Danger Mine: A Base Branch Novel (16 page)

M
ickey and company
shoved their way into the tiny shed, hollering and cursing like they had something to say. Street left his pack behind a tree. He stole from cover with his S & W on his hip and his knife at his thigh, though he’d love nothing more than to use his hands on these bastards.

He dug his boots into the mossy ground and met the heavier of the two sickos just outside the doorway, a man sandwiched between them. The big fella held the end of a metal rod the length of a broomstick away from his body, like a dogcatcher warding off the attacks of the mutt attached to the loop at its end. Only this time the mutt crawled naked on hands and knees from the black hole of the outhouse. Now that Street stood a few feet from its entrance he smelled it for what it was.

Mickey brought up the rear. His eyes alighted on Street. He guessed the guy wished he had his gun in his hands instead of his semi-erect penis. Street bore his gaze into Mickey’s as he crushed his fist into the side of the first guy’s head. His knuckles connected with the hinge of the man’s jaw. A crack split the cool air and bone. The piece of shit howled like a ponce and hit the ground, taking the end of the stick with him.

A sickening number of shots erupted from the cabin. It took everything Street had not to run to Khani’s aid. The continuous roll of an emptying clip gave him hope. She would never shoot wildly like that. And if her opponent needed that many shots, she was doing a hell of a job of staying out of the line of fire.

At Street’s feet, a man of his own bulk gritted an old English curse, and then used the distraction to his advantage. His foot shot backward. Its impact folded Mickey’s right knee in a beautifully unnatural position.

The fucker dropped his dick. Both his hands flew to his knee, but refrained from touching it. He squealed, and then teetered. The man on the ground helped him find it with a heel to the other shin.

Both of the prisoner’s hands wrapped the pole and yanked it from beneath the big fella. The shit’s jaw hung at an awkward angle, but he’d quit screaming and groped for his sidearm.

Street stood over the man. “Please, grab it.”

He loosed a string of Russian.

A howl of pain equal to the bear’s poured from the house. Street’s lips tickled with a smile. That was his woman.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Street chuckled.

“Fuck you.” The man pulled his gun.

Street bracketed his body atop the other man’s. His hands cloaked the bloke’s larger hands and wrestled the point of the barrel to the sicko’s lop-sided jaw. “Not in this life.”

He turned his head away and pulled the trigger. Arterial spray misted his neck.

A blast larger than the gunshot erupted from the cabin. It vibrated every nerve in Street’s body. A void of sound enveloped him. No ringing here. He blinked down at the blood-spattered ground and the hole blasted out of the dead man’s head.

On instinct, he rolled and pulled his sidearm.

The prisoner, presumably Zeke Slaughter, had removed the pole from his collar and beaten Mickey to death with it. The man would never make another high-pitched sound nor would he have the opportunity to violate another person.

Crimson speckled the prisoner who stumbled back as though completely spent. He braced his back against the shed and used the bloody pole to stay upright. His grey eyes blinked Street into focus. Lips shaped like Khani’s formed words Street couldn’t hear.

The thought of her jarred his addled brain. He lunged to his feet. “Khani!” Street guessed he screamed. The ringing came, but too loudly to make out anything else over it. “Khani!”

Ever pane of glass covered from the inside with thick drapes was now splintered into a thousand pieces. The covers hung errant from two of the windows and completely absent in another. Street rounded the front of the cabin at a full sprint. The door hung open by one hinge.

Khani’s narrow frame lay sprawled on the scummy porch.

He slid to a stop at her side. “Khani!”

His hands hovered over her, afraid to touch her for fear of hurting her. She hadn’t moved an inch, but from the back she didn’t look injured. No blood. No misshapen limbs. Gingerly, he slipped two fingers against her neck.

Street stopped breathing. He might never inhale again. Desperately he repositioned his fingers.

Her pulse bumped the tips with even beats. “Thank you.”

Movement caught his attention a split second before the cold barrel of a gun met his temple. Rage incinerated fear.

Booming toyed with his eardrums, but refused to let any sound inside his brain. His gaze lanced to the right. The dull ink of Russian tatts covered the wrist attached to the hand holding the gun. His right thumb lifted and jabbed the air, signaling him to rise.

“Blah blah blah blah,” the man said. Or that’s all he gleaned from the indeterminate noise.

“Can’t hear shit.” Street stood and met the guy face to face. He saw the pin attached to the silver chain circling the man’s neck and the three-inch wound splitting his right pectoral. “Your fault, I’m guessing.”

The bloke nodded. “Who are you?” He jammed the gun at his forehead front and center for emphasis.

Street still couldn’t hear, but he read lips, faces, thoughts—almost before the person thought them. If this bastard couldn't get the information he wanted, Street would take Zeke’s spot. The guy thought he could make Street talk. Furthermore, he wasn’t ready to kill Street.

He moved before the man had time to think. Street stepped to the man, moving his head from the line of fire. His hands bracketed the son-of-a-bitch’s nape and jaw, and then wrenched. Snap.

“I’m your end.”

“Hey.” A gruff voice whispered into Street’s brain. He looked up and found Zeke clinging to the corner of the house, his gaze locked on Khani. “Is she…”

“No.” Street barked the answer. “She’ll be fine.”

Yellow and green bruises covered Zeke’s hefty body. Small round burns sprinkled his chest and legs. And the mother-fucking
inwardly
spiked choker still encompassed his neck.

“If you can make it, my pack is across the yard behind that third tree.” Street pointed to the ruck. “I have clothes, food, water. If not—”

“I’ll make it. Just take care of my sister.”

“Don’t you know your sister can take care of her damn self?” Both men swiveled to Khani’s prone form. She glared at the corpse three feet from her. “You look better dead.”

Street dropped to his knees beside her with the biggest dopiest grin on his face. A bruise gathered under her left cheek. He grazed his thumb over the area.

“Glad to see you could make it.” Zeke hid his junk with both hands and winked the remnants of a black eye at Khani.

Tears gathered in her lifted gaze. She nodded and choked a laugh. “Glad to see you alive, even if you are butt naked.”

“I’m going to take care of that.” He turned away flashing his ass and a blue boot mark above his kidney.

“Those mother fuckers,” Khani rumbled.

“…are all dead,” Street supplied.

“Good fucking riddance.”

She pushed herself off the porch. Her gaze traced Zeke across the distance to the rucksack where he tugged a pair of pants, ripped open a MRE, and downed an entire pack of M & M’s and half a canister of water before looking for more clothes.

A hitch in her breath called his attention back to her. He offered his hand, giving her the option to take or leave it. Her hand clasped him and tugged him down. She encased him in her arms and squeezed hard enough to limit his oxygen intake.

“Thank you. I can never thank you enough for—” She choked on the words.

Street wrapped her in his arms, lifted her off the ground, and kissed her temple. “Sure you can. I have a great imagination.”

She laughed so hard she clamped her side and groaned.

“Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing.” She shooed away his concern with a swipe at her non-existent tears.

He set her on the floor and motioned for her to lift her shirt. “Nothing my keister. If that door hadn’t opened to the outside, we wouldn’t be having this argument.”

She wiped beads of sweat from her brow. “You think this is an argument.” Her mouth curved. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Come on,” he ordered with another flick of his wrist.

Her gaze jumped to Zeke who’d found a shirt and worked on demolishing the rest of the MRE, and then settled it on Street. She opened her jacket and lifted the hem of her T-shirt.

Street whistled long and low.

“What?” Her gaze leaped to her abdomen. Her muscled, milky-skinned, sexy as hell abdomen.

He moaned his appreciation.

Indignation dropped her jaw. “We’re in the midst of a battle field and you’re…” She shoved at his chest, and then grabbed his hand. “Come on. I hear the chopper.”

“After being that close to the blast, how the hell can you hear anything?”
He
barely heard the whirling blades.

A dull black chopper complete with gunner in the door zipped over their heads on its way to the extraction point one click to the east where the trees stopped and the next patch of ice started.

“I guess we’re both deaf.” She tugged him behind her across the dead body and onto the ground.

They walked hand in hand to Zeke and Street had to check his glee at her open display of affection. This was hardly the time or place. Her brother was alive, but he’d been through some shit. And his body only told a portion of the story.

Khani dropped to her knees next to brother, leaned over and kissed the mop of hair on the top of his head.

“You might not want to do that. I smell like shit. Actual feces.” The hunched man warned with a smile that hardly reached his mouth much less his stormy eyes.

“What the fuck is this?” Khani fingered the turn of the century torture device.

“My latest incentive to talk,” Zeke croaked. He grabbed her hand. “Before you start yanking, I’ve tried it. There’s no use. Its soldered closed.”

“I’m sor—” Zeke held up his hand, muting Khani before she’d even gotten started.

“One time. You can say you’re sorry one time, then never again. This wasn’t your fault.” Her brother’s voice sounded rusty, as though he hadn’t even used it to scream about whatever they’d done to him.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t come with you. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I’m sorry for wasting a year being pissed at you. I love you,” Khani whispered.

Street’s throat clogged at those three little words. Pussy. He didn’t know if she’d ever said the words before. He sure as hell never expected to hear them slip from her lips. They were most definitely not directed at him. And yet, did he want them to be. Of course, he did. He couldn’t believe it himself. But his entire life, hadn’t he wanted to be loved? Who didn’t?

Did Khani?

“I love you too, sis.” Zeke said, not in reply but in the God’s honest truth. That emotion reached the man’s eyes and even lightened the weight folding his shoulders. Slowly the clouds returned to his demeanor. “I’m sure as hell glad you weren’t with me. if they’d… I’m just glad you came when you did. Both of you.” The grey gaze, larger, but no more intense than Khani’s, hit Street’s gaze.

“Me too,” he nodded.

Zeke used both of the wet wipes in the utensil pack and wiped his hands as clean as the small sterile squares allowed. He held his hand out to Khani. When she put her hand in his he kissed the back of it, and then stood on wobbly legs. He thrust his hand at Street.

“Zeke, this is my,” Khani swallowed. “This is the significant person in my life, King Street.”

Both his and her brother’s brows hit the sky.

“Call me, Street.” He received and returned a sturdy warrior’s handshake. “I’m really sorry.”

One on Zeke’s brows hit the deck, leaving one arched in question. Khani winced as if she knew what was coming.

“This is going to hurt like hell.” Street lifted the man’s handshake, lowered his shoulder, braced his left hand on Zeke’s left thigh, and then hoisted him into a fireman’s carry. The stalwart man didn’t even breathe a groan, but then he didn’t breathe at all for a long minute. “We have a mile to go. I’ll make it as easy as possible.”

Khani didn’t have it easy. She toted both their packs to the plane, one on her front and one on her back. Neither did Zeke. His breath caught on each step, making Street wish it didn’t take so many to get to the muster.

As expected the chopper awaited them at the exact coordinates. When they exited the tree line two men in dappled camo regs and light leather boots hit the deck. The airmen turned back, grabbed a green stretcher, and hustled toward them.

“You might want to hold your breath again,” Street warned a few seconds before depositing him onto the litter. He took his pack from Khani and they hustled into the Hawk’s belly.

Zeke held his head off the board to keep the spikes of the collar from piercing his skin.

“You have bolt cutters?” Street asked one of the airmen. The guy pointed behind him to a fastened metal box secured to the side of the Helo. He hurried to the container, tossed open the lid, and found the tool for the job.

Street slid on his knees in between two crewmembers fastening the gurney to the bird. He positioned the jaws on either side of the choker and pressed the handle together. It took three more bites of the cutters to break the contraption’s hold. He eased the thing from around the man’s large neck and threw it to the frozen ground below.

“Thank you,” Zeke mouthed more than said. His white lips formed a hard line, expelling any blood flow from them. Grooves of pain carved his features into an unpleasant visage.

The power of freedom fled the man. Every jibe of the arduous hike must have jolted every injury with fresh misery. Street turned away in a crouch and motioned the medic over with a nod. “Can you give him something for the pain?”

“I’ll have to check his vitals, but if I can, I will.” The man scooted back to Zeke. His hands fastened a blood pressure cuff over his sleeved arm and then pressed two fingers onto the side of his wrist. The third airman worked to secure Zeke’s IV.

Khani collapsed against the back frame of a flight chair, giving the crew room to work. Street took up post between her and the door and up they went. The trees shrank and the plane of ice grew impossibly large. Wind smacked their faces and ruffled their hair.