The McClane Apocalypse: Book Two (13 page)

“What did you say?”

“Just stating the facts, bro. You aren’t interested in her, so what do you care?”

“Don’t even think it. That shit’s not funny,” Kelly threatens menacingly.

“Whatever, man,” Cory says and glances quickly over his shoulder at Kelly and then raises his rifle nonchalantly to look out at the rain again.

“Fuck!” Kelly hisses under his breath and leaves Cory’s room with a solid slamming of the door. An ominous crack of thunder peels through the night sky as if to echo the slam and laugh in his face. This day couldn’t get any worse as he descends the stairs to find Em and make sure she’s clean and ready for bed. The last thought Kelly has two hours later before finally falling asleep is that he needs to steer clear of Hannah and steer Cory toward more chores to keep him busier. His brother isn’t right for her, either.

Chapter Eight

John

At four a.m. his watch alarm signals, and John is instantly alert and momentarily disoriented because he’d been having a nightmare that he was still in a Turkish enemy prison camp. In actuality, he is lying with Reagan, spooned into her back. Very carefully, without waking her, he bumps the stop button on his watch against the bed’s headrest so that it doesn’t go off again. He’s learned from sharing her attic suite that she doesn’t sleep much and when she does, she tends to crash hard. But on most nights her sleep is plagued by nightmares and anxiety that John tries his best to help her escape from. Normally she doesn’t awaken enough to even be aware that he is there, but he always knows when she isn’t sleeping much because her green eyes will be rimmed in darkness the next morning. It will be a shame to wake her now, though he knows he must.

He tells himself this many times as he pulls her tighter against his front. This is not how he normally comforts her in the middle of the night. This is more the snuggling kind of embrace of two lovers in the after-glow of lovemaking and not what it truly is which is exhaustion as the result of a twelve hour horseback ride from Hell. John buries his face in her hair and nuzzles her neck right before he dangerously presses his lips against the bare skin there. She smells like herself, which is always lovely, mixed with rainwater. Potentially this could be life threatening for him, but he knows her gun is on the table across the room because he oiled it down for her. He’s not, however, sure of where her knife could be.

Reagan’s breathing changes, leading John to think perhaps she’s awakened. But she doesn’t jump from the bed to run for her pistol, so he goes back to assuming that she’s still out. His arm is draped about her middle, and he holds her hand in his pressed to her breast where he feels the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. His leg is wedged in between both of hers and her backside is molded perfectly against... him. If she should awaken quickly and realize exactly what part of him that he is pressing against her backside, she’s going to freak and probably stab him with the dagger that he knows she’s got somewhere in this bed. Reagan squirms against him, and he kisses her neck again.

“Time to wake, sleeping beauty,” he whispers into her ear and then kisses behind it. She squirms again, letting John know that this time for sure she is no longer sleeping. She’s holding her breath. Is he soon going to feel her dagger’s tip in his spleen?

She groans, her voice scratchier than usual from sleep, and arches her back in a stretch which pushes her further into him. Obviously she’s not fully, fully awake.

“We need to get going, Reagan,” John murmurs against her curls, and she still doesn’t pull away. “It’s four o’clock. We need to roll out, sweetie.” John places another kiss on the salty, soft skin of her neck and rolls swiftly away and to his feet before she can retaliate against him for it.

When John looks back from the clothes line, Reagan is sitting upright with her legs hanging over the side of the bed, wearing the most peculiar expression on her exquisite face. Maybe she is just registering that he’d kissed her. Maybe she had been dreaming of him doing so. Doubtful.

She rises from the bed, not remembering or realizing that she has on no pants and that her shirt is hooked on her panties. However, she doesn’t do anything to change that, and John has a nice view of her toned butt in her white bikini underwear and her tanned, muscular legs all the way down to her black socks. Ok, so she has no sense of fashion and wears black socks like an octogenarian in a Florida retirement community. John doesn’t care; she is still perfect.

“Do you remember the hand signals we went over, babe?” John asks as he pulls on his Army cargos and clean socks. Everything is dry and the fire has died down considerably. He won’t stoke it again or add logs until they come back later. No sense in burning down their only source of shelter for the next coming night.

Reagan glances over at him slowly, frowns sleepily and nods. “I remember,” she says quietly.

She certainly is more agreeable after a twelve hour trail ride and six hours of sleep. Maybe he ought to suggest this more often. He, on the other hand, is frosty like any other time when fatigue and lack of sleep was pushed to the bottom of the complaint list and killing and surviving was bumped to the top.

“Good. When we get close to the city we’ll tie the three horses and walk in after we find a good hiding place for them. You’re sure they won’t spook and try to run off or anything?” he asks as he pulls his black tee over his head and straps on his shoulder holster as well as his hip holster, filling them both with .45’s. When Reagan doesn’t answer, John looks up. She’s made it to the clothes line and has pulled down her bra and black pants but is just standing there yawning.

“Hey! Chop, chop! Get moving, woman,” he orders with two sharp claps of his hands, at which she scowls prettily over her shoulder at him. She’s too irresistible to get angry at, though, so he grins at her instead.

“I
am
moving. Leave me alone. And turn around, pervert, so I can get dressed,” she grumbles. That’s more like it.

“Got it, boss,” John turns and retrieves his boots which are also thankfully dry. He’s done his fair share of marches with wet, soggy feet. The Army made some darn good waterproof boots, but nothing kept feet dry when walking through a swamp was the order of the day. “So the horses won’t run off?”

“No,
they
aren’t idiots,” she insinuates.

John chuckles and peeks over his shoulder catching a glimpse of her bare back before she pulls up her bra. That was not smart; he doesn’t need distractions today. Her skin glows luminescent from the last embers of the fire, making John want to kiss and lick every square inch- right after he duck taped her mouth.

Once John is finished lacing his boots, he turns to retrieve the rifles and rucksack full of their food items they’ll need while they are out today. She will be carrying Derek’s M16 since a heavy sniper rifle wouldn’t be a good close contact weapon of choice for moving around in tight quarters. She’ll also carry a side-arm.

“Ok, I’m dressed,” she snipes at him as she comes out from behind her makeshift curtain on the clothes line. Reagan is in her tight black riding pants in favor of the jeans she wore yesterday and a black tank top that she’s pulled from her bag. Those black pants fit her like a second skin, and he has a hard time concentrating whenever she wears them. John has a few better ideas than storming a ravaged, dangerous city with her, but he doesn’t think any of them will go over too well.

“You should wear your pistol on your hip today instead of your thigh since it’s bruised so badly. And your rifle is cleaned and ready to go. I’m going out to start on the horses. Just stay in here and finish getting ready.”

“Sure, Dad,” she mocks like the smartass that she is, but she doesn’t try to follow him.

Donning his light jacket, courtesy of the items that Grams gave the guys from her dead grandson, and his night vision goggles, John heads out into complete darkness. He also takes with him a hurricane lantern that he’ll hang in the horses’ stall. The bone chilling rain of earlier has completely subsided, leaving them with a glowing full moon by which to help guide their way to the city. He lowers the goggles since there’s enough light to see by, hangs the lantern and goes back for the horse tack. Reagan is busy moving about the cabin doing her own thing, but he doesn’t pay much attention to what she might be taking care of because they need to keep moving so they can get on the trail. He easily carries two saddles, bridles and the blankets for each horse. Next he goes back for her tack and brings it to the stables, too. He leaves the gel pads because they don’t have far to ride today and those things had ceased being effective yesterday after about mile five anyways. As John saddles the first horse, his mind is racing full of plans, the lists of items that each person at the farm may need, the more important being the medical supplies. He doesn’t even hear Reagan approach until she’s at his elbow, her head not reaching his shoulder.

“Hey, you ready?” he asks quietly. He has a sickening sense of foreboding and wishes he could just leave her here at the cabin until he returns. But his years as an experienced soldier tells him that it’s always better to partner up and have someone watching your back- even if she’s only five two and ninety pounds.

“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, can’t go back now, right?” she asks with uncertainty as she squeezes past him and his horse to get Harry saddled.

He’s never seen her behave this way and it’s not good. If she knows that he’s also feeling dreadful, then she’ll not have the conviction to go through with this mission and could jeopardize them with her lack of.

“Nope, no going back. Don’t worry, boss. We’re good. We make a good team, right?”

“No, we don’t,” she grumbles obstinately.

“Sure we do. Remember that night at the Reynolds place? I had your back, kid. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he tells her as he tightens the second girth. Reagan grunts at him, places Harry’s bit in his mouth and tightens the chin strap. The gelding is prancing in place, ready to go. He’s so much like his owner it’s kind of scary. John walks the pack horse out of the stall and loops her reins around a tree branch. He follows suit with Lady, his mount, and does the same.

“Everything is closed up inside. I just need to get my pack,” Reagan tells him and goes back to the cabin after she ties Harry to a thick branch coming out of a stump near the other horses.

John follows her, and they retrieve the rifles and both of their backpacks. He checks his pocket again for the lists of items. Reagan has the exact same lists just in case one of them can’t fulfill the mission, the other still can.

When they close the cabin door and walk back to the horses, John notices that she’s pulled her hair into a ponytail and then tied it again in a second ponytail the same way farther down to keep it all out of her face. She goes straight for Harry, but John stops her by placing his hand at her elbow before she mounts up. She frowns up at him but doesn’t yank her arm away like she used to, which is very encouraging coming from her.

“Hey, I want to talk to you for a second, ok?” he says softly to which she nods. “Look, when we’re out there you listen to me, you hear?” She rolls her eyes at him in answer. “Reagan!” John scolds firmly, “I mean it. If I say hide, then just hide. If I say run, then hightail it, ok?”

“O... ok,” she answers and clears a frog in her throat.

“If I get shot and tell you to leave me, then you do it. Remember? We talked about this yesterday. Don’t argue or try to fix me or some silly crap like that. I’ll know if it’s fixable or not. You may be the little Doc, but I’ve seen my share of war wounds and I could’ve told you Mr. Reynolds wasn’t gonna make it. Sometimes the things I learned in the Army weren’t anything any of us really ever wanted to learn, and I can tell a fatal wound when I see one,” he orders her. Reagan grimaces hard at this directive. “We’re not splitting up- ever. Not even for a couple minutes. You stick close to my side, ok?”

She nods on a frown. “Ok,” she says more firmly this time, and John can tell that she understands the importance of listening to him implicitly.

Taking a huge risk, John gently cups her cheek, the one with the scar. She barely flinches, her eye squints only slightly, and he’s buoyed by this. He smiles down into her face, her tortured, beautiful, scarred face and wishes secretly that he could make everything right for her again.

“I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise,” he swears solemnly and means every word like his life depends on it.

If ever he was going to lay down his life for someone, it will be this woman. He knows it in his heart, his gut, in his soul. He’d always felt sure that if his fellow soldiers needed him to jump on a grenade or in front of a bullet, which he’d done twice, then he’d do it no questions asked and without hesitation. What he feels for Reagan is a thousand times more powerful. She nods as her worried green eyes pierce him in the moonlit night. It gives him the confidence to rub his thumb over that full, top lip which does cause her to pull away and frown at him. Oh well, at least he’d touched her without making her want to vomit for a change.

“Now pull down your goggles and let’s move,” he tells her firmly, trying to instill confidence in her.

They ride for about an hour at a more up-tempo pace to make the outlying edge of the city before the sun rises. When the tall buildings and clusters of homes and businesses come into view on the horizon, he signals for Reagan to turn and go back down the small hill they’d just come up. When they reach the bottom again, he and Reagan dismount and tie the horses. This will be the surveillance part of the mission where John will decide whether or not it’s even safe to go in.

John checks her handgun to make sure she’s locked and loaded which she’s not. He works the slide and loads the gun for her then clicks the safety back on. Both of the rifles have small, compact silencers screwed into the ends, care of Doc McClane and his ingenuity.

“You’re locked and loaded. Flick the safety off and you’re ready.” She stands still which is rare indeed while he does this, and she doesn’t argue once. He hands the rifle from its scabbard to her and takes his own.