Cindy Gerard - Killing Time

Feeling like a weenie—his damn finger still burned like it had been stuck in acid—he ran cold water over his stinging digit until the fire had cooled a little, then headed back to the cabin.

“Where were you?” Eva whispered, half-asleep as he skinned down to his boxers and climbed in bed beside her.

“Working on a Purple Heart.”

“You’re hurt?” Alarmed, she started to sit up. He stopped her by banding an arm around her waist.

“Only my pride.” The damn finger still hurt like hell. Mikey has a boo-boo… God, he’d gotten soft. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered, making a place for her against his shoulder. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

He loved the way she snuggled trustingly against him. Within seconds, her breath had slowed again and she was sound asleep.

It didn’t quite work that way for him. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d seen in the armory. And what the hell it meant. Plus his finger throbbed like a bitch.

Weenie times ten.

• • •

The next morning before breakfast, Eva listened as Mike gave her a rundown on his recon of the armory. His near miss scared her half to death, but that’s why they were here—so she kept her concern to herself.

“A freaking ton of AK-47s, AR-15s, a wall of shotguns and pistols, and a shitload of ammo to go with it. I even spotted some frag grenades and Claymores,” Mike told her.

He reached for his boots and tugged them on.

“He’s got his little army; he needs to arm them. The kicker, though, was the explosives. There’re enough spools of det cord and boxes of plastic explosives to blow up a small city.”

She watched him lace up his boots, noticed he favored the middle finger on his left hand. “Maybe he has plans to target a government building. That would make a statement.”

“It would fit the profile, yeah.” He tied the final lace and stood. “Guess time will tell if they decide to read me in on their long-range plans. Not that I care. We’re going to stop Lawson before he ever gets one of his plans off the ground.”

“What did you do to your hand?”

He grunted and, sounding embarrassed, told her. “I’m a candy ass. You’d better hope I don’t get shot. I’ll probably bawl like a baby.”

Grinning, she grabbed her duffel and rifled through her “necessity” kit. “Come here. This will help.”

“Ouch.”

She laughed. “I haven’t touched you yet.”

“I can tell by looking that it’s going to hurt. Maybe you’d better kiss it first. Better idea. Kiss this.”

He lowered his mouth and touched his lips to hers. “Much better.”

“You’re still getting the ointment. Hold still. It should take the sting out of it and keep it from getting infected.”

“I’m starting to dig this. Can we play naughty nurse later tonight?”

“As long as I don’t have to patch up anything more than a burned finger.” She got serious suddenly. “So don’t get shot. I…” She felt overwhelmed with dread suddenly, felt the sting of tears before she could stop them.

“Hey. Hey. I’m not getting shot, okay?” He tried to pull her into his arms.

She wasn’t having any of it. Her display of weakness embarrassed her and she pushed away. “Like you can guarantee that.”

“I can. I will. Nothing’s going to happen to me. Nothing’s going to happen to either of us. Now, let’s go see what kind of slave labor Lawson’s got lined up for you today, while I go play fun and games with my new pals.”

Because he wanted her to—because she needed to—she smiled and pulled herself together. “Fine. But next gig? You get the beast of burden role.”

He dropped a kiss on top of her head. “I’ll flip you for it.”

Smiling, she headed out the door.

And wondered when things had become so easy between them.

And when she’d started thinking of a future with him in it.

During the next few days, they fell into a routine. Up at dawn, off to what Eva had started to think of as the coal mines, back to the cabin by seven p.m., quick text to Gabe, then midnight recon missions that had so far turned up nothing of value.

Tonight, however, the routine was off-kilter—and it worried her. It was almost ten p.m. and Mike wasn’t back yet. There wasn’t a lot of time for socializing or fraternizing and when there was, it consisted of a command performance by Lawson, where the entire camp was expected to show up and listen to one of his speeches that denigrated the government and sang the praises of the UWD movement. Last night was one of those nights.

“Soon, brothers and sisters. Soon we will be in power. Until then, patience and diligence and devotion are required of every man, woman, and child.”

Eva couldn’t believe that people bought this crap. But the mob mentality kicked in, and that’s all she wrote.

She willed herself not to look out the window again, and thought instead of what they’d accomplished. She’d started to gain a measure of trust from a few of the women, but for the most part they remained guarded, more out of subservience than from a sense of self-preservation. It was sad.

Mike had more freedom around the camp and had been assigned as a team leader to a small group of men. A test, they suspected, to see how he handled a leadership role.

Their guns and phones hadn’t yet been returned and Mike hadn’t been assigned a weapon like the rest of the troops but, again, that was to be expected during what Lawson now referred to as a probationary period.

The daily texts to Gabe let him know they were fine and to stand by. Mike hoped to be inviting Gabe and Joe to the fold soon. Maybe with four pairs of eyes, they could hunt down Lawson’s secrets.

Her thoughts returned to Mike. Where was he? He should have been here hours ago.

• • •

“I liked what I saw on the shooting range today.”

Mike acknowledged Lawson’s compliment with a nod, and smiled across the desk, not surprised the lights-out-at-sunset rule didn’t apply to the big dog. The office was well lit. Too well lit. He’d seen too much of Lawson’s ugly face today. “The AR-15’s a sweet weapon, sir.”

He was dead beat, hot, and two hours late getting back to Eva. He’d rather dive into a snake pit—and he fucking hated snakes—than spend one more second in Lawson’s company, or call the bastard “sir,” but the UWD leader had extended a special invitation. No way could Mike pass up the chance to suck up and get his foot a little further in the door.

So here he was. In Lawson’s office, buddying up across the ancient gray desk, an uncapped bottle of scotch calling to him like original sin.

“Sure you don’t want one?” Lawson lifted his shot glass.

Hell yes, he wanted one. “Thanks, but no. Never acquired a taste for it.” As long as he was lying, go big.

“If it’s not too presumptuous, sir, I have some ideas that might improve the men’s overall shooting accuracy.”

Lawson leaned back in his chair. “By all means.”

Because the range and the equipment disbursement was so slipshod, it didn’t take much for Mike to lay out a good case for making changes. Since Lawson didn’t know that he was aware of the contents of the armory, Mike ran a laundry list of all the things he thought it would make sense to stock—all of which Lawson already had on hand, of course.

“Impressive.”

Mike said nothing. A humble man, wanting to help the cause.

“You ever see any action?” Lawson asked after refilling his glass.

“Some.”

“Where?”

Mike took a chance. “Afghanistan.”

Lawson nodded. “Navy played a bigger part over there than most civilians realize. When?”

Mike shot out a date a couple years after he’d left Operation Slam Dunk, hoping it would trigger some conversation. It did.

“I spent some time in that rat hole. Whole fucking country should be blown to hell.” Lawson shot-gunned the scotch, slammed the empty glass on the desk. “Lot of money to be made there, though, if a man knows how to get it.” He smiled, showing disgusting, pointy little yellow teeth. “I could tell you stories.”

Mike got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was about to do just that as he poured another two fingers. He was getting sloppy. The sonofabitch couldn’t hold his liquor. Must be the total lack of body fat. Or his ice-cold snake blood.

Lawson was quiet for a while, lost in the good old days, Mike thought sourly. Then he started telling war stories, bragging about his kills. He was slurring his words now.

Mike fought the urge to vomit and forced himself to bait him. “Country’s crawling with opium, right? Lot of profit there for a tight operation.”

“Hell. There was money to be made everywhere in that part of the world. I ran guns to Chechnya rebels, then turned around and supplied the Taliban. It was all a big fucking game.”

He leaned in, grinning confidentially. “There was this sting I ran once… a favor, let’s call it, for someone high up on the food chain. Someone who had a vested interest in the U.S. not getting a toehold in Helmand Province.”

This was it. OSD had gone down in Helmand Province. The “someone high up on the food chain” had to be Lawson’s big boss.

“Because of the opium trade?” Mike asked, hoping to lead him into more details.

“No shit. This certain Spec Ops unit was mucking things up for my—let’s call him a business partner.”

Business partner? Oh hell, let’s call a spade a spade. He was a ruthless motherfucking murderer.

“How so?” Mike asked in a strangled voice. Lawson was too wasted to notice Mike’s tension.

“They were putting the screws to the local warlords who were the main supply source for our lucrative little opium trade. We needed them gone—but it had to look like someone screwed up.”

Mike swallowed back bile. “That had to be a neat trick.”

“Just called for a little creativity. Ended up a real bloodbath. Wasted a bunch of locals to lure the team in, then took most of them out. Made it look like a goatfuck.”

When Lawson chuckled, it was all Mike could do to keep from killing him with his bare hands.

“See, I worked it so the whole deal got pinned on some schmuck—a hotshot chopper pilot.”

“Nice.” Mike felt his eyes glazing over.

“Killed two birds with one big stone. Got the unit out of the area by killing most of them off, and put a lid on anyone who lived to talk about it.”

“So you actually took out a Spec Ops unit?” Apparently he sounded impressed because Lawson puffed out his chest.

“Damn straight. Showed that bunch of gung-ho, rah-rah, take-one-for-the-team patriots. Jerk-offs called themselves the One-Eyed Jacks.”

Mike saw red, then black, and literally had to force himself to breathe.

“And you know the really funny part? One of their own was on my payroll.”

The blind rage consuming him took a backseat to shock.

“Latino guy. Arrogant prick. Fancied himself a real lady-killer.”

Ramon had been working with Lawson?

“Joke was on him, though,” Lawson went on, seeming so lost in his fond memories, he’d forgotten Mike was even there. “Greased him on the spot. He burned up with the rest of his asshole buddies. Fitting end for a sellout, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. A fitting end,” Mike said grimly.

• • •

Eva was beside herself. It was almost midnight, and Mike still wasn’t back. To pass the time, she’d showered, braided her hair, and rebraided it. Paced. Paced some more. There was nothing else to do, and she was way too upset to sleep.