Adam

by Irish Winters

  It was a tight fit. Donavan was a tall kid. Adam wanted to extend the grave by a few inches, but the futility hit home. Those few inches didn’t matter. Not to Donavan. They laid him down at an angle, his head in one corner, his feet in the opposite.

  “I should’ve put his shirt on him,” Connor said. “His Hawaiian shirt.”

  “It’s okay, Connor. This way he looks like a crazy kid again,” Shannon whispered. “Like he’s ready to ride the waves.”

  Looking out to the unforgiving sea, Adam stifled his heart at her tender assessment of a good man down. She had a way of seeing the real Donavan in that hole. He’d been born to ride the wind and the surf. It almost seemed fitting he’d lie down forever surrounded by the ocean he’d loved.

  No, damn it!

  Adam clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, the rock of a scream stuck in his chest, and mad as hell. This wasn’t where or how a hero should be buried. Not out here in the middle of nowhere, and certainly not where his parents couldn’t come cry over their lost boy. A soldier who’d fought valiantly and served his country with honor deserved better. Donavan didn’t even look peaceful. He looked sad. Abused. Murdered.

  Red-hot rage licked at the walls of Adam’s gut. I’m coming for you, Ramsey.

  Shannon’s sniffle jerked Adam out of his angry reverie. He blinked his anger away and saw his friend again. This was the part he was never good at—the stepping away part. That was why Shirley’d thrown his things out. He never knew when to quit.

  Even now, Connor and Shannon knelt waiting on him to commence filling the hole. The breeze off the ocean wafted over them, bringing with it the fresh fragrance of wide-open air and surf. The waves pounding the shore had become mere background noise, but today, in this single moment in time, they sounded melancholy. Lonely. So damned desolate that Adam wanted to bawl.

  Shannon cleared her throat, asking permission in her timid way. “I want to say a few words.”

  Adam gave her the go-ahead nod. Connor had already gone to her side and taken her hand. It was a small thing, but it choked Adam. Yeah. Connor was himself again. Adam wasn’t. All the digging and lifting had wrenched his tender ribs, but he was glad they hurt. He needed the pain. Used the anger. It kept the tears at bay, kept him hard and cold. He didn’t want to be himself right now, not when he had killing to do.

  The thought of the final act of burial suffocated him. Pretty soon he would cover his friend with sand and dirt. Once again, he’d be caught in the claustrophobic sensation of being buried alive in that hole with Donavan. Displaced empathy, the awful tendency to become the other person, always did him in. He knew it well. All the sand in Donavan’s face and nose, the confinement of the walls of the cold, wet grave—just the thought sent panic crawling up Adam’s already dry throat, choking the life out of him and closing off his air.

  He cursed his internal weakness and channeled anger instead. Not now. Maybe not today. But the time would come when he’d let it all out. And Ramsey would die.

  “We are gathered here today,” Shannon began softly, “to remember and honor our friend and companion, Junior Agent Donavan Easton. I didn’t know him very long, but he seemed like a man who loved everything in his life. He lived it to the fullest.”

  “He loved his mom,” Connor said quietly. “He was a good kid.”

  No one spoke for a moment. It was Adam’s turn, but he didn’t speak. Couldn’t. There were no words for times like this.

  “And he loved the Army. I could tell by the way he talked to me about when he enlisted. He was proud to serve his country. I’m thankful for all of the ways that he served me,” Shannon said. “I bet he was the best sniper the Army Rangers ever had.”

  Adam could barely stand to look at her. She wasn’t afraid to let her feelings show. Tears streamed openly down her face. There she was again, stepping up to the challenge of the day like it was no big deal, and doing a bang-up job.

  “He must’ve been a really good friend, because that’s all I see here today,” she whispered, blinking hard. “Good friends. Loyal friends. His brothers. A couple sisters, too.”

  Adam clenched his fists, and God, he tried, but the tears fell anyway.

  “A man can’t ask for a better way to be laid to rest,” Connor finished the eulogy as quietly as Shannon, “than to be surrounded by brothers and sisters who knew him and loved him.”

  “God bless him.” Izza’s edgy voice ended the eulogy. It was just like her to come late to the graveside, fighting her tears. Izza hated to show weakness, and God bless the fool who made her cry, but there she was. Standing behind the others. Wiping her cheeks. She let her anger out with a vow of vengeance. “Let’s get the bastard who killed him.”

  “Amen.” Adam bowed his head. That was something he could pray for. The only easy day is yesterday. His motto. His promise now to Ramsey. I’m coming for you. You’d better run for your piece-of-shit life. Every day will be hell for you because I will find you. You’re going to die.

  Adam stiffened his back and squared his shoulders. He cocked his arm and smartly raised his right hand, his fingers stiff and straight to the edge of his right brow. With his heart in his throat, he cast his gaze out to the wide Pacific, afraid if he made eye contact with the others, his tears would fall. He saluted his friend with pride for noble service humbly rendered. There should’ve been a twenty-one-gun salute. There should’ve been a bugler and the plaintive call of Taps. Damn it. Ramsey should’ve been in that grave.

  And suddenly, Adam did have something to say. He came to parade rest, his hands clenched behind his back, his feet spread. With the breeze in his face, he cleared his throat, then closed his eyes and recited the words of an old Navy poem, “Bury Me With Sailors,” Author Unknown.

  It was five simple verses, a pitiful tribute to his friend, but they captured his own death wish. To lie down among friends when his time came. To spend eternity with like-minded men who’d given all, and who knew what it meant to “face the guns and die…”

  The last verse rolled reverently off his tongue.

  So bury me with Sailors, please,

  Though much maligned they be.

  Yes, bury me with Sailors,

  For I miss their company.

  We'll not soon see their likes again;

  We've had our fill of war.

  But bury me with men like them

  Till someone else does more.”

  “Amen,” Shannon whispered, and Adam swallowed hard, his all given. Damned if she didn’t clear her throat and surprise the hell out of him. “This poem was written by John Masefield, and it was published in 1902. It’s called ‘Sea Fever,’ and it reminds me of Donavan. I thought you guys would like to hear it.”

  She coughed again, and lifted her voice above the background music of the gulls and the surf. Adam couldn’t take his eyes off her. He’d never heard anything lovelier than those three poignant verses of a man’s longing for the lonely sea. For the grey dawn. For a sweet dream when life ended. He could have kissed Shannon for the depth of her insight of a man she’d only just met. That poem was Donavan down to his bare feet and his suntan.

  “Amen,” Izza said quietly when the poem ended. “Thanks, Shannon. That was real nice.”

  But at last, it was time. A gull cried overhead, mimicking the sorrow in Adam’s soul. Like death and life, the great Pacific crashed relentlessly to shore. Together, the four friends dropped to their knees in silence and pushed the soft white sand of a deserted island over their honored friend. When the last of it was tamped down good and proper, Adam pushed up from the beach and extended a helping hand to Shannon. She came easily into his side.

  Connor already stood with his arm around Izza, her eyes hard but rimmed with tears. “You two stay here and rest,” he said quietly. “Izza and I are going to take a look around.”

  “No,” Adam growled. “Like you said, all four of us need to—”

  Connor stopped him cold. “No, Adam. You and Shannon have been out all night. You need to ea
t and rest. We’ve decided. It’s our turn. We won’t be gone long.”

  “We won’t rest long, Connor. Damn it, mark my words, I’m going after that son-of-a-bitch.” Adam knew he came across harsh, but he didn’t care. War had come to this island paradise, and he meant to win it.

  He couldn’t rest. Too angry to eat, all Adam did was plant his butt in the sand and plan how he’d do it. Unless Connor and Izza beat him to it, he would take Ramsey down. There was no doubt in his mind. He meant the man to suffer. He almost hoped Connor and Izza weren’t successful, but he was also smart enough to know they very well might be.

  They were the ultimate hunter-killer team, this husband and wife duo of ex-scout snipers. At least Connor was. Izza was an ex-Marine security cop—like that made a difference to her shooting prowess. Connor admitted it often. She hit her targets more often and with better accuracy than he did. The woman was steady as a rock, with eagle eyes. Meaner, too.

  If Connor was up to par, they might just return with Ramsey’s head on a post. But Adam wanted to be the one who did it. He wanted the satisfaction of plunging his knife hilt-deep into Ramsey’s neck, slicing it open, ending him like the bastard had done to poor Dillon. It galled Adam that he was confined to camp. He didn’t need rest, but he couldn’t leave because Shannon was obviously running on empty. Evil rankled strong and hard in his blood while Adam wrestled with right and wrong. Part revenge, part self-defense, this was his clearest plan ever.

  “Ah, Adam.”

  Glancing at Shannon, Adam didn’t really see her, much less hear her. Despite her very gracious prayer over Donavan, her timid voice irked him now. This was a day for strength. For war whoops, face-paint, and death. Ramsey needed to be afraid. Very afraid.

  Adam’s palms itched for the molded grip of his Sig Sauer P228. Ramsey had a gun; Adam wanted his trusty nine-mil, his weapon of choice. He’d slept with it often on missions and in the service. He wanted it now, but it laid at the bottom of the Pacific.

  Instead—he had Shannon. She was too gentle and too nice for this place. If he couldn’t act on his death wish, Adam needed to strike back. He couldn’t, not with her sitting nearby and watching. The ugly, hard side of his soul had to stay hidden and restrained. For now. Soon, he’d let it out. No leash. No rules. No holds barred.

  “Umm, Adam.”

  Again that gentle, nagging voice broke through the angry roar in his head. She didn’t understand what he’d become. He hoped she never would. Right then, a thousand demons screamed inside his skull to act, to move, to do something. Anything! Not being able to follow through was half his problem. Frustration stoked his rage, but it also clarified his plan. He breathed a slow, measured breath. I need to be the one who—

  “Umm, Adam?”

  “What?” He snapped at her this time. She sat in their lousy excuse for a camp and she looked scared again. With his mind caught up in murder, even that pathetic look on her grimy face irritated him. This woman was scared of everything. With her hand stuck in her side, she looked like she had runner’s cramp, the way she twisted her body and arched her spine. They both needed to wash and eat, but he couldn’t sit still long enough. He had a killer to hunt. Now wasn’t the time for a timid, whiny woman.

  “I think my water just broke.”

  That got his attention. “You what?” he roared.

  He’d heard right. The pain-filled eyes of a woman in labor met his. She grimaced, nodded, and blew out a shuddering breath. Of all the stupid, poorly timed—

  “You’re pregnant? Shit! Are you sure?”

  Stupid question.

  “Ahhhh, yes, I am.” She tipped her head back and groaned, clutching the small mound of her belly, a belly he hadn’t really noticed until now. He took a closer look. She had no gut on her. No baby bump. Well, not really. That small mound didn’t look big enough for a nine-month pregnancy. There was no way this was happening. Not there. Not now. He scrambled to her side. “For hell’s sake, Shannon. You’re having a baby? Here?”

  “Yes-s-s-s.” With a deep hiss, Shannon leaned back, the wrinkles on her forehead knitted. “Ahhhh... it hurts, Adam. It really hurts.”

  “Then lay down... or something.” He pressed her flat to the ground, looking around, for what he didn’t know. Bleeding wounds and broken arms he could handle. Burying bodies, killing Ramsey, sure, but a baby? Here? Now? In the middle of all this? What was she thinking?

  She gripped his hand. Tight. “Help m-m-me. Please.”

  “Well, yeah. Sure. Okay then.” His mind pinged back to all he never knew about childbirth. Contractions. She must be having contractions. That was why the death grip with fingernails digging into the back of his hand. Shannon was in pain. Her jaw clenched so tight he could hear her teeth grinding. He calmed. Kind of. She needed help. He was the only one there. Oh, shit.

  “How far along are you?” He knelt at her side, concern breaking through his befuddled anger.

  “S-s-s-six. Maybe s-s-s-seven months. Oh, God. Ouch!” She bore down again, crunching his fingers. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing for her to be doing or not, but she was doing it. He counted. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Four-one thousand. She released the pressure, but didn’t let go. Okay. That seemed like a strong contraction. He guessed. It sure hurt him.

  “Six months?” he asked, hoping she was talking out of her head, and really, oh God please—really—meant more like eight or nine. Six months seemed way too early to be having a baby, wasn’t it? No wonder she had no gut on her.

  Shannon nodded, gulping great breaths now that she could breathe again. “Maybe seven.”

  “My hell. Why didn’t you say anything before?”

  “I just... a-a-ahh…” Man, this woman’s grip was strong. A light sheen of sweat covered her dirty face, and he wished he had time to clean her up. But things seemed to be progressing pretty quick. What the hell am I going to do?

  “Shannon. Are you sure you’re in labor?” he asked again.

  Her scorching look was answer enough.

  Duh, Torrey. Of course she is. A woman would know that kind of thing. Oh shit!

  “Okay then.” He sucked in a deep breath. His mind snapped to attention. A new plan for the day materialized. Ramsey would wait. “We’re going to have a baby.”

  Another evil look glanced over her face before her features transformed into wrinkles and sweat. When that contraction eased off, he scrambled out of her grasp to grab what was left of that parachute. It was the only thing large enough in camp to serve as a sheet, and, oh hell, whatever else he needed.

  Slicing a big square of the flimsy nylon fabric, he was back before the next pain, and just in time. She grabbed hold of his forearm while he tried to position the sheet beneath her backside. Adam and Shannon were face to face, his heart pounding fast and furious.

  “You okay?” he asked, for want of something better to say at the moment. What does a dumb jock say to a woman in the throes of labor anyway?

  She nodded, but she kept arching her back and whimpering.

  “Breathe, Shannon,” he said softly. “Nice and easy. Breathe.”

  “It hurts,” she ground out. “My stomach, my back— God! Everything hurts.”

  And then it dawned on him. Her pants had to go. Off. Oh, yeah. He ran back for another piece of that damned parachute.

  The baby was coming way too fast, and Adam was scared. A preemie born in the middle of nowhere was the worst possible scenario. Could it survive? He didn’t know. Babies weren’t his thing. Guns and HALOs were. Yeah, he’d raised a few baby animals during his boyhood days. Chickens. Puppies. He knew basic human biology, and how things worked, but this was the last thing his team needed. He’d buried too many on the beach already.

  God, not a baby, too!

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I... I don’t want it.”

  “Your baby?” He had to ask. That wasn’t what he’d expected to hear from someone as sweet and thoughtful as Shannon Reagan. Cursing the i
nsanity of what was definitely about to take place, he hurriedly rinsed his hands with spring water before he rushed back to her.

  All pregnant women about to deliver probably said they didn’t want their kid, didn’t they? Her eyes were wide and distant. She shuddered, clearly in pain. Maybe out of her head. It seemed a natural response.

  Kneeling at her side, he took her shoes off and eased his fingers beneath the waistband of her pants. “I’m going to slide your pants down and off. Can you lift up and help a little?”

  “Sorry. No, damn it,” she mumbled, as another contraction hit. Grabbing his shoulder, she dug her fingernails in deep. He flinched, then stiffened to endure the shooting pain in his ribs. This delivery might just kill him before Connor and Izza returned.

  The contraction ended, and Adam blew out a big breath along with Shannon. By now, he dripped with sweat, too. This was a different kind of battle, and it scared the hell out of him. Women died during childbirth. They bled out. He recalled those dangers now. Sometimes they got infections that made them sick, then they died. Or the baby was born dead. Or they both died during delivery. And this dirty, stinking island was the furthest thing from a sanitary hospital room.

  She sucked in a deep breath and groaned, reaching for his shoulder. He dodged just in time, offering his hand instead.

  “Son-of-a-bitch! I don’t want it!” she screamed this time.

  “Okay. Okay. Calm down. You’re doing good. You don’t want it. I heard you, but it’s still got to come out.” She needed to be pacified, so he pacified.

  Very gently, he pulled her shoes off and clothing down. He covered her with the parachute sheet, hoping to get her situated before another contraction hit. Casting her wet clothing aside, he wished again he’d cleaned her pretty face. The first sight a newborn saw should not be the blackened, sweaty face of its warrior mother. Blowing out a big breath of sheer nerves, hyperventilation set in—with him. He was in way over his head. What a helluva day, huh?