The McClane Apocalypse: Book Two (37 page)

This was exactly the wrong thing to say. If John was determined before to keep her safe, then he’s even more steadfast in his decision to eliminate the threat right now. This bastard is indeed after her.

The man has a knife bigger than his own. Doesn’t matter. John stalks purposefully toward him, closing the distance in the span of four seconds flat. The big man lunges at him which is almost laughable, and John easily sidesteps him and his savagely swinging, untrained knife. John swiftly spins behind his perp, wraps him with one arm and hooks his other around the man’s skull. He twists the guy’s head to the side and jams the blade of his dagger into the base of his skull. One quarter twist one way, one quarter twist the other and his brain stem is severed. The scum slumps down the front of John, who shoves him away to lie in a pool of his own blood. Perp three is standing in the center of the aisle and has watched the whole scenario play out.

“You fucker! You killed Bill, you piece of shit,” he shouts hysterically, his face contorting with anger.

“I killed the other one, too, and you’re next,” John predicts calmly. Being calm is the key to winning any battle whether it is a battle of weapons or hand to hand or tanks or planes or helos. Getting into the head of your enemy with some quality crap talking isn’t such a bad idea, either.

The third scumbag runs straight at John, who decides to run at him, too, just for the heck of it. This dirtbag is wielding an axe. Running wasn’t the tactic he’d been planning on using, but he’s flexible. Except that when the guy gets close, John slides on his knees past him and slices the back of his attacker’s knee, cutting straight through the tendons without going deep enough to get stuck in bone. The guy is disabled, face down and screaming obnoxiously. It’s getting on John’s nerves. He hops lithely to his feet and stands over the would-be assassin/rapist a second before he bends and severs the man’s carotid artery in his neck. He wipes the dagger on the guy’s shirt and stashes it again in its sheath on his hip.

John’s breathing isn’t elevated; his heart rate is steady and even as he goes back to the shelving to retrieve Reagan. Killing all three men has taken him less than fifteen minutes, even including the wait time for them to find him.

When he gets there, he realizes immediately that she has watched him kill the two in her aisle, even though he’d told her not to. Out of all the times today that he wishes that she would’ve listened to him, this is the one that means the most. Her eyes are even wider with fear, and that fear is directed right at John as he knew it would be.

He sighs heavily and reaches wordlessly for his rifle which she hands down to him. She also hands down her own rifle and then the pack and starts to descend, placing one foot on the metal bars and then the other. Before she reaches the floor, John grasps her tiny waist in his two large hands and hefts her down easily. She spins and stares up at him with fear as her chest rises and falls rapidly.

“I told you not to watch,” he reprimands in a hushed voice and lowers his gaze to the floor. Killing those three scumbags doesn’t bother him in the least, but Reagan being afraid of him does. When John reaches for her, Reagan jumps back and hits her head on the steel shelf. “Hey, easy. Don’t do that, honey.”

She rubs the back of her head and continues to stare up at him with trepidation as if she’s afraid to take her eyes off of him. This isn’t going well.

“Reagan, it’s still me, ok? I’m not gonna hurt you. Babe, you knew that I shot some of those guys that night at the Reynolds place, right?” he asks calmly and reaches for her hand which she snatches back in fear.

“That... that was different. That was
way
different. You just killed three men with your bare hands,” she says brokenly and then won’t look at him at all.

John raises her chin with his index finger so that she is forced to look him in the eye and face her fear. This is the reason he’d lied to her and not told her of the stalkers in the woods and how he’d killed them both for the same reason he’s just killed these three men. This is the reason he’d not told her the truth about the men in the hospital that he’d killed. He doesn’t want her to look at him with this fear. She has enough fear on a daily basis without him adding to it.

“Technically, I used my knife,” he tries a joke; it fails miserably as she continues to stare at him with large, untrusting eyes. He sighs again. “I know. That’s why I didn’t want you to watch. I did it to protect you, ok? I didn’t want to deal with them all day, and they just weren’t going to stop looking for us, for you, babe. But I’m still me, Reagan. Don’t be scared of me now. You just got to see me at work... at my day job,” he tries a jest and a half smile. It fails, but slightly less miserably. There’s a shift in the tension in her face as she relaxes just a tad.

“You... you have... blood on your face,” she says as she points warily without getting too close to him.

Reagan squeezes past him to get into his backpack where she retrieves a handkerchief and bottle of water. John stands perfectly still as she soaks the rag and wipes at his face. He’d not even felt the splatter as it must’ve happened with number two. Her touch is gentle and caring, yet tentative. She stretches hard to reach his forehead, so he stoops for her. John braces himself by putting an arm above her on the steel support frame of the shelving system. If he leans just a smidge closer, he’ll be able to kiss her. What the heck? Where did that come from?

“Were you hurt at all? Cut or anything?” Reagan asks more calmly. He grins down at the top of her head.

“No, I’m good,” he replies. “It’d take more than three of those types to take me down.”

Reagan snorts. “Apparently.”

She wipes at his neck and around the back of it, as well. He’d obviously picked up more of a spray than he would’ve figured.

“I think I got most of it. That’s sick,” she complains with a fierce grimace.

“You wiped up my blood and Derek’s and... Chet, heck, half the county,” he reminds her, his tenor more sneering on his competition’s name to which she rolls her eyes. At least she’s getting her feisty back.

“That’s different. This isn’t... your blood,” she answers, leaving John to feel a little confused by her. Of course, this is not an unusual feeling for him.

“Would you rather it was?” he asks only half serious.

“No! That’s not what I meant. I don’t want that. I just don’t like that asshole’s blood on you. Pathogens and...,” she mumbles on about terminology he doesn’t understand while wiping more roughly as her face takes on a new concerned look. The fear is gone completely again, so John can relax. “You still have some in your hair.”

Reagan re-caps the bottle of water and tosses the rag onto the floor, obviously not caring to salvage it for another time. She realizes that he hasn’t moved and is blocking her from moving, too.

“Occupational hazard,” he jokes, and this time she nods in acknowledgement of his wry humor.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she smiles and responds softly. “Thanks for doing that. I mean, it sucks that you had to. You know, thanks for not letting them get me. I mean thanks for doing... that for me.” Reagan looks away uncomfortably as she refers to him killing those men. Her praise makes John melt.

“I’d do anything for you, Reagan. Anything,” he swears and touches her silky cheek again with the back of his knuckles.

She doesn’t pull away or swat at him, but her eyes tilt up to his as her expression changes, softens. John slides his other hand around her, trying not to notice how his hand covers the full expanse of her lower back as he pulls her closer, which is a huge no-no back home. She never allows anyone to touch her, especially not like this. He’s been secretly working on her phobia by touching her briefly, quickly here and there but never like this and never with her foreknowledge of it. Whether it’s the situation or she feels obligated not to be nasty to him for three seconds, John doesn’t know or care. Her chest rises and falls more rapidly which makes John think for just a moment that she might be experiencing desire because her pupils dilate. She feels so perfect wrapped in his one arm, and he likes that he could pick her up with it, as well, if he has to for any reason. Some men like the tall, skinny, supermodel types but not him. And not Kelly or Derek, either, because they’d all discussed it many times. All the guys in their unit spent a great deal of time talking about their ideal woman because there was a lot of time to do so when they were hanging out waiting for mission orders in the middle of the stinking desert. His other hand still rests on the steel support beam above her head as he leans closer. He pulls her up against him more closely. He lowers his head toward hers as she sucks in a sharp breath of surprise.

“Don’t,” she murmurs weakly and twists her head to the side. It’s a cold bucket of ice in his face.

“Sorry,” he apologizes pathetically and swallows hard as he releases her. “We should move.” His voice is ragged which has to frighten her further. The last thing she needs is some idiot trying to get in her pants when she is already scared.

They both simultaneously pick up and sling their rifles and leave out the back door of the Home Depot without another word. He crosses with her to the Sam’s Club. Most of the store has been vandalized, but John is having trouble focusing because he was a total ass.

What was he thinking? You just don’t go about trying to make out with a girl when you are on a mission. Of course, he’d never been on a mission with anyone who looked like Reagan before, either. Dirty, stinky, unwashed-for-days dudes in his unit of special ops weren’t exactly a fair comparison against Reagan and her curly blonde hair, green eyes and tiny, muscular, tanned body that he’d spent many nights thinking about- many, many nights. He’d been caught up in the moment, but he can’t let that crap happen again. At least not while they are in the city. Kissing her for their first kiss in the abandoned Home Depot with two dead men lying in their aisle, dead men that he had killed no less, as their only witnesses was not exactly the most romantic setting in the world. John feels like an even bigger jerk.

Reagan tugs his sleeve again as they step over debris in Sam’s Club and points in the direction of the big box store’s jewelry department. He must give her a quizzical look because she pulls him behind a tall shelving unit of electronics that are mostly gone. Why would anyone bother stealing a television or video recorder anymore? Where did they think they were going to plug them in to watch or use? Stupidity is obviously a timeless affliction.

“What’s up, boss?” John whispers to her when they are squatted on their haunches. He looks over her head and then behind him twice to make sure they don’t get ambushed. This store is huge and will be difficult to scout out beforehand. He’s solely going on a limited area visuals and what he can hear, which is nothing.

“I need to go over there,” she returns in a low decibel and points toward the smashed in jewelry counters. The glass cases have been broken, shattered, ruining the showy displays meant to lure in unsuspecting husbands and boyfriends.

“What for?” he asks.

“Hannah and Em both have birthdays coming up, remember? Did you not read your list? Grams wants us to find them something, and that’ll work,” she says impatiently and squints her lovely eyes at him meanly. “It’s probably the last time anyone will ever be able to get anything from a store.”

Pretty baubles hadn’t exactly been on his mind during this trip, but if she wants to go over there, then so be it.

“I thought maybe you wanted me to get you a ring or something,” he teases, and she punches his shoulder which makes him smile harder at her. Reagan just shakes her head.

They move cautiously to the jewelry area where there are still pieces of jewelry, boxes, necklaces, rings and whatnot on the floor, both behind and in front of the counters and mixed in with the broken glass. He covers her, watching their surroundings very carefully, keeping an eye out for movement, shadows, and sounds while she digs around behind the counter. There are long rows of fluorescent lighting hanging from the rafters of the two and a half story building, but they do not glow and have not in some time which creates a permanently semi-darkened area to watch. The small glass-block windows placed at the very top of the walls allow narrow splashes of light to sprinkle down the first quarter section of each wide aisle. However, the closer John peers into the center of the building the darker it gets.

John spies a few sparkly pieces on the ground in front of him and bends to investigate the shiny items more closely. There are two diamond rings, not huge or fancy or something a celebrity would wear, and they look like they’ve been tossed down, discarded with disgust for being so small and insignificant. There’s also a thin gold necklace and a strand of pearls. A couple of the small boxes expose earrings when he opens them. Again they aren’t spectacular but pretty and petite like someone he knows so well. He’s not a jewelry expert, but there has to be someone at the farm who would like to have them. There may never be another opportunity in their lifetimes to “shop” for one another. John takes the earrings out of the boxes and shoves everything he’s found in the lower cargo pocket of his fatigues.

“Ready,” Reagan whispers urgently to him.

Another ring and some gold bands catch his eye, so he grabs them before she comes around the other side of the counter. When she isn’t looking, he shoves them into his front pocket where his Swiss Army knife is stowed with the list of items they need.

The rest of Sam’s Club proves only somewhat helpful, but they do find a box of cocoa powder, a bag of oatmeal, three packages of strong smelling bar soap that Reagan says can be used to make homemade laundry soap, two packages of men’s underwear, a triple pack of toothpaste and four toothbrushes, two bottles of shampoo, and a twenty pound bag of sugar on one of the higher shelves. The sugar-holic with him even finds a package of Skittles on a second shelf way at the back which she insists on crawling onto to retrieve. She seems happier about this item than any other find the whole day. It’s a three pound bag that may last her a week, but it’s highly doubtful that it will make it that long. John packs the lightweight items in her backpack and places the heavier things in his large sack. Reagan even finds a case of pre-made protein shakes with an expiration date of about thirty years into the future, and they both drink one, leaving ten more to stow in the bags. The cans are small and John’s getting hungrier by the minute as he consults his watch. It’s almost three in the afternoon. Where the heck has the day gone? No wonder he is hungry, but his skinny-minny partner could probably go for three days on that six ounce can of protein crap and her hoarded Skittles. That shake had tasted like a fantastic blend of dirt and can and did diddly squat to squelch his hunger.