Biting the Bullet (3 page)

“Yeah?”

“You got something to say?”

“Well, sir, on behalf of everyone here I’d appreciate knowing if she’s as big a pain in the ass as you are. Because, if so, we’d like to request double hazard pay and an extra week of leave after this one’s wrapped up.” Chorus of chuckles from Dave’s team.

Our dad, the marine, would burst a vessel at such a breach of military etiquette. But it just didn’t track among people so highly skilled they worked only the most top-level, skin-of-your-teeth, crap-down-your-leg missions available. In fact, it got in the way.

However, since he’d put Dave in a helluva spot just now, I fielded the man’s question. “That one’s going to be tough to answer, Cam. As siblings, we’re very competitive. Which means we could probably argue this issue all night long and never come to a satisfactory conclusion. Actually, though, if you’d ever met our dad, you’d probably agree that the award for overbearing, tyrannical, asshole of the century would have to go to him.”

Which was when I realized how this little coincidence had been arranged. Albert Parks was a semiretired consultant to the CIA. He might have been able to pull enough strings to pair his kids on the same mission if he felt either one of us would benefit from it. But in order to do so he would’ve had to know about it. Yeah, he could’ve found out. I wasn’t sure how, but with his contacts, I could practically see his hairy paw prints all over this deal.

“Jaz?” Dave asked. “Are you okay?”

Oh, absotively, brother dear. Well, okay, I want to thump our father over the head with a large blunt object. Like his ego.

Because what the hell is he trying to prove? Interfering old poop. But other than that, I’m just peachy.

“I’m fine,” I said. I sounded okay, too.
Good
. But to help bring myself back to center, and because I really did want to see his reaction, I said, “Did I tell you Albert bought a motorcycle?”

My brother’s mouth fell far enough open that I had to stifle an urge to wad up the nearest napkin and try my rim shot off his upper lip. “You’re shitting me!”

“Nope. He has a purple helmet to match the gas tank, which glitters in the sunlight like Mom’s old bowling ball — I’m quoting him here. Also he bought a full set of leathers. I think Shelby —that’s his new nurse,” I reminded him, “has to spray him with Pam before he slides into them.”

“How does he start it?”

“Push of the button. No kicking necessary.” His knees weren’t what they used to be.

Dave shook his head in horrified disbelief as he rubbed the back of his neck, maybe imagining our dad breaking his. “What the hell was he thinking?”

I shrugged. “He just became a grandfather. I guess he’s trying to pretend he’s not an old man despite all evidence to the contrary.”

“You guys are making me squirm,” objected Jet. “Colonel Parks is practically a god in my house. If my dad knew you two were talking about him like this he’d beat the shit out of
me
!”

Dave nodded toward my shooting buddy. “I guess Albert saved his dad’s life a couple of times. You know how it is.” I did. Jet’s dad had probably spent more time with mine than
I
had. Even now, all grown up and taking care of myself, I couldn’t help the spear of jealousy that skewered me when I thought of their relationship. They’d never struggle to understand one another. Never question each other’s motives. Their bond was unbreakable. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure Albert and I had one.

I shoved my hands into my pockets. My left forefinger brushed against the memento I always kept there. The engagement ring Matt had given me two weeks before he died had only lately begun to remind me of a relationship that hadn’t made me want to pull my hair out by the roots. And that only because I’d finally accepted that now, sixteen months after his death, maybe Matt wanted me to be happy. Too bad my closest male relatives didn’t always feel the same.

“Jaz? Are you sure you’re okay?” Dave asked again.

“Yes.”
Shut the hell up and leave me alone
.

He reached forward, pulled my hijab down, snagged one of the long curls that framed the right side of my face. Usually they’re a vibrant red. I’d dyed them black for this mission. Except . . . “Did you have an accident recently?” he pressed.

“Why do you ask?”

He pulled the twirls of hair straight and stretched them across my vision. My lips went dry. “What,” he demanded, “has turned your hair white?”

The first thing I did was grab another hunk of hair and yank it forward. Whew! It was still black. Only that bit beside my face had turned. The relief was so intense I laughed. Not so my crew.

During the moments of babbling, confusion, and near panic that followed I had to remind myself that I hadn’t just been in a near-fatal car accident. Nobody had shot or stabbed me. We were just talking about some hair tintage here, folks. But you’d never have known that by the frenzy my crew fell into. And damned if they weren’t getting me wound up all over gain.

“Ohmigod, somebody’s gotten to her!” yelled Bergman, clenching his bony fists like somebody was about to take a swing at him.

“She’s probably caught some vile disease!” He hadn’t forgotten the close call we’d had with a virus called the Red Plague that had been designed to wipe out ninety percent of those who were exposed to it. He scuttled to the farthest corner of the room despite the fact that it put him next to the woman who’d covered the windows — a six-foot-one-inch amazon with the face of a beauty queen.

At the same moment Cassandra leaned forward and said urgently, “I can help you fight whatever has possessed you.” A courageous offer, I thought, since as soon as she touched me she’d be putting herself at its mercy, too.

“I’m not sick and I’m not possessed,” I said, but my reply was muted by Cole’s exclamation.

“It’s this location, isn’t it? I told you they’ve got all kinds of lethal crap floating in the air over here. Comes from all that nuclear testing and biological warfare and —”

“Enough!” Vayl bellowed. The sudden silence made my ears ring. I thought,
See what happens when you hardly ever raise your
voice? You should take a lesson from this, Jaz,
though I knew I wouldn’t. Vayl looked at me. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea what caused this?” He curled the offending hair around his finger, brushing against my face as he did so. His touch, gentle and yet electrifying, made me hold my breath.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to discuss it?”

I sighed. If I could say it had nothing to do with the mission I’d be off the hook. But it did. In fact, it had a whole helluva lot to do with why four good men were currently sitting on the floor feeling like the poster boys for Johnson & Johnson.

I met Vayl’s eyes. They were the indigo blue that signified deep concern. I twirled Cirilai, the ring he’d given me, around the finger of my right hand. I don’t know if it was that simple action or a stronger power from Cirilai itself that calmed me, but as soon as I thought of it, touched it, I relaxed. “I fell asleep while we were in the helicopter,” I said.

“Yes, I know.” Oh, so that had been his shoulder I’d been leaning on the whole time. Comfy. Anyway.

“Raoul came to me in a dream.” You could almost feel the intensity in the room rise. It started with Vayl, who knew Raoul had twice resurrected me. Yeah, as in,
Lazarus, quit acting like such a stiff already.
He’d also, from time to time, offered me advice, usually in a thunderclap sort of voice that made me wish I’d bought earplugs.

The intensity spread to our crew when they realized, just from looking at our faces, who I must be talking about. Cassandra and Bergman had seen Raoul pull his first miracle on me via holographic replay. They’d filled Cole in later on. It wasn’t something any of them were likely to forget.

Dave knew Raoul as well, and his team, keyed in on him as they were, reacted to his startled response with a little dance I like to call the bump and shuffle. It’s a series of significant looks accompanied by shifts in stance and simple footwork that a very tight-knit group uses to let each other know something big is about to go down and everybody should remember their assignments. I didn’t know what they expected me to do. Suddenly transform into a brain-eating siren? Mow them all down with the AK-47 I kept hidden in my undies? Burst into flame?

Vayl, noting the change in pressure, tried to put a spin on the release valve. “Jasmine is a Sensitive,” he explained to the room at large. “Among her Gifts is the ability to travel outside her body. Raoul exists in that realm, and has had occasion to act as her Guide.”

Dave gave his okay-whatever shrug. I got the feeling he and Raoul weren’t quite on speaking terms. I believed the difference in our relationships with him had something to do with the fact that Vayl had twice taken my blood and left some of his power in its place.

Those acts had left me with extra abilities Raoul found valuable. Plus, Dave didn’t appreciate outside interference in his missions, no matter who assigned them. If not for the mole, I doubted Vayl and I would be here at all.

“Go ahead, Jasmine,” Vayl said, “tell us what happened when Raoul arrived.” I cleared my throat. Looked around the room. “Well, he showed up during my bubble bath dream.” I love that one. It’s always so warm and cozy and I wake up feeling practically boneless. Raoul had stepped into my little white bathroom, his green and black camo and impossibly broad shoulders making it seem more like a Chinese takeout box than a lavatory as he said in his Spanish-flavored accent, “I’m sorry, Jasmine, but there’s no other way to do this. I’ve got to take you to hell.”

The trip from my rest room to what Granny May’s minister used to refer to as Satan’s Playground so closely resembled the blackouts I’d experienced after losing Matt and my Helsinger crew that I came to with a strong desire to run straight to my sister’s attic, dive into the trunk she stored for me there, and resurrect Buttons, my old teddy bear. But since spineless wimps don’t survive long in my business, I decided to go with Plan B.

I opened my eyes.

And that’s when I started to swear.

“Hell is massive,” I told my audience, who’d gathered around me like a bunch of kids at their library story hour. “Imagine looking through a telescope. Think of all the black space between the stars. It’s like all that got sucked into an observable area that you somehow know is also an endless, infinite tract. But it’s not empty.

“The ground is covered with rocks. Some sharp, some rounded. Most covered with mold, blood, or vomit. Raoul and I stood on a huge boulder just flat enough on top to hold the two of us. In the distance I could see a chain of mountains. Did I mention the rocks? The point is, you have to watch every step. Citizens of hell don’t look up. Not unless they want to drag around a broken ankle or two. Some do.

“As a visitor, I felt free to explore. So I glanced up.”

“Shit, Raoul, the sky’s on fire!” I ducked, nearly pulling my hand from his as I moved. His grip tightened, pressing Cirilai
into the adjoining fingers until they throbbed.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go,” he warned me. “Hungry eyes are on us, waiting for us to break the rules.”

“All you told me was that we couldn’t be late and we had to leave when we were done!” I snapped. “If you’re going to
risk my life —”

“Soul,” he amended.

“Oh, that’s better.”

Raoul fixed me with a drop-and-give-me-twenty look. Through clenched teeth he said, “We are allowed only a brief
amount of time here. If they can separate us, they will. If we use our time trying to find each other, we have wasted the
sacrifice it took to come here. Worse, if we’re separated and can’t find each other in time, one or both of us could be stuck
here for eternity.”

“Sacrifice?”

“You did agree.”

“When?”

He grimaced at me, reached into the chest pocket of his jacket, and handed me a note, written in my own hand:
You had a meeting with the uppity-ups during your blackout. Someday you might remember, but there’s no time to
explain, and this is too important to screw up. In the end you’ll agree this was worth the sacrifice. So shut up and listen to
Raoul.

J

“So your hair,” interrupted Bergman, “is that the sacrifice?”

“I doubt it,” said the wounded guy who’d had to be stitched. He’d shed his turban to reveal a shiny bald pate that somehow made him resemble a rhinoceros, whereas any other white man would’ve looked like a cancer patient. I learned later his name was Otto

“Boom” Perle, and before he’d become a munitions expert he’d been a wildass teenager who’d burned his eyebrows and half his hair off in a fireworks accident. After hearing that story, bald seemed brilliant. Otto motioned to his wound. “Seems like hell would want something more like this.”

I agreed. In which case the sacrifice had yet to be made.

“So the whole place was just rocks?” asked another hurt guy whose rosy cheeks and light brown beard made him look a lot younger than he was. He introduced himself as Terrence Casey, father of five, grandfather of one, and biggest Giants fan of all time.

I shook my head.

No, there was more. The plants that grew between the rocks were vicious. The vines tripped. The bushes stabbed. Only the
trees seemed harmless. Then a sharp wind blew, and I realized the trunks weren’t extra thick like I’d thought. Those were
blackened bodies hanging from their limbs that now rocked and jiggled in hell’s breeze. And the awful thing was, they
were aware.

So were the walkers. Nobody within range of my sight sat and rested. They all moved among one another, never
conversing, but often talking to themselves. It reminded me a little bit of a busy New York sidewalk, except everyone was
looking down, watching the rocks.

Then I began focusing on the individuals and the sense of community dropped away. Right in front of us a woman
continuously combed her fingers through her long blond hair. When she got to the tips she yanked hard enough to jerk her
head sideways. Every few seconds she took the hair she’d pulled out of her skull and stuffed it into her mouth.