Brotherhood Protectors: Soldier's Heart Part Three (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “Tread carefully, honey,” Jack said.

  No need to tell her twice. “No, I figured that out, but I didn’t want to make assumptions.” Keep it light, keep it easy. “What are you guys, guides? Is this a wilderness experience thing, like Outward Bound?”

  “Outward Bound is close enough,” Chicago said. “Ours is no program you’d a heard of.”

  “We’re into character-building,” Oz put in.

  Ohhkaaay. “Where you guys headed?”

  Chicago showed her a thin, shark’s grin. “Not to Lonesome.”

  “Hey.” She held up both hands. “Not trying to crowd you or anything. I was only thinking if you’re headed to Dead Man, maybe I could come? From everything I’ve read, there’s no way into the mine or town, but I still wanted to see if I could do it. I have a little time.”

  Chicago was shaking his head. “Naw, sorry. We got a contract, liability issues, you understand. Be better if you gave Dead Man a pass. Some of these girls are pretty bad actors.”

  “Yeah,” Oz chimed in. “Why else you think we got guns and a dog? You heard of them chain gangs? I wouldn’t want to mess with any of these chicks.”

  Oh, what a load of shit. “Okay, no problem. Maybe I’ve tested myself enough,” she said, tacking on a smile. “If the storm breaks tomorrow, I’m gone.”

  “Us, too. Storm or not. Got us a schedule.”

  “Okay. Well.” There seemed to be nothing more to say, and the sooner she escaped this inquisition, the better. If she could work her way over to the girls or maybe talk to the woman ... Pushing her pant legs down, she stood. “Where can I set up? I don’t want to get in the way—”

  “Hey!” A sudden shout from their right. “Hey!” One of the guards, the one who’d been chowing down on chili mac, was gesturing frantically. The girls had scrambled up, and the woman was herding them like a mother goose with her goslings.

  Another girl was down, jittering and foaming, her limbs flailing in the herky-jerky dance of a seizure.

  “Hey!” Chili Mac’s voice was tight with alarm. “Man, we got a problem here!”

  6

  What is your problem? Unlatching the cabin’s back door, Sarah winced against a blast of wintry air. Calm down. It’s a can of beef stew, not a date. He won’t care so long as it’s hot.

  “Honey, you are as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rockers.” Hustling out in boots and clad only in nylon pants and a silk thermal tee, she hastily threw splits onto a canvas carry. God, she must look a wreck. She lifted a pit, took a quick sniff. Not great—everyone got a little ripe in the mountains—but she wouldn’t gas the poor guy.

  Shivering, she peered beyond the lean-to toward the fire tower rearing another seventy-five feet in the air. She could just make out a speck of light moving back and forth along the tower’s catwalk. Mark had been up there a good fifteen, twenty minutes. Five would be enough to know there was no reception, and you couldn’t pay her to hang out on a freezing metal catwalk any longer than necessary. He must’ve gotten through to give whomever waited an update. Getting this girl down mountain was job one, after all.

  So, what was it with that tiny twinge of disappointment?

  That was nuts. She shouldered the carry. What did she have to be disappointed about? She was interested, was all. Mark was easy on the eyes. She liked how calm and competent he was. The dogs seemed to like him, a definite plus. Mark was a little like Hank, if she was honest. Once this was over, maybe she would hit Josie up, see what she could suss out. Hustling through her bedroom, she flicked a glance at a tangle of used linens piled on her bed where she’d deposited them that morning. When she and Hank brought the girl back, she’d used her last set of clean bedclothes to make up the cot again. Spying the used sheets gave her a weird little twinge. Hank had slept on those and now, there was this other man.

  And so what? Disgusted, she brushed past her bed. Nothing to see here, folks. They were sheets, for crying out loud. Who cared if Hank had used them? For God’s sake, they hadn’t slept together. Even if they had, Mark wasn’t a mind-reader. Heck, he probably figured she was just a crappy housekeeper. Why was she getting all bent about this?

  Just focus on dinner, you idiot.

  She normally conserved fuel, but tonight she’d built up the fire as much as she dared. Heat radiated from the stove and flue. The front room was toasty enough the windows fogged. If she were alone, Sarah could have gotten away with a thermal shirt and underpants, socks.

  Dumping the carry near the stove, she peeked around the blanket. Daisy was curled into a small knot by the girl’s side. Soldier had stationed himself on the floor, and both gave her wide, tongue-lolling grins and a tail-thump. She grinned. “You keep an eye on her for me, okay?” That the dogs had also chosen one of the warmest spots in the room wasn’t lost on her.

  Which did bring up an interesting question. Where to put Mark? The girl was using the only other cot. Should she give Mark her bed? No, that was overkill. She threw a speculative eye at his pack and a bedroll and mat strapped at the bottom. Loan him her air mattress, he ought to be set. Should she offer him a bath? After that hike, he might want to wash up. On the other hand, it was late. Offering might send the wrong message.

  Unless you want to send a message.

  Did she? No, of course not. For God’s sake, first the sheets, now agonizing over a bath? She was acting like a hormone-addled teenager. Just make dinner and go to bed. Once they were all off the mountain, there would be plenty of time to check this guy out—if she even wanted that.

  Darting into her back storeroom, she rummaged through supplies. Plenty of food left, though as her gaze roamed pegs and shelves, she supposed she might have to deal with some of the junk left by those who’d come before her. Like getting rid of that old fire hazard, she thought as her gaze fell on a half-empty can of gasoline perched on a wood pallet she kept meaning to pack out but never did. On the other hand, some of this junk, like the old snowshoes she’d used earlier in the day and those loops of chain Hank had fashioned into poor man’s crampons, had come in useful. But baling wire? Rusting tools? A saw so old and worn, most of the teeth were gone? Except she also understood the pack rat mentality and why someone might not be able to bear pitching any of this stuff. Living in the backcountry and far from help or a handy-dandy Wal-Mart, a person just never knew what might come in useful.

  For the next few minutes, she busied herself with opening cans, dumping stew into one pot and beans into another. She’d already topped off the kettle she always kept on the coolest part of the stove and now moved that to the front. Mark might like a nice cup of mint tea as he waited. Should she make drop biscuits? She still had butter and a half pint of whole milk. Wouldn’t take but a few seconds to whip up a batch and with the oven already so hot, why waste the heat? They’d be nice with the stew, too. Sop up all those good juices.

  You trying to impress him, girl? Well, so what if she was? How often did she make dinner for good-looking strangers? Humming, she grabbed a mixing bowl, a fork, her sheet pan, and went to set everything out on her kitchen table, which was also her primary work space. Mark’s backpack and rifle were still there, and she hooked a hand into a strap to move the pack onto the floor. Awkward because of the bedroll and much heavier than she expected, the pack began to slew before crashing to the floor. Jostled loose, the pack’s contents scattered. Bullets bounced and pattered.

  Oh, crap. Déjà vu all over again. This was precisely when all the trouble started with Hank. Dumping her bowl and pan on the table, she knelt to sweep the pack’s contents—rolls of clothes, MREs, another box of ammunition—intact, thank God—a couple of magazines for his pistol, two extra water bottles. The guy had enough gear to last a week or two in the backcountry. Still on hands and knees, she chased after bullets. Wicked pointed things, as long as her thumb. Wow. Ducking under the table, she reached for something in a far corner. This guy is really outfitted for bear—

  Her fingers closed on something that wasn�
�t a bullet.

  Hunh. Backing out, she studied a bundle of white plastic strips. Zip ties. Hank had a couple sets, some he kept hooked to his duty belt while others he stashed in his pack. In fact, he’d used several just that afternoon to fashion his makeshift crampons. He always said they were a cop’s duct tape, good for more than cuffing bad guys.

  Was this Hank’s, or did it belong to Mark? Mark was a walking multi-tool. Picking up his pack, she thrust in the box of ammunition and plasticuffs. As she did, her fingers poked something soft, which dimpled. Some kind of plastic bag, and then she frowned, her nose crinkling against a strange aroma, one both nutty and vinegary.

  What? Her mind was suddenly all clogged gears that wouldn’t quite mesh, an antique pocket watch in desperate need of repair. She traced a fingertip over the packet. Found the little toggle that zippered the bag. Okay, so Mark had made himself a sandwich. No ... she finger-walked the stack ... two. No, three, but only two packets held sandwiches. From their smell, she thought they might be peanut butter and—

  Wait a minute, hold on. Don’t jump to conclusions. Her hand closed, and then she was withdrawing a Baggie and thinking, You’re only in trouble if the sandwich is also in cling—

  One good look, and her brain hitched as if she’d stubbed a mental toe.

  Oh hell.

  7

  “Oh, hell.” Pushing past Chili Mac, Chicago took one look at the girl and cursed again. “When did this start?”

  “Just now.” Chili Mac’s eyes were wide as dinner plates. “I mean, she was fine. I didn’t give her nothing hot to drink and let her have only the one bar—”

  “Naw, man.” It was the other guard keeping watch over the girls and that woman who still huddled a short distance away. “She had something else. Saw her sneaking bites.”

  “And you didn’t do anything about it?” Chicago flared.

  “Who cares?” Why were they so worried about the kid eating, for God’s sake? Kneeling, Kate swiftly turned the still-seizing girl onto her right side so she wouldn’t aspirate if she vomited. She was a tiny thing, with a moon face and black hair cut in a short bob. Although her belly looked too large for her frame. Or maybe it was a trick of the eye because of her parka. “Do you guys have a medical kit or something? Is she on meds? You’re guides, right? Are you trained in first aid, CPR?”

  “We had somebody, but he ... ah.” Chili Mac shot Chicago an uncertain look. “We got a kit, but—”

  Chicago interrupted. “There’s nothing we got can help this girl.”

  She thought of her own medic’s bag. She wasn’t sure she had anything helpful. It depended on what was going on.

  “Two possibilities, Kate.” Jack sounded grim. “Neither is good. If you ask for what you want, you’ll tip your hand. Even if they have the right med, I don’t think it will help this girl.”

  Not entirely true. Seizures were seizures. Besides, Chili Mac had provided all the clues she needed.

  “Which still won’t help you. It’s one thing to be a good medic. You ask for something that treats one specific problem, now you’re a liability. If they come at you, just how many do you think you can take before—”

  Not now, Jack. If she was lucky, that wouldn’t happen. One disaster at a time.

  “Show me what you’ve got.” When Chili Mac didn’t move, she aimed a hard look at Chicago. “You want this girl to die? I’m sure your employers would be pretty pissed.”

  “Jesus, Kate,” Jack said.

  “I don’t need you to tell me my job.” Chicago jerked his head at Chili Mac. “Go.”

  Thanks for nothing, asswipe. The girl was snorting. Foam boiled from her mouth and nose. Shit. Kate smelled stomach acid, bile, regurgitated food—and blood. Shit shit shit.

  “Hey, hey!” She turned in time to see Chili Mac make a grab for another girl who’d detached herself from the group. Hooking the girl’s arm, Chili Mac reeled her back. “What’d I say? Stay put!” Chili Mac thrust his face into the girl’s. “You can’t go over there!”

  “She’s her sister, you idiot.” It was the older woman. Her arms were spread, hemming the girls like a protective mother hen guarding her chicks. “Let her go!”

  At a signal from Chicago, Chili Mac released his grip. Sprinting over, the girl dropped opposite Kate. “Her name’s Miin.” She was older, her face heart-shaped, tapering to a delicate chin. Her dark-brown eyes pooled, but her voice, which held a slightly musical accent, trembled only a little. “How can I help? Tell me what to do.”

  “Thanks. Get something soft we can put under her head ... yeah, yeah,” she said, as the girl pulled off her scarf. “That’s good. Let me get her head up.”

  Shoving her folded scarf under her sister’s head, the girl said, “Should we put something in her mouth so she doesn’t bite her tongue or—”

  Believe me, that is the least of her worries. “No, but I might try to get her mouth open more so she doesn’t choke.” Technically, it was best to leave a seizing person be, but she didn’t think this would hurt. If she could just get the kid’s mouth cleared—

  “Kate,” Jack said, “I don’t think that will make a difference.”

  “Well, I got to try,” she said then shook her head as the girl frowned. “Nothing. What’s your name?”

  “How’s that important?” Oz demanded.

  “Leave it, Oz.” Chicago shifted his eyes to Kate. “Her name’s An.”

  “Thanks.” In the woods beyond the fire, she spotted movement as Wynn and Dax hurried to join them. She looked back at An. She could do this if she used her right hand. “Hold her head, okay? I’m going to try something.”

  “Jesus, what are you doing?” Oz said, as she worked two fingers of her right hand into the corner of Miin’s mouth. “You want to get them broken?”

  If she were an ordinary woman with an ordinary hand, that would be a risk, yes. “I’m in the angle of her jaw behind her teeth.” Jaws were strong enough to exert upwards of two hundred pounds across the back molars. Even if Kate’s fingers did get caught, it was more likely Miin’s teeth would break.

  And then you’d have ’splaining to do. She snapped her fingers.

  The sudden force drove Miin’s jaws apart. Bloody vomit gushed and kept coming. Most of the vomit was liquid, with only a few chunks of undigested energy bar as if Miin had wolfed the food without bothering to chew. Or as if she was afraid she’d be caught. There was other crap in the vomit, too: greenish bits, brown crumbs. Shit, she’s been eating a tree? Well, bark and moss, at least. Something else caught her eye, too. What were those? The bits were bright, almost glassy. Rocks?

  “Pica?” Jack said.

  Of course, he would know about pica because she did. She doubted that was the answer. Stranded explorers ate their clothes, boiled their boots. That a starving girl might scrape off a handful of bark shouldn’t be surprising. Jesus, this was like the Bataan Death March.

  She smelled something else, now, that would be unnoticeable to anyone else because of all the blood. And what was with all this blood? It wasn’t old but bright and red. The kid was actively bleeding.

  “Could be she’s all torn up from the crap she’s choked back,” Jack said.

  Possibly. She bent closer and grimaced against a faint vinegary tang. Oh, boy. Well, she now knew what she needed to help this girl.

  “Kate, she’s ingested too much,” Jack said. “It won’t make any difference.”

  But I won’t know if I don’t try. As Chili Mac finally hurried up with an olive-green MOLLE bag, Kate looked at Chicago. “Do you know what this is, what she swallowed?” When the older man didn’t answer, she snapped, “Listen, I don’t really fucking care what you’re doing or who these girls are, but she’s vomiting up blood. She’s been eating moss and bark and ... what, are these rocks? Glass? Plastic?” Kate pointed. “That’s sure as hell not food.” She jerked her head at Chili Mac. “He said he didn’t let the girl have anything hot to drink and only an energy bar while your guys are chowing down o
n MREs. There are no pots and nothing from a real meal in her vomit, so you’re not feeding them.”

  “Boss.” It was Wynn, who’d move up with his dog and now stood a short distance behind An. “Just tell—”

  “Shut up, Wynn,” Chicago said.

  Kate fixed Chicago with a glare. “There’s really only one answer here. You don’t want her bowels working. For all I know, you’ve given her a paralytic, so they can’t. But if all that is true, it means this girl’s a mule.”

  She heard An pull in a quick breath. In her left ear, Jack buzzed, “Kate, don’t—”

  She forged on. “She’s swallowed your product, whatever it is, and you can’t afford to have her or An or any of these girls expelling baggies or whatever before you get where you’re going.” She had the sense even that wouldn’t stop these guys. They’d probably wash off the muck and make the girls swallow the packets again. “Which is it, heroin or cocaine?”

  “How will it make a difference?” Wynn asked.

  “I said shut up, Wynn.” Chicago’s tone, like his eyes, was flat. “That kid’s dead either way.”

  “It makes a difference.” Ripping the med kit from Chili Mac, Kate quickly unzipped the MOLLE bag and pawed through its contents.

  “Why?” An had her sister’s head cradled on her lap. “How?”

  Bandages, hemostatic gauze, IV bags, clamps, sutures ... Crap, if one of these guys got shot, they were golden. “If it’s cocaine and they’ve got injectable benzos, I can try to stop her seizures. Plug in an IV, get some hydration going.” Hope to God her internal bleeding stops. Miin’s gut was getting torn up in real time. Why? Come on, come on ... Every combat medic’s bag had what she was looking for. She kept searching, riffling past needles, IV catheters, mini-bags of antibiotics. Small bottles of— Yes! “Like this.” She snatched up a vial. “They have valium, so I can use that.” So far as she could tell, there was no naloxone. But there has to be, if what I smell is right. Why would they pack a benzo but no naloxone?