Shadow Soldier (8 page)

 

N
ICOLA STARED
at the red welts on the back of his hands and on his neck. “Oh my God.” On his right arm, the material of his shirt had melted onto the burned skin.

He pulled at it and winced. “You know, it didn't hurt that bad until you pointed it out.” He let the shirt go. “Damn.”

“You need to go to a hospital.” And right away. All she knew about burns was that they were extremely painful.

He looked at her as if she were crazy. “That's not an option.”

“Then I'm going to take care of it.” She meant that as a threat.

He nodded. “Do you know anything about treating burns?”

“Nothing. You should go to a hospital. Your wounds are probably getting infected as we speak.”

Her medical knowledge consisted of a handful of Chinese herbs Mei had helped her plant in the em
bassy garden. They had gone to the same English language high school with other children of foreign diplomats and high-ranking Chinese officials. And even those herbs, were she able to get them here, wouldn't have helped. They had been selected by Mei to help Ambassador Barrington's constant indigestion. Nicola knew squat about burns.

“Emergency room?” she suggested again, hoping he'd see reason.

“I trust you to take good care of me.” He bent to open the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the giant first-aid kit. “We've got all this.”

She opened the box and stared at the contents, a jumble of drugs and bandages that overwhelmed her. And that was before she saw the surgical instruments, IV bags and syringes.

“That one is good for pulling bullets.” He pointed to a sterile bag that held a pair of long scissors with tweezer-like tips.

Yikes. She picked out a pair of scissors, the ordinary kind. First things first.

“What do you think you are doing with that?” He stared at her.

“I'm cutting off your clothes.”

A muscle twitched in his soot-covered face. “My shirt.”

“Yes.”

She started with a nice clean cut right up the mid
dle, then realized the shirt was soaking wet on his right arm. She hadn't immediately seen that on the black cloth. “Why are you wet?”

He brushed his hand against the shoulder and the sleeve came away torn, his palm smeared with blood.

“Oh my God.” She peeled away more of the material that had been held in place by dried blood. There was plenty of fresh blood, too, trickling down his arm.

Alex took a closer look then shrugged. “Stray bullet.”

“You could have told me you were shot.” The man carried the macho thing too far.

“Grazed.” He grabbed a towel and dabbed at the wound.

A week ago, looking at something like that would have made her pass out. Now all she felt was concern for Alex. Amazing how two terrorist attacks in two days could harden a person right up.

“I really think you need medical attention.” Surely he couldn't be so stubborn as to not realize that.

“And that's what you're gonna give me.” Alex pointed at the first-aid kit. He grabbed the shirt where she had stopped cutting, ripped it the rest of the way, then pulled it off his left arm and held it so it wouldn't tug the skin on the right.

She hooked the scissor under the sleeve and cut
away as much as she could around the melted area. Once she was finished, she grabbed the tweezers from the kit and looked at Alex. He held her gaze without blinking, his face set in a hard mask.

She lifted the edge of the burned piece of cloth expecting the worst, but for once it seemed they caught a break. “It's just melted into your hair, not your skin.” She tugged with the tweezers.

“Why don't you try one of the surgical knives?”

She cut the coarse hair, mindful of the reddened skin underneath. Even with a knife as sharp as she used, it had to hurt, but Alex didn't make a sound.

When she was done, she looked over the rest of him quickly to see if he had any other injuries, but the grime of blood and soot made it hard to assess the damage. His broad chest appeared to be fine. His burns seemed to be in places where his shirt hadn't protected his skin. No other bullet wounds that she could see. Not that the one on his shoulder wasn't enough.

“Does anything else hurt?” She glanced at his pants.

“I'll check the rest myself.” He looked down, and soot fell from his hair, some of it landing on the open wound on his shoulder.

“We need to get you clean.”

“I'll hop in the shower.”

“I don't think water hitting those burns is going to feel good.”

“Let me worry about that.” He turned off the light and pushed her out the door.

She stayed just outside so she would hear if he lost consciousness from the pain and hit the floor. A good fifteen minutes passed by before she heard the water turn off.

“Would you mind getting me something clean to wear?” he called out, making her jump.

She walked over to the hall closet, rummaged through it, and settled on a large pair of sweatpants. They had even stocked packages of underwear. She opened a multicolored six-pack and pulled out black briefs. She didn't grab any of the T-shirts. She needed to treat his wounds before he put anything on top.

She knocked, and he opened the door a few inches. The light was off inside, and she absolutely, positively couldn't see a thing, but her hands still trembled as she handed him the clothes.

“Thanks.”

He didn't bother with the door.

“You can come in,” he said a minute later.

She made sure the door was closed behind her before she turned on the light.

“No injuries below the belt,” he said.

Thank God for that. Then she wouldn't have to
treat anything in that area. She washed her hands in the sink with soap, twice, then looked over the burns on his neck and hands. He also had a cut on his forehead the dirt had hidden. His worst injury seemed to be the gash on his right shoulder that was still bleeding liberally. Nothing looked life threatening, but what did she know?

Alex rummaged through the kit. “We just need some disinfectant.”

“I'll do it.” She took the bottle from him and swabbed the wound, then let him walk her through stopping the bleeding and bandaging his shoulder.

“How about the burns?” she asked when she was done.

“Should be a bottle of Pentametlin in there.”

She looked through the drugs and came across one by that name in a medium-size white canister, much like a can of hairspray.

“What is it?”

“A white foam that contains a combination of five different kinds of disinfectants, burn medications and local anesthetics.”

“Do I just spray it on?”

“Liberally.”

She started with the left hand. “What do I use for a bandage?”

“Nothing. It's better to let it breathe as long as
I'm just lounging around the house and there's not much chance of dirt getting into it.”

She nodded as she moved on to the other hand then the neck, working next to the tail of his tattoo snake as it curved around from his back.

“Turn around.”

“No.”

The sudden harshness in his voice surprised her. “I want to see if there's any other damage.”

“There isn't.”

“Damn it, Alex. I'm not going to stab you in the back.” Did he have some hideous birthmark? Or was he embarrassed by the rest of his tattoo? Did he think she would care?

He looked into her eyes, his expression set in stone. Then he turned.

His tattoo stopped on his shoulder as if the tail was part of a painting of a snake, the rest of which had been erased. His entire back was a giant scar, not new and red like the others in front, but healed over white wells of agony and torture. A startled gasp escaped her throat. Her reaction made him flinch.

She reached out a finger to touch him, unable to believe her eyes. “Alex…”

He spun around, his dark gaze boring into hers. “Satisfied?”

He reached over her and shut off the light, then pushed by her and walked out into the living room,
leaving her alone in the dark. What had they done to him? Rage and sympathy filled her at the same time. Who could do such a thing to another human being?

“You can't go yet.” Her voice was weak, her mind stunned at the thought of the terrible pain he must have suffered. When he had said he was recuperating from an injury, she had figured he meant a broken rib or two, or a bullet wound at the worst. What on earth could make anyone go back into a job that had left him like that? “Wait. I have to treat the cut on your head.”

His only response was a grunt.

Good enough. She'd take that as an agreement. If he was too stubborn to go to the hospital, he would be forced to put up with her. Nicola washed the foam off her hands, dried them, then rummaged through the first-aid kit in the dim moonlight that filtered into the bathroom. She picked out a tube of disinfectant cream and a couple of butterfly bandages.

She found him by the window and watched him for a moment as he stared outside, his imposing figure illuminated by the light of the full moon. He had put on a T-shirt from the hall closet.

She took a deep breath. “Alex?”

He sat as still as if he'd been carved from rock. He did not respond.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded then.

“I need to look at your forehead. It'll only take a minute.” She moved closer, half expecting him to tell her where to go, but he turned sideways to allow her to proceed and bent his head to give her easier access.

She pushed his wet hair out of the way and spread some cream on the wound, grateful for the moonlight that made her work possible. His skin had been sliced by something sharp, probably as he'd fallen with the garage roof. But on closer inspection, the cut wasn't as bad as she'd first thought. Three butterfly bandages were enough to hold it together.

“That's better.” She screwed the top back on the tube and smiled at him.

“Thank you.” He did not smile back, the expression on his face unreadable.

Then she saw his neck, the spot where the T-shirt rubbed against the burn and had already taken off most of the medicine. That wouldn't do. “Hang on for a second.”

She returned to the bathroom, dropped the cream and extra bandages back in the kit, and grabbed the scissors and the Pentametlin. She wanted to do whatever she could to help him. Although he did not complain, he had to be in pain. Easing it to the best of her abilities was the least she could do. Especially after all he'd done for her.

He waited by the window. On duty. He never
stopped, did he? She thanked God for that. It was the only reason she was still alive. She knew precious little about the man, but she knew this: as long as he breathed, he would guard her with his life.

“Let me cut around the neck of that T-shirt so it doesn't rub against anything sensitive.”

“Have a thing for cutting clothes off me, huh?” The hard look disappeared from his face suddenly, and he flashed her a cocky grin.

She was smart enough not to go there. Instead of giving him an answer and fanning his ego, she made quick work of the shirt and reapplied the medicine. He leaned forward, his head inches away, his dark gaze searching her face before it settled on her lips.

They tingled in anticipation. It was insane. He hadn't even touched her yet. “Um, I should—” She had no idea what she should do, only knew what she wanted to do, wanted more than to take her next breath.

He ran his hands up her bare arms in a gentle caress, and her mind went blank. In that moment nothing existed but the two of them in the moonlight. She lost herself in his touch, in the swirling black pools of his gaze that drew her to him irresistibly.

“Nicola,” he whispered her name into the night, the sound soft and light, running across her skin like dancing butterflies.

And she knew he was going to kiss her.

Alex drank in the picture before him—Nicola's upturned face in the moonlight, her wide-eyed expression as she read his intent, her full lips parting on their own. If there was a man on this earth who could resist such temptation, it sure as hell wasn't him.

Mad for a taste of her, he took what she willingly offered, not because he was aroused—hell, he'd been that from the day he'd first seen her—but because he needed her. He needed to feel her to know they were both truly alive.

Her mouth was soft and warm, making him forget every one of the dozens of reasons why he shouldn't be doing this. Then she brought her hands around his waist and kissed him back, and he couldn't remember anything ever feeling this right.

His fingers ached to roam her body, but the Kevlar blocked them at every turn. She still wore the vest,
and without her clothes showing, she still looked naked under it. The thought still drove him crazy.

She moved to take off the vest but he held her hands still. She definitely needed that for protection. From him.

While she wore that vest, she was safe. Reasonably. He couldn't guarantee that she'd be completely safe from him as long as they were on the same continent.

He kissed her eyes, then covered the rest of her beautiful face in kisses before moving on to her neck and ears, aching to go on, wanting more, so much more. Her lips searched his and he obliged them gladly, drinking in her sweet taste. Having spent plenty of time in the desert, he knew what true thirst was, but he had never been as thirsty for water as he was for her.

She sneaked her hands under his T-shirt, over his abdomen, up his rib cage, and her light caresses left him mindless with desire. And then it got worse. She brushed her fingers over his chest, his nipples, and he sucked in his breath, afraid if she did much more he might explode.

But when her hands wandered to his back, he froze.

“Alex?”

In his mind he could see her delicate hands touching the loathsome welts that had once been his skin,
and waited for her to recoil. Then he couldn't wait any longer and pulled away.

“I'm sorry.” She moved toward him.

He moved back.

“How did it happen?”

“Leave it, Nicola.” He hesitated for a second, then stood and set her aside. “I'm going to check outside.”

He walked away without looking at her. Distance was what he needed and a little fresh air to clear his head. But his head had a hell of a time clearing. He shivered in the balmy night as he walked the perimeter to check for anything suspicious. He took his time. Only when he couldn't find any more excuses to linger, did he go back in.

She had already opened the couch and was lying under a thin sheet. She didn't move as he walked by her to take up his post by the window. Good. She was sleeping or pretending, he didn't much care which as long as she stayed away. He didn't seem to have any control over his actions when she was near him.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. When did he work that up? He'd been cold a minute ago. He stared out the window and saw a bush move. Instantly alert, he grabbed the Makarov from his waistband. Movement again. But this time the entire landscape seemed to sway. He blinked his eyes, his head
swimming as he sank down onto the chair behind him.

Damn.

He wiped his forehead again then stood and scrutinized the front yard. All seemed still. He was just dizzy. Can't afford to get sick now. He went to the bathroom to wash his face in cold water, his lungs feeling heavy. Smoke inhalation sometimes didn't present symptoms until as much as twenty-four hours afterward. That's all he had, nothing more to it.

A bang next to him made him pick up his head. His gun had fallen to the floor. Had he dropped it? He opened the tap full strength and stuck his head under it.

“Are you okay?” Nicola stood in the doorway.

 

“A
RE YOU OKAY
?” she asked again, worried when he didn't respond. Was he ill?

He straightened and swayed.

She grabbed his arm. His skin was hot with fever. “Can you walk to the bed?”

He nodded and moved forward, leaning on her heavily. The trip to the pullout couch took several minutes.

She didn't have to tell him to lie down.

She rushed to the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the light. There had to be something in that kit that would help him. She rummaged through
the dozens of bottles. Lucky for her, next to the pharmaceutical name, each label also contained a plain English description scribbled on by hand. She grabbed three—“fever,” “pain” and “antibiotic”—then read the dosage.

She wet a towel before she shut off the light and went back to Alex. He would feel better soon. He had to. She draped the folded towel over his forehead and set the pills on the floor next to him until she got a glass of water. She took one pill from each bottle then held them out to him.

“Here, take these.”

He did so before falling back on the pillow with a groan.

Stubborn, stubborn man. He should have gone to the hospital. She looked at Mrs. Slocsky's cell phone on the kitchen counter. The last person he had talked to was his boss. If she hit redial… She grabbed the phone and pushed the power button. The screen remained black. She pushed power a few more times before she realized the battery was dead.

Nicola sat on the edge of the bed, defeated and bone tired. Alex was out, she had no phone, and she had no idea where she was. He had taken back roads, different ones each time. A wave of panic pushed against her, threatening to drown her. She fought it. For herself and for Alex. He needed her. She would not let him down.

Help was on the way, she was sure of it. Alex had called. She wondered how her father fared, if he'd heard of this latest attack by now. Was he safe? Suddenly she would have given anything to know.

She rubbed her forehead, and her fingertips came away black. God, she was filthy. She rubbed at the dark spots on her leg and they smudged, not shadows after all, but soil and soot from climbing all over creation.

She had to take a shower. She had washed her hands before she treated Alex's wounds, but if she were to take care of him, the rest of her had better be clean, too. She didn't dare risk him getting an infection due to less than sanitary conditions.

She grabbed a long T-shirt from the hall closet, walked into the bathroom, then turned on the light and looked at herself in the mirror for the first time that night. She looked as if she'd been rolled in mud. Hard to believe Alex had actually kissed her like that. His mind must have been addled by pain. And, of course, it had been dark.

Shouldn't be thinking about his kisses. They were dangerous—gentle and passionate at the same time—the kind you wished went on and on, the kind that could make a woman fall in love with the man. And she couldn't do that. Not with Alex. He would be gone the day his assignment ended. And she was all stocked up in the heartbreak department already.

She took a deep breath, picked up the gun from the floor and set it on the edge of the sink, before taking off the Kevlar vest and chucking it into the corner. After she stripped out of her clothes, she washed them and hung them on the side of the shower glass, underwear included. In this heat, her panties and bra would be dry and back in place in no time.

Alex seemed to be sleeping by the time she was done with her shower and got back to him, wearing nothing but the long T-shirt, her hair wet. The towel had slipped from his forehead. She put it back on, her fingers brushing his skin in the process. He was burning up.

She went back into the bathroom and wet a few more towels. When she'd been little and had a bad fever, her mother used to wrap her entire body in a wet sheet. That had always worked. Clearly, Alex needed more than a piece of cloth on his forehead.

“Take your clothes off.” She sat next to him.

He mumbled something undistinguishable.

She tried to lift his torso, but couldn't budge him beyond an inch or two. He was way too heavy for her.

“Alex, wake up.”

His eyes fluttered open for a brief second, giving her hope, then closed again. He was completely out.

Fine. She would have to do what she could on her
own. Careful of his wounds, she tugged up his T-shirt as far as it would go without him sitting up. She rolled him on his left side and freed one arm, then rolled him on his right side and freed the other. Then finally she could pull the thing over his head.

The shirt out of the way, she moved on to the pants and had an easier time; his legs were not as heavy to lift. She wrapped one wet towel around his broad chest and one on each of his legs, then sat back with nothing more to do but worry.

She did a damned fine job of it, sitting on the sofa behind him, guarding his sleep. But more needed to be guarded than just his sleep. She needed to guard their lives.
The terrorists.
For the past hour she had forgotten about them. Not very smart. Nicola got up and retrieved his gun from the bathroom. It was up to her now to keep them safe.

She settled back on the sofa in a position from where she could see the door and the windows. Did the gun have a safety feature? Was it on? How would she take it off? All she knew about guns she had learned from the movies. God, she was pitiful. What did she hope to do if the terrorists came?

Snap out of it.
She'd do what she had to. First she would have to stay alert so she would know if they were there. Then if she heard or saw anything suspicious, she would have to try to wake Alex. If that didn't work, she'd aim as best she could and squeeze
the trigger. In a best-case scenario, some bullets would come out. Yes, that would definitely be a bonus.

 

“Y
OU MAKE YOUR
ancestors proud, soldier.” The General leaned back in his chair, enjoying the bit of good news. It wouldn't be long now.

“Thank you, General.”

A trolley went by outside his window and he waited until the noise settled down. “All is prepared?”

“Yes, General.”

His goal was so close he could almost taste success and the glory that would come with it. “Do whatever you have to. We cannot fail again. Time is running out.”

“Everything is set up, General. This time she will have no escape.”

No, she wouldn't. He had been right to come to America. This operation was too important for him not to be personally involved. As the old saying went, “If you don't go into the cave of the tiger, how are you to get its cub?”

Well, he was in the cave, and he would get the cub. And then he would face the tiger.

He closed his cell phone and took another look at the makeshift lab before he walked out. It had been a good day. One of his men had found Nicola. The
General nodded to the guard in the hall. Tso had accomplished the impossible. Not that he'd had any doubts. If anyone could pull this off it was Tso, one of the most eminent scientists in China, before word had gotten out that he was an anticommunist.

Everything was ready. He did not revel in the destruction to come, but neither did he fool himself into thinking there was any other way. Something large scale had to be done to get the world's attention, something despicable enough to make it impossible for the United States not to respond.

His people had tried for decades to rid themselves of tyranny, losing tens of thousands of lives in the process and getting no help from the “civilized” West, not even when masses of students lay dead on Tienanmen Square, massacred in front of the cameras.

Sons of Peace had been named in respect for those young men and women. Tienanmen—the Gate of Heavenly Peace. But the similarities ended there. Peaceful demonstrations didn't work, as had been amply demonstrated in 1989. The Sons of Peace, ironically, were proponents of war. And if the United States was unwilling to help when it was asked nicely, for fear of risking its lucrative trade relations, then the Sons of Peace were not afraid to force the hand of this mighty nation.

For the freedom of their country, the Sons of Peace
were more than willing to sacrifice a few U.S. senators, indeed even themselves.

 

H
IS HEAD FELT GROGGY
and he was lying down. Strange. Alex opened his eyes, then closed them against the bright sunlight that poured into the room. He distinctly remembered sitting guard by the window.

He opened his eyes again, just a slit this time. He was definitely on the pullout couch. He lay on his side facing the living room, a bunch of soggy towels on the bed in front of him. Other than his underwear, he was naked. When did that happen? He looked at the arm that was in pain. Freshly bandaged. Couldn't remember that, either.

Then he became aware of something else utterly unexpected and went still. Nicola was sleeping behind him, her face pressed against his naked back.

One confused emotion chased another in his head as he eased away from her and sat up. She looked exhausted but still beautiful. And dangerous. He took the Makarov from her, unable to resist brushing a few wayward curls from her face.

Had she stayed up all night to take care of him? Why couldn't he remember anything? The pain hadn't been that bad. He'd certainly lived through worse. His feet knocked over the answer on the
floor—pill bottles. He picked up the culprit of his disoriented state. Algmir. A painkiller or, more specifically, a strong opiate given to soldiers in battle with critical injuries.

She had drugged him.

And in the process left herself defenseless for the entire night. He swore and chucked the bottle across the floor, madder at himself than at her, as he remembered how she'd put the pills into his mouth and told him to swallow. What the hell had he been thinking? He must have been out of it if he hadn't questioned her.

He stood and looked back at the woman on the bed who had managed to do what no enemy had ever accomplished—rendered him useless for hours in the middle of an operation. Had she realized the kind of danger she had put them in?