Bombshell - Men of Sanctuary Series, Book Three (22 page)

Keko kicked the socks off her feet, so she had better control. She lay on her back, knees raised, aimed both bare feet to pound against the door again. As dilapidated as the building appeared, the latch on the shed door didn’t seem to be giving way. She knew it was fruitless, but felt she should do something, anything, to escape.

Trapped in the shed, she guessed she had seven or eight minutes left before she gave up her life for her country.
I can
take them out at the same time, the fuckers—as long as
no one leaves in the next seven minutes. Probably five or six minutes, now. It will take them that
long to finish congratulating themselves on getting their hands on the completed devices, then
chanting, “Death to the American infidels, death to the American infidels.”
They’d never expect an American woman to sacrifice herself as a suicide bomber. Americans didn’t do such things.
Yes, and it will make the surprise so much sweeter. Won’t that be a shocker!

Still breathing hard from her efforts, it took Keko a moment to catch the slight rattle of the door latch moving.

Fuck, I missed one. Probably the same asshole who kicked me
. She pulled her knees to her chest, her gut aching from the kick.
Could be they decided to party with me after all, have
a little fun to take the edge off before they leave
.
Well, boys, my hoo-hah ain’t available without a
hell of a fight. And wag one of your sorry dicks near my mouth—I swear to all the gods that I’ll
bite it off at the root, then leave you writhing on the ground like a worm, bleeding to death
. She readied herself, her legs folded in the cocked and locked position, to slam her feet against her opponent as soon as the door opened.

Maybe I can wrap the chain around his neck with my foot. Choke the life out of him
.

Wouldn’t that feel good!
Hinges creaked, the door opened slowly. As she coiled to strike, the barest hint of wintergreen reached her, in the same moment as Mac’s soft, low voice.

“Keko? Baby, are you all right?” He knelt beside her. Pulled her into his arms.

Found her mouth, kissed her hard. Then, “Can’t you manage to stay out of trouble?”

Hysterical laughter caught in her throat at his impossible, implausible appearance.
He’s here! He’s really fucking here!
Then she remembered what she’d done.

Oh no, he’s really fucking
here
!

“MacBride, you need to run—now. Get away as fast as you can. Go deep into the tree cover.”

MacBride sliced through the tape that bound her hands. “Don’t worry, I will.

And you’re coming with me.”

He rose, pulled her to her feet, held her in his arms for the briefest hug. “Keep the shed behind you for cover. There’s a good chance we can make it without being seen, if we hurry. Head toward your one o’clock into the trees. Adam and Lucian are waiting.

Quick. Let’s go.”

She took a step.
He didn’t see the chain when I crossed the yard. Too dark in here to see
it. Too late, anyway. How do I get him out of here?

“MacBride, we need to leave
now
! You’re faster, you lead. I’ll give you a count of two, then I’ll follow on your six. Don’t fucking a-well look back or you’ll slow me down.

I’m right behind you.
Go
, damn it!”
No time, no time, no time.

He kissed her forehead, nodded, pushed the door slowly until it was flat against the outer shed wall. He did a quick recon. “Clear. A two-count, no longer.” He dove out the door, running fast and low.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand
… . Just long enough for him to clear the shed. “MacBride, I love you.”

She launched out of the shed, hit the end of her chain.
Okay, folks, Elvis has left the
building
. Dropped to the ground. Covered her head with her arms. Rolled herself into the tightest ball she could manage.
I wonder how long the hurt will last before I die, because
without a doubt, this is definitely gonna hurt
.

Three, two, one
.

The shockwave from the blast sucked away all the air, all the sound. The shed blew apart, rained splintered planks all around her—then the one-two punch of excruciating pain, followed by total darkness.

* * * * *

The pain convinced Mac he was still alive. He tried to sit up, decided to give himself another moment to catch his breath.

Thick-trunked trees, ancient and sturdy, took the brunt of the shrapnel, but the concussion still slammed the three men to the ground.

Lucian, farthest from the blast, regained his feet first. He gave a hand to the other two, all three men spattered with their own blood. “Damn, now I know how a speed bump feels when eighty-thousand pounds of tractor-trailer runs over it.”

Mac scanned the vicinity.
Where is she? Why isn’t she next to me?
Without answers, the best he could do is hope that what he feared had not come to pass.

Lucian put his on Mac’s shoulder as the men focused on the burning, debris-laden scene of complete devastation.

“Mac, chief, I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Really sorry.”

His rifle still at the ready, Adam walked toward the flattened shed, inspected the surrounding area for anyone left alive who needed to be dead.

Mac followed Adam, his body stiff and sore, his gait mechanical.
This can’t be
.

She said she loves me.
“She was right behind me. On the count of two. I know she was moving.”

Lucian’s voice came from behind. “Mac, she got out of the shed, I saw her. Right on your six, man. Then she dropped, rolled into a ball like a hedgehog, covered her head. Like she knew.”

Like she knew. Like she knew what? What the hell did she know? What the hell did she
do?
“Wait a minute. Do you guys think
she
did all this?” The swing of his arm took in the enormity of the destruction.

Lucian shrugged. “Don’t know, man. I’m just sayin’ the girl ducked and covered like a pro. She knew something was comin’.”

A deep, dark crater replaced the workshop and most of the overgrown yard.

Fractured rocks and boulders, gnarled and torn tree roots were scattered without rhyme or reason. The crater’s jagged edges reached what had been the line of crumbling front porches. Every building had been leveled. Both vans had been thrown several car lengths away, morphed in a matter of seconds into twisted, smoldering hulks. The SUV

lay on its side against a broken tree, the roof of the vehicle totally crushed inward. A bloodied arm hung out the driver’s window; rags of sand camo fabric clung to the torn flesh. The Jeep had flipped upside down on the far side of the tree.

Lucian took a quick look around what had been the work shed.

“There’s no way anyone survived the blast at ground zero. The FBI will be lucky to find a few bits and pieces.” He glanced at Mac. “Man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … .”

Mac picked his way closer to the remains of the shed.

“Lucian, shut up.”

He stepped around the smoldering debris, careful where he put his feet.

“Chief, I said I was sorry.”

“Luce, will you shut the hell up? I thought I heard something.” Mac lifted a couple of splintered boards, his arm muscles bulged with the strain. Cocked his head, listened again. Altered direction.

“Adam, grab the end of this plank.”

When the wide, flat timber was moved aside, they all heard it—a low, weak moan.

Mac dove in with his bare hands, grabbed and slung aside broken and burning boards and smoldering rubble. “Keko? Baby, talk to me.
Keko?
Answer me, goddamn it!”

The men finally reached the flattened shed door, which had been blown off its hinges, but somehow survived intact. The sound seemed to come from under the door.

Mac directed Adam and Lucian to each raise a corner, while he lifted the other end.

“Slowly. Don’t lift the door quickly—the wood underneath may flame.”

“MacBride, is that you?” Keko’s voice, fractured, raspy. “Can you … please …

get this fucking thing … off me? Can’t get any air.” She coughed, her breath sounded weak and thready. “Did I … did I … get … the rat bastard motherfuckers?”

Lucian laughed. “Oh yeah, whatever happened, she did it.”

“Yes, baby, you got them. You got them all.” Mac’s voice cracked as he tried for cheerful.

”
Hallefuckinglujah
.” The whispered word was barely audible. “Lost my favorite heels. My best … damned … jacket … .” Her voice faded, weaker yet. Then silence.

“Keko?”

Nothing.

The men carefully lifted the door, laid it aside.

Mac forced himself to pull air into his lungs as he looked at the bloody, unconscious mess that had been Keko Holokai Larsson.
How the hell had she survived the
blast? How long could she hold on?

“Call … .”

Lucian turned from the satphone. “Already on it, chief, already on it. Joe and Abigail heard the explosion, Joe immediately called for back-up. The EMTs are on the way, should be here in a matter of minutes.”

He gave Mac a quick glance. “Look, man, I understand chain of command and everything, but you have much more important things to worry about right now.
Please
let me call the FBI when we’re finished here. I know it’s your bailiwick, but I love it when they hear Sanctuary is involved. They chatter and jump up and down like crazed squirrels on moonshine.”

Adam shook his head. “You’re a seriously twisted sonofabitch.”

He crouched next to Keko, whose lacerated face rested against Mac’s blood-smeared thigh. He pressed his fingertips against the artery on the side of her neck. He shook his head, laid his hand on Mac’s shoulder.

“The lumber is still burning, and there’s no water supply to wet anything down.

Mac, we need to lift her onto the door or a section of boards, carry her out of the debris.

Are you up to it? If not, Lucian and I can handle it.”

Mac, who wanted nothing more than to pull his lover into his arms so she could die in peace, grimaced. “Let’s do it.”

Then they found the chain.

Chapter Fourteen

Friday, early morning

With no frame of reference, Keko drifted in and out of consciousness that alternated with pain and more pain, for what seemed like forever. When her eyes managed to stay open, the world slowly came into focus again. She tried to move, but agony rippled everywhere. A whimper escaped her parched, cracked lips.

“Hey, baby.”

She heard the soothing tones of MacBride’s voice.

He freed his gentle hold on her swollen fingertips, and the back of his hand brushed her forehead. “Welcome to the land of the living. You scared the hell out of everyone.”

Keko attempted to push herself up in the hospital bed, but only struggled weakly, without results. She looked down. Both hands and wrists were encased in bright purple resin casts from the middle knuckles of her fingers to the top of her forearms. She wore a blue cotton hospital gown with a diamond pattern. An IV line punctured each arm. Someone had loosely plaited her hair, probably to keep it out of the way. The single long braid hung down her shoulder. She couldn’t imagine why it mattered, but she was glad no one had cut off her hair.

“Oh, this is attractive.” At least, that’s what she meant to say. Her throat burned, and she sounded like a frog. She wasn’t sure she was coherent enough to be understood.

MacBride pressed buttons to raise the head of the bed, then gently lifted her to a more upright position. A tent had been placed over her feet. She moved her legs experimentally. One foot felt much heavier than the other.
Oh, crap, that can’t be a good
sign
.

“There. Do you feel better sitting up?”

“Not sure. Bring gallon pineapple juice, crushed ice.”

Focusing on MacBride’s face, she didn’t want to be the one to tell him that he looked like hammered shit.

He brushed her cheek lightly with his fingertips. “Baby, really, how do you feel?”

She spoke slowly, so she wouldn’t cough.

“Seriously? D-9 bulldozer, giant iron treads, rolled over me—then rolled back and forth to finish job.” She took another breath. “Everything hurts. Freakin’ hair hurts.”

“Splinters, no doubt. Although your arms and shoulders took the brunt of those.

Your body looked like a pincushion with toothpicks sticking out from everywhere.

Your phoenix is perforated. Blind luck that the nails missed you.”

She tried to shift her butt over, which resulted in another groan. And not the good kind. “Throat … hurts. Can’t … breathe … well.”

“The rubble was burning. Fire got a bit close before we were able to carry you out of there. You suffered smoke inhalation. Plus, your gut is bruised from being kicked.”

“Other damage? Foot thing?”

“You want the full inventory?”

She managed half a nod.

“It will probably be better if you listen, not talk. Lacerations and bruises from the back of your head on down; your face is scraped up. Minor burns, mostly first-degree, a few second-degree blisters. Smoke inhalation. Concussion, but covering your head with your arms saved your skull from serious injury. Multiple fractures, both hands and wrists, from the door coming down on you. Left hand worse than the right. Good news is that the fractures are simple, not compound. Hard casts, to stabilize, no surgery. The worst damage happened to the ankle chained to the shed floor.”

Her mouth skewed in a grimace. “Afraid to look. Do I have … one foot … or two?”

He lifted the sheet to show her the matching purple cast that covered her left foot from her toes to halfway up her shin. A light gauze bandage wrapped her right foot.

“Yeah, you’re one lucky sonofagun. You still have two feet. Ligaments and tendons damaged, lots of little bones fractured, skin ripped—you’re damn lucky your foot wasn’t torn off. The blast blew the door from its hinges. It landed on top of you, protected you from being sliced and diced to death. Physical therapy down the road.