The McClane Apocalypse Book Nine

by Kate Morris

  He shoves himself between her legs, still keeping a tight grip on both of her wrists which he pins above her head.

  “I was gonna go easy on you, bitch,” he lies, “but now you’re really gonna get it.”

  He releases her hand to work his fly, and Paige lashes out, scratching his cheek. He draws back with a fist but does not land the blow. Instead, he is hit over the head with a piece of metal pipe and is stunned momentarily. Then he is wacked again and falls over onto his side. Paige looks up to see the mother she’d handed the metal pipe standing over them.

  “Thanks,” Paige whispers and takes Lilly’s hand in helping get to her feet.

  She wastes no time and runs over to her pistol. “Grab those towels.”

  The woman brushes past her and brings back the stack of white towels. There are at least three of them. Paige bundles them one on top of the other and places them over the man’s face. Without hesitation, she holds tight and pulls the trigger. The sound is very muffled between the towels and the silencer. Then she fires again just to be sure. He is dead, unaware that he was even killed in his knocked-out, concussed state. Good, she hopes he goes to hell. And, she’s pleased because she does not think anyone could’ve heard it.

  “Help me!” she pleads with the woman. “We gotta hide his body.”

  When she turns around to look, the woman is standing there with wide eyes and a shocked expression.

  “He was gonna kill me, rape me first,” she explains, getting a nod. “Help me. We gotta get out of here before his friend comes back.”

  This spurs her into action, and she helps Paige drag his corpse into the showers where they prop him and pull the curtain closed. She removes the pistol from his belt holster and gives it to Lilly. Then they run back to the door and cautiously peek out it again. Nobody is there, so Paige sprints with the woman right on her heels to the others who have not left the building as she’d told them to. They must’ve been too frightened to go without her.

  “Hurry,” she tells them and exits the building.

  Now that she knows there are snipers on the rooftops, she is worried they’ll be seen, so many of them, crossing the streets and parking lots.

  “We need to go in small groups, maybe four of us at a time,” she tells the women. “John, we’re coming out. I’ve got twenty women with me.”

  “You ok, Red?” Cory asks.

  He’s asked this in her ear probably ten times in the last five minutes since her encounter with the man.

  “Yes,” she lies. Her hands are still shaking. Her wrists hurt, and she has a terrible headache. She does not like confrontation. She is not a good fighter, not like little Sam. She is good at stealth and sneaking, avoidance but not with twenty other people tagging along. Tonight, she had not been able to get away with what she used to do so well, and her lack of experience in the field of hand-to-hand combat showed.

  “Roger, I’ve got you, Paige,” John returns. “Come on over.”

  “There are twenty of us,” she tells him, trying to whisper. “I’m going to send four women at a time. They’ve got snipers on the rooftops.”

  “Not anymore. Lucas took care of that for you. You’re all clear to move together,” John says.

  “Roger,” she answers. She turns back to the scared women and children and whispers, “Let’s go. All of us. Quietly!”

  They don’t even question. They can taste freedom is just a breath away, and they are not going to hesitate at the opportunity to grab it.

  “I’m right behind ya’, Red,” Cory says in her ear and appears at her side a second later as she sprints across the street, bringing up the rear again. She breathes a sigh of relief once they’ve reached John. Then she takes a moment, makes an excuse of needing to relieve herself, and goes to a nearby bathroom where she loses it for a second. Cory finds her, though.

  “What happened? Jesus, what happened?” he asks and swears at the sight of blood on her jacket and hands.

  “Nothing. Lilly helped me,” she answers. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Damn it,” he swears again. “I shouldn’t have left you alone. That was stupid.”

  “No, it was good. We got out. So did you. You’ve also now got intel and a better idea of the layout, and I got some of my own to share,” she informs him.

  Cory nods, yanks her to him and hugs her close, oblivious of the fact that he’s probably staining his jacket with blood. Of course, it is Cory. He probably has many other bloodstains on his jacket of which she doesn’t want to ponder the origins. Then he kisses her fiercely, and she forgets about her bloody clothes and her sore wrists.

  They leave around three a.m. with the women and children piled into their trucks and head for Pleasant View. Paige sits in the back seat of the truck with Cory and does not care that she is holding his hand and resting against his side. He’d taken her down to the river to rinse her hands before they left as John and the others loaded the women and kids into vehicles. She ignores Cory’s curious looks about her openly being affectionate with him in front of the others and clings onto his arm with her other hand. It just feels so much safer next to him.

  “Can you work with me on hand-to-hand combat again? I think I need a refresher course,” she asks quietly as Derek and John talk in the front seat. Lucas is riding with Dave’s group.

  “Good God,” he exclaims quietly with worry. “Whatever happened tonight, let’s not tell your brother. He already wants me dead most days.”

  “Only if you promise to work with me,” she bribes.

  “Agreed,” he complies and kisses the top of her head.

  “Then I agree not to tell Simon. I wasn’t going to anyway,” she admits with a nod and squeezes his hand a little tighter. “I don’t want him to hate you anymore, either.”

  She smiles against his neck, places a kiss there, and falls asleep against Cory’s shoulder not caring what John and Derek might think. When it comes to Cory, she has been caring less and less what anyone thinks of their relationship. Perhaps Sue was right. Maybe she needs to let go and give in to this overwhelming feeling she sometimes, frequently, constantly gets about him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Simon

  Sam is getting around a lot better, nearly without limping now, and complaining daily that she wants to go home to Dave’s compound. Herb had basically forced her home to the farm with the assistance of the additional pressure from her uncle. He did not study wounds and infections as extensively as Herb, so he wanted her to be under Herb’s twenty-four-seven care for a while. Plus, Scott said if she went home to Dave’s with him, he’d never keep her resting and out of his clinic. Simon is relieved that she followed her uncle’s orders and stayed at the farm. It gave him the opportunity to provide her with medical care, as well, and know that she was safe, at least for the past week.

  “Let me know if this hurts,” he requests as she sits patiently, or rather impatiently actually, on the exam table in the med shed while he re-wraps her leg since Herb is in town with Reagan working with Robert’s doctors. Many of the sick children are back on their feet, but a few are still battling Scarlet Fever.

  “It doesn’t,” she says. “I want to go back to Dave’s. I want to start helping with these evacuation missions you guys have been going on.”

  “I don’t know if you’ll be doing anything like that for a while,” he reminds her. He went a few days ago with Kelly and K-Dog and rescued more women. He’d worked as their sniper-spotter from the rooftop of the church behind the building. Dave had also sent men in case the situation went sour. They’d been able to take another eighteen women and children out of there and leave information with the woman in the laundry of their plans and when they’d return. Tonight, after dinner, they are supposed to go back. “This is just now healing. If you go running on it or riding horses, you could have problems, get infected, or re-injure it.”

  “I know that,” she states with sass.

  “Right, of course, you do,” he says humbly.

&nb
sp; She glares at him, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What? No, nothing,” Simon answers. “I just meant that you’re smart, so of course you’d know the dangers of infection or pulling out the stitches.”

  There is a long, uncomfortable silence as he thinks about what he should say next. Everything he says lately has been irritating her. She has been on the farm for four days, and he has not once been able to get her alone long enough to talk to her with any amount of privacy. Sometimes living on a massive compound with a lot of people around is highly inconvenient.

  “Do you need anything for the pain?” he asks politely.

  She shakes her head, which causes her dark hair to fall over her shoulder dramatically. “No, I’m not in a lot of pain. Just when I walk around too much.”

  “Good. Just take it easy…”

  She groans, “That’s all I’ve heard for two weeks. I’m tired of taking it easy. This is boring. I want to be doing stuff.”

  “Like what? Anything in particular? Can I help?”

  Sam’s blue gaze darts to his and she says, “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you need anything, something you don’t have perhaps?”

  “A new leg?” she jokes with a grunt.

  Simon smiles, cuts the gauze with scissors, and tapes it down. Then he wraps it in a bandage to hold the gauze in place better. He uses a safety pin to secure it.

  “A new leg, huh?” he asks as he helps her stand. She hops once, obviously from the pain and tugging of her sewn together muscles, and Simon holds onto her shoulders. “Got it?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t need help,” she says as if angry with herself for showing weakness. “Turn around,” she orders testily.

  “Right, sorry,” he returns and gives her his back so that she can pull on her sweatpants again. “I don’t think you need a new leg at all. And the one that’s injured will heal well and return to normal use very soon. Your legs are great, actually. I mean, they’re sturdy…”

  “Sturdy? Like tree trunks? What flattery!”

  His cheeks burn, “No! That’s not what I meant. Just that they’re lean but sturdy and reliable. Or I guess I mean that you’re reliable, even your legs.”

  He feels like a complete ass. The next time he goes to town, he’s going to look for a book in the library on how to talk to women, especially the one he most wishes to impress. He’s always been able to talk to Sam, but now everything is different between them. She’s different, too. Mostly she hates him now, but his feelings have never changed. He’s just never accurately represented them when he’s around her. He always hid his true feelings. Although Sam doesn’t know of them, Simon feels different when he’s around her.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asks, then says, “I’m done.”

  Simon spins to find her pulling on her short jacket. It’s very cold out tonight, so the walk back to the house will be a windy, cutting one.

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with me. Why do you ask?” he blurts nervously and hands her a wool scarf hanging over the chair where his coat is resting. “Here, take my scarf. What do you mean?”

  “You’ve just been acting weird lately,” she tells him with blunt honesty, takes the black wool scarf, wraps it around her head and neck, and turns to leave.

  He recognizes that this could be his opportunity to talk to her about the letter, so Simon grabs it. Outside, he can hear John and Kelly laughing, probably near the barn. Somewhere else on the farm comes the sounds of someone pounding metal against metal. He is pretty sure Cory is working in the equipment shed up the driveway with Derek. There is never a perfect time to talk to her, not in town, not here, and definitely not at Dave’s compound.

  “Hey, Sam,” he says and grabs her sleeve. “Since we’re alone, can we talk a minute?”

  Her shoulders rise and fall slowly as if she is taking a deep breath.

  “I told Sue I’d help with the kids while she gets dinner on,” she says without turning. “Hannah wasn’t feeling well.”

  He makes a mental note to check on Hannie, but steps in front of Sam to stop her from leaving, “Just a second. I really need to speak with you.”

  “What?” she asks loudly and with great antagonism and even places one fist on her hip. “Are you gonna lecture me about not going on runs or going on these rescue missions?”

  “What? No,” he says. Then he considers that and grins. “Well, maybe later but not now.”

  Sam tries not to smile. It turns quickly back to agitation. His courage lags slightly, but Simon tries to find the strength to keep going. It’s not easy when she’s glaring up at him as if he is the last person on earth with whom she wants to be trapped in a room.

  “I read your letter,” he explains. “Of course, I did. You know that already. Sorry.”

  “Simon,” she says with exasperation.

  “I don’t blame you for hating me,” he says. “I don’t. I’ve been doing a lot of that for the past four years myself.”

  This catches her attention, and her eyes jump to his with an expression of confusion.

  “You could never hate me more than I hate myself. Trust me. Self-loathing has become my specialty. It’s second nature.”

  “Why?” she asks quietly as two kids run past the open door to the shed.

  “Guilt,” he answers and hopes nobody comes in the shed. “I blamed myself for everything that happened to us.”

  “You mean when we were with them?” she asks. He nods and watches her mouth turn down. “Simon, it wasn’t your fault. You’re a smart guy. Come on. You should know that it wasn’t your fault.”

  His frown runs deeper than hers. He swallows hard and replies, “I know. I know that. I’ve always known it, but it didn’t stop the guilt. I always felt like I could’ve done more, been the one to help you, to stop it all.”

  “We were just kids,” she says softly.

  Simon bites the inside of his cheek and says, “Yes, I know. It’s just that sometimes even when our brains acknowledge something as truth, our conscience cannot process it that way because we want the result to be different or improved.”

  “I’ve moved on from all that…”

  “I know,” he says and takes her hand. “I’m trying to, as well, but it’s just difficult. I know a part of me will always feel guilty about what happened to you.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Call it a manly sense of duty or just a character flaw, but I can’t wrap my mind around completely letting go. I’ll always carry it with me.”

  What he doesn’t tell her is that he wanted to be her hero, to be the one to rescue her. It didn’t work out that way.

  She pulls her hand back and says, “Then you’ll live in misery forever. If you can’t make peace with the past, I don’t know how you could ever move forward.

  “I know. I’m trying. Trust me. I’m really trying to let it all go. It’s just hard.”

  “It wasn’t easy for me, either.”

  Simon scowls. This discussion, like most of their talks, is turning into a nightmare. “Sam, I know that. I understand it more than anyone else ever could. What happened to you keeps me up at night. I don’t…I don’t know how you overcame it. You’re so much stronger than me, than I could ever imagine to be.”

  “It was either that or go crazy, Simon. That’s the only choice I was left with. And I’m not stronger at all.”

  “You’re so much farther along than me. I want to let it go, but it’s hard. I’ll never forgive myself for what happened to you, but I don’t want it to come between us anymore,” he says, hoping she doesn’t reject this idea.

  “Simon, don’t. Just stop,” she states with more vigor.

  “I don’t want this,” he admits.

  Sam’s features mar with confusion, “What do you mean?”

  “This,” he says, motioning between them. “This strife between us. I don’t want this anymore.”

  “Then leave me alone,” she says. �
��I already told you in my letter how I felt about you…”

  “Yes,” he interrupts, “but you didn’t give me a chance to respond. You just laid it all out and demanded that I listen to your edict. That’s not how it works.”

  She laughs, “Uh-huh, yes, it is. That’s exactly how it works. When one person wants out of a relationship, they end it. That’s what I did.”

  “You can’t end it. We were never in a relationship to begin with,” he says with budding anger.

  “Yeah? And whose fault was that?” she accuses and juts out her small chin in defiance.

  “Mine,” he simplifies, surprising her. “But I’d like that to change.”

  Sam stands there staring at him as if he has grown a second head in the last three seconds. He reaches for her hand again, only to have her jerk back.

  “I don’t like being separated from you, Sam,” he says. “It’s all my fault. I recognize that now. This is all my fault.”

  “Who’s been helping you come to that decision? I know you wouldn’t realize that on your own.”

  He cringes from the harshness of her accusation. Mostly he flinches because it’s true. She has seen through it. She knows him better than anyone. Reagan has helped him a lot, although the conversation he had with Reagan that day in the shed is not something he wants to share with Samantha. He had felt himself come apart at the seams, rendered, and torn asunder. Reagan had stripped away every last shred of emotion he’d held onto from their ordeal. But each and every day since then, he has tried to rebuild himself, tried to reconcile it, and tried to forgive himself. She doesn’t need to know how broken he became over her ordeal, how hollowed out and empty inside. Regret and blame did that. Now, he is trying to find hope and love and something to cling to from that situation that isn’t dark and evil. That thing of hope is Sam.