Stranger Mine: a Base Branch novel

by Megan Mitcham

  Never go toward the light, buddy.

  Other than the breathing of the house and the stir of wildlife, nothing moved below that caused him to pause. When things got too still, too quiet, then he’d worry. With his swinging junk, Ryan took the stairs three at a time, rounded the corner, and shot to the window. On the dark horizon nothing moved. He wished he’d gotten the thermal imagery unit back from Piper the first night, but he hadn’t wanted to set himself in temptation’s path.

  Ryan tied off the boots, shoved his feet into his fatigues, pulled on socks, and secured the boots to his feet. He dragged the PIG pack over his head then turned toward Piper. Two more steps and she appeared at the top landing. When she descended, her gaze darted around the room, and then teetered between the windows. Her hand crushed the strap of the AK-47 hanging over her shoulder.

  “All clear for now.” He secured the Velcro straps around his torso.

  “We’re late. We can’t screw this up because we were fucking. Here’s your night vision.”

  They’d planned to be in position by midnight, knowing the deliveries always arrived between 0200 and 0300. So, yeah, they were late, but not too late.

  “I’d like to think we did a little more than just fuck, but stay alive and we’ll talk about it later.” Ryan took the monocular she offered and dropped to his knees before her. He pulled the band over his head, letting them hang loose around his neck. Next he unzipped his pack and held out a detonator. A single strip of electrical tape crossed the back of the remote. “For the garage.”

  “I’ll blow it as soon as their rear wheels disappear.”

  “As soon as. The bodies probably stink like a three-day-old battlefield. We can’t risk them getting clued in and backing out or warning the others.”

  “I’ve got it,” she snapped. Her feet tap-danced on the terracotta tiles.

  When she reached for the device he tried to grab her hand, but she pulled out of range.

  “I need the other detonator.” Her eyes narrowed and she settled him with a glare.

  A big ole what the fuck reared its head in Ryan’s mind. Of course, they didn’t have time to explore it. The look on her face said she didn’t want to anyway. Maybe ever. What the hell had he done to elicit such a reaction? Only minutes ago she snuggled him like he were the only source of heat in Alaska. Here in the winter, after the sun set, temperatures dropped to the forties. Perhaps she’d only been cold. As cold as his insides felt at her unaffected manner.

  From the pack he pulled the black remote with two tape strips crossing its back. “Give me your hand.”

  “We don’t have time for this.”

  “Then I suggest you give me your hand.”

  Piper snapped out her palm. Had he been three inches closer, she’d have smacked him backward. Ryan placed his hand beneath and it spread an inch on every side, dwarfing hers.

  “Whatever it is. You can tell me. I’ll help you any and every way I can.” At her feet he begged. For damn near half a minute he waited, despite the voice in his head telling him to move his ass and get in position. She didn’t budge, soften, or even seem to breathe. “If you refuse to let me in—if you take off on your own agenda—I’ll hold you accountable for the death of innocents.”

  “No more than I’ll hold myself. Let’s get in position.”

  Despite the anger boiling his blood, Ryan kissed her palm before placing the remote over the show of affection. To his delight, her lower lip quivered. Just one little shake before she clamped it between her teeth. He pulled out the third and final remote detonator and slid it into a snap pocket on the front of his pack. Standing, he slung the ruck over his back along with his M4.

  “In positions,” he agreed.

  They hustled through the house and across the back porch. Thick clouds huddled overhead, adding a layer of doom to the already heavy night. Ryan headed left to the southwest corner of the jail, while Piper turned right to take cover at the northwest edge of the house. He didn’t look back, despite the gut-twisting need. Pulling up the thermal imagery monocular, he scanned the rise of the foothills. The caravan would come over the rise and down a mile stretch to the front of the property. He just hoped everything went according to plan. Two against twenty-two weren’t great odds.

  15

  When he didn’t look back Piper sighed with relief. Had he turned to check on her or blow her a goodbye kiss, he’d have noticed the bulges at the back on her shirt. Then she’d have had to explain why she’d taken two handguns and two extra magazines off the dead bodies yesterday. Around the side of the house, she broke into a dead sprint all the way to the front.

  At the main entrance, she bolted through the lit archway. Heart in her throat and her stomach dragging two feet behind, she pulled metal charges from molded balls of C-4. She cleared the archway then moved to the interior of the house, pulling every charge on the front half of the house. Piper didn’t let the sting of guilt inside, though it rapped hard on her chest. Her deception couldn’t be helped. She had a mission to complete too. It ran hand in hand with Ryan’s, save for one exception.

  Émile Gabrone must not die in this battle.

  What sounded like a hail of bullets crashed against the front windows. Piper dove behind the chair Ryan had used as a bed the first night and curled into a ball. Falling glass didn’t follow the cutting noise. She peeked from behind the furniture. Rain drops the size of gumballs pelted the glass in waves. She swallowed the sickness rising from her belly and stood.

  Great, I’m going to freeze to death before this thing even gets started.

  Hopeful, if not confident, the house wouldn’t come crumbling down around Gabrone’s ears, Piper steeled herself for the onslaught of rain and frigid temperatures. She sprinted for the position she should have posted for the last twenty minutes. Rounding the archway into the blasting downpour, she skidded into the solid wall of Ryan’s chest. His hands clamped her upper arms and shoved her back beneath the eve. Water dripped from her forehead. Trickled down her nose. But it ran in torrents down his neck and face and poured from his narrowed brows.

  “What were you doing, Piper?” His voice held none of the affection she’d grown to expect in such a short time. Its deep growl meant to intimidate, not entice as it had before.

  “I…” Words altogether failed her.

  “The truth,” he demanded with a small shake.

  “I needed a jacket,” she whispered. It hurt to look him in the eye and lie. But she had to keep his gaze from wandering. “I didn’t want to die of hypothermia before they got here.” Then, with more gusto, she turned the tables. “What are you doing?”

  Ryan’s right hand left her arm and reached behind him. He pulled a small square from his ruck then handed it to her. “It’s not much, but it’ll keep the water off of you.”

  Her heart squeezed. She accepted the digitally-patterned rubber he shook out into an actual poncho. “What about you? You’re soaked through already.”

  “I’ve lived through worse. Put it on and let’s move. And don’t scare me like that again. When I rounded the corner and you weren’t in position I lost a good two years.”

  After pulling the poncho over her head and grabbing her AK from Ryan, Piper stepped so he faced the rain and the muddled mountain scenery. She stretched onto tiptoe, melding her lips to his. “I’m sorry,” she said. And she was. Sorry for lying. Sorry for not confiding in him. Sorry for the possibilities that would never be between them.

  He walked her to her corner position, then released her hand and moved like a panther across the lawn. Fast. Sleek. Silent. She lost sight of him only a few yards away in the curtain of rain that distorted the light from the house. Sidling close to the structure, she managed to stay mostly dry. She waited several minutes then dug two pairs of handcuffs from the base of a shrub she’d buried them near the day before. The cool metal chilled her skin as she tucked them into the back pocket of her dark jeans.

  Not ten minutes after Ryan escaped her sight, his sharp warnin
g whistle split the air. Though muffled in the deluge the tone jolted her heartbeat into overdrive. A cold sweat broke out across her entire body. She longed to run to the front corner of the house and watch them come over the rise, but he’d warned her against it. The house-front’s decorative lighting would give her away with a stray glance.

  Piper rested her forehead against the stucco, breathed through her nose then out her mouth. She counted all the while, keeping estimated mental tabs on the caravan’s progress. Vomit reflex under control, she turned toward the garage, detonator in one hand and AK in the other. The garage door rumbled open and everything went quiet. The rain faded into the background. In her ear, the pound of her heartbeat waned.

  Nothing mattered in that moment, except the rumble of the engine as the blacked-out Escalade rolled into view. The wiper blades slashed on the windshield in a vicious back and forth, trying and failing to keep the onslaught at bay. Tucked into shadow as Ryan planned, she didn’t worry they’d see her. Especially with the cover of rain. She didn’t even worry about the number of lives she was about to take. She only worried about three. Hers. Ryan’s. And Matthew’s.

  16

  Focus, Noble.

  Ryan banished his inner turmoil. He knew she’d lied to him, but what the hell could he do about it now? They were about to be in the throws of a firefight. Even though it helped more than it hurt, sometimes it sucked to have eyeballs that doubled as lie detectors.

  The adrenaline that rode him hard washed away like a receding tide. Quiet calm took its place. He raised the silencer on the barrel of his rifle and aimed the crosshairs of his scope on the bus driver’s head. Sure, two detonations as loud as a sonic boom would rock the air, but it was still nice when the bad guys didn’t hear which way the bullets were coming from. They’d see the barrel flash. Or at least the last couple would. Not that it would do them any good. He wished he had another silencer for Piper’s gun, but he hoped she didn’t have to use it. Pushing the button that would end a handful of people’s lives was hard enough without staring your target in the eyes and pulling the trigger.

  Vehicle one rolled by, headed for the garage. The faded school bus headed toward him. Its rusted wheels rolled to a stop only six yards away. Heat warmed his face and the flash of fire lit the world all around as the first bomb detonated. Ryan squeezed the trigger. The Hispanic man, with a tattoo of Santa Muerte staining his bulged shoulder, slumped over the extra large steering wheel.

  Screams lit the night. All in reaction to the blast still rattling windows. Barrel up, Ryan raced to the northwest corner of the building. Two men in the front seat stared, mouths open at the fireworks. The back hatch opened. Two sets of boots hit the ground. He ended the lives of the men in the SUV—driver and shot-gun rider—in a smooth level of his rifle. One bald head leaned into the front seat, hands searching his drooping compadres. He never found what happened to them. The impact of the bullet sent him sprawling into the dark recesses of the vehicle.

  Side doors fanned open on either side, but the occupants had learned their lesson. All remained behind the cover of the black Cadillac. Shouts were exchanged, but he didn’t hear them. They blurred into the mush of his brain as his gaze locked on the tail car parked at the back porch. Not as planned. They’d taken a gamble and lost. Too many possibilities and not enough remote detonators.

  The matching SUV bloomed like a flower. Men leaped from the interior, weapons up, looking for the fight. Ryan ignored his constricting chest and snipped three of the men. But that left four more for Piper to deal with. A bullet smacked the ground ten feet from his boot. A quick reminder he had his own shit to handle. And fast.

  The first bullet opened a floodgate and they rained down on his head as frequently as moisture from the cloud above. He flattened against the building and waited. And wished. Wished Piper was okay. Wished Piper would blow the front just to create a diversion. When the later didn’t happen he prayed to God the former did.

  Twenty long seconds later the frequency ebbed. He dropped onto his back two feet into the wide open. Two sets of legs shown in the space beneath the car. One shot to a calf. Another to a foot. Ryan ended their flailing with two more bullets. The last two goons proved to be quick studies, jumping into the belly of the metal beast.

  Two more hulking bodies littered the ground near the house, next to the ones he’d take out. So, she’d gotten two. She only had two left. Piper could do it.

  Ryan rolled to cover. Spitting the mud that sloshed onto his mouth, he got to his feet in a flash and waited. The rain left as quickly as it had come. The sudden silence was more than he could bear. He wanted to call to Piper. He wanted to run into the open and draw their fire. But he wouldn’t make those rookie mistakes. If he died, so would Piper. He’d told her about the rendezvous, but, not wanting to worry her, had left out the part about negotiating a minefield.

  With silent steps he backed down the building to his original position and on to the southeast corner. Taking both ends of the building into his periphery, he held. By now they knew it was a lone shooter on their left. With two of them, no doubt they’d take the split and attack from both directions. At least, that’s what he’d do.

  From this vantage point he could see the end of car two, but more importantly, he could see the tail car and the trail of bodies leading to the house. None of which boasted bronze hair and a shapely ass.

  He’d nearly given up hope on his quarry when a tiny scrape of rock on metal gave away the man on his right, a split second before his barrel peeked around the corner and sprayed. Ryan fell back behind the jailhouse, rolled toward the other end of the building, and took one shot. The man didn’t even stumble, just fell, his shoulder-length brown hair pooling with blood.

  Ryan maintained his point, let the M4 rest at his side, and removed his sidearm. He went high this time. He kept everything close and lifted on tiptoes. With half an eye, he shot the behemoth in the shoulder then retreated. Ryan circled around in the opposite direction, keeping away from the building and staying on the grass.

  The screaming had quieted, but when he stepped from behind the jail the bus erupted in cries and high-pitched squeals. The gunman turned, but it was too late. Ryan’s bullet caught him in the temple. With a weary eye on the bus, Ryan advanced on the SUV. He checked the bodies. Counted his dead seven. Counted five from the other Escalade.

  He wanted to go to her, but had to check the bus or he could get them both killed, if he missed a guard or impersonator among the hostages. Ryan scanned the house, surrounding area, and the jailhouse as he made his way toward the cheese as he and his sister used to call the yellow buses.

  When he stepped onboard the occupants sucked the air out of the cylindrical tube with their collective gasp. Most of the women cowering in the seats were no more than eighteen. A few older. A couple far, far too young. Keeping his pistol up, Ryan removed his left hand and presented his palm. He spoke in Spanish.

  “I am sorry you had to witness the violence. My name is Ryan. I will not hurt you. I am not part of any cartel. I am here to make sure you are reunited with your families.” Some women straightened from their huddles. A few shrank deeper into the seat as he advanced one step at a time to the head of the aisle. “For your safety and mine, if anyone on this bus works for the Sinaloa or is loyal to “El Chapo” Guzmán Loera, you need to stand slowly with your hands in the air.”

  They became statues, the creepy pictures in haunted houses where nothing moved but the eyes. As if in choreographed unison, every gaze traveled toward the back of the bus. Every gaze except three. Two belonged to twin girls balled together on the second row on the right. The third gaze stared unblinking and fake shrinking from the back row. Yes, the woman hugged herself—which displayed thick biceps and powerful forearms. Yes, the woman’s lower lip quivered. Combined with the searing hatred radiating from her eyes, it only made her false emotion more pronounced.

  Ryan let his pistol drop to his side. He smiled at the ladies. Not the full-on wattage,
but an I’m sorry and everything’s going to be okay curve of the mouth. He walked casually as he talked.

  “Please remain calm and in your seats. Is anyone hurt? Injured in any way?” Again no one moved. “I am trained in first aid and can help you, if you let me.”

  While he walked, his gaze swept one side to the next, always keeping the woman in the back in his sight. A brunette with graying temples, who sat six seats up from the faker, raised her hand.

  “Sí, Señora?” Ryan bowed.

  “Señor, as far as I am aware no one is hurt, but we have not eaten in many hours. Maybe an entire day now. We are thirsty too,” she whispered.

  “Thank you for telling me. There are supplies in the house we can use before we leave.” Ryan assured her and the others, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. He took another step toward the back. The brunette grabbed his hand, pulling him up short.

  “Thank you, angel. Thank you for saving us. We are saved.” She kissed the back of his hand. When she released him, she clapped and raised her hands to the heavens. Others joined in, creating a cacophony of sound in the metal enclosure. More cheers erupted for their good fortune.

  All except the woman at the back.

  Ryan holstered his gun, regained his lost step, took another. Two seats from the back, the woman with long black hair and a darker attitude launched toward him. The knife blade glinted in the licking flames from the burning garage. She rushed hard, aiming right for his gut. He concaved his belly and snatched her wrist. With a twist, Ryan raised her hand into the air and rotated another fifteen degrees.