Blood of Saints

by Maegan Beaumont

  Sabrina folded the legs of the tripod and secured it in its soft case before zipping it up. She stood, pocketing the bullet. Avasa followed suit, pressing her head into her knee, eager to head home. “I think we’ve all had our fill of death, Christina,” she said, slinging the rifle’s case onto her shoulder. She smiled down at the girl and held out her hand. “Come on; let’s go see what the boys made for lunch.”

  –––––

  Lunch was grilled cheese and homemade tomato soup. Sabrina could smell the melted butter and rich tang of tomatoes and cream before they hit the porch steps. Christina shot her a grin, shoving the field scope into her hands before hustling up the stairs, Avasa hot on her heels. Grilled cheese was her latest favorite.

  Catching the back door before it banged closed, Sabrina pushed her way through the doorway, stopping to kick the mud off her boots before entering the kitchen. There she found Michael standing over the stove, bare-footed, spatula in hand, tending a large cast iron skillet full of grilled bread and melting cheese. Avasa sat in front of him, waiting patiently. Christina was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’d she go?” she said, unslinging the TAC-50 from her shoulder and propping it against the wall.

  “I sent her to wash up,” he said without glancing up from the stove. From the corner of her eye, she watched him casually drop one of the finished sandwiches to the floor. It never made it. Avasa caught it, mid-fall, nearly swallowing it whole. She licked her chops and lifted a paw for more.

  “I saw that,” she said, face turned away so he couldn’t see the smile on her face.

  “No, you didn’t,” Michael said, tossing the dog another grilled cheese. “Hungry?”

  “Starved.” She reached into her shirt and pulled out the brass key she kept there on a chain. “Alex?” she said, fitting the key into an antique larder. She opened its door. Inside were enough weapons and ammo to take over a small country.

  “Sent him too,” Michael said, distracted. She looked over her shoulder, watching him flip the grilled cheese with the same delicate precision she suspected he’d use to defuse an IED. Avasa, knowing a third sandwich would be pushing it, found her bed near the fireplace to work on the beef bone she kept there. “He spent his morning in the woods—again. Walked off at eight, didn’t see him again until about twenty minutes ago.”

  She put the TAC inside the cabinet and locked it back up before glancing at the clock. It was half past noon. “What do you think he’s doing? Is it safe for him to be out there alone? He’s only eleven.”

  “I wouldn’t let him go if I thought he might hurt himself.” Michael slid his spatula under the sandwich and lifted it from the skillet to deposit it on a platter with the dozen others he’d made. “I don’t know what he’s doing … but whatever it is, he doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”

  Just then, Christina burst into the kitchen, Alex not far behind. He’d gained weight and color over the months. He looked healthy. Strong. Like a completely different kid than the one she’d found naked, cowering in the basement of an abandoned house—as long as you didn’t look him in the eye. On the few occasions he’d allowed it, Sabrina could still see him, trapped in the dark. Sometimes it scared her. Mostly it just made her sad.

  “Can Alex and I have a picnic?” Christina said, hopping from one foot to the other, a ball of pent-up excitement.

  “Got your watch on?” Michael said, glancing over his shoulder to see her flash the fat black band and digital face at him. It was an unnecessary question. She never took it off. None of them did. Michael looked at her, his head tilted at a questioning angle.

  She shrugged. “I don’t see why not, do you?”

  He shook his head. “Okay, just—”

  Christina reached past him with an excited squeal, grabbing at the platter of grilled cheese. “Come on,” she said to Alex around the sandwich in her mouth as she ran out the door with several others in her hands. Alex followed her, head down, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. Avasa watched them go, floppy ears pricked forward in interest.

  Sabrina caught the door before it banged closed. “Beschermen,” she said. The dog abandoned her bone and trotted out behind them to do her job. Protect.

  “—be careful,” Michael finished, lifting the platter off the counter and carrying it to the table while she went to the kitchen sink to wash up. “I made twelve sandwiches; she left us six.”

  “Hmm …” Sabrina said, not really paying attention. Through the window she watched Christina and Alex disappear into the woods, Avasa close behind. “Correction: whatever he’s doing in the woods, he doesn’t want us to know about it.”

  Behind her, Michael laughed. “He’s not a Soviet sleeper agent, Sabrina. He’s an orphan—just like the rest of us …” She heard him move in a moment before she felt the slide of well-muscled arms around her waist, bumping against the SIG strapped to her hip. “Besides, haven’t you seen the way he looks at her?” he said close to her ear, the slight brush of his lips on her lobe enough to loosen the hinges in her knees.

  She smiled, turning in his arms until she faced him. “How’s that?” she said, lifting her hands to his hair. Standing on the toes of her boots she kissed him on the mouth, loving how it curved into an easy smile beneath her lips.

  “Like he adores her.” He nuzzled her neck, his hands gripped around her hips. “Like he’d do anything for her.” Michael lifted her up, setting her down on the counter’s edge, hands hooked into the crooks of her knees to pull her closer. “I suspect it’s the same way I look at you,” he whispered against her throat, fitting his hips into the cradle of her thighs.

  Tilting her head back to give his mouth better access to her neck, Sabrina sighed. “Tell me more of this adoration you speak of,” she said, locking her ankles around his waist, her arms around his neck. “How many grilled cheese sandwiches will it win me?”

  He laughed, the breath of it skating across her collarbone. “Is that all you want me for?” Somehow, he’d worked the first five buttons of her shirt loose. “My grilled cheese?” His fingers skimmed along the cup of her bra, tangling her breath around her tongue.

  “No …” She tightened the lock of her ankles around waist, pulling him even closer. “That would be unfair to your pancakes.” She grinned against his mouth. “You make fantastic pancakes,” she said and he laughed with her. She’d never get tired of it. The way they fit together. Perfectly …

  She didn’t hear it at first. She was too wrapped up in the words being whispered in her ear. His hands against her skin … but when his lips and hands went still, she caught the sound of it and by the way Michael suddenly fell silent, he heard it too.

  A low-toned beep at three second intervals. She opened her eyes to see the strobes set above each doorway flashing in time with the beep. “Michael …”

  He lifted his head from her neck and looked at her, his face set in grim angles. Tight and resigned. The man she loved was suddenly gone, the ruthless killer he usually kept locked away taking his place in the space of a breath.

  “Get the kids back here.” He stepped away from her and turned, lunch and everything in between forgotten. “We have approximately fifteen minutes to get you secured downstairs.”

  She slid off the counter, her boots hitting the floorboards so hard they rattled beneath her feet. Her shirt was open and she fumbled it closed, suddenly self-conscious.

  “Michael—”

  He barely spared her a glance as he moved across the room, reaching into the neck of the thermal shirt he wore to pull out his own brass key.

  “No arguments, Sabrina. We don’t have time—get them back here now.” He punctuated the last of his words by jamming his key into the lock that secured the weapons cabinet. He reached in and pulled out his own TAC-50 before stacking boxes of ammo on the kitchen table next to the forgotten plate of sandwiches he’d made for lunch.

 
“Okay,” she said, using the word to propel herself forward. “Okay …” She nodded as she streaked across the kitchen, her steps so fast and heavy they rattled the dishes in the sink.

  The alarm. The strobes. They were security measures. Meant to warn them. In the months the four so-called orphans been here, they’d never gone off. Not once. Three hundred fifty days of silence, suddenly shattered.

  Someone was coming.

  Three

  Sabrina stepped out onto the porch and looked at her watch. It was ten minutes to one o’clock. By 1:05, their canyon would be crawling with only God knew what. Pressing the blue button on the top of her watch, she watched the thick stand of trees to her left for movement.

  They’d done so many drills. When they’d first gotten here, it was once a day. They’d let the kids scatter, encouraging them to go explore their new home only to sound the alarm and time how long it took them to make it back, each time pushing them to move faster and faster. They set a perimeter—an invisible barrier deciding how far they could wander from the house. The quicker they were, the farther they could go. As soon as Alex and Christina could cover a half mile in under five minutes, the drills were cut down to once a week.

  Nearly a year later, with nothing but peace and solitude in between, the drills had tapered off into an occasional happening. Never more than once a month. They’d had their obligatory drill two days ago.

  Christina burst through the trees with Alex in tow. She didn’t look alarmed. She looked annoyed. That changed as soon as their eyes met across the yard. Reaching behind her, she said something to Alex and doubled her pace, pulling him along. Behind them both was Avasa, alert and focused on the pair in front of her.

  The children stopped on the steps directly below, tapping the red buttons on the side of their watches to stop the vibrations they emitted. It’d taken them less than two minutes to respond.

  “Inside,” Sabrina said, and they moved without asking questions. Sabrina followed them through the door to find Michael had emptied nearly the entire contents of the weapons cabinet onto the kitchen table. The plate of grilled cheese lay broken on the floor, cold sandwiches scattered across the bare wood. Avasa didn’t even look at them.

  “If I’m not down in thirty minutes, close it up without me,” he said, holding her TAC-50 in one hand and a stack of ammo boxes in the other. The alarm was still sounding, the strobes still flashing. “Sabrina.” His voice whipped out and grabbed her, shook her. She didn’t answer—she just took the rifle and ammo he held out to her without looking him in the eye.

  Sabrina slung the strap of the rifle over her shoulder. “Let’s go,” she said, moving across the room and through the doorway that led to the rest of the house, Christina and Alex following while Avasa stayed behind.

  “You didn’t say good-bye.”

  She kept moving. “What?” she said, crossing the living room toward the bedroom she shared with Michael.

  “To him,” Christina said, her tone crowded with panic. “To Michael—you didn’t say good-bye.”

  She skirted the bed they shared, refusing to even look at it as she moved toward the closet. She pushed the door wide and ushered them in. It was the kind of closet most women dreamed about. One hundred fifty square feet of shelves, racks, and drawers, all stuffed with clothes and shoes she’d never wear. In its center was a storage island. Feeling along the wooden lip of the waist-high countertop, Sabrina dragged her fingertips until she hit a knot in the wood. She pushed it and the flat top popped open to reveal a motorized lift. “Let’s go, we’re out of time,” she said, shooting a hurried glance at Christina. As if on cue, steel security barriers began to lower over the windows. They were connected—once the lift was activated, the barriers were deployed, leaving only a few vantage points unsecured. Soon the house would be on complete lockdown.

  “Christina.”

  The girl stuck her chin out, pretending the metallic screech of those barriers and what they meant didn’t scare her. “You didn’t say—”

  “Because I’m not leaving him.” She swiped a hand over her face. “I won’t … do you understand?” No time—there was no time left. “I can’t. Now, please—”

  The girl threw her leg over the side of the lift and boosted herself into its center before holding her hand out to Alex. “What do I do?”

  Relief flooded her system. Fifty feet below was a fifteen-­hundred-square-foot bomb-proof bunker equipped with enough water and supplies to carry eight people through nearly three months of hiding. “Do exactly what I showed you. As soon as the lift stops, get into the bunker and shut the door. Set the timer for thirty minutes—if Michael or I don’t come back for you, it’ll activate on its own.” Without her or Michael to enter the deactivation code, it wouldn’t open for six weeks, no matter what. “If the lift is activated by anyone but us before the door is secured, hit the green button on the right. It’ll override the timer.”

  The lift began its descent, startling the girl in front of her. “I’m scared,” she said, her dark eyes yanked wide, making her look years younger than she actually was. She clung to Alex, who stood beside her. Sabrina caught his gaze and he let her hold it, like he was showing her something. He didn’t look scared or empty. He looked determined.

  “Don’t be,” she said, peering over the side of the lift to watch as they disappeared down the shaft. “Michael and I won’t let anything happen to either of you. I promise.”

  –––––

  As soon as the lift hit the bottom, she lowered the lid to the storage island and set the lock before laying the TAC-50 across it. Tearing open the boxes of ammo Michael had handed her, she dumped them into her cargo pockets before heading back the way she’d come. Stopping in the doorway, she found Michael standing at the back door—feet still bare, his own TAC-50 positioned against his shoulder, its barrel aimed out the room’s only unprotected window, toward the canyon’s only road.

  “Goddamn it, Sabrina.” He said it without turning to look at her. His tone told her exactly how angry he was and that he was totally unsurprised she’d deviated from the plan he’d formulated months ago.

  “I love you too,” she said, watching his shoulders slump slightly at her answer. She couldn’t help but smile a bit as she moved across the kitchen to stand beside him. “Any movement?”

  He didn’t answer so she pulled the rifle off her back and pressed it against her own shoulder before fitting her eye against the scope. In the distance she saw a truck, its dull green hood barely clearing the narrow canyon pass. It crawled along the dirt path leading to their house.

  “Whoever it is, if they’re here to kill us, they’re sure takin’ their sweet Jesus time about it,” she said, lowering the rifle to wedge the stock under her arm. She popped the magazine from the bottom of the rifle. “Could be a diversion for an aerial assault,” she said, reaching into her pocket for a handful of .50-cals and began feeding them into the magazine. “What do you think?”

  “I think that if we live through this, I just might kill you,” he said quietly, eye still pressed to the scope. “I think I love you so much it scares me.” He finally looked at her, the gray of his eyes gone almost completely black with anger. “I think that if something happens to you, it’ll probably be the end of me.”

  “Well, which is it?” She refit the magazine to the bottom of the rifle, clicking it in place. “Do you love me or want to kill me?”

  “Both. Almost always, both.” He shot her a smirk before refitting the scope to his eye. “Take high ground. If they decide to rappel in from the cliffs, pick off as many as you can before they hit the bottom of the canyon.”

  She leaned into him, kissing the hard line of his mouth. She pulled back, ready to go but he snagged onto her shirt and held her for a moment, looking her in the eye before letting her go. He opened his mouth to say something but she cut him off before he could get it out. She wasn’t ready
to say good-bye to him. She wasn’t ready to hear it either.

  “I want pancakes for dinner,” she said, giving him a wink before turning to head upstairs to the loft.

  “Wait.”

  When she looked back at him, his posture had changed, his spine less rigid. With a final glance through the scope, he dropped the TAC from his shoulder and reached for the door.

  Her bravado left her, shoved aside by the kind of choking panic that could kill you if you let it. “Don’t go—”

  Her words fell on deaf ears as he stepped out onto the porch. She followed, moving to stand beside him just as the faded pickup truck rounded a bend in the river, crossing over a wood and stone bridge loaded with enough C-4 to punch a hole in the ground the size of Rhode Island. Instead of detonating the explosives, Michael let the truck pass over it.

  Seeing them, the driver picked up speed. “Do you know who it is?” she said just as the driver of the truck pulled up less than ten yards from where they stood.

  The driver’s door popped open and a dusty boot stepped out, followed by two hands held aloft and a black cowboy hat. “I’m not armed,” the driver said loudly, clearing the truck door to stand near the hood. “You remember me, boy?”

  Beside her, Michael chuffed out a bark of laughter. “Kind of hard to forget you, Senator.”

  Senator. Sabrina looked hard at the man in front of her. Older, for sure, but almost unrecognizable behind the hat and sunglasses he wore. She’d only seen him on television but Michael had met him in person—the day he’d been asked to find and rescue the politician’s grandson, Leo.

  Senator Maddox laughed, “Playin’ dead has a way of erasing a person’s memory. Wasn’t even sure I’d make it once I breached the pass.”

  Michael made a sound in the back of his throat, readjusting the rifle cradled in his arms. “Almost didn’t,” he said, shooting a hard look at the truck parked in front of their house. “Nice ride.”