The McClane Apocalypse: Book Two (25 page)

He goes straight to the tall storage units behind the counter, helping himself to small parts, nuts, bolts and some other things that she has no idea what they are. They move up and down aisles while John snakes parts; a rubber hose and water pump part thingy for the Hummer, valves for something, a few parts that will work for the tractors and a filter. Reagan has about as much of an idea of what these items are used for as John understands what the medicines that she’d taken from the hospital are used for.

“John!” Reagan whispers nervously as she catches the movement and a flash of lights through her night vision goggles near the front of the store.

He grabs her by the arm and sprints to the back of the building where he shoves hard and gets the door open, revealing a massive storage area.

“Come on,” John urges. “Keep moving.”

They arrive at another door where he pauses before opening it. At his signal, Reagan follows, but John turns around toward the door again.

“What’s wrong? What are you doing?” she asks frantically.

“Blocking this so they can’t follow. I think they spotted us,” he says as he takes a piece of lumber, broken likely from a pallet or something of that sort and wedges it under the door handle. “This won’t hold them off for long, but it’ll give us a start. Let’s go.”

John leads her a different way, but she’s pretty sure he’s heading toward the horses. As they jog along the alleys and sidewalks, Reagan catches lights from time to time while moving about. There is even a barrel with a fire lit inside of it where a few people hover around for warmth. Further away, a large orange glow lights the night sky, leading her to believe that a structure or vehicle is set ablaze. She doubts that it is for warmth.

Once they hit grass, she’s sure that he’s taking her to the horses. They have only spent maybe two hours in the city, but he apparently feels like that was enough.

They climb a steep hill but on the downside of it, Reagan falls. She slides a good ten feet on her bottom, scrapes her side and covers herself with mud, sticks and leaves. She thinks John actually curses under his breath. He’s right at her side, and the only reason she doesn’t fall further. He’s reached out and snagged her arm with one hand, preventing her from going past him and hurting herself even more.

“You ok, boss?” he asks with a good amount of panic and worry. John squats to one knee beside her since she’s still lying on her back, slightly stunned.

“I’m fine. I’m fine!” she gasps with embarrassment and also with fear that someone could be following them. The hair on the back of her neck has not lain down since coming into the city at night.

“Let’s get you back to the cabin so I can see where you’re hurt,” John tells her as he helps her stand again. It only takes a gentle tug on his part to have her to her feet. It causes her to wince. She’s definitely scraped herself up. Her side stings like she’s rolled on a hill of fire ants.

They arrive at the horses without her making a total fool of herself again, which is probably no small miracle. John helps her mount, secures the heavy bags he carries to the pack horse, and within a few minutes they are back on the trail to the cabin.

“You with me back there, boss?” he calls agitatedly over his shoulder.

“Where the hell else would I be?” she remarks with irritation. She doesn’t need him to look after her, to worry about her. His concern is a real pisser. She isn’t his to worry about.

She does, however, allow him to carry the horse tack into the cabin when they get it removed from the horses back at their camp. He lights the lanterns and the fire again easily enough, and they both remove their night vision gear and stack the guns on the card table.

“You’re a mess,” he declares when he looks at her. The frown he wears is deep and troubled.

“I said I’m fine,” Reagan murmurs dismissively. John takes her by the upper arm, the clean one, and leads her to a chair in front of the fire. She skims off her black jacket and lets it fall to the floor. It is filthy and sports a fresh tear along the left sleeve and side.

“Sit. Let me get some water and help you get cleaned up. I need to take a look at your injuries,” he orders. Reagan is almost too tired to argue. Almost. “Fine my eye,” he says under his breath.

John places the metal bucket full of water on the flat stove top of the wood-burner to warm and kneels beside her on one knee. He tentatively reaches for and takes Reagan’s hand in his own, turning it over. She tries not to notice how her hand disappears inside of his large one or how strange tinglings spread up her arm from the contact.

“Hold still,” John says on a sigh and a frown.

He reaches behind him into her pack and drags out her medical bag. Then he crosses the room to retrieve items from the hospital that they’ve taken just this morning. When he comes back to her, he dips a clean rag into the water bucket on the wood-burner and begins gently cleaning her scraped hand, wrist and then her face.

“I think I’ll live,” she tries to remark with cool nonchalance, but her side is still stinging.

“Your shirt’s ripped. Let me take a look,” he orders as he reaches for the hem of her black tank top.

“No way!” Reagan screeches. “I’ll take care of that myself.”

“Uh huh, sure you can,” John sneers. “Let me look, Reagan. I’m just trying to help you. Trust me, I’m not going to attack you. If I was, I would’ve done it last night when I came back into the cabin and you were out like a log.”

His gaze holds hers so steadily that Reagan has to bite her lower lip and look away. What he’s saying is probably true enough, but it doesn’t make her feel any better about showing him her bare side.

“Fine, but if you do anything, I’ll gut you. Make no mistake about that,” Reagan threatens.

John smirks that trademark, smartass smirk of his and answers, “Ok, half pint. You’ve warned me. You know I’ve only slept about three hours in the last forty-eight, so I wouldn’t have the energy anyways.”

He slips his finger under the side of her cotton shirt and slowly raises it while Reagan holds down the front so that he can’t see the criss-crossing white scars there. The contact of his fingers against her bare skin is about enough to bring her out of her seat if she wasn’t in pain. John cleans her scrapes with the warm water from the stove and rings out the rag again.

“It’s not too bad, but there’s a lot of dirt in it still. Your hair is caked with mud, boss. You’ve got it on your neck, too. How ‘bout you let me help you wash up in the sink over there? You don’t really want to go to bed like this. Then I can bandage these up for you,” he offers kindly and stands again.

“I can do it myself. I don’t need your help,” Reagan rebuts stubbornly and also stands, going to the makeshift sink with the pump handle. The idea of sticking her head under that icy cold stream of water is not exactly something she’s stoked about.

“Look, get the soap or whatever you brought and I’ll help you. I can heat some more water with the fire and dump it over your head for you. That way you don’t get sick from rinsing yourself with ice water.”

Reagan nods absentmindedly at him and retrieves the bar of soap and tiny travel-size container of shampoo that she’s brought. John rushes about the cabin adding two more buckets of pumped water to the top of the stove and grabbing towels out of the supply cabinet. First, she uses the rag that he’s been using and cleans her hand and side better. It is easier for her to do it herself because she isn’t as concerned about it hurting. He’d wiped so tenderly at it that there is still mud everywhere.

At his direction, Reagan bends over the sink, allowing her hair to fall into it. John slowly dumps a full bucket of room temperature water over her head and she lathers her hair while he pumps more and replaces it to the stove.

“You’ve still got some over here. Just let me,” he asserts himself against her side and scrubs at her hair near her scalp line on the left side of her head. Then he moves on to wash the left side of her face and neck with a soap-laden rag. “That’s better. You’ve got a scratch right here, though.” He’s pointing to her left cheekbone.

“I’m sure I’ll live,” she replies.

“We shouldn’t have been moving so fast. That’s my fault,” he berates himself harshly. His tone is tight and angry. “It just rained, and I should’ve known that hillside would be too slippery for you to run down it. I’ve got boots on, but your gym shoes aren’t exactly combat ready gear.”

“It’s fine. I just slipped. It’s my own fault. Trust me, I’m not known for my grace,” Reagan explains while he rinses the suds from her hair with two full buckets of water. He hands her a towel, and Reagan sweeps her thick mane into it.

“It’s still
my
fault. I’m the squad leader on this mission, and it’s my job to keep you safe, boss,” John further criticizes himself. For some reason, Reagan doesn’t like this self-loathing attitude in him.

“Well, at least I didn’t get shot, right?” she asks jokingly to which he scowls and shakes his head disapprovingly.

“Not funny. We really need to work on what’s funny with you,” John admonishes as he fetches clean clothing for her. She follows and stands quietly at his side, trying not to smart at the stinging of her fresh wounds. It doesn’t last long as John pulls items that are entirely too personal from the pack.

“I can do that myself!” Reagan blurts, yanks her clean panties from his hand and pushes him away from her duffle bag. Jesus! He’d just been holding her underwear while having a normal conversation as if nothing was out of the ordinary about that. Maybe for John it isn’t.

“Don’t be a prude, Reagan. You think I haven’t ever held a pair of women’s underwear in my hands before?” he asks with a bold grin.

“Oh, I’m sure you have, Romeo, but you don’t need to be pawing at mine,” she bites out with venom.

“I’d like to be pawing at more than those,” he grumbles moodily under his breath.

Did he just say that? She’s never sure exactly what he’s saying when he mumbles. Surely he didn’t say he wanted to paw at her.

Reagan goes behind her makeshift dressing room- the blanket across the clothes line- and changes into clean gray sweatpants, a white tank top and her black socks.

“Ok, I’m dressed, perv. I think I just need a little antibiotic cream and I’m good to go,” Reagan announces as she comes around to stand in front of the fire. John is staring at her feet with a strange expression on his face which makes her curl her toes under uncomfortably. When he looks up at her, he shakes his head, so she frowns at him.

“What?” she accuses angrily.

“Nothing. What is it with you and black socks?” he asks, and Reagan just glints her eyes meanly at him.

“What is it with you and tight shirts? Can’t find one that fits?” she throws back at him. He just gives her a lop-sided grin like he’s holding a secret.

“Sit. Let’s get you patched up so you can go to sleep,” John tells her as if he’s the one in charge. What a jerk. “Lift your shirt again.”

Reagan complies, but only because she’s too fatigued not to sit and rest a moment.

Even though she doesn’t want to, Reagan lifts her shirt anyways while he digs out antibiotic cream and white gauze pads from their loot. Her hand and inner wrist are just barely scraped, but her side is scratched a bit deeper and tiny slivers of blood that has already coagulated make a big red smear against her tan skin.

“My hand’s fine. I just need to bandage my side. It’s not that bad,” she tells him.

“Yeah, it’s not too bad,” he agrees, but with a deep crease between his brows. Reagan swipes the tube of cream from him. There’s no way she’s going to let John apply slippery, slick cream against her skin. Hell no.

She glares hard enough at him to not get an argument. “I got it!” Reagan grinds out.

“Fine, be hard-headed. I’ll hold your shirt,” he offers. When she’s done, he presses a soft piece of gauze bandaging there and presses down the sticky tape around the edges to hold it tightly in place. “Let me see your wrist again.”

Without waiting, John takes her arm in his hand and flips it over to reveal the tender flesh on the inside of her wrist and hand. He purses his lips momentarily and then whips out a bottle of antibacterial cleanser from the bag on the floor behind him. When he blots it onto her skin with another piece of cotton gauze, Reagan winces.

“Stop it! That hurts, idiot!” she barks and tries to pull her hand back, but John holds her fast with just two fingers around her wrist.

“I know, babe, but I don’t want this to infect. There, it’s done, ok?” he explains softly as he lifts the same pad of fire-water toward her face. Reagan slaps his hand away this time- hard.

“Get real! You aren’t putting that on my face! Leave me alone now,” Reagan reprimands and yanks down her shirt.

“Sorry, honey. I just don’t want anything to happen to you. Even if I have to protect you from yourself,” he quips as he takes her towel from her head. “I’ll dry it for you again. Your skinny little fingers aren’t strong enough to do it.”

“Gee, it’s a wonder how I made it before you came into my life,” she cockily remarks.

“It
is
a wonder. Hey, give me one of those packs of chocolates, boss,” John orders her as he towels her hair roughly.

She leans forward and snatches her backpack for the Starbucks loot. Reagan opens a package of the chocolates to which John referred and hands it to him.

“Here you go. Your wish is my command, sir,” she smiles ruefully. He eyes her with caution and takes the proffered bag of chocolates.

He pops three or four of the little, round nuggets into his mouth and within a few seconds starts complaining. “What the heck? What are those?”

“Chocolate covered espresso beans,” Reagan informs him with a barely-contained grin.

“That’s disgusting! Who the heck eats crap like that? I thought they were chocolate covered nuts,” he whines and gulps water from his bottle like he’s going to die. Reagan actually chuckles.

“Baby,” Reagan snidely insults him. “I got them for Sue. I know she likes them, but I didn’t think she would ever get her hands on any again. I’m sure she didn’t, either. Not everything is for you, duh.”