit there and watch them take it until they reached for the bell and sent it back."
“Oh, dear God.” Kate shut her eyes, felt emotions flood into her throat. It was so horrible, so cruel. She couldn't bear to think of Booker enduring that kind of hell.
“What's really bad is that none of it had to happen. You see, Book and his men had been working with the Contras. The U.S. was backing them then. They were out on a night reconnaissance mission. Book was one of the best. He speaks eight languages, you know that? He's an army brat, and his dad dragged him all over the world when he was a kid. That's how he learned a bunch of them. He was born down around where you're from, Poplar Bluff, or somewhere."
Kate shook her head, trying to absorb it all.
“Anyway, they went out on a Black Ops mission. Their commanding officer, a major named Denton, just pulled out lock, stock and barrel and left them behind in the jungle to fend for themselves. He was a real bastard. That's why Booker went after him. I've always said if Book really wanted him dead, the guy'd be dead. Book doesn't make mistakes like that. He's too good, and he can shoot the eye out of a gnat. He's that good a marksman, he really is."
“How did he get home if they pulled out and left him there?"
“He found his way to the San Juan River and crossed it into Costa Rica. Some of the Contra supporters there helped him get back to the States. That's when he made his way back to LA, then tracked down Denton and put a bullet in him."
Kate stared at him, shocked, but a lot of things made sense now, especially Booker's self-imposed exile. Trusting people wouldn't come easily to him. She'd seen that herself. But God knew he had reason to be distrustful.
“I wish he'd hurry up. It's almost half an hour now.” She turned and gazed worriedly at the bridge. Fear was rising inside her, stronger and stronger, and deep down in her heart, she knew why. Booker had become important to her. She couldn't bear to think of anything else happening to him. She cared for him, more than she should, more than she ever could have imagined. It hit her hard, took her breath, the knowledge that she already cared so much for him, a man she hardly knew. She cared about him more than anyone else in her life, except for Joey. How could that be possible?
“There he is,” Mac said to her, turning around at once and starting the motor.
Kate's heart leapt and she jerked around to look out the rear window. Booker had appeared on the bridge but he wasn't coming toward them. He was standing at the far end, his arms outstretched in front of him. Oh, God, he was shooting at somebody!
“They're after him, Mac! Hurry, hurry, go back, do something!"
Mac shoved the car into gear just as a white Suburban came into view at incredible speed, swerving over toward the edge of the bridge where Booker stood. He dove to one side as the car nearly ran him down but was up on his feet almost at once, firing at the back of the car. He must've hit a tire because the rear end suddenly fishtailed, sending the Suburban into a roll off the embankment at the end of the bridge.
Mac gunned the Mustang around in a sliding turn, the traffic along the highway squealing to avoid him as the Suburban slid down the hill on its side and slammed up against a tree. Booker was at the end of the bridge now, firing down at the smoking wreckage.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Mac was saying as he hit the accelerator and brought them up alongside Booker in nothing flat. He reached over and slung open the passenger's door. “Get in, get in, before the cops get here!"
Kate held tightly to Joey, frightened eyes on Booker as he jumped in and slammed the door. Mac took off like a race car at Indy, weaving through the halted traffic as if he did it every day of the week. Booker was panting hard, had blood trickling down the side of his head, but he was there, he was all right, they hadn't got him. She was so glad he was alive that she felt the urge to reach up and hug him, but when he turned around to look behind them, she saw how tight his face was, how hard the expression in his eyes. He looked like a different person from the man who'd stood watching them leave Mac's trailer less than an hour earlier.
“What the hell happened back there?” Mac asked as they sped down the access road onto the highway that would take them to Springfield. They could already hear the high-pitched whine of sirens.
“Slow it down now, Mac,” Booker said, still watching the road behind them. “We don't want to get stopped before we get outta town."
Mac eased on the brake, slowing them a good bit. “Did you get them? How many were there?"
“They're out of commission, I figure."
“For good?"
“Yeah. Unless Dmitri crawls out of that crash."
Mac glanced sideways at Booker, then nodded. He put his eyes back on the road.
“Good deal,” he said, hooking his seatbelt for the drive to St. Louis. “Best news I've heard all day."
Booker was leaning down, putting something on the floor in front of him, guns, Kate saw, craning up to look. She wondered what happened back at Mac's trailer, knew the killers were probably dead but felt only a sense of relief. They were the animals who'd killed Michael, who wanted to kill her; they deserved whatever Booker had done to them. She was just glad Booker was back with them, alive and unhurt. She thought of the things Mac had told her and wondered how Booker had managed to get away from Dmitri's men, how he dealt with the terrible things done to him in the past. No wonder he couldn't sleep at night.
“You okay?"
Booker was turned around again, looking at her. She realized that tears shone in her eyes but she blinked them away. “I'm just glad you got back okay. I was worried."
Booker nodded. He seemed perfectly normal again, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “You can relax now. Get some sleep, if you can. It'll be awhile before we get to St. Louis."
“Are you hurt? Your head's bleeding."
“It's nothing. Just a scratch."
Kate watched him wipe blood away with the back of his hand, then turn around and slump down in his seat. He pulled his baseball cap low over his eyes and leaned his head against the seat, but she knew he wasn't going to sleep. He never seemed to sleep. Wearily she laid her head back and tried not to think about what the next few days might bring.
Thirty
ON 1-70 across from Lambert Airport they found a high-rise Marriott busy enough to ensure they wouldn't be noticed. The parking lot was packed with cars and airport shuttles arriving and departing every few minutes, while jets took off overhead in thunderous roars that shook the place. Mac went inside and paid cash for two adjoining rooms under the name Jack Smith. They needed a place to hole up for awhile, lie
low until they contacted Vince Saracino and got the ball rolling.
Booker made sure Kate was comfortable and secure in a spacious room with two queen beds—a chair pushed under the doorknob just to be cautious—before he joined Mac in the adjoining room to finalize their plans. There wasn't much to discuss once they found out the Cards would be playing a doubleheader the next afternoon and evening. That would give them plenty of time to get inside the stadium and set up the exchange with Saracino.
While Mac tracked down the street address and telephone number of his old friend, Dave Saracino, Booker took a shower and dressed in fresh khaki shorts and a blue cambric shirt they'd purchased in a Wal-Mart store just west of St. Louis. They'd gotten everything they needed, baby stuff and toiletries, and lots of shirts and caps stamped with the Redbird logo to wear to the game. They made another stop, too, at Mac's favorite gun dealer, who quietly sold them from his basement storeroom three bulletproof, Kevlar vests and enough ammunition to start a small war. Yeah, they were as ready as they could get.
Booker scrubbed down well in the shower, washing his hair, shaving and generally cleaning up, doctoring the flesh wound on his temple with a Band-Aid. He was becoming accustomed to daily showers, clean clothes, even interaction with other people. Kate had given him that by dragging him out of his self-imposed banishment. He felt better than he had in some time, almost normal, and fairly confident they were safe at the moment. At least from the Russian hit team, who wouldn't be murdering innocent victims anytime soon.
Dmitri's fate was still unknown, but the two he'd left inside Mac's trailer were either dead or soon would be. Dmitri used surprise so that his kills would go swiftly, his victims unsuspecting and easy to take down. Not anymore. At least Kate had one night when she didn't have to worry about bloodthirsty thugs bursting in her door with loaded guns. The way Booker figured it, that was the one thing he could do for her. Sure as hell wasn't much else he could do to raise her spirits.