Authors: Merry Jones
He started up the staircase, his hand on his pistol, prepared. He took the steps quickly, invisibly, without a sound. Wandered through the second-floor bedrooms. One after another, like a damned dormitory. There had to be a dozen, some empty, some cluttered with random junk, a few full of heavy, old bedroom furniture.
And lots of dust. As he exited the first bedroom, Rick barely stifled a sneeze. Shit. The fucking dust was up his nose; he’d caught the sneeze this time, but the damn thing would come back. He stepped into a corner, rubbed his nose against his sleeve, pressed his nostrils with two fingers, waiting for the tickle to subside. Damn dust anyhow. He hated the stuff, had fought in it, slept in it, eaten it . . . In Iraq, it had coated every inch of him – even the crack of his ass. That dust had been hell, but it was sand dust. Clean. Not like this dust that smelled of old age and decay. And death. Like that saying: dust to dust.
When he was sure he wasn’t going to sneeze, Rick continued, easing from room to room, checking each even though he was sure Harper wasn’t in any of them. He’d developed a clear image of where Harper was, sensed her presence the way he used to sense an unseen silent insurgent. Rick took his time, relishing the hunt, using old skills. Verifying his instinct that Harper was upstairs.
Finally, he moved to the stairway, glided up the steps. Followed his instinct to go east. Crept along the long hallway to the arch, saw wooden boxes stacked in the hall. Headed for the room with a light on. His heart rate picked up, his breathing shortened; he smelled Harper’s scent above his own sweat. Rick felt his weapon in his jacket pocket where he could get to it, but reminded himself this wasn’t going to be a battle. It was going to be a conversation between friends. And, even if it went wrong, compared to combat, this was nothing. This would be a piece of cake.
Slowly, Harper moved away from the worktable, gripping the lever. Who was there? Probably, just Jake or Angus. Nobody to worry about. Still, she was careful to be silent as she stood at the door, peering into the hall. A man was coming up the stairs. Wearing a camouflage jacket.
Her glimpse was quick, but she saw he wasn’t Jake or Angus. He was shorter. Beefier. Familiar.
Harper moved into the hall. ‘Rick?’ She glared at him in disbelief. ‘How – what are you doing here?’
Rick froze, mouth open, eyes darting. Instinctively, his hand went to his pocket, quickly relaxed and moved away. Harper recognized the reflex; Rick was carrying a gun.
‘Harper. Surprise!’ He forced a grin, took the final two stairs and headed towards her, his arms wide for a hug. ‘You look terrific. Great to see you.’
Harper didn’t return the smile, didn’t allow the hug. Her scowl stopped Rick mid-step, yards away.
Rick sighed, looked at the lever. ‘Wow. What were you going to do with that?’
‘Knock your brains out.’
‘I guess I shouldn’t have surprised you.’
‘I told you on the phone I couldn’t see you. Did you miss that? Go away, Rick.’ She turned to go back to the workroom, dismissing him.
‘Seriously? After all this time, that’s all you have to say? “Go away”?’
Harper didn’t answer.
‘OK. You’re right. I’m too pushy.’ He followed her, stepping around stacks of crates to get in the door. ‘But it’s important that we talk. Critically important.’
Harper moved through the aisle between stacks, returning to her spot behind the worktable, sat on her stool. Put the lever down. Folded her hands like an angry schoolmarm. ‘Fine. You have two minutes. What do you want?’
Rick smiled, opened his mouth to answer. But she cut him off. ‘No – no, wait. First, I want to know how you even knew where I was. What did you do, follow me here?’
He lost the smile. ‘I had to do what I had to do.’
‘And how did you get in?’
Rick met her eyes.
‘Really. You broke in. What did you do, break a window?’
He grinned. ‘No. I’m better than that.’
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘I had to see you. To convince you to join us.’
She tilted her head. ‘This is about Baxter. His job offer?’
‘He needs to know you’re with him, Harper. He wants you on his team – our team. Look, you and I are the only ones left from our detail. He trusts us. He feels indebted because we risked our lives to save his.’
‘That was war. It was our duty.’
‘He’s personally committed to us. And he wants to bring us together again as a team. He’s authorized me to increase his offer – name it, Harper. What would it take to bring you on board?’
Burke’s voice echoed, warning her.
He’s trying to buy you off. Tell him to fuck off.
Harper shook her head. ‘You know what, Rick? I’ll tell you what I told him: I’m not interested in working for him. So you’re finished here. Bye, now. Have a safe trip home.’
Harper picked up one of the gold ornaments, began repackaging it.
‘Harper, let me tell you about Baxter’s plans for the country. Will you at least listen? All he wants to do is bring you on board. Think of him as a rich uncle, who wants to make your life easier.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’
‘Because he takes care of the people who’ve helped him get to where he is.’
‘Lovely.’ Harper heard Burke cursing. ‘Please give the Colonel my best.’
She carefully sealed the package, wrapped it in tape, set it back into the layer of foam in the crate. When she looked up again, Rick was gone.
She listened for the sounds of his steps on the stairs, heard nothing. Rick was stealthy and he was wearing sneakers, but still, she should have heard a creak in the floor, a brush of fabric against wood. But she heard nothing. Harper sensed his presence, knew that Rick was close. Probably just outside the door, in the hall. With a gun in his pocket – or in his hand. Why wouldn’t he leave?
‘Rick?’ she called to him. ‘I know you’re out there.’
He didn’t answer.
Cursing, she grabbed the lever, waiting. Certain that Rick would reappear. And in a matter of seconds, he did.
‘I can’t leave.’ He stood in the doorway. ‘I made a commitment to recruit you. I can’t accept a “no”.’
Harper stood. Rick came closer, his hand near his pocket. Harper anticipated his movements, bracing herself. What did he intend to do, shoot her? Or convince her to jump off a bridge?
Harper waited, silent, not moving. Rick came closer, a smile slithering across his face. ‘All he wants is your loyalty.’
‘Rick,’ she decided to be frank. ‘I didn’t have a clue about our detail’s real purpose or the money Baxter stole until Burke explained it to me.’
Rick scrunched his face, scratched his ear. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Even now, I don’t know for sure what happened. But no way I’m risking that it might be true. I’m not taking a pay-off “job” from a thief who betrayed his own country. Baxter may have bought you, but he can’t buy me.’
Rick sighed, leaned against the wall. Dropped pretense. ‘How can you be so fucking naive, Harper? Baxter did what he did
for
his country. So he’d be in a position to get it back on track.’
‘Spare me, Rick. Just go before I call the cops.’
‘The cops? What, because I broke in? Seriously?’
Harper looked him in the eye. ‘Tell me you didn’t force Burke to jump. Tell me you had nothing to do with Pet—’
Rick cleared his throat, bent his knees and suddenly leapt up on to the worktable, crouched among the priceless relics, pointing his gun at her head.
Before Harper had a chance to react, he frowned. ‘Harper, I really can’t accept another “no”. Are you sure you won’t reconsider?’
Harper froze.
‘Put that down.’ Rick meant the lever.
Harper let go of the lever and eyed the muzzle, mind racing. He could easily have killed her. Could kill her even now. He had the advantage, had taken her by surprise. So why he wasn’t he shooting her?
Probably, he didn’t intend to shoot her. So what did he want? For her to accept a pay-off from Colonel Baxter? Was it really that simple? Or was it more – maybe the relics? Was Rick there to steal them? Had he already stolen the missing pieces? For the Colonel? After all, the Colonel had stolen all that money in Iraq – maybe he was also stealing relics?
‘Come on, let’s go. Let’s talk.’ He faced her from the tabletop. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Harper.’
‘What the hell, Rick?’
‘I’ll do whatever it takes to convince you to accept Baxter’s excellent offer. Can’t I persuade you to rearrange your schedule and find some time?’
She eyed the gun, thought of Burke diving off the bridge. Had Rick held a gun on him, too? Had he forced Burke to jump? Did he plan to stage her suicide, as well? Good God, stop thinking, she scolded herself. Just take the asshole down. Get the damned gun.
Finally, her training resurfaced. Harper took a breath, centered herself, leaned back, and crashed her forehead directly against Rick’s, sending him flying backwards on to the floor. Relics rolled and rattled, even fell. Were they broken? Harper couldn’t stop to look. She dashed around the table and crates, pouncing on Rick as he scurried to his feet.
Something hard – probably his gun – smacked the side of her head. Pain stunned her; darkness and white light flashed in her skull, but she wasn’t down. Harper grabbed his ankles as he tried to run, pulled at his shoes. A sneaker came off in her hand; she tossed it aside, pulled his foot with both hands. He hit the floor with a sharp slap. Half crawling, Harper came at him, but he rolled, bent his knee and slammed his leg full into her chest, launching her backwards. Harper flew. And flying, she suddenly smelled smoke, heard an explosion, waited to land on top of a burned out car. To see pieces of the guys in her patrol scattered in the street, on her stomach – no. She couldn’t get sucked into a flashback. Even as she sailed through air, she struggled to anchor herself in the moment.
The impact of smacking into the wall accomplished that, jolting her into the present. Proving that she was not in Iraq, but at Langston’s house. Landing not on a car but against a wall. And bouncing off of it without a weapon, facing a former comrade who, though wobbly, still held a gun. Half dazed, breathing heard, she readied herself for his approach.
‘Fuck.’ Rick grunted as he stepped closer, pointing the gun at her. ‘Settle down. I just came to talk. Just listen to what I have to say.’
Harper waited, hunched, feigning injury. As soon as he came within reach, she swung her strong leg, trying to kick the gun away. She missed, felt the momentum of her foot crunching ribs, heard the simultaneous roar of pain and blast of pistol.
In a final surge, Rick charged forward, falling against her, knocking her against a wall panel. Which gave way under her weight. Harper tumbled through it, falling into darkness. The fall probably lasted just a second, maybe two. But in that time, Harper had several distinct thoughts. First, she wondered if she’d been shot or even killed, and if she was falling into hell. Next, she recalled Hank falling off the roof, wondered if his fall had seemed this endless. Finally, she felt a pang of unbearable sorrow, picturing Hank and realizing that, if she were dead, she’d never ever see him again.
Rick stumbled to his feet. Bitch had knocked the air out of him, broken his fucking ribs. Dazed, he realized his left calf stung. And it was bleeding. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She’d fucking made him shoot himself in the leg?
Where was she? Where the fuck was she? Forget about the Colonel’s plans – he’d blow her cute fucking little head off.
But she wasn’t there. Rick turned in circles, rotated, swinging the gun up and down, back and forth. Looking behind the boxes, even though she hadn’t been anywhere near them.
It was like she’d disappeared. Like she’d gone right through the wall.
Maybe he’d passed out and she’d run off? Damn, had he let her get away? No. He was sure. The gun went off and he’d hit the ground, but he’d gotten right up again. No lost moments. He would know if he’d been unconscious; wasn’t new to battle or wounds. Still, where the hell was she?
Rick stumbled around, gun still dangling from his hand, trying to think. One thing was sure: he needed to stop bleeding or he’d fall down and die right there. Needed to make a tourniquet. Turned in circles, confused. Fumbled around, wincing, groaning. Reaching hurt; moving any part of him hurt. Even breathing. She must have smashed six ribs. Might have sent one into his lungs.
Damn. Blood was pooling in his sneaker, the one he still had on. He leaned against the wall, dragging his wounded leg because it buckled when he put weight on it. Finally lowered himself to the floor and managed to steady his torso while his arms unbuttoned his jacket and pulled his T-shirt over his head. He slapped himself in the face. ‘Do not pass out,’ he said aloud as he bit a hole in the shirt. Blinking, shaking his head, refusing the darkness that tried to wash through his head, he ripped the shirt into strips, rolled his pant leg up, exposing the wound. The bullet had gone at an angle, passing through the muscle, going in the back of his calf and out the front. Bleeding like a motherfucker. Damn T-shirt strips kept stretching. He had to keep tightening them, yanking, annoying the wound, and the damn thing killed. Well, he was no pussy, could take the pain. Still, this shit was messed up, shouldn’t have happened. As soon as he got the bleeding under control, he’d go find Harper and settle this. Miss PhD. Miss I-don’t-want-a-job-in-Washington, even for Baxter. Miss I’m-better-than-you-are, too-good-even-to-hear-you-out.
Rick tightened the tourniquet, took off his remaining sneaker. Leaned against the wall just for a second, to regain his wind. No matter what it took, he’d show her, once and for all, how wrong she was.
The impact of landing reverberated through her body. Each bone, each nerve had its own collision and reaction. Harper couldn’t move; pain jolted her limbs, her back, her skull. Worst of all, she couldn’t see. Oh God – was she blind?
‘Help.’ She screamed, but her voice was a croak. ‘Somebody!’ She tried again but began to cough. Her ribs raged with each cough, and she tasted blood and dust. Finally, her body quieted, and she lay still, her breath ragged, hearing nothing else. Seeing nothing but blackness.