Love is Murder

by Sandra Brown

  “You’re delirious if you think I’m leaving you here alone. You can’t even shoulder your rifle to defend yourself.”

  “Cover me…with leaves. They’ll blow…right by me.”

  She shot him a look. “You’re over six feet tall. There aren’t enough leaves in Guatemala to cover you up. Besides, unless that damn dog finds a rabbit to chase, he’s going to sniff you out like rot on rancid meat.”

  “Nice analogy,” he said on a weak laugh.

  “You know what I meant.”

  “I do. And you’re right. I forgot about…Fido.”

  “Fido” was a Rottweiler. A big one. So far the drug runners had kept him on a tight leash because they knew exactly where Tink and Johnny were pinned down: fifty yards from a direct hit.

  But Johnny was dead right about one thing. They had to move out while he still could. He was fading fast.

  Crystal popped off several quick rounds then crawled backward the yard down the ridge to his side. Keeping low, she quickly exchanged her empty magazine for a full one then helped him sit up. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

  “Tink—”

  “I’m not leaving you.” She cut him off with a sharp look. “And the longer you lay there and argue with me, the more time we waste.”

  He was going with her if she had to drag him out. Considering he outweighed her by over a hundred pounds, she really did not want to do that.

  He muffled a groan at the pain and the effort but with her help, managed to get to his feet. Digging deep for strength, she slung his good arm over her shoulder then reached down for his M-4 and shoved it in his good hand. He couldn’t fire it but she might need it before this was over.

  Then feeling like she was carrying roughly a half ton of deadweight, she wrapped her free arm around his waist and headed south. The extraction point was a good quarter of a mile away through pulsing heat, dense undergrowth and rough, uneven terrain.

  They didn’t make it ten yards before his knees buckled.

  They both started to go down.

  “Stay with me,” she pleaded and calling on reserves she hadn’t known she possessed, somehow muscled him upright again.

  “Damn, Tink. You’re…the woman,” he gritted out as he fought his rubber legs and managed to stay vertical. Sweat poured down his face. “Your first life…I’m thinkin’…pack mule. Pretty pack mule,” he amended with what little breath he had.

  “Shut up,” she grumbled again, fighting tears because she knew from the heavy way he leaned on her that she was losing him. “How many times do I have to tell you to save your brea—”

  She stopped short when she saw movement up ahead.

  “Company,” she whispered and quickly eased him down behind a clump of ferns.

  Heart hammering, she knelt in a defensive position in front of him and raised her rifle.

  “Tinkerbelle, Tinkerbelle, this is Doc. Do you read me, over?”

  Still shouldering her rifle, she reached for the radio in the vest pocket near her throat. “I read you, Doc. What’s your twenty, over?”

  “About fifteen yards from the end of your rifle barrel. Got eyes on, Tink, darlin’. Hold fire. We’re comin’ in, over.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, Roger that.” She almost wept with relief. “Come on in. Johnny’s hit, over.”

  She glanced at Johnny. Eyes closed. Breath shallow. Face pale. Her heart sank even lower. “Hang on, baby. Dammit, you hang on, do you hear me?”

  Just when she thought he’d passed out, he cracked one eye open. “Nag, nag, nag.”

  And just when she thought she had reason to smile, a barrage of AK fire opened up behind them again.

  “How bad?” Doc—the tall, lanky former SEAL and team medic—appeared out of the thick foliage. He dropped to his knees and hunkered over Johnny as Gabe emptied a full magazine toward the shooters.

  “No vital organs but he’s lost a lot of blood,” Crystal said over her shoulder as she continued to lay down cover fire with Gabe.

  “Damn showboat.” Doc urgently assessed Johnny’s injury. “Do anything to impress your lady, right, pretty boy?”

  “You know me well,” Johnny agreed with a pained grimace. “I’m just dyin’ to score with that woman.”

  Doc turned quickly to Gabe, a former Delta Force lieutenant, who was on his belly beside Crystal, his M-4 hammering away. “He’s getting shocky. We’ve gotta get him out of here.”

  “Cover me.” Gabe scrambled back to Johnny then hauled him to his feet.

  Crystal stayed on her knees and laid down more return fire as Doc joined her, making sure that Gabe—who was an even bigger man than Johnny—had a running start.

  “You my…free ride?” Johnny managed weakly as Gabe hefted him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and double-timed it away from the enemy fire.

  “Always said that you former Force Recon Marines were nothin’ but a bunch of slackers,” Gabe grumbled over the concern in his voice. “Just hang on, bud. God knows you’re not worth the effort, but we’re gettin’ your sorry ass outta here.”

  “Countin’ on it, Angel Boy,” Johnny mumbled then passed out cold.

  “Let’s boogie.” Doc covered Crystal as she backed away, then quickly turned and followed her.

  * * *

  Johnny hung like a lifeless lump over Gabe’s shoulder as the big man pushed his way through the trees, vines and undergrowth. Crystal was hardly aware of the thick, dense foliage slicing tiny cuts in her arms and across her face as they hauled ass through the jungle. All she could think about was her husband as she alternately stopped and took a knee, returned the fire that kept dogging them, then jumped up and pressed on toward the beach.

  The terrain was rough; the plants and vines grabbed at her feet. She tripped over a tree root and went down hard. She was just pushing to her knees when Doc grasped her backpack from behind and lifted her to her feet like she didn’t weigh any more than a gnat.

  “That boat going to be there when we arrive?” she asked breathlessly as she raced alongside him.

  “Ever known the Choirboy to let us down?”

  Raphael “Choirboy” Mendoza, a native Colombian and charter member of Black Ops., Inc. like Doc, Gabe and Johnny, was their wheelman—in this case their outboard motor man.

  “What? What are you doing?” she asked Doc frantically when he stopped beside her.

  “Go,” he insisted as he pulled the pin on a frag grenade then winged it as hard as he could behind them.

  The grenade had no sooner exploded with a deafening blast than Doc shrugged out of his pack, tore open a pocket and pulled out a Claymore. “Go,” he repeated.

  “I’m not leaving you.” She took a knee again and covered him as he set the mine with a trip wire trigger while AK-47 fire lit up with a vengeance behind them.

  “That’ll keep ’em guessing,” he said after setting a second mine. “Now scoot.”

  They both took off at a run.

  She’d lost sight of Gabe and Johnny and was frantic to catch up with them when the first Claymore exploded. At least one bad guy had bought the farm on that one. The others were either hurt or very wary about running blindly after them.

  “They’re still on our ass.” Doc grabbed her arm as he ran alongside her. “Let’s double-time it.”

  They’d just leaped over a huge, downed tree trunk and, thank God, caught up with Gabe when Crystal heard the roar of an outboard motor.

  “Hallelujah!” Doc crowed and peeled ahead of Crystal to help Gabe maneuver Johnny down a steep, dirt embankment that dropped over twenty feet toward the river at a ninety-degree angle.

  Crystal scrambled down behind them, digging in her heels as she half skidded, half ran down the vertical drop that ended in the mud of the riverbank, where a flat-bottom boat with a pair of 200 horse outboards plowed up onto the shore.

  Their CO, Nate Black himself, was on his knees in the bow of the boat, manning an M-60 machine gun mounted on a tripod.

  “Sight for sore e
yes, gentlemen,” Gabe yelled above the chuck-chuck-chuck of the big gun as Nate peppered the bank with shells to the tune of 550 rounds per minute.

  Gabe clambered into the boat and laid Johnny as carefully as he could on the floor. Doc was next aboard. He held out a hand for Crystal and she jumped in. Doc was already on his knees beside Johnny, digging into his medic’s kit when Rafe shifted the twin motors into Reverse, backed away from the shore, then fast-shifted into Forward again and shot down the river.

  The M-60 had fallen silent and the threat from the AKs was in the far distance before Doc sat back on his heels. He’d done what he could for Johnny. He’d staunched the blood flow, wrapped his arm close to his ribs to immobilize it and hung an IV that dumped antibiotics and fluid into his body.

  Crystal could tell by the look on Doc’s face that the risk to her husband’s life was far from over.

  She sat on the floor of the boat, Johnny’s head cradled in her lap. He was too pale. His skin was too cool. And she was scared to death because he had not yet regained consciousness.

  “How bad?” She had to yell to be heard above the roar of the twin outboards.

  Doc shot Gabe a grim look over the top of her head before he met Crystal’s eyes. “Bad,” he said, knowing he had to level with her. “He needs blood.”

  “Then he’s going to get it.” She quickly rolled up her sleeve as the wind whipped her hair around her face and the roar of the outboards tried to drown out her words.

  Doc shook his head. “Crystal—”

  “He’s going to get it!” she shouted, cutting Doc off midprotest. “I’m O negative. Universal donor.”

  “Darlin’, a direct donor to recipient doesn’t always—”

  “I’m not going to let him die!” Tears welled up as she frantically reached for Doc’s kit then shoved it into his hands. “You are not going to let him die,” she said, pleading, demanding, bargaining for the life of the man she loved.

  After a long, hard look, Doc assembled what he needed to attempt the transfusion.

  “No promises.” He inserted the needle into her vein and started the process.

  “No promises,” she agreed on a whisper that was swept down river by the wind.

  She refused, though, absolutely refused to let her hope be swept away, as well.

  * * *

  Reed awoke to silence. The kind of silence that magnified every little sound and told him he wasn’t alone. The minute scrape of a chair leg on a tile floor. The rustle of clothes. A soft breath close by. The scent of the woman he loved.

  Very slowly, he opened his eyes. Closed them against the sharp glare of a white-on-white ceiling, walls and window shades. A monitor blipped softly away beside his bed.

  No. Not his bed. A hospital bed, he decided, picking up the scent of antiseptic and flowers as he sifted through his memory banks. Oh, right. He remembered. Just to make certain, he tried to move his shoulder.

  Very. Bad. Idea.

  Lots of pain. Lots of muzzled, distant pain ached and burned and dug into his flesh like a rusty knife. Hurt like hell…but not as bad as when Gabe had hauled him through the jungle then dumped him into the bottom of the boat.

  Safe.

  Hot damn.

  He’d dodged another bullet—figuratively speaking.

  A small, warm hand covered his, squeezed. He let out a deep, contented breath.

  He’d know her touch anywhere.

  When he opened his eyes again, it was to see his wife’s beautiful face. Her soft green eyes were misted with tears.

  “Hey, Tink,” he croaked and smiled for her because she looked so fragile he was afraid she might break.

  “Hey,” she whispered back, her own smile tremulous. “You had me worried, cowboy,” she confessed.

  “I need your mouth,” he said, suddenly consumed by a deep, demanding need to touch and taste and assure them both that he was alive.

  He watched her eyes warm as she stood up on tiptoe then leaned in and kissed him.

  Better. So much better.

  He lifted a hand to brush a tear from her cheek. “You remember what you said to me the first time we met?”

  “Get lost?” Her grin held as much relief as it did amusement.

  “Okay, I think that was the second time. The first time, you said, ‘I’m getting a little tired of you dogging my tail, cowboy.’��

  She smiled, lowered the side rail then climbed carefully into the bed beside him. “And you said something to the tune of, ‘You’re not one of those girl-on-girl types, are you?’”

  He lifted his good arm and made room for her to snuggle up close—right where she belonged. “Well, you did find me awfully easy to resist. What else was I supposed to think?”

  “The fact that I said I didn’t like you? That didn’t do it for you? Or that I told you, you were too vain, too pretty and too annoying?”

  “And yet—” contented, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head “—I got you where I wanted you, didn’t I?”

  She slid her leg across his thighs and careful of his IV, wrapped her arm around his waist. “Yeah. In bed.”

  He breathed deep, loving the scent of her and the lush softness of her body pressed against his. “You saved my bacon, Tink.” He swallowed a knot of emotion that suddenly clogged his throat. “Thought I was done for back there.”

  “Done?” Her voice was barely a whisper as she snuggled even closer. “Not a chance. I’m so not through with you yet.”

  “Even though I’m too vain, too pretty and too annoying?”

  “Yeah. Even though,” she said and he could hear the hours of worry slowly leach out of her voice right along with the tension that eased from her body. “Besides, you’ve got my blood in your veins now. I have high hopes it’ll straighten you out.”

  He tucked his chin and scowled down at her. “Your blood?”

  She filled him in on the midriver transfusion that had ultimately saved his life.

  He was stunned. And humbled. And…damn, he loved this woman.

  “Well, I guess that explains why I woke up feeling this driving urge to dye my hair red, get my ears pierced and steal your latest Victoria’s Secret catalog.”

  She laughed. “You always steal that catalog.”

  “True, but I’ve never had a yen to order from it before.”

  She levered herself up on an elbow and grinned down at him. “Shut up, Reed,” she whispered softly. “Just…shut up.”

  And then she kissed him with all the love any man could hope for.

  * * * * *

  THE NUMBER OF MAN

  J.T. Ellison

  Eerie to the max. Hitchcock would have loved the creepy, delusional, manipulative character of Michael. ~SB

  It began in a single moment, the briefest of connections. She, in pigtails, a miniature towheaded autocrat, ruling the playground as if it were her kingdom. He, sitting on the swings, the new boy, watching her cross the playground toward him, shoulders squared, prepared for battle. He was an outsider, an unknown, and therefore dangerous, and she needed to determine his loyalties. Only eight, he had been at the receiving end of this conversation several times; his mother wasn’t the most upright woman, had a tendency to follow her latest boyfriend when her previous love discarded her.

  Imperious Caitlyn hadn’t stopped walking, just drove her shoulder into his and laughed as he lost his grip on the swing and toppled over backward.

  “What’s your name?��

  “Michael.”

  Caitlyn had looked at him, and he squirmed. He knew he was dirty. It was inside him, and no amount of scrubbing would loosen its hold on his soul.

  Her blue eyes pierced him, some ineffable movements behind the lashes as she decided his fate.

  At long last, she nodded, curt as a judge.

  “Fine. You can stay on the swings. We’re going to play kickball.” She turned, and her minions followed. He swore he heard Caitlyn whisper, “Keep away from me, Michael.”

  He tried so very
hard to listen.

  * * *

  Twenty years later, Michael stood in another lot, waiting for Caitlyn to notice him. He’d been waiting for a month, ever since he’d bumped into her accidentally. He, on his way to work. She, leaving hers after a hard day. Their footsteps tapped in time, echoing through the still night, sneakers and stilettos crossing the asphalt. Distracted by his earbuds, he’d nearly missed her. A flicker of a shadow caught his attention, he raised his head—and there she was. Their eyes met across the darkened parking lot, this same, perfect expanse. His breath came short. Panic, fear and love all mingled together in his thoughts. She was still perfect. He was lost again.

  He waited for her every night after that, from the shadows, not wanting to frighten her. He was shy, so afraid to approach her. If she could only see him like she did when they were eight: just a scared young boy. She was too famous now, too important. She was always on her guard, would never let another being see inside her soul.

  The Pixies screamed in his ears, words of numbers, of man and beast and heavens, and the death of all things, and he sang the chorus in his mind, knowing exactly what the song was telling him. The iPod was set to shuffle, and it was beyond fitting that this song, his anthem, had come on when he hit the power button.

  Traffic had been a nightmare tonight, aggravated by the teasing rains. He never thought he’d make it, but he did. Breath catching in his chest, heart pounding from the sudden exercise, he waited in the usual spot. Rain trickled down his forehead, running into his mouth, pooling in the collar of his shirt. He removed the earbuds, listened to the staccato snapping grow closer.

  She passed right by him, didn’t see him hovering in the gloom behind her car. He’d found that spot was ideal for watching. Do it, Michael. Let her see you. Start your life together.

  He stood, quietly. He didn’t want to startle her, send her crashing to her car in a panic. She stopped, realizing she wasn’t alone, and he froze. He was still deep in the shadows, unable to be seen, wanting so badly for her to know he was there.

  Just talk to her, Michael. Just clear your throat and say hello.

  He could see the thoughts run through her mind, could tell when she decided she’d been imagining things. But she covered the rest of the steps to her car quickly and locked the doors of her BMW.