by Fiona Quinn
Shit.
The holy man lifted his arm, the sun-faded red cloth of his cloak draped and rippled in the now turbulent air. “You came for her.” He pointed to Christen and a dragon breathed fire through Gator’s system. This guy needed to drop his arm and leave Christen the hell out of this.
The holy man smiled. “This is the woman who has fought beside you and loved you in every lifetime. And always tragically. You recognized her immediately when she walked into the room. You claimed her as yours the second your eyes met. You knew you loved her when she touched your arm. And you felt the fear.”
“Yes.” he said it without words but knew the holy man heard him. Everything the man had said was true: How he felt. What happened in the hotel lobby.
“It clawed at your stomach. It felt like you could not survive it. It growled like a monster through your system.”
“Yes.” Gator wanted to take a step closer. To get between Christen and this man. Not out of fear but out of…habit. Huh. That was an odd thought. He really hadn’t known Christen long enough to have developed a habit. Gator couldn’t move, couldn’t get off the X.
“I see your heart. You don’t believe in a soul’s journey. You think this is your one opportunity. One life and then the after-life, either heaven or hell.”
“That was the way I was raised, yes, sir.”
“I wish to help you to understand. Each life time is rolled one over the other. Many lifetimes, always the same. And this lifetime, too, unless you decide to break the agreement.”
“Whoa there, what agreement – an agreement I made in a different life-time?” The holy man’s words weren’t the linear black and white kind Gator liked. They were swirls or color and Gator was having trouble making sense of it all. “Sir, that’s not what I believe happens. I don’t believe in reincarnation. If that’s what you’re sayin’ to me.”
“You believe in the Ten Commandments, Thou shalt not kill?”
Gator said nothing.
“And yet you have, and you do, and you will kill. There are no stipulations in that commandment – it does not say thou shalt not kill unless your president requires it. Thou shalt not kill unless you are protecting someone else. It simply says thou shalt not kill, and so you have decided that within that law there is room to maneuver. You believe in the commandment, and yet, you also know there is another reality. I am not asking you to change your belief system, but if you wish her to live, you must consider that there is more than meets the eye.”
And with that he slammed his rod into the ground and the Earth shook beneath Gator’s feet, the air ocellated.
“You are on a journey. Fly.” Again, he raised his staff over his head and brought it down onto the ground with a bang that was too loud for wood against soil. The bang blew outward in circles like the blast from an IED shocking the air. It blew through Gator breaking him into particles that hovered and crowded like a swarm of bees. Then he came back together. This must be a dream. Those herbs that guy was throwing on the fire must be some kind of powerful hallucinogenic.
In his drug induced dream, Gator was at the gate of a castle, dressed in heavy armor. His horse snorted and stomped the ground beside him. “I will keep you safe,” he promised the black-haired woman. She was tiny and delicate; her face was pale with fear. Though it looked nothing like Christen, this was Christen. She rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss against his lips, He desperately wanted to feel her in his arms but the suit of armor made the contact impossible.
“I will love you forever,” she whispered, her eyes feverish with dread. And with those words the air spun, and Gator was watching—as if fast forwarding through a film—a mighty battle where their forces were overcome, and he was taken prisoner. The castle gate was breeched and before their eyes, the women and children slaughtered. Gator opened his mouth to scream as he saw the broad sword slice through Christen’s raven hair, her delicate neck. Gator fell to his knees in anguish.
Bang went the staff
Gator knelt on a pelt thrown on the dirt floor of a round hut. He was dipping a piece of leather into the herbed water and squeezing it in his fist. He pressed the tincture to a woman’s head. Christen. She had the dark skin of an African woman, a flatter, wider face. The same feverish, frightened eyes.
“Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me,” Gator whispered, as her eyelids slid closed.
“I will love you forever,” she whispered.
Gator was on his knees on the edge of the Sumatran rainforest, gasping at the pain that wracked his body as he realized that Christen, in that moment, had died. He wasn’t sure he could endure this level of agony. His eyes sought those of the holy man, begging for relief. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Nothing he could have even imagined.
The holy man banged his staff into the ground.
Gator crouched in the corner of the alley his body shielding someone else’s. Gator knew it was Christen without even seeing her. Her body trembled against his. The snarls and barks of the dogs echoed off the stone walls.
“Here they are. That’s her. Schnell!”
Gator saw a man holding back his enraged German shepherds. Another man in an SS uniform stalked toward them. “Yes, here she is,” he called over his shoulder. “The leader of the Resistance? If the resistance is made of such as you. We will have them all corralled by morning. It will be very hard to resist from where you’re going. Stand up.”
Gator pushed to his feet, pulling Christen up beside him, tucking her behind him though she didn’t want him to. How could he protect her? How could he save her? The SS were soulless when it came to torturing their captives for information. Gator’s eyes scanned the alleyway, up the walls to the roof line, looking for any route for her escape. Christen pulled him around to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry,” she breathed out. She pressed a kiss onto his lips. Gator shook his head. Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.
“I will love you forever.” She said it without emotion. It was matter of fact. It felt cold next to the heat of his horror. She turned and ran directly toward the SS officer. He lifted his sidearm and bang. Christen dropped. Dead.
Bang went the Shaman’s rod.
Gator needed him to stop, for this to stop. All the agony over all these lives was churning through his system. It consumed him. Flooded his cells. Made them shriek with the pain of his losses.
Lynx help me – it was an involuntary cry of desperation as the wind picked up and the air wavered again to take him to a new scene.
They stood in front of a horse. Gator crouched, hands spread wide. He looked down at the rattler, coiled, noisily warning its intent to strike. “Don’t move,” he exhaled, trying not to disturb the air and rile the snake any more. He raised his eyes to Christen, in her long dress and straw hat. As he did, her gaze met his. “I will love you—” and though he shook his head and waved off her words she uttered them anyway—“forever.”
There was a sudden movement - a blast. A scream. Gator turned to see Lynx rushing forward with a shotgun in her hand. The snake lay dead. Relief flooded Gator’s body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said until he saw Christen lying on the ground, her hand gripping her neck. She’d been bit.
Lynx looked up. “I couldn’t get to her. I’m so sorry.” She raised her gun. “Don’t move. Behind you,” she yelled. Bang went the shotgun.
Bang went the rod.
How long was this going to go on? Surely, that was enough. He saw the pattern. He got the message. Let this end.
“Lynx,” Gator hollered. He lay on the precipice his right arm over the edge. He gripped a wrist. He knew it was Christen. He knew that the ground had given way. Lynx ran forward and grabbed at his belt, held him steady, kept him from sliding forward. They were stuck there. Gator could not make any move that didn’t make the ground under him crackle and the rocks slide. He couldn’t haul Christen up. He couldn’t let her go. And Lynx couldn’t let go of his belt or he’d just slide over the edge. They were at an impasse
.
Had been an impasse for a long time.
They panted and exerted. Every once in a while, one of them called out for help. The ligaments and sinew of Gator’s shoulder were giving way. He felt them tearing. Extraordinary pain shot up his arm, begging him to release his hand and find relief. But Christen was hanging there, her feet dangling mid-air. If he released her wrist, she would fall to her death. A scream of anguish ripped from his throat. This was agony. This was torture. Stalemated, he tried again to flex what was left of his muscles and bring her up. As he did more of the cliffside slipped away.
“Let go,” she called as her fingers released from his wrist. “Let me go. It’s okay.”
“No!” he bellowed.
Lynx grabbed tighter to his belt and tried to crawl backward. Her heels dug into the friable dirt.
“Let me go. It’s okay. This will not end my love for you. I will love you forever.”
He felt her fingers slide from his hand.
And she was gone.
And he was nothing.
Not a sensation. Not a body. Not a thought or a care or a soul.
He was absolutely nothing without her.
Gator managed to lock his eyes on the holy man. “Let me go. Stop this. I can’t…” he whispered. “I understand.”
The holy man was a statue. Still. Silent. Unconvinced.
“The cycle has to be broken,” Gator panted out. “We found each other again. Even my friend Lynx can’t save us from…this, no matter how hard she’d try. No matter how hard I’d try. I’ve felt this from the beginning. From seeing her walk through the door. My connection. The depth of my love. I knew it was too good to be true. I get it.” Gator climbed back to his feet. He stood like a soldier. “I’m on this mission for a few more days, sir.”
The holy man cast his gaze toward Christen in her trance. Gator wished this was just a bad trip on some exotic smoke. But it all rang true. From Tanzania until now, this all made sense to him.
“Please. I can’t leave this assignment for a few more days. Then I’ll never see her again. Never talk to her again. She doesn’t love me. She’s never said a word to me outside of my role on her security team. I’ll leave. I’ll be out of her life. I’ll make sure of it.” He’d seen Christen looking at him, the feelings that swirled through his own system: curiosity, confusion, connection had been reflected back at him when he’d caught her gaze. He had to go before she gave voice to those feelings. Gator knew he could never tell her how he felt. And he knew as sure as he knew the sun would set and night would fall, that she was the only one for him. He’d walk the rest of this life alone. “Can you help her? Help her stay safe through these next few days until I can go?” It was a huge price to pay, to leave her, to never see her again. But Gator was willing to pay any price to protect Christen.
As those thoughts formed, the holy man slammed his stick into the ground.
All eyes blinked open. Gator stood under the tree.
Shell-shocked.
Bereaved.
Determined.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Christen
Friday, The Rainforest, North Sumatra
From her place on the log between Taro and Karl, Christen watched the dance of sunlight filtering through green leaves. She felt the oppressive heat, the weight of the humidity. She had been floating in perfection and coming back into her body–so to speak—made her hyper aware of the heaviness of the air as it pushed and pressed against her. The first thing she did once her vision cleared was search out Gator. He stood with a look on his face that she instantly recognized, this was the combat-ready face, the ready to go, ready to fight, ready to die look of her customers when she taxied them to their missions. It was the look T-Rex wore when she lifted up into the Syrian air, leaving him behind to face the onslaught.
She shifted to follow Gator’s line of sight. His focus was on the holy man. She turned to see what Blaze was doing. Did he sense a threat, too? Blaze and Gator seemed to go together like battle buddies. They seemed separate and apart from Daniel and the others.
Blaze seemed fine. There was no strain of muscle under his skin. Blaze turned to catch her eye, and she, in turn, tipped her head toward Gator. Maybe Blaze needed a heads-up that something wasn’t right.
Blaze made his way around the periphery to whisper in Gator’s ear.
The others in their party were coming to. Karl looked like he’d been sucking lemons. Something about his trance-journey must not have gone so well for him.
The guide moved into the clearing. “All is well? Come come. We will take a walk through the fire.”
The group stood and jostled hesitantly after him, pooling up like a school of fish – not a one of them wanted to take the lead. They came to a picturesque clearing just to the side and behind one of the houses. An ancient mound of craniums formed a macabre wall on the edge of the rainforest. In front of the wall was a long pit, filled with coals. Reds and oranges glowed from the embers. Flashes of yellow as a flame–here then there—gathered enough fuel to lick at the air, wavering with heat.
“You are little lady,” the guide said to her. “You show big manly men how this is done.”
Christen wasn’t interested. There was no way in this world she was going to walk through a pit of burning coals. He took her gently by the arm and lead her over to a place at the top of the fire pit. She was willing to walk over and give it a closer look, but that was about it. Christen could feel Gator swelling in size—as if he wasn’t a giant of a man already. She could feel his agitation. When the guide stopped, Christen had to hold back the laughter.
“Okay sure,” she said. “I’ll walk on your coals.” She plopped down on the ground and pulled off her boots and socks, rolled up her pants to the knees. Christen saw out of the corner of her eye as Gator sent a command to Johnna. A special forces trick of speaking without speaking. Johnna nodded and scurried over to her as Christen stood.
Johnna got to her side just before Christen took the first step, looked down and saw the truth. The ground was uneven. There was a slight hill of embers that hid the fact that there was a dirt path down the center of the pit. If you didn’t fall, you wouldn’t be burned. Johnna gave Christen a dramatic hug and good-luck, then stepped back.
Gator was outraged.
It was kind of comical.
The photographer lay on the ground where he was sure to get a shot that looked exactly like she was walking on coals. As she started across, Gator raced for the other end. Christen guessed it was to grab her up when her feet caught fire. When he saw the path, he leaned over and put his hands on his knees, panting.
Christen walked slowly, her eyes only half-opened, as if in a trance – the other men still hadn’t figured out the optical illusion. She wanted to see if any of them would pee themselves thinking they’d have to man up and do this. Karl, I’m thinking of you, asswipe. As she emerged from the other side. Gator shook his head at her and stood. She held up her hands like gymnast taking in the cheering crowds, turned, and waved, then dropped her hands and loped off to get her shoes and socks.
Johnna was next, and then the men. Having the women go first meant that they’d either have to participate or look like a wimp in front of the others.
Not a one of those who walked down the path gave any indication to the others that it was safe and painless. One guy, Nadir, even got up on his toes about midway through and started yelling “Yowch. Yowch. Ayah!” as he hopped and skipped all the way to the end. That stoked Taro but good. The last one to go, he was a quivering mass of jelly by the time he got to his turn. Christen thought he might start crying with relief when he saw the clear pathway.
Lunch was next, and it was light and refreshing with succulent fruits and salty foods to help them endure the heat. Gator stood at the periphery – feet set wide, his arms crossed over his chest, hawk-eyed as he watched, making sure they were secure. But he hadn’t caught her eye since she was on the fire walk. She wondered if she’d pissed him off.
A mother approached Gator with a crying baby and was talking to him, trying to hand him the infant. Gator, signaled the guide over. Christen scooted closer so she could hear what was going on.
“Mother wants her son to be a strong warrior. She asks you to bless the child.”
“What?” Gator’s brows drew together, his hands up, he took a step back as if to give himself some room to understand the situation.
“Bless the child. Take him from her hands and blow on his face to offer spirit of the warrior.”
Gator looked so utterly self-conscious and bashful. The villagers paused what they were doing to watch. They probably thought this was an honor for him, a distinction, but Gator turned pink with modest embarrassment. So damned cute.
The holy man came and put his hand on the mother’s shoulder. Christen could see that Gator couldn’t think of a way out of this scenario that wasn’t offensive. Gator smiled at the mother and gently gathered the baby. Tucking the infant into the crook of his arm, Gator rubbed the little guy’s tummy and talked to him with a melodic tone, his Cajun accent was thicker than usual, blending French and English words. The baby hushed and stared back at Gator. Then Gator lifted the baby and lay him over his massive shoulder. The baby wriggled over until he found a spot where he was pressed against Gator’s neck, and sucked on its fist as he shut his eyes. One huge hand covered the tiny bottom, keeping him in place.
The mother smiled widely, nodding and bowing her pleasure. When she scooted away, the holy man indicated a place on the bench. Gator swung his head and checked three-sixty before he sat down. The mother came back with a lunch plate for Gator and bowed as she handed it to him.
Gator ate one handed. His energy had shifted. The baby had soothed him. Whatever was riling him up after their meditation, had now eased its sharpness, and Gator looked like Gator again. A little smile playing across his lips as he took a bite of panini.
Christen tilted her head as she watched thinking, he looks like a dad. I wonder if he has kids. I bet he’s great with them if he does.