Flock of Wolves Page 12

"You what?" Tom asked, his eyes flicking up to mine.

  "I was a prisoner." My voice sounded hard, as hard as the iron manacles that left the scars on my wrists.

  He pushed up my sleeve further, seeing the round burns from the cigarettes they'd ground into my flesh. A sheen stole over his eyes as his other hand came to my wrist, his thumb running over the puckered marks.

  "Someone burned you with cigarettes?" His voice was a low growl. He reminded me of Blue in that moment. Of an animal, incapable of clear thoughts, running only on instinct.

  "Yes."

  “And did they…” He paused, his gaze finding mine again, and the question remained unasked. Did they rape you?

  "Yes," I answered, firming my voice. I would not cry. I would not cry as those memories flooded back, as my body tensed with the trauma of what had happened to me.

  "My God." His eyes welled with tears.

  I tried to pull away from him; his sympathy was devastating. I didn't need it. And I didn't want it.

  "Anita." His voice was edged with that anger again. My eyes flicked back to his—the same rich green as fir trees, with flecks of bark brown. The trees that covered his family's estate outside of London.

  I'd left him so that I could become me. So that I could become this powerful woman: saving others, using my skills and my heart to free the world from patriarchy and violence.

  "Tom." I put ice into my voice—let it chill right down my throat, building an ice dam around my heart.

  It was the only way to stay safe.

  He stepped forward, my wrist still in his hand, and pulled me against his chest, laying my palm against his cheek. I could feel rough stubble there. He hadn't shaved since morning. Had come here straight from work.

  "Anita, I understand why you left me."

  That was impossible. A white man from a rich family could never understand why I'd had to go.

  He'd had the best of intentions. Always treated me as an equal. Always wanted me to be happy. But that, in and of itself, was a cage. I was a prisoner of his status. Even if he didn't see me that way, the world did.

  "Tom, I think you should go." He moved quickly, so fast that my breath caught in my throat. And then his lips were on mine, forceful and urgent and demanding.

  I was his, and he wasn't going to let me go this time.

  My defenses shuddered at the brush of his lips, at the warmth of his tongue, at the insistence of his love.

  He pushed me back against the counter in that small galley kitchen, and I wrapped my arms around his neck and melted against him, the ice dam I'd built up in my chest flooding away.

  This time I wasn't crying; this time I was yielding. It was the first time I'd been kissed since the assault, and it felt so damn good. Tom wasn't trying to take anything from me. He was trying to be with me. He loved me.

  And maybe just for tonight I could let him. Maybe just this once. I wasn't gonna go back to him, but I needed this.

  Wasn't a part of standing on your own two feet taking what you needed?

  I heard pinging. My phone was pinging. And I didn't care.

  My leg rode up and wrapped around his hip, and he groaned, pushing himself against me. His hands dove under my shirt and slid up the silky sides of me, up my ribcage, holding me there, one hand on either side as he kissed me. And kissed me. And kissed me.

  But that pinging didn't stop. My phone was going nuts.

  And through the fog of lust and freedom and want, I realized something massive was happening.

  I pulled away from him, raising my mouth so that I could breathe, and he kissed my chin, my throat, down to my collarbones, licking the hollow between them.

  I put my hands on his shoulders, steadying myself. I wanted him. I wanted this night, free of any entanglements. Just a trustworthy partner. Someone who would fight for me. Someone who needed me. Someone whose strength I could take, knowing he had plenty to give.

  But my phone. My phone kept pinging.

  I took a hand off his shoulder to reach out and grab it off the counter. Alerts. Alerts from Twitter, from Facebook. Three texts from Dan.

  Oh, shit. The video had gone live.

  Mulberry

  I shifted my weight, bringing my legs around so that I was sitting on the edge of the bed. Gripping my jaw, I eyed the wheel chair. I could do this. Sweat dripped over my brow, stinging my eyes. I swiped at it and glanced up at my physical therapist.

  Onder nodded, encouraging me. "You've got this."

  I sucked in a deep breath and reached out to the wheelchair, using my upper body to maneuver myself into it. My arm muscles shook with the effort. "Breathe," Onder reminded me.

  Fuck you. My breath came out in a whoosh as I dropped into the chair, my whole body trembling.

  Onder's hand landed on my shoulder and squeezed. "Great job, Mulberry."

  "It's ridiculous. I never needed—" I shook my head, not finishing the sentence. My upper body had always been strong. Even as a teenager, I'd been effortlessly muscular and physically capable. To find myself a divorced, middle-aged man, missing a limb, who could barely maneuver himself into a wheelchair, was almost as painful as the throbbing nerve endings in my stump.

  "Onder," I said. "Tell me again how long until I get a prosthetic?"

  This phase needed to be over. I needed to be walking. I needed my life back.

  "Soon. You're doing great."

  "Yeah, great," I said.

  There was a knock at the door, and Lenox came in. His lean body moved effortlessly— broad shoulders, narrow waist, two legs…if I didn't like him so much I'd have to hate him. "Looking good," he said, gesturing to the wheelchair.

  "Am I?"

  Lenox grinned, his teeth flashing. "Sitting up, moving around. Not just lying in your bed like a sack of potatoes. Yeah, I'd say you're looking good."

  I winced. Days ago I'd been unconscious. Now, at least I was a conscious sack of potatoes. This sack of potatoes could move itself into a wheelchair. The little things.

  "I've got some news that's going cheer you up," Lenox said in his lilting accent as he moved into the room.

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yeah," he nodded. "Sandy just got off the plane. She will be here soon."

  My heart started to hammer in my chest. Sandy. I couldn't wait to see her. How did I ever lose her?

  The loss of Sandy and my marriage hurt…and felt unreal. Like my leg, the ghost of it still lingered—my brain refused to believe it was gone.

  What had happened between us? Hours combing through my memories had revealed no clue as to the last ten years—the last thing I could remember was leaving the house for work. Saying goodbye to Sandy, giving her a kiss, and she turned her cheek away, angry at me for something but I didn't think it would lead to this: a separation, a divorce.

  Neither of us even believed in divorce. Both from Catholic families, when we said we were gonna stick it out forever, we'd meant it.

  But I guess we didn't.

  However, the fact that Sandy was willing to fly across the world meant she wasn't totally lost to me.

  "Onder, let's keep going."

  "I think you've done enough for today. Get yourself back into your bed, and we can consider it a success."

  "I'd rather see Sandy sitting up, if you don't mind. I think I’d look less like an invalid." I smiled. "What do you think, Lenox? Which looks better, in a hospital bed? Or in a wheelchair?" I barked a laugh.

  Lenox laughed, too. "Hey, man, you look good either way."

  Lenox was a friend. That much was clear. He'd refused to explain to me what we did, saying it was top secret. Had I gone to work for the CIA? That didn't sound like me. Maybe an anti-terrorist unit within the NYPD.

  Lenox promised to tell me eventually, or I'd remember. In the meantime, I should concentrate on getting better. Concentrate on learning to walk again.

  I hauled myself back into the bed, just for the practice, and lay there shaking, letting my eyes slide shut. I must have fallen asleep, because a sof
t knock at the door woke me.

  I opened my eyes to see Sandy stepping into the room. She wore loose jeans and a white cable knit sweater. Her blonde hair was up in a ponytail. There were dark circles under her eyes and fine lines that hadn't been there the last time I'd seen her. My breath stuck in my throat as I took her in.

  She was as beautiful as ever. I loved her as much as ever.

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she put a hand to her lips sucking in a breath.

  "Is it that bad?" I asked, bracing myself for the answer.

  She shook her head, crossing the room to me, slowly, approaching me like I might be dangerous. Like I might hurt her. "It just brings back some pretty bad memories," she said, standing over me, her fingers twining together.

  "Memories, funny you should mention those," I said, trying to make a joke about my amnesia. Haha. "Have a seat, please." I gestured to the chair next to my bed.

  "I, yes, your friend told me," Sandy sat in the chair, her eyes holding mine. "You don't remember..."

  "Baby," I reached and caught her hand, looking down at where my ring used to sit. There wasn't even a tan line. "Baby, what happened between us? I don't understand."

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she squeezed my hand. "You never did beat around the bush," she said with a small smile, then looked down at our joined hands. "Mulberry, you…you were shot. Do you remember that?"

  "I don't remember it but…"

  She reached up and touched my shoulder where I had noticed a bullet scar but hadn't known when it happened.

  "Ten years ago. You were working, and you were shot, and I was so scared. And I realized that I couldn't. I wasn't meant to be a policeman's wife." She pulled her lip between her teeth and bit down on it, staring at my shoulder, her eyes misted with memories.

  "But, I don't understand." That didn't make any sense. Sandy had known what I was when we got married.

  "It was losing the baby and that—I just couldn't take it."

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and ice crystallized in my veins. "Losing the baby?"

  She pulled her hand from mine and covered her face. "I'm messing this up. I have to remember that you can't remember," she said into her hands.

  "It's okay; go slow, I'm listening." Leaning over, I put my hand on her knee. She sobbed. I wanted to put my arms around her, climb out of the bed and pull her to me, but I couldn't. I was too weak. Anger sizzled through me, chasing away the ice of fear. What the hell had happened? What the hell had I done?

  She sucked in a stuttering breath. "I was pregnant—when you were shot, I was pregnant. And I hadn't told you. And then you were shot, and I lost the baby."

  I stared at her. We'd wanted children. Always talked about having lots of them. Loads.

  Sandy came from a big family. And I'd always wanted one. "Oh," was all that I said. I wanted to say more. Wanted to say all the words that would take away the pain, take away the past and make her mine again. But I had no idea what they were, or if I had the strength to say them.

  "I realized that I couldn't have a family with you. That I couldn't handle the stress. That we couldn't be together."

  "I wasn't willing to give up the job for you," I said, my voice a monotone. Of course not. The anger mellowed into a numbing warmth. It was important to do the greater good; sacrifice was the highest honor. The highest purpose.

  I looked down at my leg…at where my leg used to be.

  Had I sacrificed enough now? Could I give up throwing myself in front of others? And maybe, maybe Sandy would take me back?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Stranger in Us All

  Robert

  My heart rate slowed as my vision sharpened. The scent of smoke and the flickering flames of the crashed helicopter calmed me.

  Glancing at Sydney, her face all hard angles and determined lines, assured me she had control.

  The shaggy hair and the black clothing of the figures approaching us meant they were Isis fighters.

  The American soldier at our feet continued to yell into his radio, giving his location, and describing the situation, yelling to be heard over the crackling flames.

  Fully surrounded.

  Need support now.

  Two men gone.

  I recognized the soldier. I'd tried to hire him the year before—he turned me down. Wanted to serve his country. If he'd come to work for me, he wouldn't be about to die.

  They'd only sent three people after us. Martha expected us to come easy. She didn't think that I would be willing to risk my company, my reputation, my life. She had severely underestimated my devotion to Sydney Rye.

  I began to back up, headed toward the motorcycle, but keeping my eyes on the fighters arrayed above us.

  One jumped down, landing on a nearby boulder.

  Sydney bent down and grabbed the soldier by the back of his flak jacket, beginning to haul him along. Blue stayed by her side, a low growl emanating from his chest, his lip hovering above his teeth—they glistened in the flames, light, sharp and deadly.

  The other Isis fighters began climbing down, and so instead of arguing with Sydney about how the injured soldier's dead weight would kill us, I grabbed his other arm and helped.

  We navigated down the narrow passage toward the motorcycle and its hiding place. I had more weapons there. The niche between two boulders, up against a tall cliff face, provided decent cover.

  Isis's recent defeats had pushed them into this desolate land, shrinking their territory and leaving them hungry for a victory. We must look like an easy prize.

  They couldn't imagine what they actually faced.

  A bullet exploded against a boulder to our right, and more sank into the sand at our feet. Their attack had begun. Debris sliced my cheek, and I flinched but kept moving.

  Reaching the motorcycle, we dropped the American, and, after retreating into the niche, Sydney turned back to face the narrow opening. Dropping down on one knee, she brought the machine gun up and fired, the expulsion of the bullets shaking her thin form.

  Blue sat behind her, his attention riveted to the American…his charge.

  I grabbed supplies from the bike: several grenades and a sniper rifle. Then I began to scale the boulder next to us.

  Sydney continued to fire as I climbed. I'd counted ten Isis soldiers, but there could be more coming.

  Reaching the top of the boulder, I set up my sniper rifle, placing my grenades next to me. Lying flat on my stomach, creating as low a profile as possible, I searched the darkness. The fighters' black clothing blended with the night, but the fire from their weapons gave away their locations.

  I zeroed in on my first target. His shaggy head arched back as a bullet entered his brain.

  The rat-tat-tat of Sydney's gun silenced for a moment as she reloaded. An Isis soldier ran full bore—taking her silence as an opportunity to attack. I hit him in the shoulder, and his body twisted so I could aim at his face. I ended him.

  The staccato of Sydney's gun started up again. Two more men came down the path, clearly willing to die in this battle, thinking they had somewhere to go.

  Sydney and I knew this was it for us. There is no afterlife, only this one.

  I took the pin out of a grenade and tossed it behind the approaching soldiers. Its explosion sent rock and sand into the air, throwing the two combatants forward.

  Rocks tumbled down the slope onto the path, creating an additional barricade between the rest of the soldiers and us. They had to climb over the rubble, exposing themselves to my sniper fire.

  The two fighters who had fallen scrambled to their feet but fell again under Sydney's fire.

  No more Isis men appeared. Not complete idiots or totally suicidal. But also not our only concern.

  The American soldier Sydney insisted on saving had contacted his base, so backup would arrive. While they could take out the Isis fighters, they would also want to take Sydney away.

  We had to move soon.

  I pressed my eye to the sniper ri
fle scope, scanning the area.

  "Robert, above you!" Sydney yelled. I rolled onto my back just as an Isis soldier fell onto me.

  A knife stabbed into my shoulder: painless at first, yet chilling. I grunted as it hit the bone, that sickening sound ringing through my body.

  I brought up my hand gun, placing it to his temple. His skull shattered, and blood exploded over my face.

  I rolled away, pushing him off to the side. His body thumped onto the rock, slid off and fell to the ground in front of the boulder.

  A bullet hit the stone next to me. More men hung from the cliff face above. I grabbed my Uzi and sprayed, hitting the rock, pieces of it exploding off. The men fell with soft cries and landed with hard thumps.

  The distant sound of a helicopter broke through the rush of blood in my ears.

  We were running out of time.

  "Sydney, we've got to get out of here."

  She didn't respond. I glanced over the rock and saw her struggling, a soldier on top of her, Blue wrestling with another. The American passed out, possibly dead.

  A knife glinted in the low light. I raised my weapon to kill her attacker, but a cry from above drew my attention. An Isis fighter fell through the air, having leapt from a dozen feet above me.

  I stepped to the side, but he slammed into my shoulder, both of us falling off the boulder, spiraling through space.

  The ground slammed into my back, knocking the wind out of me, and I rolled onto my side, finding my footing but realizing I'd lost my weapon.

  We'd landed on the far side of the boulder, away from Sydney and Blue. The man who'd leapt on me rose to his feet.

  Unlike most the soldiers, his face was clean-shaven…oh no, it wasn't that he'd shaved. This was a boy.

  He ran at me, his eyes wild, his nose already bloodied from the fall.

  I drew the pistol from my belt milliseconds before he rammed into me. But this time I only stepped back—he was light, a child, practically.

  Shit.

  I raised my weapon, bringing it down onto the back of his head. He slumped against me, and I held him up for a moment before dropping him to the ground. My eyes couldn't leave his face. So young.