Sinking back to the sand, he tried to spit. Honest, he gave it his best shot, but a man cannot spit when dust and sand coat every taste bud, every tooth, his gums, the inside of his lips and all the way back to his tonsils. Not one hint of saliva obliged. He was stuck with a mouthful of Utah desert. Felt like sandpaper. Did not taste like chicken. The grit moved into his windpipe, making breathing a suicidal chore.
Blinking didn’t help much either, other than to scratch the hell out of his eyeballs He rested for an eternity before he made another effort. It took a lot, but finally he balanced on shaky knees and shakier arms.
Scrape marks on the hardscrabble ground indicated someone else might have been there. Even that clue failed in the optimism department. Dinosaurs could’ve made those marks a million years ago for all Connor knew.
His mother’s sweet smile came to mind. Every good Catholic boy knows how to pray, and Bridgett Maher had taught her sons well. Now seemed as good a time as any. His forehead hit the ground in supplication. “God. I gotta find her.”
He lay there a moment longer as the dust devil lifted out of sight. He knew it. The prayer was already answered. And he was the answer. Connor groaned. God must have a helluva sense of humor to have sent him to find Izza. Funny guy.
He started out slowly, moving in inches to keep the pain in his gut at bay. Determination drove him. Squinting into the glare of bleached white sand, at last he saw her facedown ahead of him, just beyond a raft of dried, twisted shrubs. With one hand and knee stretched forward, it looked as if she’d collapsed in the middle of a crawl.
Connor moved to her on hands and knees with the speed of an octogenarian. “Izza,” he croaked when finally at her side.
She blinked against the glare, her half-open eyes as full of dirt and dust as his.
He tried again. “Izza? You with me?”
“Huh?” Her one scratchy syllable sounded as desiccated as his.
Balancing on one trembling hand and two weak knees, Connor reached for the edge of her shirt and gave it a quick tug while he still had strength. “Come here. Gotta... go.”
“Let go... me,” she growled.
He nudged her arm, hoping to piss her off if nothing else. Anger would get her moving, but all this chatter came with a high price. A drop of blood trickled over his lip, splattering like a black bug on the hot sand below him. It turned solid the moment it landed, already baked to a crisp.
“I said—”
“Shut up,” he muttered hoarsely.
She blew a puff of dust where she lay. “You... shut up.”
“Move... your ass... soldier.”
It worked. Izza peeled her body off the dirt, groaning all the way. “Hate... you.”
“Keep... moving,” he rasped. Hate was acceptable if it got her moving enough to save her life. Connor edged his knees forward. The blistered palms of his hands scraped along the scorching trail he was blazing. Inch by desperate inch, he moved.
Like an elderly woman, she shuffled on hands and knees beside him. “Hate... you.”
“Shut up.”
“You first.”
It had to be the stupidest dialogue on the planet, but it served its purpose. Izza moved ahead, first by inches, then by feet. When a stiletto of pain robbed his air, Connor ground to a shuddering halt to let it pass. Breathing shouldn’t hurt so badly, but it did. By the time he recovered and could suck in a decent breath again, she was several feet ahead, still cussing, still telling him to shut up, but still creeping forward.
Going was slow when a man’s been shot. He ground to a halt, his forehead to the dirt again as he struggled to keep up with her. Just one deep breath would sure feel good.
Another “I hate you” drifted back on the still desert air. That’s the one thing he knew for sure about Izza. She was always trying to get away from him. Always mad. Always mean. And she would always hate him. Well, now she’d get what she wanted. He’d be dead soon and out of her life for good.
His arms and legs gave out. With a soft sigh, he sank back to the floor of this unforgiving oven of granite and sand. Chagrin for the tiniest shred of a silver lining offered a measure of comfort. The Lord had answered his prayer. Connor now knew where Izza was.
In total delirium, he weighed the poetic justice to his death. His mother would be sad, but she had six other sons to comfort her. Izza had no one. For that reason alone, the only thing that felt even remotely important at this unique moment in time was that she needed to live.
“Keep her safe,” he whispered to the sky and sand. And then—he let her go.
Eleven
Izza crawled until she could crawl no more. Her strength gave out just as her fingers relayed the change in texture of the desert floor to her sun-stroked brain. Gritty sand had turned to splintered wood. Good enough.
The problem with crawling with your eyes closed is you don’t know where you end up once you get there. She didn’t care. The welcome of a cool draft pulled her into the dark recesses of wherever she was. Collapsing to the first surface that didn’t burn the skin off her face when she touched it, she sucked in a deep breath.
Her nose twitched. Could it be possible? Summoning one last spurt of energy, she climbed back to her hands and knees and followed that smell. Funny how dying of thirst enhanced her sense of survival, and all because of her baby. This child would live if she had anything to say about it.
The instinct to survive pulled Izza into darker shadows and earthier smells, places she wouldn’t ordinarily have gone alone. She went there now. What could possibly be worse than what she’d already survived? Not a damn thing. Besides, this new smell promised hope and tomorrow. It promised life.
Pushing rocks and tumbleweeds aside, she found the source. Haste made her careless, but what did she have to lose? With a heartfelt groan of gratitude, Izza lowered her face into a shallow stone pool of water. Her nose grated against the rough edge while she slurped a noisy mouthful and then another. The water tasted metallic but sweet. Felt cool. Refreshing comfort slid over her poor dried tongue and filled the parched recesses of her—
Connor.
His name shot through her mind with startling urgency. He’d been right behind her. Where was he now?
She pushed to her hip and looked around. The place she’d crawled into was half-building, half-cave. People had been here recently. Beer cans and plastic soda bottles littered the floor. Fast food wrappers, tumbleweeds and other garbage, too. Tattered plastic bags of various colors, pieces of paper and cardboard, even what looked like a plastic garbage can lid lay along the edge of the cavern as if the wind had swept them inside. Graffiti she didn’t care to decipher scrawled across the walls.
But where was he?
Izza took one last swallow from the tiny pool before she climbed to her unsteady feet. Brushing a hand over her forehead, she encountered an egg-sized bump beneath a layer of dried blood. Someone had gotten a lucky punch in. She’d never seen it coming.
The ceiling was high enough she could stand, but its rounded walls sloped to the floor. This was just what she needed. Her child would survive. With one last glance at the water that had fortified her, she faced the bright door of endless sunshine at the end of the dark tunnel.
Lined with vertical wooden supports stuck into a ceiling of horizontal beams, this cave-like room made no sense, being stuck out here in the middle of a desert like it was. Splinters from the rough timbers pricked her palms as she moved from one vertical support to the next, gathering strength with every step.
Halting at the entrance to this odd habitation, a blistering wave of arid desert air hit her like a wall. Going back out there to find Connor meant death. Her baby deserved to live. Staying here in this odd shelter meant life. Izza took another step and then another. Her baby also deserved a father. The question in her heart remained. Was he good enough? Did he deserve this child?
She took another step. He might.
Walking back was easier. She found him face down in the sand and unconsciou
s. Dropping to her knees, her eyes swept over him hungrily in one long motherly assessment. Her warrior nature still battled her heart. Izza flattened two fingers to his neck. His pulse fluttered at her touch. She hooked her arm through his to wrangle him onto his back.
“Oh, crap.” His favorite cuss word sprang off her lips when she saw the damage to that elegant straight nose he used to have. “You poor baby.”
For some reason, it was easier to be nice to him now. Izza traced the edge of his cheek. The blood bath his broken nose had produced crackled over his cheek and mouth in one messy black stain. An open gash still glistened raw and bloody across the bridge of his nose, but it was nothing compared to the dark red hole in the side of his abdomen.
“You’re shot. Damn it, Connor. You’re hurt real bad.”
The anguish in her voice surprised Izza. Why should she care? Now was her chance. Walk away. Leave his sorry ass. Let him die, that will teach him. No one would ever know, no one but her.
All the hatred she’d bottled up inside for this man came back for closer scrutiny. Love and hate warred within. Could she do it? Damn straight if it meant her baby’s survival. But would she? For one brief moment, she honestly didn’t know what to do.
She took his dirty hand and rested her hand inside of his palm. The natural curl of his fingers enfolded hers. And there she was once more remembering the curl of his hard body around her in the middle of the worst place on earth. He’d made her feel safe that night when she needed it most.
“I can’t carry you,” she told him in no uncertain terms, smoothing those long straight fingers of his over hers again. “You’ll have to walk.”
He didn’t so much as grunt, but she did. She dropped his hand. The decision was made.
“Wake up, soldier. Let’s get moving.”
No response.
“Connor.” She patted his cheek, adding bite to her tone. “Get moving. I found water. If you want some, you’d better wake up, buck up and get up.”
Even verbal abuse made no difference. He didn’t move, not even a twitch of an eyelid. Determination flashed to life. Izza Ramos was not just any woman, and she sure wouldn’t take no for an answer, not now that she’d made up her mind. He was coming with her if he liked it or not.
“Then lay there,” she mocked him as she pushed to her feet and latched onto the yoke of his shirt. Fisting the fabric, she created handholds for the long chore ahead of her. “You just lay there, while I pull you all the way home”
Leaning backwards, Izza strained until at last he budged. Connor’s body only slid twelve inches or so, but every twelve inches was a foot, and every foot meant they were that much closer to living. Unfortunately, every twelve inches also threatened to put her on her butt.
“You weigh a ton,” she snarled at thirty-six inches. Three damn feet and it had taken all of her strength. She growled down to the depths of her soul and found more.
At one hundred and forty-four inches, they were still baking in the sun and her backside was covered in dust. The rest of her, too. Twelve feet felt like a mile. Her hands shook from clenching the fabric of his shirt, and her shoulders ached. His head tilted backwards like some fall down drunk. Connor looked like hell, but she’d checked again. He still had a pulse. As long as he breathed, they were in this together.
“Home,” she declared as the process began all over again. And again. And again. Twice her fingers slipped and she fell to her butt, only to scramble to her knees and begin again. “I’m taking your... sorry ass... home… if you like it or not.”
At last the scabby rock ledge where she’d found comfort came back into view. Her lip curled at the sight of the squalor it offered. Damn, not even a blade of grass broke the bleak desert front yard. No matter. She hunkered down, dug the heels of her boots into the sand and dragged him inside.
With Connor finally out of the sun, she dropped beside him. “Shit, you’re a big guy.”
By then, her energy was depleted. She crawled to the only thing worth crawling to, that tiny reservoir in the darkest recesses of the cave. Dropping face first into the cool two-inch depths, she sucked a long draught of the water until she could swallow no more. Again, it coursed over her throat and down to her toes with hope and promise. She might die out here in the desert, but not from lack of water. That single thought buoyed her spirits.
But how to get some of it back to Connor?
Izza improvised. She pulled her shirt off and over her head. It was only then she noticed that each pocket on her pants had been sliced and its contents gone. That meant she had no pocketknife, no blowout kit, no matches, no nothing. She shook the pessimism of that rude revelation away. She was alive, and if she had anything to say about it, Connor would live if only so she could kill him later.
Izza folded her shirt into a hasty square bundle and dunked it into the water. Back at his side, she squeezed it over his face and dribbled water into his half-open mouth. He choked and turned away from the dribbling stream, but she made him endure the torture until at last he swallowed. Cupping his chin, she let the water work the same miracle on him that it had on her.
That simple act of service worked another miracle. A totally involuntary smile tugged the corner of her lips. She felt the damned thing crinkle her cheeks before she put a stop to it, but the good feeling lingered.
Tenderly, she smoothed the wet shirt over his face and wiped the blood off his cheeks. Kneeling at his head, she cleaned his poor nose the best she could. Her gaze shifted to his waist. How had he taken a bullet while wearing a vest? For that matter, where was his vest? Where was hers? His cargo pants pockets were sliced like hers. She could barely recall the shootout, much less what happened afterward. Her hand wandered to the crease on her forehead. It might have been a bullet that had laid her low. There was no way to know.
A low rumbling moan sounded from deep within Connor.
“I’m not a doctor,” she told him wisely. “I don’t know how to remove bullets. I’m no medic. I’m the gal who puts ’em in guys remember? I don’t take ’em out.”
Izza weighed her options. Something had to be done. She couldn’t let him lie there and bleed to death. “This is probably gonna hurt,” she advised as she unbuttoned his shirt. Damn, this was not how she’d prefer to undress this man, not with him half-dead and his life in her hands.
Spreading the shirt opened, she found what she was looking for. Sure enough, he’d been hit just above his right hipbone. She sniffed at the wound for any odor that might indicate a compromised bowel or intestine. Detecting nothing disgustingly rank other than the metallic odor of blood, Izza prodded gently around what she was pretty sure was an entry wound.
“Hang on. I’ve got to look at your back,” she advised while she folded his arm over his chest and pushed against his shoulder to roll him onto his side.
“Looks like that stupid Irish luck is still with you, Boston,” she murmured when she detected the corresponding exit wound. “There’s no bullet to dig out of you.”
She eased him back to the ground. “The good news is I’m here. I know how to take care of a hole like this one.” She patted his limp arm as if he were awake and listening. “The bad news is—I’m here and all you’ve got. I’ve got no blowout kit, no sterile gauze, and no antibiotics. Neither do you unless you’re keeping ’em in your back pocket cuz that’s all you got left. They cut everything else. Left us nothing. You’re in for a rough haul.”
Just then, the baby in her belly decided to practice its kickboxing routine. A tiny knee or elbow tracked across her abdomen. Izza lifted her shirt, latched onto Connor’s big hand and placed his palm against her bare stomach where his child lived.
“But you want to know the really, really good news?” she asked with a twinge of make-me, I-dare-you. “Even if you die right here and now, you’ve already given me the best part of you.”
She dropped his hand to the dirt.
“Shall we get started, tough guy?”
Connor peeled his eyelids open
. Stars twinkled overhead. It had to be night. Oh, wait. No. It was still too hot. Dark or not, it couldn’t be night. Those weren’t stars. They were holes in a—what? Wood ceiling? Rock ceiling? The sky?
Hell. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He wiggled his toes. His boots and socks were missing. Even that didn’t worry him. He was too tired to care and thirsty, a dying kind of thirsty.
“I still hate you,” a familiar voice declared from the shadows.
Oh, great. She was here, wherever here was.
“How—”
“Cuz I dragged your sorry dead ass, that’s how,” Izza hissed from close by. “We’re in some kind of a mine. Now shut up.”
Connor wanted to sit. He willed himself to do it. Not one muscle responded.
“Where—?”
Again she cut him off, her voice as nasty and mean as always. “How the hell do I know where we are? We’re in the middle of the freaking desert, that’s where.” She gave him a shove that didn’t move either of them. Izza was as weak as he was. That was kind of good to know. At least they were on semi-equal ground. One more thought filtered through the dust storm in his brain. “Water?”
This time she didn’t cut him off. For some unknown reason, Izza dripped the sweetest moisture he’d ever tasted between his parchment dry lips. He let it trickle over his tongue until it welled up at the back of his stuck dry throat. Only when he had enough for one decent swallow did he let it slip down into his stomach. He guessed right. It was water. He was sure of it. She wouldn’t poison him, would she? Another squishing sound and she dripped more of it over his lips and into his mouth. Not enough to gulp. Just enough to live. Maybe.
Her cool hand rested for a split second against his cheek and forehead. It felt good, but it was really odd. She dripped another steady trickle of water into his open mouth. Ahh. Heaven. Who knew a few drops of water could feel so good?
“You’ve been shot,” she murmured kindly in a strange personality shift. “But if you’re strong enough, you’ll pull through.”
Connor (In the Company of Snipers Book 5) Page 12