Take Cover

by Marliss Melton

“How’s the gazpacho?”

  Mitch’s question, paired with his searching blue gaze, let Katrina know she wasn’t doing so great a job of concealing her anxiety. They sat at an outdoor café she had visited many times before, La Granja, sheltered from the glare of the setting sun by a green awning. Mitch had ordered several different tapas, or light plates for them to share, including jamón serrano and tortilla Española. She herself had scarcely touched her chilled gazpacho, preferring to sip the sangria she’d ordered in the hopes that it would settle her nerves.

  “It’s good,” she assured him, regretting their circumstances. If not for the weight of the world on her shoulders, she could well be enjoying the best date of her life. The insightful, intelligent, and noble man sitting across from her would have absolutely won her over, romantic that she was.

  She had asked him about his occupation and discovered he and his friends were in the U.S. Navy, stationed on the east coast of the United States, in Virginia Beach. He’d been born in Connecticut, and he’d studied both American and Spanish Literature in college. As a junior officer, he outranked both Austin and Chuck, who were enlisted, yet he spoke of them as his equals. When she excused herself to use the restroom, he stood and pulled her chair back. And when she returned, he stood up again, flattering her with his respect.

  As special as he made her feel, dread knotted her intestines, stealing her appetite. Sneaking peeks at her cell phone, she measured the time left before everything she’d ever known disintegrated.

  As if it weren’t distressing enough to think of her city ravaged, the innocent people about to be killed, Katrina’s family would never be the same. Martí would never get away with what he and his comrades had plotted. Jordi, who’d known of the plan for a while and done nothing, would be dragged down with his brother. Katrina’s conscience demanded she do something—fast, before it was too late. Yet fear and denial kept her in a state of paralysis.

  What if talk of a bomb was merely that—talk? After all, Martí’s friends had accomplished so little with their lives, was it even possible for them to coordinate properly and see their plans through without getting caught?

  Aware that she ought to be conversing more, Katrina let Mitch fill the deepening silence. He did so by relaying the story of what happened to a teammate while on a cruise to Mexico. Under ordinary circumstances, the harrowing story would have enthralled her. That evening she could scarcely pay attention.

  “Katrina?”

  Jerking her gaze to his, she realized he had noticed her wandering thoughts.

  “If you don’t want to be with me, it’s okay. I can take you home. No hard feelings.”

  His gentle assurance prompted a rush of guilt.

  “No.” She reached for his hand, scooting to the edge of her chair and causing their knees to bump. “It’s not you,” she assured him. In fact, the small part of her that was not preoccupied by her brothers’ plot couldn’t help but appreciate the warm density of Mitch’s leg and the strength in the hand beneath hers. A sprinkling of hair rasped her palm as she slid her fingers up to his wrist and higher.

  At the physical connection, the fear that had constrained her up until then yielded to reason. She couldn’t turn a blind eye to what she knew was coming. Meeting Mitch’s puzzled gaze, she asked in a voice raw with fear, “What would you do if you knew something bad was going to happen and innocent people were about to get hurt, maybe even die?”

  In his pupils, she could see the reflection of her pale face as he searched her expression.

  “That’s not a hypothetical question, is it?” His deep voice held an edge to it.

  “What would you do?” she pressed, needing his support to do what was necessary.

  “I would try to stop it.”

  There it was. Fear and relief plunged simultaneously into her midsection, followed by a desperate sense of urgency.

  “What if that meant betraying people close to you?”

  Empathy softened his features. He covered her hand with his free one.

  “You have to do what’s right,” he told her steadily. “What’s this about?” His tone left no room for her to lie to him, not that she felt the need to. With Mitch’s help, she could make a difference.

  With her heart galloping, she leaned across the table and whispered in his ear. “In fifteen minutes, a bomb is going to go off at the market, La Boquería, as a protest to Spanish oppression.”

  As he eyed her in astonishment, Katrina fall back into her seat, afraid he would look at her with condemnation. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone—clearly an automatic response—then realized it was useless to him.

  “Here, use mine,” she offered, finding it already in her other hand.

  “Thanks.” While tapping out a number, he managed at the same time to hail their waiter. “Haiku, where are you?” he demanded, taking the bill before Katrina could snag it.

  His self-possession, his measured actions kept her panic from spiking.

  “Are you near La Boquería, the big market we walked through twice already?”

  She listened to him give directions to his colleague, lapsing into military jargon that made her suspect he’d had a great deal of experience in the field—not only on a boat. Interpreting his directions to Haiku, she deduced that his friend would find the nearest civil guard and convey the potential for an imminent explosion.

  “I’ll find you.” Severing the call, Mitch handed Katrina back her phone. “Let’s go,” he said, leaving enough money to cover the tab. “What’s the fastest way to the market?” he added, as he pulled her to her feet.

  “This way.” A glance at her phone had her breaking into a run. “It’s seven minutes to six!”

  The toe of her sandal caught on the lip of the curb. Mitch kept her from pitching face-first onto the sidewalk. In her urgency, she kicked off her sandals and left them right there on the street.

  What if they were too late? What if the Guardia Civil didn’t believe Haiku, or the market wasn’t evacuated in time? La Boqueria was immense, the size of a soccer field. How long would it take to empty it of people? What if the bomb was still so powerful that even people on the street were devastated by its blast?

  A minute later, they burst out of an alley onto Las Ramblas. To Katrina’s amazement, the tree-shaded avenue appeared no different than it always did around six o’clock on a Sunday evening. Dozens of people, mostly tourists, populated the broad street enjoying the many restaurants and shops, kiosks and cafés. Not one of them had a clue what was about to unfold.

  “There’s Chuck.” Mitch had spotted his colleague next to one of the immense poplar trees deep in conversation with a benemérita. Austin stood nearby. He waved Mitch over.

  Mitch put both hands on Katrina’s shoulders and spun her in the direction from which they’d come. “Go back to the hotel,” he told her. Before she could say a word of protest, he was darting across the avenue, dodging pedestrians and kiosks to join his friends.

  The realization that she’d put her three guests squarely in harm’s way kept Katrina from complying with Mitch’s request. She watched as he joined Chuck in addressing the civil guard. Talking earnestly, he showed the man his ID and passport.

  A cold sweat breached the pores of her skin. There had to be something she could do. She could call Martí and beg him not to detonate the bomb.

  With a sense of unreality, she dialed Martí’s number only to listen to his voiced recording. Doubting he would hear her message in time, she left one anyway. “Martí, please don’t do this. There are too many people. It’s nothing but murder.”

  As she ended the call, she noted the time. Two minutes to six. How could the entire market be evacuated in just two minutes? Perhaps, by some miracle, Martí had already come to his senses and abandoned his plan.

  A sudden stir took place at La Boquería’s wide entrance. The guard with whom Mitch had been talking barked into his radio. With broad gestures, he ordered several of his underlings to follow him into the dim i
nterior, presumably to evacuate the place.

  With her heart in her throat, Katrina saw Mitch, Chuck, and Austin share a look amongst themselves. In one accord, they turned and followed the guards inside.

  The blood drained from Katrina’s head as she watched them disappear. “No!”

  A sudden siren split the air, startling her into nearly wetting herself. Tourists and merchants alike began pouring out of the market. Looking anxious and confused, they called out frantically for their loved ones. A palpable wave of alarm rolled toward Katrina, even while her eyes remained fixed on the entrance for any sign of Mitch and his companions.

  My God, how could she ever forgive herself if they got hurt?

  Suddenly, with enough force to shake the cement beneath her feet, the very air seemed to splinter. The force of the blast knocked Katrina to her knees. Having expected it, she scrambled up again, wobbly on her feet, to stare at the smoke billowing out of the market doors.

  “Mitch!” Without making any conscious decision to go after him, she found herself stepping over people. Through the muted buzzing in her ears, she could hear women and children wailing, car alarms blaring. Everywhere she looked there was debris and chaos but very little blood.

  The blood would have been spilled inside the building where Mitch and his friends had gone in order to pull innocent people to safety.

  Oh, God, please. Please, I will never ask for anything ever again. Just let them be okay.

  Chapter Seven

  “Go.”

  Lifting himself off the old man he’d just covered when the bomb abruptly detonated, Mitch shook off the effects of the percussion and pulled the aged merchant upright. He then dragged the man through blinding smoke toward what he hoped was the exit. Passing him off to waiting hands, Mitch headed back into the blast zone, hunting for other survivors. Dread of a second explosion turned his mouth to dust.

  Kicking plywood and plastic out of his path, he hunted for telltale traces of gore.

  Thanks to the siren that had gone off seconds before and the wariness of the European population in general, the market had been mostly empty when the bomb detonated. Only a few stubborn merchants, like the old fish monger, hadn’t wanted to leave their goods to potential looting and had stayed put.

  Picking his way through the debris, while the lights flickered overhead from a compromised circuit—Mitch could hear Chuck, Austin, and the civil guards calling out like he was, creating a volley of Spanish and English.

  “Is anybody here?”

  “¿Hay alguien aquí?”

  He flipped tables upright, peered over fallen display cases, and crunched through shattered glass. A hole in the corrugated metal ceiling showed where the bomb had been planted. Directly below it, the unsightly splatter of vegetables, fruits, olives, fish, and squid covered every conceivable surface.

  Stepping through what smelled like pulverized cheese, he came abruptly across a body—or what was left of one.

  “Over here,” Mitch called to the nearest civil guard, who reared in alarm at the sight of him, grappling for his pistol and drawing it.

  “Tranquilo, tranquilo!” Hands in the air, Mitch attempted to explain that he and his friends were helping.

  The guard ignored him, summoning several others who grabbed hold of him and escorted him to the exit. Chuck and Austin had been likewise rounded up. The three of them were thrust into a corner to await questioning. Twenty minutes later, an officer in a red beret—beak-nosed and keen-eyed, ordered them with a crook of his finger to follow him back onto the street.

  Once in the fresh air, Mitch directed his watering eyes to the place where he’d left Katrina. A perimeter was being erected to keep civilians at a safe distance. Several injured souls, some more seriously wounded than others, were being ushered to the line of ambulances pulling up on the next block over, their sirens blaring. The population had diminished substantially, suggesting people had fled the scene in dread of a second blast. He was glad not to catch sight of Katrina.

  Suddenly, there she was, peeking at him from the other side of a saw-horse. As their gazes met, she sent him a tremulous smile, only to stiffen when a man caught her from behind and jerked her around. Mitch recognized her brother Jordi from the restaurant. Speaking to her briefly, Jordi thrust Katrina in the direction of the hotel. As she glanced back at Mitch, Jordi followed her gaze to intercept Mitch’s watchful regard.

  Recognition registered on Jordi’s face. He had scarcely noticed Mitch at the restaurant the night before, but just now he seemed to recognize him.

  An uncomfortable thought lodged in Mitch’s mind. What if Katrina’s other brother suspected her interference? Would he retaliate?

  “Mitch.” It was Austin, shaking him by the shoulder to get his attention.

  The man in the red beret was waiting with an impatient scowl for them to keep up.

  Starting forward again, Mitch heaved an inward groan. The Guardia Civil would want to know how he’d heard about the blast in the first place and why he’d waited so long to sound the warning. They would launch a full-scale investigation. The press might even get involved.

  Commander Montgomery was going to shit bricks when the news out of Barcelona came to his attention.

  Pushing her way into the hotel, Katrina found the marble-tiled foyer like the streets outside—strangely deserted on a Friday evening. Since the explosion, citizens and tourists alike had retreated into their homes and hotels for safety.

  “Pare!” she called, spying her father’s salt and pepper curls behind the check-in desk. She hurried toward him, intending to discuss the fate of her foolish brothers and how Martí’s actions would impact them all.

  To her bemusement, she found her father slumped in his chair, head and shoulders resting on the counter, fast asleep.

  “Pare!” She gently shook him, astonished that anyone could be sleeping with the city in such a stir and sirens still blaring. Beneath her fingertips, his shoulder felt cool to the touch, his body strangely rigid. She snatched her fingers back, taking closer stock of his face. The bluish cast of his skin, his slack mouth and glazed, half-open eyes made her stagger backward in shock. “Pare!”

  With the breath locked in her lungs, she stared at him. Coming on the heels of the explosion, it was too much to accept. Time stood still.

  Ambulance! Call an ambulance.

  Finding her cell phone in her hand, she thumbed 112 automatically, even knowing it would make no difference. In a thin, wavering voice, she told the operator to send an ambulance to Hotel Leonardo. Her father had suffered a stroke or a heart attack.

  The operator hesitated. “I’m so sorry, señorita. Our emergency services are overextended at the moment. It will take some time for an ambulance to reach you. I can assist you in tending to the patient. Is your father breathing on his own?”

  Katrina braced herself to look down at her father’s still form. “No.”

  “Is his heart beating? Can you feel a pulse?”

  With her stomach threatening to upend itself, Katrina reached over the counter to palpate her father’s neck in search of a pulse. His skin felt waxen.

  “No,” she admitted, feeling nothing but cold tissue. “He’s gone.”

  A long pause followed her whispered words. “To keep ambulances available to those who need them, may I send a medical examiner from the Instituto de Peritaje Médico?”

  “Yes.” Katrina’s knees wobbled. The floor turned liquid beneath her feet, and she pivoted abruptly, sliding down the face of the counter to sit on the cold marble floor.

  “You understand that the coroner is equally busy at the moment. Someone will come within the hour.”

  “I understand.”

  A steady tone had been coming from her phone for some time before Katrina put it away. A couple of hotel guests wandered in, their gazes sliding from her to the slumped body of her father. Not one of them hurried over to inquire what had happened. The evening’s violence had apparently been too much for them, as well. />
  Mitchell would help her if he were here, came the errant thought. But he and his friends remained conspicuously absent. At least they weren’t hurt in the blast, she comforted herself.

  The hotel’s front door opened again. Looking up, Katrina watched Jordi step inside. His progress faltered the instant he noticed her.

  “What are you doing on the floor? Are you hurt?”

  He started toward her only to catch sight of their father and stop again. “What’s wrong with Pare?”

  “He’s dead.” Katrina forced herself to say the words aloud. Tipping her head back, she glared at him accusingly. “I found him like this when I got here.”

  He swayed on his feet, visibly shocked. “No.”

  “The coroner is coming,” Katrina added. With a portion of her own shock retreating, she found the wherewithal to climb to her feet. “Then again, it could be a while since the coroner is busy with the bodies of those killed in the blast today.”

  He cringed at her accusatory tone. His eyes darkened with both fear and resentment.

  “That man at the market, the one who helped the Guardia Civil,” he said, “I saw him last night at the restaurant. You told him, didn’t you? You told him, and then he and his friends helped to clear the market before the bomb went off.” His eyebrows came together, and he took a threatening step in her direction.

  “No.” She tried to deny it, but fear made her voice shake.

  “Oh, Jesus.” He wheeled away, clapping a hand to his eyes and muttering to himself. When he looked at her again, the skin on his face was blotchy. “When Martí finds out, he will kill you. And then he will kill me for telling you in the first place. Saint Jordi help us both,” he cried, calling on the patron saint for whom he’d been named and revealing his reason for not alerting authorities in the first place.

  Jordi was afraid Martí would kill him.

  “Idiot,” she raged as indignation flared in her suddenly. “What did you think would happen? Did you think he would get away with killing and maiming people, and you’d never have to tell anyone? No wonder Pare had a stroke. His sons are both idiots!”