“See? I told you, she’s a crazy bitch,” Tomaselli appealed to the crowd. “She never got past my tossing her out for someone prettier and better in bed. She wants revenge, that’s all.”
“I do, but not for dumping your sorry ass. I want revenge for my brother who you sent to his death. I want revenge for my family, for my sister who never did a bad thing to anybody, for the boy who was shot and the little girl who had a gun held to her head, for the good man who fought to defend them. I want to sleep at night knowing I only have to fear the crows in the sky and not the snakes like you crawling through the streets. You’re a dead man, Anthony Tomaselli.”
She raised the weapon, priming it until the button glowed bright blue in the dim light of the bar. A gentle hand closed over hers.
“No, Mirasha, you cannot kill him.”
Mira never took her eyes off Tomaselli. “Give me one good reason why not.”
“Because killing him would be wrong.”
“This from a man who does it for a living.” Mira snapped her head back a fraction of an inch instead of rolling her eyes. She needed her eyes focused on her target.
“That is war.”
“So is this. We just don’t dress it up in fancy uniforms. Unless they’re stolen,” she added for Anthony’s benefit.
“Mira, trust me in this. I cannot let you shoot this man. There are reasons.”
“The biggest one being you got no proof,” Tomaselli argued. His eyes moved from Roark to the crowd searching for an ally. “It’s all lies. I told you. She’s a fucked up, crazy bitch.”
Roark frowned at the interruption. His face became hard, his voice sharp as a razor. “Call her that again and I’ll kill you myself,” he said and there was no doubting the promise in his words. When the blood drained from the man’s face, Roark turned back to Mira with a meaningful glance. “We need him.”
Mira nodded because, damn it, Roark was right. Tomaselli had information they needed. Her revenge would have to wait. She locked her jaw, removed her finger from the black button and handed the weapon to Roark.
“You see? A sensible woman,” Roark said to Tomaselli. “We need you to answer our questions. If you answer them to my satisfaction, you’ll be rewarded in a manner commensurate with that which you deserve.” He waved two unhelmeted soldiers forward to take Anthony Tomaselli into custody. “For your own protection,” the First Commander assured him. “I’m sure we can come to a mutually satisfying agreement.
“Now you’re talking,” Anthony said with a sneer for Mira.
Burner relit beneath her simmering anger, Mira was about to tell Roark and Anthony where they both could shove those rewards. She was stopped by Roark’s firm hand on her shoulder. He bent his head to bring his mouth close to her ear.
“We will discuss this privately,” he whispered tightly. It was then she realized he was angry with her, too. “Trust me and behave yourself.”
“Go to hell,” she whispered back.
After giving her shoulder another sharp squeeze, Roark then turned to the crowd. “I am Roark, First Commander of Sector Three, North American Continent, Earth; Free Son of Tadin, Master of the Honorable House of Kronak of the Godan Nation, People of Mishra, and Founding Planet of the Galactic Confederation. Until a local judicial system can be re-established, my word is law.
“This establishment is closed until my men have scoured it for any evidence that might prove this man’s guilt or innocence. Our mission is to protect you and your land, not to frighten you,” he added, “Henceforth all Godan warriors will march without helmets while on these streets. Any and all violations should be reported and will be dealt with immediately.” He raised his head to listen. “The warning sirens are still sounding. You should return to your homes and safety while my silver eagles do their job.”
When they left The Buzz surrounded by a contingent of warriors who, as promised, weren’t wearing helmets, the street was packed.
In spite of Roark’s suggestion to seek safety, the crowd grew. The obvious reason was the Godan warriors. There were more than anyone had seen in the streets before and none of them wore helmets. Helmetheads now had faces and people wanted to see what they looked like. By the hoots and hollers of some of the women in the crowd, they were pleased by what they saw.
Some even called out to Mira, congratulating her on the fine specimen she’d managed to land. Mrs. Pulaski’s voice rang out the loudest.
“I told you that dress would bring any man to his knees!”
Others shouted jeers and catcalls, not toward the soldiers, but toward Anthony restrained in handcuffs and led down the middle of the street. Most people did business with him because they felt they had no choice. It didn’t mean they liked him.
Mira started to smile and then remembered why she was there. It was like a physical blow. She was smiling and David was dead. Without the support of her anger, there was nothing to hold her up. Her legs went out from under her as she collapsed onto her knees. Her head bent and a howl of pain erupted from the depths of her soul.
It was Roark who picked her up from the street. It was Roark who carried her in his arms while she sobbed her heart out against his chest. It was Roark who held her in his arms as they were driven back to the base assuring her that everything would be all right. Wynne and the children were being brought there, too, and David was alive. He must have said it a dozen times before the message sank in.
David was alive.
Chapter 22
Mira tried to cover her snort with her hand. “You have a bow on your, um...” She waggled her finger to indicate the short protuberances extending from the old man’s head. “Uh, horn.”
Mohawk lifted his bandaged arm to touch the bit of pink ribbon. Mira thought he’d rip it away, but he patted it and smiled.
“The little stinker must have done it while I was asleep.”
“Which little stinker was that?” Mira was already composing a lecture she would give them about respect for the old man’s dignity.
“Bitsy. Your sister brought her to see me this morning. Poor little thing was worried. She thought it was the tea party that caused all the trouble.”
“Tea party?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’s what she called it. She had cups of this sweet, blue water, and little brown cakes about this big.” He made a circle of his finger and thumb. “The tea wasn’t bad. Cakes weren’t too good, but she’ll learn.”
“You didn’t eat them, did you?”
Bitsy was always holding tea parties where she’d serve colored water or a sweet drink mix if they had it, and mud cakes that she patted together from the small patch of dirt behind the building.
“Of course I did. I got manners. Didn’t want to offend the cook.” He mistook Mira’s laughter for surprise. “I wasn’t born in a cave, you know. I told her when I get out of here I’d show her how to make little Bomani cakes like my mother used to bake. Lovely woman, my mother. She’d have eaten that little Bitsy up.”
Mira hoped he didn’t mean that literally.
“So, how did the tea party cause trouble?”
The poor man purpled with embarrassment. “I was on the floor. My legs were crossed and I was balancing a little tray on top of my knees when those thugs attacked. That’s what Royal called them. Thugs. I was too slow getting up. My new leg got in the way. I should’ve known better.”
“Mohawk, it wasn’t your fault. There were eight of them. You took out four. If you hadn’t been there, Harm and I would have arrived too late and Roark would’ve come crashing through that window for nothing.”
The old warrior wasn’t appeased. He groaned as he struggled to sit up. To help, Mira hit the button to raise the head of the bed and readjusted his pillows.
“I’m too old for this shit.”
Trying to lighten his mood, Mira laughed. “Hey, we have that saying, too.”
“I know,” he said, frowning. “I learned it from Royal when Bitsy invited him to her tea party. Somebody should tea
ch that boy to clean up his fucking mouth.” He glared disapprovingly at Mira.
Mira’s whole image of Mohawk was falling apart. He had manners. He liked small children. He liked to bake. He had a lovely mother, for heaven’s sake, and he thought young boys should have clean mouths. He was wearing a pink bow.
She suddenly felt weepy with relief that the five gunshots hadn’t taken him from her or her kids. She had an unaccustomed urge to hug the man, so she did.
“Hey. Hey!” he blustered. “What in a bucket of horse piss has gotten into you? Get off me.”
This was the Sergeant Mohawk she knew.
“It’s a way of saying I love you, Mohawk.”
“You’d better not let Roark see you saying it that way.”
“Oh, him.” Mira dismissed the First Commander with a wave her hand. “I’m not talking to him.”
“So that’s why he’s smiling.” Mohawk shrugged at her sour look. “What? You’re a pain in the ass. I should know.”
“I thought you were on my side. Team Mira, remember?”
Mohawk repeated her hand gesture. “That was before you cost me a fucking pay packet. I thought once he bedded your ass, you’d stay that way. You didn’t. You came back to work.”
“You know you would have missed me. Besides, someone has to hold down the fort while you lay around the hospital trying to cop a feel from the new nurses.” Mira moved her hand like she was squeezing a ball. “Oh, yes, I have my sources and they tell me you’d better watch out. That Nurse Bedowski could be a handful.”
“She is.” Mohawk gave her one of his evil grins and made the same gesture with his hand. “A meaty little piece. I like it. We’ve got a date as soon as those meathead healers let me out of here.”
“How much does she charge?” Mira laughed.
“Not a fucking thorin.” His grin became wider. “She thinks I’m charming.”
“She’s only known you for a few days. Give her time.”
Since being allowed out into the town, Dr. Mason had located six nurses he knew who were promptly put to work in the base hospital while being trained on the new equipment for the clinic. Edna Bedowski was one of them. Mason’s description was unkind, but apt.
“The woman works like a plow horse, with a face and body to match.”
“I’m going to give her a lot more than time,” Mohawk replied with a waggle of the half-moon ridges of cartilage that served as eyebrows for his beady little eyes. “I need a copy of that list Roark used on you and then...” He pumped the arm that wasn’t bandaged.
He looked like he wanted to say more, so Mira changed the subject. Mohawk during sex was a scene she never wanted to picture. Once drawn, it could never be erased from her mind.
“David seems better today,” she said. “They brought him out of semi-stasis this morning. He’s still sleeping, but Ahnyis said that’s normal after all his body’s gone through. He squeezed my hand when I held it and Wynne says he did the same for her.”
Ahnyis’s call for medical assistance had gone unanswered. It was Roark who heard her yelling for help when he came looking for Mira. Thanks to Ahnyis’s emergency care and the skill of her brother who oversaw his surgery, her brother survived. In fairness, she ought to thank Roark as well. He’d carried David in his arms to the skitt and ferried both David and Ahnyis to the hospital. It was the only reason he hadn’t caught up with Harm and her on the road to town and the only reason her brother had survived, but Mira didn’t know that then.
The other guard was not so lucky. He’d died before emergency help could arrive. There were, therefore, no witnesses who might have recognized the attackers and they were no closer to finding the children than they were before. And that was Roark’s fault. He was pampering that slimy bastard. Granted, Anthony was being held in a cell that Mason swore was no guest suite, but the slimy bastard still had all his teeth. She wanted the First Commander to knock a few out while Tomaselli was strung up by his thumbs and flayed alive. But no, Roark didn’t believe in torture. Only loyalty to the man prevented her from spilling that to Mohawk who, she figured, would do it in a heartbeat.
“So what’s put a horn up your ass with Roark or was it his horn and you didn’t like it?” Mohawk asked.
“You’re disgusting,” she said, but she laughed. She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the patient. “He says trust me, trust me, trust me, and I do, but he doesn’t return it. He won’t share,” she complained.
“He has your family living in his house. He has you sleeping in his bed. He leaves a smile on your face when you get out of that bed. What more do you want him to share?”
“I don’t know.”
But she did know, and loyalty prevented her from spilling that, too. She wanted him to share what put the lines of worry around his eyes and the hard and angry expression on his face when he thought she wasn’t looking. She wanted him to share the reason for the tenseness in his shoulders and body each time Harm called through the comlink.
She wanted him to share the nightmares that began the night of the attack on David and her family. When the dreams came, he would shout curses and thrash his arms and legs. The dragon at his ear would glow so brightly, it would light up the room, and only then would the dream end. But the effects of it didn’t.
He would finally hear her calling to him, begging him to wake, and he would roll onto her.
“You’re here. You’re here,” he would whisper, as if amazed at her existence. He was only half awake and still under the influence of the dream. He would hold her, and kiss her, and drive himself into her with a pounding force as if he were reaching for something beyond orgasmic release. His lovemaking was frightening in its intensity and desperation.
She couldn’t tell that to anyone; not her sister, not Ahnyis, and certainly not Sergeant Mohawk. It would be a betrayal of trust.
“Him,” she admitted, “All of him. He says I hold his heart, but if I do, I don’t hold what’s in it.”
“That’s a pile of behemoth shit and you know it. The First can’t think straight for worrying about you. You were the first one he looked for when he took that bastard down.”
Was that what the nightmares were about? Had he heard the shots and envisioned the worst had happened to her? He’d admitted as much before. Why not this time?
“How’s his arm?”
“His arm? Oh!” she cried, remembering, and ashamed that she’d forgotten. “He said it was nothing, more blood than damage.”
“Yeah, like the Fires of Underworld are more smoke than flame. That warrior took two good ones and didn’t blink.” He laughed when he saw her confusion. “I was down, but I didn’t go out until I was sure the thugs were out, too.”
Mira didn’t correct the misunderstanding.
She’d entered the bathroom while Roark was tending the wounds. She was sure she’d seen two wounds, a gash at his shoulder and a small, blackened hole above the bulge of his bicep. He’d immediately covered them with the wet cloth and when she’d tried to help, he’d snapped at her.
“Leave it alone, damn it. I don’t need a nursemaid. Haven’t you caused enough mischief for one day?”
He was still angry that she hadn’t waited for him. She was still angry that he couldn’t see what might have happened if she and Harm hadn’t arrived when they did.
He’d gone off to find Vochem. Wynne arrived with the kids in tow and hours flew by before they were settled in the rooms of the left wing of Roark’s house.
When he came home in the early hours of the morning, there was a faint scar on his shoulder and no sign of the second wound. Mira thought she’d imagined it, but if she had, Mohawk imagined it, too.
Maybe she was asking for more than he was ready or able to give. Roark was the First Commander. She understood there were things he couldn’t share. As for the rest, he’d lived alone for a long time. Maybe he’d forgotten what it was like to share his life or maybe, he’d never learned how. It wasn’t fair that he should shoulder her
cares, but not share the weight of his own.
Chapter 23
Roark entered the house, tired, blood spattered, and defeated. He’d spent his day on the front lines fighting alongside his troops in yet another losing battle against an enemy that shouldn’t be winning, but nonetheless was. He was greeted by five children standing in a row with anxious looks on their faces. Mira stood at one end of the row, hand on cocked hip. Her sister stood at the other end, hands folded in front of her.
He nodded in acknowledgement, unsure what they were waiting for. He sniffed and a pleasant odor of something cooking tickled his nose.
“Well?” Mira asked expectantly. Her eyes travelled around the room.
“You cooked,” he said and knew by the look on her face that his answer was wrong. “Wynne cooked,” he tried again.
Mira rolled her eyes heavenward before they moved from side to side landing on furniture that wasn’t there before.
It was the furniture from their apartment plus a huge carved table and chairs where the small table for two once stood. That table was now in the living area where his desk should have been.
Roark frowned. “How did it get here? You weren’t to leave the base. And where is my desk?”
That earned him another eye roll. “Don’t worry, we were under armed guard the whole time,” she informed him sarcastically. “Legion Officer Petrark offered us the use of his men. The ones still on recovery leave,” she added quickly. “Your desk is in the room next to your bedroom, your new office.”
Roark (Women Of Earth Book 1) Page 21