by Brenna Lyons
Joe was riveted. Harris’s face swam before his eyes. The old man had obviously had a bad day, no doubt due to Kyla. He was covered in mud and dirt. His nose was broken, and blood ran sluggishly from a long abrasion on his left cheek.
Joe would have laughed at the sight had the image of the gun pointed at her chest not caught his attention. “No.” He tried not to send the protest along.
Harris started talking. “The game is over. I have orders, but if you fight me or run away from me one more time, I swear I’ll kill you here and now and tell them that wall caved in on you. None of them will come to check it out. Believe me, they won’t. I’m going to let go of you, and you’re going to walk out of here with me. I’m too damn tired to knock you out and carry you again. I’ll kill you first. Got it?”
The image bobbed. Kyla was nodding to him. Harris moved away, and Joe felt a sort of vertigo as Kyla got to her feet. The image of a collapsed tunnel came into focus.
Harris’s voice was mocking. “What the hell did you think you were doing? That would have been you, you know.”
Her voice was cool and calm. “I figured it was either you or the tunnel, and the tunnel would be less painful.” Kyla didn’t even flinch as she turned and met his gaze.
“Atta girl,” Joe cheered her. Then he thought better of it.
Kyla had massacred Harris’s face. What he would do to her wouldn’t be pretty, if he hadn’t already done it. Joe cringed inwardly at the thought.
Harris scowled. “Well, I’m not supposed to kill you. I’m supposed to deliver you upstairs. So don’t blow it.”
“What about the Parks? You were supposed to kill me, then. Well...sort of, anyway.”
Joe almost laughed at the look on Harris’s face. The man actually paled at the accusation against him.
“What did you say? How would you know that?” Harris asked.
“I’ve been told,” she skirted the truth. “What does it matter? What proof do I have? Anything I say will be hearsay anyway.”
Harris sighed. “Let’s just say, everyone involved had different motives then. Almost everyone.”
Joe could tell that he could say much more, but he didn’t.
Kyla nodded again. She reached down to grab a round light off the floor. Then she started walking.
Joe grimaced as she looked down at the light.
There were rope burns on her wrists and hands. Cuts and bruises peeked through the mud and slime that coated most of her body. There were bloodstains on the fabric of her torn shirt. Whatever Harris had done in retribution had not been pleasant at all.
“I love you, and I’ll be there soon,” Joe told her. “How are you? Honestly?”
“I’m sore. I’m tired. I need a hot bath, a bed, and water—and you. I love you.”
“Don’t rock the boat. Relax if you can.”
“Game’s over, right?” Kyla asked.
“Not yet,” Joe assured her.
Then she was gone.
* * *
Joe pushed himself to his feet. Eric frowned at him. Whatever happened couldn’t be good. He offered Joe a hand, but Joe waved him off.
“You okay?” Eric asked.
“I’ll be fine. Let’s move.”
Stacie fell in beside Joe. “More divine inspiration?” she asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, you looked like you were praying back there.”
Eric expected a sarcastic response from him, but instead, Joe answered her in an even tone and didn’t crack a smile. “Our stall is over. We’re running out of time.”
Eric cringed. “Kyla?”
“She’s alive for now.”
Eric snapped a look at Joe. He was pale and his mouth was set in a thin line. There was something he wasn’t telling them.
* * *
The ache seeped into all of Kyla’s muscles. It hurt to take a deep breath, but that wasn’t a new experience where Harris was concerned. When she rubbed her stomach to wipe away the sweat tickling her side, Kyla came away with a smear of blood on her hand instead. The cut she got from scraping over the rocks in the cave-in was obviously worse than she’d originally thought.
Joe had told her to relax. What Kyla wouldn’t give to relax. She stumbled over her own feet and stopped to rest her shoulder against the wall.
Harris tapped her on the shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re almost there. You can see the lights.”
Kyla nodded and plodded ahead. She hung the light back on its nail theatrically. Then, she saluted it and turned to continue on. Kyla saw an amused smile on Harris’s face as she turned away. Maybe he had a sense of humor, after all.
Two turns later, a huge kitchen opened ahead of them. Her stomach grumbled, and she hoped the kitchen had water. One cool drink of water, and she could face Harris one more time.
The dark-haired man, the one who had been guarding the intersection of the tunnels earlier, rose as they entered. He crossed the kitchen in four long strides and towered over Kyla.
She met his gaze wearily. Whatever he planned, it couldn’t be worse than anything she had encountered so far. He grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her back-first against the wall, and Kyla felt a sick sensation sinking in. She was wrong. She could feel worse.
“Damn you! What the hell were you thinking?” he raged at her.
Harris hit him in the center of his chest with an open hand. “Drop it, Blake. She’s paid her dues. We have a job to do.”
Blake dropped her, and Kyla sagged against the wall. The ache in her chest and head intensified and bloomed until she felt as if she might rattle apart at the seams. She moved unsteadily to the countertop and leaned against it.
* * *
The two men crossed the room to the triple sink against the far wall. Harris started washing his hands and face while Blake watched from a safe distance.
Harris looked like hell, and he didn’t want to be within striking distance, in case the old man remembered why he was so angry earlier. That didn’t mean Blake didn’t take a shot at the aging legend. Pride demanded as much. Harris had lost his touch, or he wouldn’t have come back looking the way he did.
“Jeez, Harris. Did the prom queen lay one on you?” he demanded.
The old man glared at him. “There was a cave in. She ran into a cave in,” Harris informed him.
“Why?”
Harris put down the washcloth and shouldered past him, ignoring the question. “Aw, shit.” He stopped short in the middle of the room.
Blake leapt to his side. “She’s not gone again, is she?”
“No. She’s out cold.” Harris paused, then turned toward the stairs. “You lost her. You carry her. I’ll meet you in the study. Then, you can bring up some food and drinks.” He didn’t wait for discussion.
Blake crossed the room and hauled the girl up onto his shoulder. He glanced at the stairs.
He hated Harris, but Blake had to admit the old man knew more tricks than he would ever learn. Blake started toward the stairs and wondered again about why he had this inescapable fear of the old coot. What was it about Harris that he feared? If he ever got the jump on the old man, Blake had no doubts he would win. That was the rub, though. He would only win if he did have the element of surprise. He knew that too. Harris was the best.
He sighed and started up to the second floor with his load. “Yeah honey, I know why you dove into that cave in,” Blake muttered.
* * *
Gram was stiff and sore. Kyla had contacted her, so she knew the younger woman was playing a rather dangerous game of hide and seek. Gram didn’t see why Kyla felt it necessary, but she had told Kyla to be herself. What had she really expected when she’d said it?
The door swung open, and Mr. Harris walked in.
Gram looked at him in wonder for a few moments before she spoke up. “Excuse me, but could you let me use the restroom?” she asked the exhausted man.
“Sure.” He started to untie her. Harris stopped and looked at her. “You’re Samantha
Allen? You’re a nurse, right?”
“Yes, I am.” Gram tried to keep a straight face. “I can see you’ve taken a few hits. Or an interesting fall, Mr. Harris.”
“Not for me, lady,” he growled at her.
A second man entered the room, carrying Kyla like a sack of grain. Gram felt her heart begin to pound, though she feigned only a slight interest.
“On the couch,” Harris ordered the younger man. Once Kyla had been deposited none too gently on the couch, he issued more commands. “Now, get some food and drinks up here for all of us. Oh, and radio Cason and Timms and get them back here.”
The other man left with nothing more than a sour look about him.
Harris finished untying the ropes around Gram’s arms and nodded toward Kyla. “It’s for her,” he said. “What do you need?”
Gram crossed to the couch and surveyed the unconscious young woman. It could have been much worse, she was sure. “Soap and water. What medical supplies do you have?”
“Not much. There’s a decent first aid kit.”
“Clean clothes?” she ventured.
Harris shook his head.
“You get the kit and some soap and water while I use the restroom.”
He looked at her, shocked, without moving a muscle.
Gram smiled warmly. “Look. Justin, is it? I am far too old to run away from you, and I love that child far too much to abandon her. I’ll be here when you get back.”
Harris returned her smile. “That’s the third time today I’ve been surprised by you women. That doesn’t happen often, you know.”
Her smile widened. “I think you should be surprised more often. It seems to sweeten your disposition immensely. This is the nicest I’ve seen you, yet.” Gram turned and walked out into the hall.
Harris called after her. “That’s four.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Eight am—nine am
Joe knelt in the treeline and surveyed the building. There were no guards in sight. Either they were really short-handed, they simply weren’t expecting company, or their men were all inside. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Wait. Get back,” Eric warned.
Joe followed his line of sight. Two men were crossing the overgrown garden. They entered the side door without even a glance at the woods.
“What now?” Eric asked.
“Low and slow to the other door. If we’re quiet enough, we may be able to get in without being seen. Stick close to the stone wall.” They would have to stick close to it. It was the only cover between them and that door, but the door across the garden was too much of a risk.
Stacie rolled her eyes. “You’re insane, aren’t you?”
Joe turned on her with a fierce look. “We’re running out of time. If I don’t take a few chances, we lose, and so do Kyla and Gram. Game over. Got it? Now are you in or out?”
Stacie nodded. “I’m in. I don’t know why. It makes no sense, but I’m in.” She ducked her head and scurried to the wall.
The crossing was uneventful. The door, of course, was locked. Joe raised an eyebrow at Eric. Eric’s grin was wide and heartfelt. There was a good reason why Eric had been in the Navy, and it wasn’t a deep desire to serve, protect, and see the world.
He had been the typical misunderstood youth. He’d picked up bad habits and learned a few disreputable tricks along the way. Eric had rough friends in his youth, but he hadn’t gotten into much trouble overall.
Then, he’d ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. The judge had given Eric a choice. He could go into the Navy, or he could go to jail. Eric knew quite a few guys in jail, and he’d had no burning desire to spend the next two to ten locked up with them.
Eric often joked that the Navy had turned him from an amateur punk into a professional one in two short years. The next six years had been a lark.
But all good things come to an end, and Eric and the Navy had reached a mutual agreement that he simply didn’t fit into the Navy framework after the whole blow-up about Joe. Eric didn’t take orders well, and he didn’t play well with others.
The lock was no problem for Eric. The door swung open after little more than a minute, and the trio started looking around. The convent building was huge, nearly three quarters of a block on each side and three stories, with at least one more below ground.
Joe tried to reach Kyla, but he found that disconcerting vacuum again. This was supposed to work better. Joe could almost hear some god laughing at him for assuming such a ridiculous thing.
Eric edged up next to him. “Search or tail someone?” he asked.
“Tail someone. There’s too much to search in time.” Joe cursed this whole thing again.
Stacie turned to face them. “Wait. I have a better idea.”
* * *
Kyla opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented.
Gram smiled down at her. “Well, hello Kyla. I don’t need to ask how you feel. I’d guess you feel like a truck hit you,” the other woman said with a hint of disapproval.
Kyla tried to sit up but quickly gave up trying. “More like a train.”
“You lie still. I want you to drink something. Maybe eat something, if you feel up to it.”
“Anyone have ibuprofen?” Kyla asked.
“How much? Eight hundred?”
Kyla nodded, knowing Gram wouldn’t give her a higher dose than that, then turned to swallow the proffered pills with a mouthful of milk. She laid back into the pillow and closed her eyes. “How long have I been out?”
“Not long. Thirty minutes that I saw. Probably, not much more overall. You should try to eat something.”
“Not now, Gram. I really need to sleep.”
Harris’s voice came from the doorway. “Actually, you don’t have time for either. I’m sorry, but I have to take you down to the bishop.”
Kyla nodded and slid off the couch. A wave of dizziness assaulted her, and her legs crumpled under her, depositing Kyla onto her bottom rather than her feet. A stab of pain ripped through her ribs, and Kyla rubbed her hand over her shirt. She came away with a fresh smear of blood and grimaced.
Harris turned on Gram. “I thought you patched her up.”
“You don’t have enough bandages or time to fix this. She has a concussion. She needs stitches, fluids, and a couple of weeks of sleep. I can only do so much.”
Harris nodded. He cradled Kyla to his chest and started walking. “Come on,” he ordered Gram.
For her part, Kyla was confused. She heard the whole conversation, but it made a limited amount of sense to her. Her head was swimming. She had to focus until Joe got there. It was like being sick any other time. With enough concentration, she could do anything.
A clear thought emerged. “Joe, we’re moving.”
“Outside?”
“No, just down,” she told him.
“We’ll find you. We’re inside.”
* * *
Bishop Brian sighed heavily. He would be glad when this was over.
When Jessup had sent him out to oversee the “silencing of a defamator of the Holy Church,” he had expected a loud-mouthed reactionary military leader. Instead, it had been explained to him that the defamator was a creature of prophecy and was still a child, but he could do a great service by extinguishing her.
He’d found himself in a slaughter. Brian remembered his argument with Jessup’s hired mercenaries over it.
Had it ended there, he might have retained his soul, but when Jessup ordered him to finish the baby, Brian caved and complied. He’d rationalized that the child was an orphan and wouldn’t be mourned, that she was evil and had to be banished. But Brian knew he shouldn’t do it even as he had. It had been almost too easy considering the vehemence with which the child had been protected in the woods. He still had pains that ached on cold nights like the one long ago.
To this day, he was plagued by dreams in which Herrod’s guards, armed with semi-automatic weapons, gunned down his God at the first Chris
tmas. There were four guards, and Brian was the captain. It was a crisis of faith.
Brian knew today would either be his salvation or his damnation. Ever since Briana Keating and Detective Waters had told him the child had actually survived, he knew redemption would be almost impossible to obtain. Brian hadn’t killed the evil defamator. He hadn’t even killed a relative innocent, who might someday become that defamator. He had killed a true innocent. Was there any hope for him? Better that Brian should tie a millstone around his neck and give himself to the river than face God having injured one of his children. Then again, that course of action would only speed his meeting with God.
Had Brian not been plagued by this crisis of faith, he might have hidden behind the sanctity of the Church and believed himself pardoned for his crimes in the name of his God. But the blood of innocents stained his hands, and Bishop Brian, as the children called him, couldn’t believe his God ever intended that type of destruction. God loves his children.
Apparently, Jessup was at least passably cognizant of his feelings. Brian found himself surrounded by more of Jessup’s followers. There were three more of the mercenaries and a younger priest.
Father Michael O’Shea was easily ten years older than Brian had been that fateful night. Brian hoped it would end better this time, and O’Shea would be spared the anguish he himself felt every day of his life. O’Shea may have been older, but he was no less zealous for his advanced age, and Brian feared the young man would live to regret his zeal as Brian had. Brian frowned inwardly at the thought that the younger priest had been sent here to police his movements.
In addition, three of the original four were here. He understood that the last of them had died of cancer some years ago. Brian was sure his road was easier than this one. Even if he found a way to change the course of things to come at this point, Brian wasn’t sure he could actually do anything to change the outcome of the day against such odds.