The Mercenary (7 page)

Colonel Lee didn't reply for a long moment. He just stared out at the river and Axe fidgeted impatiently. Jolly finally turned and looked directly at him.

“Because we think you might know him.”

Chapter
5

I
t rained for the funeral. And that was
fitting. Funerals shouldn't happen on bright, sunny days that make you glad
you're alive. They should happen on miserable days. Wet, cold, and dank.
Funerals should reflect sorrow and loss. And for that you need rain dripping
from black umbrellas. You need huddled groups of mourners wiping their eyes
and a priest mouthing platitudes about dust, about redemption, about giving
and taking away.

The funeral had all that. The
soggy, green Virginia countryside was wrapped in wispy gray wreaths. Low
clouds clung wetly to the treetops and the rain fell. A light, steady, cold
rain that dripped down necks, got under hats and soaked into
shoes.

A priest was, in fact,
praying. He looked the way a priest should. Gray beard and hair, now wet,
with a black tunic with a clerical collar showing beneath his unbuttoned
raincoat. But his homily was muted by the clinging leaves and the thick,
saturated grass.

No one was listening. They
were staring at the graves. Staring with the disbelief and shock common at
funerals. Staring at the ground, trying not to cry. Staring at the two
coffins shining in the rain.

One adult-sized coffin that an
old woman had her hand on. She was clutching it as sobs racked her frail
body. A old man stood impassively behind her, one hand on her shoulder. He
must have been huge in his youth because even now, bent and old, he was a
big man. The man looked straight ahead and cried silently as some men do. As
his tears mixed with the rain on his face, he remembered the little girl who
had once run to greet him. The child he'd bounced on his knees who'd become
the beautiful young woman now lying in the coffin.

Another man sat beside the old
woman. A dark, silent man with no expression at all on his face. Rain
glistened in his hair and ran down over the long black leather overcoat. The
pants of his expensive charcoal-colored suit were soaked but he didn't care.
He didn't feel it. He didn't feel anything. He just stared at the other
coffin. The small coffin of a child.

He was thinking about coffins.
How inadequate they were. Brass and wood and screws and glue and satin. Just
materials put together to hold a body. How could they possibly hold the
people who lay inside now? People who had brightened his life and given him
hope. A reason to try to live well. To live peacefully. The woman who'd
given him a reason to try a gentler life. Who'd made him feel human by
loving him. Someone to plan with, to hope with. To grow old with.

And the child. The gift. With
her tiny hands and feet. The truly beautiful smile that only an innocent
child possesses. Her happy gurgling laugh. The future for them
all.

Gone. Just gone.

He felt it then. The rage.
Sour, hard and utterly unquenchable. It started deep in his gut and rose up
slowly through his chest. His breath shortened and his mouth went dry. For a
few moments his eyes became unfocused and he saw what he wanted to see. The
torn broken bodies of those responsible. Their shocked, dead faces leaking
blood. The surprise in eyes that glaze over and die before you.

Swallowing hard, the man
blinked and slowly came back to the funeral. He counted his slow, thumping
heartbeats and forced his thoughts back to the present. Now was not the
time. He looked at the coffins again and fought back the images of their
faces as they were now. Gray. Lifeless. Dead. Eyes that would never see the
sun again or laugh or light up when they saw him. He forced himself to see
their faces as they should be. Happy and full of life. As they should be
right now. Today. This minute.

The rage burned again and he
gripped his knees hard to fight it back. Not now.

Not now.

The man brought a hand up to
his face and was surprised it wasn't shaking. Wiping the rain from his
cheeks, he stared at his fingers. Those who watched him imagined his grief
and thanked their gods that their loved ones still lived. That they were
still safe.

The priest droned on and the
rain still fell. The old woman lowered her head and the old man stared at
nothing. Finally, with muted words, the dismal service ended. The younger
man got up and gently helped the old woman to her feet. She held out her
arms and hugged him. The old man gazed into his eyes and gripped his
forearms hard. Man style, they stared at each other a long moment and then
the old couple slowly moved off.

He stayed and shook everyone's
hand. Men patted him on the shoulder and teary-faced women embraced him.
Later they would remember that he never hugged back. The priest was the last
to go. A kindly old man who'd seen enough of life to know he could say
nothing to this man that would matter. There were no words of comfort that
would work. This man wasn't the type. So with a gentle squeeze on the arm,
the priest also left.

The man stayed.

Taking a deep breath, he stood
in the rain and looked at the coffins. In his own way, with his own thoughts
and memories, he said good-bye. He knew he'd never come back. Knew he could
never kneel by their graves and feel any peace.

The man stood there a long
time. Finally he lifted his eyes and the rain cascaded down his coat. He was
alone again. Turning, he walked away slowly through the trees and didn't
look back.

T
he Sandman opened his eyes and stared up into the
darkness. His heart was thumping heavily against his chest and he swallowed
hard. Raising a hand he touched his face. It was dry. No wet skin from the
Virginia rain. No priest.

Just pain.

The fan on the ceiling slowly came into focus and
he tried to remember where he was.

He swallowed again and exhaled slowly. Rubbing his
eyes the mercenary concentrated on the details of the ceiling fan. Four blades,
two chains, one light. His breathing slowly returned to normal as he realized
where he was.

Hotel room . . . not a funeral Not
that
day. His hands unclenched and he sank back onto
the pillow.

Suddenly someone yawned in the dark, and as the bed
moved, he instantly rolled sideways out onto the floor. Sliding backward against
the wall, he crouched, heart thudding again now.

“What's wrong,
cudush
?”
A beautifully silky female voice asked. “Have you had a bad dream?” Anytime else
the British accent would've been delightful, but right now it was disorienting.
He tensed as a dark form emerged from the sheets.
Who was
it?

“Come back to bed . . . it's much too
early.” She sat up on her knees and looked around. “Where are you?” He saw her
flip her long hair the way only a woman can do.

Of course.
Cudush.
The
Hindi word for “darling.” Sidra . . . the Indian girl by the pool. The
Sandman swallowed again and slowly stood up.

“
Cudush
. . .
where are you?” She repeated.

He stepped back to the bed and paused, looking
down. His eyes were fully adapted now and he could see her plainly against the
white sheets. She was completely naked. His gaze traveled from her ankles upward
along her long legs. She had muscled calves and skinny, almost boyish thighs
that flared into a flat stomach. Like many women from hot, sticky climates,
she'd shaved her pubic hair except for a thin line that ran a few inches up her
belly. As she turned, the line of her ribs showed below her breasts. Which, he
reminded himself, were perfect. Just big enough to fit in a man's hand and each
topped with a tiny, pert nipple. Merlot colored, he recalled.

She looked up then, and he saw her eyes widen.
Inhaling sharply, she shrank back from the big dark figure beside the bed.

“
Volush neer kidma
marquelis
,” she hissed and pulled the sheet up around her chest.

He didn't move but softly said, “Sidra
. . . it's me. Relax.”

At the sound of his voice the girl visibly wilted a
bit. Her shoulders fell and she laughed nervously. “I thought . . .
well . . . you know what I thought.” She reverted to English but
stayed up against the headboard.

Smiling, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked
at her. The pillows behind her were very white against her dark skin. A long
strand of thick hair hung across her face and, with an utterly female gesture,
she tucked it behind one ear. She was still breathing hard, he saw, as her
breasts rose and fell beneath the sheet.

“Tell me what you thought,” he said calmly and
slowly reached for her. “Tell me.”

She obviously didn't see well in the dark but felt
his hand on her leg. Dropping the sheet, Sidra slid across the bed and pressed
her naked body against his.

“I thought
they
had
come back.” She twined her arms around his neck.

“Not a chance,” the Sandman pressed a hand onto her
back. “They had enough.”

“Ummmm,” the girl moaned and nuzzled her small face
against his neck. She stroked the hard muscles of his shoulders and thought
about that. They'd eaten dinner at the InterContinental, a jazz club called Up
on the Tenth. She'd wanted to dance, so after dinner they'd gone to the Dilbar.
It was an Indian nightclub Sidra had visited on her one other visit to Dubai.
The music was a weird blend of traditional Indian and Euro trash but the
clientele didn't seem to mind. They were mostly Indian expatriates or some part
of an Air India flight crew like Sidra herself.

But there were others. Sometimes solitary men who
sat in corners and watched. Sometimes young Emirati males eager to see for
themselves if the rumors about non-Arab women were true. In this case it had
been three young Americans. Who else but Americans would go out for the evening
in polo shirts and tennis shoes? They were big, beefy boys who probably worked
for one of the many private security companies in Jordan. Or maybe they were
attached to the U.S. embassy. In either case, they were determined to show
everyone who they were.

Most of the patrons had ignored them, including the
women, with the casual disinterest reserved for public embarrassment. This, and
repeated rounds of drinks, had only made the sailors more belligerent. When her
companion had excused himself to the lavatory, Sidra had quietly sipped her
martini and watched the dancers. She hadn't seen the three men watching her and
was caught by surprise when they suddenly sat at her table.

“Well now,” the biggest one had drawled, “lookit
this pretty one.”

As a flight attendant she was very accustomed to
the attention of men. Prowlers mostly, looking for a quick one-night stand.
However, there was a big difference between the security of an airline cabin and
the uncertainty of a public bar.

“What's your name, sweetheart?” The man had blond
hair and was staring at her hungrily. “You habla English?” He reached across and
laid a big paw on her arm.

Sidra pulled her arm back and looked hopefully
toward the lavatories but the crowd was too thick to see her new friend. “I am
not alone gentlemen. I am here with a man.”

They just laughed.

“Talks real pretty, don't she?” The blond sat back
and crossed his arms. He had a big tattoo on his forearm that read
U.S.M.C.
in black gothic letters. “Ain't muchova
man who'd leave ya here alone.”

One of the others, a redhead with a protruding
belly, turned a chair around and sat down. He leaned a shoulder against her and
beerily breathed into her face. “You lookin' for help, darlin'?” He chuckled
arrogantly and the others joined in. “Who in here's gonna say ‘boo' to us?” He
waved a hand around. “These little shitbirds? They keep provin' they can't fight
for thesselves, so why would they fight for you?”

Sidra got to her feet, heart pounding. “Excuse me
please, but I need to go.”

A thick fist fastened onto her arm and pulled her
down onto the chair.

“That ain't nice, baby . . .” The blond's
face was hard. “We come all the way from the good ol' U. S. of A. to protect
ya'll and ain't getting much of a welcome.”

She tried to move but he held her fast. “You're
stayin' right here and you're gonna give us a little entertainment till we say
you can go.”

The third man, another blond with a buzz haircut
and body art covering his arms, leaned over the table. He had the biggest buckle
she'd ever seen and his belly hung over his belt. “And that might last all
night.” He smiled like a man who enjoyed throwing his weight around. “So get
used to—”

Suddenly his eyes widened as a hand snaked over his
shoulder and fastened around his left bicep. He tried to straighten, but his
legs were kicked out from beneath him and another hand shoved him hard between
his shoulder blades. The man's chin struck the table and he was pushed, stunned,
to one side and toppled heavily to the floor.

The other two Americans looked shocked and for a
long moment didn't move. Sidra smiled with relief as a tall figure moved into
the light.

“
T'es d'ac?
” he asked
quietly in French, pulling her upright.

“
J'ai bien
,” she
replied as he firmly but gently pushed her behind him, all the time watching the
two other men. They were staring at their friend, who was still lying senseless
on the floor. The dancers had moved away from the table.

“These animals would not let me leave,” she
continued in French.

“I know. We'll leave now, I think.”