Blood and Fire

by McKenna, Shannon

  She gave him a cautious smile. “Thanks for coming all this way to pick us up,” she offered.

  He slanted a glance at Bruno. “No problem. Thanks for the pretty manners. Guess I didn’t drive all night for nothing.”

  Bruno grunted. The wind swirled bits of snow around them. The tension made the hairs on Lily’s nape prickle.

  “Talked to Kev a couple hours ago,” Sean McCloud said.

  “Good for you,” was Bruno’s rejoinder.

  “He called from Christchurch,” McCloud went on. “He and Edie were looking for the first flight they could find for Portland or Seattle.”

  Bruno cleared his throat. “That’s nice.”

  “You think?” Sean’s voice hardened. “He said you didn’t call.”

  Bruno shrugged. “You know there’s no cell coverage here.”

  “He was scared shitless for you.”

  “What’s between me and Kev is private,” Bruno said.

  Sean’s eyes flickered. “Whatever. But I think you should get that bug out of your ass before you start walking funny.”

  Bruno stuck the gun inside his jacket. “Let’s get going.”

  “Anytime, man,” McCloud murmured. “Anytime.”

  Bruno walked to the edge of the ravine and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He stared down at the mountainside. When he lowered the binoculars, his face had changed. “They’re coming.”

  The dead-calm quality of his voice made Lily shiver.

  McCloud looked startled. “Who’s coming?”

  “You were followed,” Bruno stated. “They’ve got us. Pinned.”

  “No way. That’s not possible. This car is clean. We talked about this business over encrypted phones. I went to insane lengths to make sure that nobody tagged Miles’ rig. Give me those things!” Sean snatched the binoculars away and peered down at the road. “I don’t see anything,” he complained. “Where?”

  “Look where the creek curves at the level of that spur on the bluff over there,” Bruno directed. “Now follow it up to the second switchback from the bottom. No headlights. Look for movement. They just turned the hairpin. Heading back up in this direction. See it?”

  Sean McCloud was silent for a moment as he searched, and then he sucked in air. “Son of a bitch. How the hell did they know—”

  “Because they know everything,” Lily blurted, feeling sick.

  There was a brief moment of blank dismay, and then Sean McCloud seemed to shake himself, as if throwing off a spell. “Come on, then.” He sounded so casual, it was almost bizarre. “Let’s get to it.”

  “To what?” Lily demanded.

  “Our plan. How long you figure it’ll take them to get up here?”

  Bruno peered down, calculating. “At that speed, twenty-five minutes, maybe. I’ve got some pistols and ammo Aaro lent me. A Glock 19, a Beretta 92, an H&K USP. Got anything with youan>

  “Hell, yeah,” McCloud said absently. He crossed his arms again, tapping his fingers. “Only one vehicle,” he murmured. “Arrogant sons of bitches. Who the fuck do they think they’re dealing with?” He stared down the hill, eyes slitted. “You got that little bridge down there, at two hundred meters. That’s the best place to rig it. Got a chain?”

  “Best place to rig what?” Lily demanded.

  “The bomb,” McCloud said, as if it were obvious. “We could go with ammonium nitrate and fuel oil. Diesel or kerosene. I’ve got some Tovex in the truck to boost it. Did Kev ever store any fertilizer up here?”

  Bruno looked bemused. “Uh . . . uh . . .”

  “Never mind, forget it. Flame fougasse, then.” McCloud pushed on. “We dig a hole on the road, hide a container of fuel wired to some explosives. Boom, problem solved. Until the next dickheads find you.”

  “You can rig it that fast?” Bruno said.

  “If you stop jerking off.”

  “Wait!” Lily yelled as the men leaped into action. “One quick second. Please.”

  The men lurched to a stop and spun, with identical what-thefuck-is-your-problem-lady looks on their faces.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” McCloud said. “Make it fast.”

  “What if the people in that vehicle are not our bad guys? What if they’re, you know, just innocent passersby?”

  Bruno and Sean exchanged glances. “Lily,” Bruno said, as if speaking to a slow-witted child. “People do not innocently pass by this place at dawn with their headlights turned off. It’s the last property on the road. The road runs out into a deer track three hundred meters farther on. This is the furry, pimply ass-end of fucking nowhere.”

  She gestured at McCloud. “He said himself it would have been impossible for them to follow him! You can’t risk killing innocent people!”

  “You want to go wait by the road?” Sean McCloud’s voice sounded only mildly curious. “Offer them coffee and Danish?”

  She waved her hands. “I just don’t want people to die because they’re on the wrong road at the wrong time! That would suck!”

  Sean shrugged. “OK. Plan B,” he said. “I dig in up the hill at a hundred meters with my M21, check them out with my scope. It’ll magnify the ambient light enough to see inside. If it’s Great-aunt Betty, we give her coffee and Danish. If they’re the bad guys, we fuck them up, take one of them alive, and interrogate the living shit out of him.”

  Bruno’s face cleared. “Sounds good.”

  “Plus, we can deliver our survivors to the cops afterward,” Sean went on. “A blood gift to appease their wrath.”

  “Even better,” Bruno said, with growing enthusiasm.

  Sean McCloud gave her a hard look. “If there’s more than two, I’m capping them, straight off,” he said flatly. “This is too fucking risky as it is. I don’t want to die today. I’ve got a kid.”

  Lily gulped and nodded. No arguing with that position.

  “So, how about that chain?” McCloud was all business again.

  “Down by the bridge,” Bruno said. “Tony always used to chain the road when he left.”

  “String it. I’ll gather supplies.”

  Bruno loped off down the road. Lily watched him go and aimed tnervous question at Sean McCloud’s back as he rummaged through the back of the Jeep for supplies. “How do you intend to, ah, take some of them prisoner without killing them?”

  McCloud flashed a grin over his shoulder. He held up handfuls of small, dark cylindrical objects. “Watch and learn,” he said. “This is gonna be fun. Promise you won’t tell my wife. She’s funny that way.”

  She studied them in trepidation. “What the hell are those?”

  “Flashbangs. Stun grenades. Now be quiet and let me work.”

  There was an art to feigning sleep. Aaro was good at it. His standard method of not dealing with whatever female he’d just had sex with. Breathing was key. Deep, slow, and steady. Mouth slack, open, face relaxed. And calm. No mental buzz, no static. Chicks picked up on that. Bright ones, anyhow, and this one was bright. He could tell in spite of their deliberate dearth of conversation.

  He was justified in the sleep he was feigning, after the fuck marathon she’d put him through. Not that he’d complained. He’d been fine with the hard, uncomplicated pounding that she’d wanted. Up, down, backward, forward, bring it on, he wasn’t fussy. She liked it rough; she came easily and often. But she kept wanting more.

  After six bouts, he caught on. She was a sexual black hole. A guy could kill himself trying to satisfy her. But it had been a long time, so what the fuck, he put out. She was gorgeous. High, bouncing tits. Ass taut and perfect. Snug, hot pink pussy, waxed and plucked and groomed. A walking wet dream. His dick stiffened thinking of it. So why was he feigning sleep instead of mounting back up, giving her more?

  It was the clenched feeling in his belly. Like a tiny fist. After ejaculating that many times, he should be comatose, but her febrile desperation made him nervous. Even while she was climaxing, she was always clawing for something more. Something she just couldn’t have.
>
  Maybe it had to do with the asshole husband screwing the slut sister. In any case, it was depressing, and he was depressed all on his own, thanks. He’d avoid the whole sticky mess of sex altogether, if he could. Steer clear of females, with their incomprehensible demands. Live the life of a monk, tranquil, solitary. But he had a functioning dick that wanted what it wanted, and it had to be periodically appeased, or he got testosterone backup. Toxic. Very bad scene.

  So he was good at feigning sleep. Biofeedback training helped. He had control over his heartbeat, blood pressure. He projected the vibe sleeping, sleeping, while following her every move. The rustle of sheets, the roll and dip of the bed. Feet padding toward the bathroom. Water running. Click, a beam of light, a cloud of steam. He listened to her dressing, relief warring with caution. She was bailing for real. Yes.

  She rummaged in her purse for a moment. A few beats of pure silence. His small hairs prickled. What was up? She was just standing there, staring? Wondering if she should wake him, say good-bye?

  Please, don’t. Just go. Take your problems and vanish. Write a note if you have to. And then . . . just . . . go.

  She was tiptoeing closer. The balls of her feet shushed against the carpet fibers. Next to the bed. He felt her body heat, smelled her shower gel, her shoe leather. But no breathing. She was holding her breath.

  He almost twitched with the need to open his eyes, but then he’d have to talk to her. Even fuck her again, may.

  The silence was strange. It quivered in the air. Like indecision.

  Or . . . anticipation.

  His heart sped up. He’d have to drag in air soon. Something was off. Either she’d lean over, kiss him good-bye, God forbid . . . or else . . .

  Or else she was holding a knife to his throat.

  His body contracted. He jerked, knocked whatever she was holding away from his face. It went flying.

  She landed a punch to his jaw. Her elbow stabbed his ribs. Fuck. He barely blocked the knee to his balls. Lunged for her as she scuttled back. She was fast, but he had the weight and reach. He blocked her punch, seized her arm, flipped her. Landed on top of her, all two hundred and forty pounds of him. Knocked out her air. Felt no remorse.

  She bucked, choked for air. He pinned her wrists, looked around. He was naked, and a hotel room didn’t have much in the way of ligature lying around, so he groped under her top with one hand, unhooked her bra. He ripped the straps loose, yanked the lacy garment off her torso. Used it to bind her wrists. Twisting hard, knotting tight. No mercy.

  He rolled her onto her back, on top of her bound hands, and leaned until her face paled and sweat popped out on her forehead.

  “I’ve rethought this no-names rule,” he remarked. “Considering this development, I think you should tell me who you are.”

  Her eyes glittered, her chest heaved. “Fuck you.”

  He leaned harder, forcing a high-pitched wheeze out of her, and without taking his eyes off hers, snagged the object he’d batted out of her hand. A little spray bottle. Son of a bitch.

  “What’s this? A knock-out drug?” he asked. “What’s it for?”

  She shook her head.

  He studied her. “I have a hundred and eighty bucks on me in cash,” he said. “Bet you spent five times that amount on those shoes alone. If you want money, you should be cruising the casinos on the Indian reservations. Not slumming in roadhouses with losers like me.”

  She stared back, defiant. She was no junkie in search of a quick fix. She glowed with health. And with a face and body like that, she could bilk men out of all their money without having to resort to knock-out drugs. So what the fuck? If she hadn’t picked him for money, she’d picked him for some other reason. Two things came to mind.

  Neither of them were good.

  He leaned on her again and gave Hypothesis Number One a spin.

  “My father sent you, ney?” he asked in Ukrainian.

  Her eyelids fluttered, but he saw no comprehension. He had a lifetime of practice reading fleeting expressions of stone-faced people. A family survival skill. He got nothing from her. Not a twinge, not a flash, not a flicker. He swatted her face, made his voice even harsher. “Talk, you stupid whore,” he snarled in the same language. “My father? My uncle? Tell me, or I’ll rip your tongue right out of your head!”

  She spat at him, but that was payback for the slap.

  He could be wrong, had been often, but he had to call it. She didn’t understand Ukrainian. She wasn’t sent by his family. So much for Hypothesis One. Sending a beautiful woman to fuck his brains out was hardly Oleg Arbatov’s style, anyhow. The way the old man hated his firstborn, he’d be more likely to send six big guys with blackjacks.

  He jerked ohundred anher fallen purse. Makeup, wallet, two blister packs of tiny pills, distinguished only by colored dots on the foil. A phone, some sleek design he didn’t recognize. He flipped through the wallet. A driver’s license made out to Naomi Hillier of Bellingham, Washington. Credit cars, department store cards in the same name. A wad of cash. He leafed through it. Eight thousand, hoo-hah. The wallet had none of the detritus of a normal life. No parking tickets, receipts, scribbled numbers, drycleaning pickup slips. No manila envelope full of pictures of the cheating husband and the slut sister going at it doggy style, either.

  He brandished the spray bottle in her face. She bucked like a bronco. Maybe the stuff was lethal. But Jesus, why? Granted, he tended to piss people off just by existing, but if someone was that mad at him, one would think he’d have half a clue. Time for Hypothesis Two.

  He lifted himself slowly off her. “Listen, Naomi,” he said. “You move one millimeter in any direction I don’t order you to move, and you get a faceful of whatever the fuck is in this bottle. Got that?”

  She nodded.

  Pulling clothes on was tricky, one handed. He didn’t bother with his T-shirt, since it would require a split second of being blind, which was one split second too long. He pulled on his jeans, shrugged the jacket over his naked torso, shoved the shirt into his pocket. Slid his feet into his boots without bothering to lace them. “On your feet.”

  She struggled awkwardly to her feet. “Where are we going?”

  “The police,” he said.

  She started to laugh. “Because I’m not playing nice? Aw! I’m sure they’ll feel sorry for you, after you tell them how you spent your night.”

  He twisted her bound hands up behind her. “Shut up and move.”

  “I’ll tell them I was raped. Why do you think I wanted it rough, you stupid fuck? I got one of your condoms out of the trash and put some of your spunk into myself. I have you cold, asshole.”

  Here it was. The money question. “I’m not taking you to the Sandy cops. I’m taking you to downtown Portland. To the Justice Center. We’re going to talk to Detective Petrie.”

  It was subtle, but he caught the zing of tension. The eyelid flutter, her pupils contracting. All he needed to know. Son of a bitch. Hypothesis Two won, ding, ding, ding. This was about Bruno and his schizo girlfriend. Hit men jumping out of cars, dead bodies strewn on the streets of North Portland. Big trouble, and idiot that he was, he’d stuck his nose right into it. No, worse. He’d stuck his dick into it. Repeatedly.

  He grabbed the girl by the throat and pushed her onto the bed, pulling his knife out of his pocket. He snapped it open, twirled it.

  Her eyes fixed on the flashing blade, frozen wide.

  “You have a beautiful face,” he said softly. “You want it to stay beautiful? Tell me what you want from Bruno Ranieri, bitch.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “We both know that’s a fucking lie,” he hissed. “Where shall I start?” He caressed her cheek with the point of the blade. “How about an eyelid? That’s a toughie for the reconstructive surgeon to fix.” He traced patterns on the skin under her eye. Smiled evilly, like a guy who actually enjoyed torturing women. He knew guys like that. He’d seen what their smiles looked like when they were worki
ng on their victims.

  It didn’t feel good on his own face.

  He put his knife down, like the limp dick his father had always mocked him for being. He couldn’t convince her that he was capable of cutting her. He had no credibility. In some circles, he’d been told, this failure would be to his credit. Right now, it was fucking inconvenient.

  He jabbed the spray bottle under her chin, but she didn’t react this time. “Let’s go,” he growled. “If I hear you inhale, I spray you.”

  She stumbled beside him, stiff but unresisting. Into the cinder block stairwell. Out into the hotel parking lot, where dawn was threatening the horizon. She was shaking, hard, by the time he shoved her into the passenger seat of his Chevy and strapped her in.

  He stopped, took a second to yank on his shirt, since it didn’t look like she was going to attack him. Those racking shudders did not look like an act. She’d forgotten that he existed. She was fucked up.

  He cut off the bra knotted around her hands. Draped his jacket over her, tucking it under her chin. Thus thoroughly shoring up his persona as a real badass motherfucker. He blasted heat on her as they drove. He’d expected a shrill scolding, a string of inventive lies, or at least some slick, jive-ass rant. All he heard was teeth chattering.

  He went back and forth in his head on what to do with Naomi about a thousand times as he drove. The more miles that went by, the worse she looked. And the more his options narrowed.

  He hated sticking his neck out, getting squashed onto an examining glass under blazing light and powerful lenses. He’d rather lose a limb. But what the fuck else could he do right now? With her? He couldn’t just dump her by the side of the road somewhere. Particularly now with his genetic material inside her bodily orifices.

  He clenched his jaw, grabbed his cell phone, dialed the number he’d found for Detective Sam Petrie the day before.

  The guy picked up quickly, considering that it wasn’t quite eight o’clock yet. “Detective Sam Petrie here,” he said.