Brotherhood Protectors: Soldier's Heart Part 2 (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Ilsa J. Blick

  He surfaced a few times. Once, he thought he heard his name. The sensation was bizarre, his mind snagging like a jacket on a thorn, and the same as standing in a crowd and hearing someone talk about him from across the room. He tried to sharpen his thoughts, hang onto that, but that slipped away. Too much effort . . .

  Something poked between his shoulder blades.

  Wuh? He was only semi-conscious, his thoughts as sludgy as engine oil on a bitter February morning. Something there? He was shivering, a whole-body trembling that set his teeth to chattering. The high whine in his right ear had diminished to the point where he could hear the scream of the wind hurtling over the ridge.

  Or had there been a . . . a scream? He couldn’t think, wasn’t—

  Another, harder poke at his back, something close to a smack.

  Jesus. Still bleary, disoriented, he struggled to a cross-legged sit then grunted when the top of his skull hit stone. It hurt but not as much as he thought it should. Face isn’t as bad either. One side was stiff with frozen blood and gore. Raising a chilled finger, he stroked his left cheek. The sensation of fingertip against flesh was distant, something he conjured more than felt. He couldn’t feel his feet at all.

  Getting frostbite. He should count, do something, keep his mind busy, active. He made it to eight before his mind slipped, and he forgot where he’d been, what was next. He could picture his blood slushing in his veins, his body frantically shutting down capillaries and arteries at the periphery to concentrate heat to his heart, brain—

  Another poke. Then, a voice, one he didn’t know: Get up.

  “What?” he croaked. In the next second, he felt a clutch of fear. Hallucinating meant you were close to the end. God, no, I only want to get warm.

  That voice, again, booming: Get up, soldier. Get up now!

  What? He cast a wild look around, put out a hand expecting to find a face. His numb fingers registered only rock. “Wh-wh-whooo?”

  She needs you. She can’t hold on. I can’t help her, but you can. There’s rope in her pack. Go, Gabriel, go.

  Another shove, this time hard enough to send him off-balance. He got a hand up in time to avoid smashing into rock but just barely.

  “Who are you?” His throat knotted with dread. “What the hell do you—”

  The words evaporated on his tongue then because now he was awake and aware enough to hear what he hadn’t before.

  A woman, screaming.

  Go, Gabriel, the voice said. Go now.

  16

  She was still screaming, but only because Jack had insisted. She’d also managed to hook her left hand into the space where that bit of rock she’d mistaken for a spur had been wedged. Tensing her shoulders and biceps, she could pull herself up in a dead hang but no matter how high she brought her legs, her knees remained just a few inches shy of the rock. There was nothing for her to brace against or climb. If she used her right hand, she could probably manage to find another chink or lip, and then pull. But that meant trusting her left to hold all her weight.

  Jack was right. She’d done plenty of dead-man pull-ups, one-handed. She could do this in a gym. On a mountain? Maybe not. She could picture herself unhooking her right, practically feel how her left would first hold then tremble and then . . .

  “Help. Help!” she called, though not as forcefully. Jack, where was Jack? That strange sensation in the center of her head was still there. So hard to describe and probably nothing more than the tailing off of adrenaline, but she was larger somehow. Was that it? There was a sense of something flexing and bunching in the middle of her mind, behind her eyes, elbowing out more space for itself. If her mind had tentacles or a finger to unfurl the way that a chameleon’s tongue darts for its prey, that would be more like it. What was that?

  Nothing, it’s not anything. Panic, most likely. Jack couldn’t help her, and she couldn’t save herself. Teeth bared, she listened to her breath hiss as her lungs heaved. Too fast, slow down, try to think your way out of this.

  Or maybe it was time to stop trying so hard. By rights, she should already be dead. Who she had been had died in Afghanistan. She was nothing now but a freak, a lab experiment. Vance’s little science project. A wry little thought: if only she’d activated her tracker, Vance would’ve saved her ass by now. He would also slap her into a box, or maybe do something very sci-fry, like crack her skull, scoop out her brain and slap that in a vat. But, hey, a girl couldn’t have everything.

  “Help.” The word was almost meaningless now. “Help. Help—”

  “Mac?”

  Her breath hung. For a second, she had no idea where that voice came from or to whom it—he—spoke. Then she saw a fuzzy blue spear lance the darkness over her head.

  Headlamp. Her heart surged. Her ears pricked to the clop of boots, the crunch and squeal of compressed ice and snow and then, because the wind was with her, she caught first the wolves, far away but still there, still watchful.

  And then she smelled him, both the tang of his blood and his dark scent, the black boil of a brooding storm that was somehow more confused and feral than before, as if he were an animal driven almost mad by pain and desperation and more than halfway dead already.

  Hurt. Her stomach grew leaden with dismay. He’d meant to die then botched it somehow and now he was here, alive, coming for her. How had he found her?

  Jack. My God, Jack told me to scream. Despite her fear, she thought of that flexing, bunching sensation in the center of her mind as if something—Jack?—was growing, carving out more real estate. Blooming? Becoming? So, had Jack somehow sensed and known Gabriel was here? Had he always known this, or had her panic somehow triggered another new ability?

  “Mac . . . Jesus, God, what are you doing out here?” Without waiting for her reply, he called, “Don’t move. I got a rope. I’m almost there!”

  “Gabriel?” His name rose on the steam of her breath. Her vision was still bad from blood running from the rip in her forehead, and as he closed the gap, his face went watery and strange and peeled from the shadows.

  Oh, Jesus. A blast of horror stole her breath. For a second, she thought of that Batman villain, the one whose face was half-melted by acid. An enormous wound fanned over Gabriel’s head from just before his temple to behind his ear. His face was swollen with subcutaneous hemorrhage. Dried blood glazed that half of his face, and an ugly purplish bruise spilled over his cheek all the way to his jaw. That he’d managed not to lose an eye was a miracle.

  Temple, then. Pulled the shot? The thoughts were as slippery as minnows, and she gave herself a mental shake. Jesus, don’t pass out.

  “Easy, Mac, easy. It’ll be okay. I’m here.” He’d looped rope around his middle, and, now, bracing his feet, Gabriel fed a length until an end rested only inches from her left hand. “Take it, Mac. Grab the rope.”

  Rope. She could only stare stupidly. Her rope. Which meant he’d found her pack in the rocks. How would he know where to look? Blind luck?

  Jack. She thought of that odd flexing in her mind. Jack, what did you do?

  For a fleeting moment, she was uncertain if he would reply, but then, at the tail of her left eye, the air flickered, and she felt him there.

  “Take the rope, love,” Jack said. “Take the rope, and live.”

  PART FIVE:

  WHAT SOLDIERS CARRY

  1

  The aroma of hot coffee tugged Sarah awake. Cracking an eyelid, she winced against a lance of bright yellow light. Her bedsprings creaked as she raised onto her elbows, a hand up to shield her eyes. Squinting through the open door to her bedroom, she noticed the curtains had been thrown open and gouts of early morning light washed the room bright-yellow. Hot glisters sparkled through ice glazed over glass, and a sliver of sky showed a bright powder-blue.

  Finally. Throwing off her covers, she listened a moment, heard nothing except a faint sough of wind whispering over the peak, then padded into the front room in her stocking feet. The room was empty. Hank’s cot was neatly made, Pete’s
old clothes—save his olive T-shirt and chambray—folded and stacked. Hank’s patrol belt with its cuffs and baton, flashlight and keys, a pouch for plastic gloves as well as a knife, his holstered weapon, and spare magazines lay in a neat coil on his pillow. Alongside, he’d squared his deputy’s hat, a second set of keys, a packet of chewing gum, and his wallet.

  Interesting. Her coffee pot rested on a far, cooler corner of the stove, and she poured herself a cup. Stirring in powdered creamer . . . that’s what she needed up here, a cow . . . she luxuriated in the silence. The world never seemed so still as in the first hush after a snowstorm. Cradling her mug, she inhaled. Fragrant steam dewed her cheeks. She took an experimental sip, cringing a little against the heat, then swallowed and sighed. Nothing like that first cuppa.

  Sipping, she moved to a window. The snow had stopped somewhere around ten last night. It was eight, now, and Hank and the animals were nowhere in sight, though the paths they’d cleared these last two days—to the outhouse, the lean-to around back, and the fire tower as well as Daisy’s favorite pee tree—had been re-shoveled and packed down. She wondered where they’d gone then thought Hank must have wandered out to check the trailhead leading down from the mountain.

  Which meant only one thing. Her eyes slid to his cot. Hank was leaving.

  That made sense. This was an enforced absence, not a vacation. The sheriff had dispatched Hank specifically to talk with her about Soldier. When he hadn’t returned, they might have gone looking, but chances were everyone assumed Hank had chosen the prudent course and stayed put rather than battle his way eleven miles down the mountain to his truck. With the storm over, Hank had no more excuses.

  And that was all right.

  #

  After that first bad night—she staring raw-eyed into the dark, those damn pictures spreading themselves over the ceiling—the next two days were calm like the pause between breaths. She had plenty of books; all that cord wood she’d laid by over the months was put to good use; they played cards; and there was enough food for two. Hank was a good cook. They spent just enough time together and then one or the other would grab the shovel or go out to exercise the dogs. They both climbed the tower several times a day to glass the distant mountains. There’d been no more gunshots, but Hank also hadn’t spotted another fire, if he’d even seen one before. As the hours slid by, the urgency they’d both felt to do something dribbled away, too. Whatever had happened was in the past. She put her mind on hold. Now, though, the gears of her life were meshing again, and the present ticking to life.

  Which means I’ve now got to decide.

  A light shiver danced over her skin. This close to the window, the change in temperature was noticeable, the cold like a buffer zone palming her face and a reminder that time was running out. The cabin was designed for late spring and summer. Unless the park service was going to volunteer a major refit and overhaul—little things like double-paned windows and decent insulation and another woodstove would be nice—or even allow her to buy the cabin outright, something she had not entertained but could afford, thanks to her father and his investments, there was no way she’d be able to overwinter.

  If I could, would I really want to? Asked the same question on Friday, the day before the storm, her answer would’ve been an emphatic yes. (Was that only three days ago? That meant this was Tuesday and they’d slid into October without her noticing.) The mountain was a refuge, an escape, a small and protected bubble like sidestepping into an alternative time stream. The world beyond could spin by on its carousel while she watched, safe and untouched, at a remove.

  Now, though, she wasn’t certain she wanted that anymore. She also wasn’t as sold on Hank’s plan to take Soldier. Why? Hank taking custody of the dog solved so many problems.

  Well, she knew the answer, at least in part.

  Almost against her will, she returned her gaze to Hank’s battered leather wallet. She’d not looked through his pictures since Saturday night. Those images were branded into her brain. Blink her eyes, and they appeared on the black screen of her lids. Looking again did her no good at all and might make things worse. She might slip or break down outright and demand Hank tell her what the hell was going on. If she did that, their friendship would end.

  But isn’t it ending already? If she could no longer trust Hank, wasn’t that a worm at the heart of a proverbial apple?

  You’re not being fair. For once, that nasty snark of conscience sounded almost reasonable. Pete might have made him promise not to tell.

  But Pete left her parts of his uniform. He made her promise to take care of Soldier.

  Because you’re a veterinarian. You were a logical choice. Face it, you were the girlfriend, not the wife, and you’re not a widow.

  “Oh, shut up.” Turning her back on temptation and that damn wallet, she studied the distant snow-covered peaks of the Black Wolf. Her eyes watered. Sun dazzle, she told herself as she palmed away wet. No wonder people went snow-blind.

  Far across the peak, a figure crested a rise. A moment later, the dogs followed. Sleek and black as a stallion, Soldier trotted at Hank’s left, high-stepping through snow that reached the dog’s forearms and back lower thighs. To her surprise, Daisy padded happily behind Hank, following in scuffed snow left in Hank’s wake as he wallowed in a pair of Tubbs. They’d discovered two sets of snowshoes hanging from a nail behind a metal shelf stacked with canned goods in the back room. Lucky thing the snowshoes weren’t vintage, though mice had been at the nylon straps. (Thank God for duct tape.)

  She should get dressed. There was breakfast to make and Hank to see off. In a way, it was good he was leaving now. When Hank went, so did his wallet, and there would go temptation, too.

  Once Hank was gone, she needed to get busy and pull out her checklist for closing up the cabin. Her park service rental agreement gave her until October 15, but with snow already on the ground, staying longer than another five days or so would be pushing it. She could leave what was left of her canned food for whomever came up here next spring. Put her mind to it, she could eat up her perishables by the end of the week, if not sooner.

  Come to think of it, she’d scheduled training for Soldier on Wednesday and Friday with Josie. Would Josie want to train in snow? From what she’d read, snow was a whole other monster when it came to search and rescue. On the other hand, Lonesome was a long way down, eleven miles, give or take. There might not be as much or any snow at all. Man, if she came back next year, she really did have to see about getting herself a decent satellite phone, and a weather radio while she was at it. Spotty reception was better than none, and if she ever had a true emergency, help was better late than never.

  She would aim for Friday as her drop-dead. Everything she couldn’t haul down on her back—her clothes, bedding, books—would have to be boxed up and packed back down the mountain by the same donkey team that made a circuit of the fire lookouts in the area and had brought up her things in May. She wouldn’t have to wait for the team either. If she sent word down with Hank, the team’s driver would know where to find her stuff.

  Spying her at the window, Hank tipped a wave. She raised a hand, remembering too late that most people smiled. Well, the sun was in her eyes, so there was plenty of reflected glare. He probably hadn’t noticed, the way he struggled with those snowshoes, which were a size too small and not long enough to evenly distribute his weight, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The Tubbs’ crampons bought him traction on icy slicks, but there was no way they would be safe going down the mountain and likely to hang up on a rock and send him tumbling, especially on those steep switchbacks, when the best he might hop for in a fall was a broken collarbone. She’d packed in a pair of microspikes for herself as almost an afterthought, something easy to toss in a backpack. Now she was glad she had, though they weren’t the right size for Hank. Was there a way of making crampons? She bet Hank knew. There must be something lying around they could use. She should insist they try. She might be pissed for his keeping secrets, bu
t she didn’t want him to break his stupid skull.

  Turning away from the window, she took a final sip from her mug then grimaced. The coffee was cold. Sliding the mug onto the table, she was about to move into her room when the floor suddenly shimmied, the boards shivering under her feet.

  “Oh!” Her breath caught. The sensation wasn’t violent, nor did it throw her off-balance. She felt it as a slight flutter that coursed up her legs to settle into her stomach. She darted a look at her half-empty mug. The surface rippled. From beyond the cabin came a whump as a sheet of heavy, compacted snow slid from the roof. She realized she hadn’t been counting, so she started, ticking off the seconds: One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three . . .

  2

  The wolves were freaking him out. So was Mac but for different reasons.

  On his belly behind a large heap of erratics and well back in a stand of jack pine, Gabriel slid a glance over his left shoulder. It was Tuesday and past dawn, that time of day when the light has yet to take hold, and the air’s grainy, everything colored in shades of gray, but he picked out the wolves’ distinctive silhouettes ranged amongst trees and sprawled atop low boulders perhaps fifty feet away. The wolves were relaxed, loose-limbed. Some napped with their muzzles resting on outstretched paws, like dogs.

  The only wolf who looked alert was an enormous gray. Perched on a thumb of rock, the alpha male regarded Mac with a singular, spooky, almost possessive intensity. Gabriel remembered Mac mentioning the pack the night they’d met. That the wolves were curious about her, and that alpha male most of all.

  Makes two of us, buddy.

  The pack had been there since Gunny. Gabriel hadn’t noticed them until he and Mac had scrambled to a shallow cave, more of a gouge in the slide, where he’d dragged himself and waited to either die of exposure or maybe bleed to death. (He’d told Mac it was a misfire. Which it was, sort of. Mostly, he was still alive because he couldn’t even kill himself right.)