Uncaged love, p.23
Uncaged Love, page 23
Preacher chuckled. “Those suckers were used in Vietnam before I was born.” He turned his attention to Harper. “You ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She gave him a confident smile. She was ready.
“I’ll take my position in the top of the tower.” Preacher pointed upward. “You and Harper need to stay together.”
“May God be with you.” He crossed himself and walked to the hidden door.
“And also with you,” Rafe said in rote response.
Mid-step he stopped and slowly looked over his shoulder. “Bless you, my child.”
Rafe smiled at him. “I’ve missed my brother in arms.”
Preacher swung the picture aside, palmed the plate, and punched in numbers, and then he disappeared through the opened wall. They’d do the same when ordered.
Over their headsets, they heard someone say, “This fucking place is crawling with goddamn tangos.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” another agreed.
“Quit bitching like a bunch of little girls and put one in your crosshairs,” Preacher said. “Call it.”
As each man designated his target, Rafe laughed out loud. “Damn, I’ve missed this.”
“Yeah, we love you, too.” Preacher’s sarcastic voice was low, but the line was as clear as glass. “Don’t get mushy on me. We’re far from out of here.”
Harper knew all too well what they faced.
“They want this woman pretty bad,” one SEAL commented.
Preacher spoke with unwavering assurance. “They can’t have her. She’s coming home with us.”
That touched Harper’s heart, which today seemed open to so much. She liked Preacher’s possessiveness, his protective demeanor.
Possessive. Protective. She could use those same words to describe what she liked about Rafe. Only, there was a huge difference. To Preacher, she was a job. She wasn’t sure what she was to Rafe. Initially she’d been his job, but she was sure her feelings had gone far beyond that. She felt Rafe all the way to her heart. It felt right to her. What she wasn’t sure of was what Rafe felt for her, beyond sex of course.
“Tangos covered?” Preacher asked.
A male chorus of “Aye, sir,” sang in her ear. She took a deep breath. This was it.
“What’s the plan?” Harper asked, pulling her mind away from self-evaluation and to the palm scanner.
Preacher instructed, “When you come out the tower door, head east. Cross the street and there’s an alley about thirty feet down. There’s a black Rover waiting there. The driver is expecting you. We’ve got you covered. Wait for my count. There are civilians in the square in front of the church.”
Harper placed her palm on the scanner and punched in her numbers. The door slid open quietly, and she and Rafe slipped into the shadow beneath the stairs at the bottom of the colonial bell tower.
It seemed like hours had passed before Preacher broke the silence.
In truth, it had only been two minutes. Harper hated this part, waiting, anticipating. That summed up her whole job in the Army, hours of waiting interrupted by moments of sheer adrenaline and terror. She thought she’d never be placed in this kind of situation again when she’d joined the ATF team. But here we go, again.
“On my count.” Preacher began to count down. “Three, two, one. Go.”
Rafe pushed open the door to the outside and in two long strides plastered himself against the far wall, hidden in the shadows of the centuries-old covered walkway. Harper was right behind him.
Suddenly, the report from several high-powered rifles echoed in the empty small square in front of them. Out of instinct and training, Harper crouched to give them a smaller target. Pistol in hand, she tapped Rafe twice on the back, the signal to move.
Sun shone through the Spanish arches, leaving Rafe and Harper exposed in the bright semi-circles for two steps before they fell back into the shadows. Rafe made it through. Her turn. As Harper’s boot landed on the sunny concrete, it exploded mere inches behind her heel. Small shards of old cement flew in every direction, nicking her calf as she leaped into shadow.
Rafe waited in the darkness between the arches. He grabbed her shoulders when she crouched and rubbed her leg.
“Were you hit? Are you all right?” He looked more than merely concerned, on the verge of anger.
“I’m fine. Just a sting from flying debris.”
He hastily pulled her to him and kissed her temple. Just as fast, he let go of her. She scanned the area. From the depths of the darkened walkway, she couldn’t tell the origin of the shots. She would depend on the SEAL team to take out the shooter.
“We’ll cross the next one separately,” Rafe told her.
“No. Together.” Preacher’s voice came over the comm unit. “We got him. Move now.”
They ran through the next two lighted patches and hunkered down at the corner of the building.
Rafe quickly peeked around the edge. “There’s a tango partially protected in a doorway about fifteen feet down from us with a machine gun pointed our way,” he reported.
“He’s mine,” Preacher said.
Rafe peeked again. He leaned in, close to Harper’s mouth, eyes intent on hers. He was going to kiss her. Her stomach jumped in anticipation.
What the hell was that? The closeness of a man had never done that before.
Rafe lightly brushed his lips across hers. She felt his touch drop from her lips to her heart.
The fact he could do that to her in the middle of a gunfight pissed her off. She’d allowed him too much control.
Get your head in the game, Harper.
Rafe took another quick peek, turned back to her, and nodded. They exploded like sprinters out of the blocks, running for their lives as bullets flew all around them. They zigzagged, separated by several feet, and varied their gait as they’d been trained to avoid getting shot.
A shot flew past her from behind, and she heard boots slap too close.
“I don’t have a clear shot,” Preacher said, his voice calm through her comm unit.
“I can’t chance it,” was heard from another.
Chapter 27
Harper knew what she had to do.
She planted her next step, spun around, and dropped to one knee for a more stable shooting stance. She brought the pistol up. The shooting mantra began as time slowed for her.
Identify. The tango’s left arm pumped in time with his long strides. He struggled to hold the pistol in his right hand steady, his arm out straight, the gun pointed at her.
Target.
Like a movie in slow motion, the ingrained training and muscle memory took over. Breathe. Relax. Aim. Sight. Squeeze.
She felt the recoil of the first shot as the barrel of the gun lifted. She leveled the gun and began the embedded BRASS again. She knew she’d shot him in the chest. It was a clean shot to the heart, but he’d only staggered. He was a big son of a bitch. Then she noticed the body armor. No problem. Her next two shots were to the head.
Harper didn’t bother to watch him fall. She was up and running.
Rafe was already to the alley. When her boot hit the pavement, she lost her balance, and her foot rolled to the side. Before she could catch her equilibrium, she was falling. On her way to the street, everything moved.
The earth roared. It sounded like a freight train was inches away. The ground shook as she attempted a skydiver’s landing roll in the middle of the street. Her calf, thigh, hip, and shoulder hit unforgiving asphalt. She used the momentum and rolled across her back and onto hands and knees. The earth continued to agitate.
She looked up at Rafe and screamed from the bottom of her lungs.
Bricks pelted him as he stood frozen, watching her from between buildings so close together they’d scrape car mirrors if the driver wasn’t extremely careful. The world moved in dizzying waves.
Harper wasn’t sure if it was from her fall or the earthquake.
All shooting had stopped.
Civilians screamed and spoke rapid Spanish as they ran into the street, emptying homes that fell into rubble even as she tried to stand.
Harper couldn’t keep up with their words. Translating took a few seconds. Time she didn’t have. Then she caught the same word in several different voices. Puracé.
Was the volcano erupting?
Buildings undulated as though they were alive and desperately trying to catch their balance. Whole walls of white brick and block rolled while the earth itself roared deafeningly, drowning her screams.
“Move,” she begged Rafe.
He looked up as falling white bricks hailed down. He disappeared into the alley.
Harper’s world crashed. The entire wall on Rafe’s left crumbled like a surfer’s dream wave, curling over the top of him, enveloping him inside nature’s powerful fist.
“No!” Her scream was just another in the chorus of panic.
No. I can’t lose him. Not now. They’d just found each other. She’d just found…whatever it was didn’t matter. Only Rafe was important.
On her feet and ignoring everything around her, she raced toward where she’d last seen him. Dodging children who stood in the middle of the street, jaws open in awe, she ignored the pain in her ankle. She almost plowed down an elderly woman with a cane who’d emerged from a weather-roughened doorway.
Impatient, Harper scooped up the aged lady and placed her in the street.
At the entrance to the alley, patches of concrete clung to the sides of broken bricks, too weak to hold onto each other when its foundation rocked. The pile came to her waist. Harper planted her feet, bent her knees to absorb any more ground movement, and reached for the first brick. She tossed it aside and grabbed for more. Her hands moved with blurring speed. Getting to Rafe was her only thought.
She had to find him. If she hurried, he’d have a better chance of survival. SEALs always had a medic on the team with magic fingers for extracting bullets or neatly sewing up cuts and gashes. She’d seen their work before in the desert.
Rafe would head home with them. With her. She picked up another brick in each hand and tossed them aside.
They’d go to her condo in D.C., and she’d take care of him for as long as it took. She had vacation time coming. She’d take it. If anyone at USSOCOM gave her any grief, they could go to hell. The pile of bricks to the other side of her grew, as did her determination to find him alive.
“I saw what happened.” Harper glanced up into the now-familiar face of Preacher. Her heart leapt with thanks at the sight of his dust-covered cammies and the rifle slung across his back. She nodded at him, but her hands continued their tossing motion. A fist had grabbed her throat from the inside, so speech wasn’t possible. Rafe. She had to get to him. She had to save him.
Oh God, please let him be alive.
The silent prayer seemed appropriate as she glimpsed the bowed head of Rafe’s friend, code name Preacher, who concentrated on grabbing and throwing bricks as fast as she. As if he’d heard her prayer, he looked at her with an encouraging smile.
Olive-colored hands appeared beside her, and bricks disappeared.
“What a clusterfuck,” the SEAL declared. “You must be Harper. Call me Doc. I’d shake, but my hands are busy trying to get to my patient.” After a few seconds, he added, “Rafe was my first CO when I joined the Teams. He’s one of the good guys.”
Damn. These were good men. After all these years, their bond with Rafe was still there. They were his friends, his teammates, his family. Family. That was the way she felt about Rafe. She was now part of his family. He was part of her family. No, not exactly. He was part of her.
Brick in hand, she stopped. She looked at it, not seeing its white painted side or the crumbling concrete. She loved Rafe as much as she loved her own teammates, as much as she’d loved her mother, just different. She smiled at those differences.
Large hands grabbed her face and forced it up.
“Let me look at you.” Doc was in medic mode. He covered Harper’s eyes with his hand then quickly pulled it away.
“Eyes equal and reactive. No concussion.” His hands groped through her hair, gently testing her scalp.
Harper had been through this routine many times and realized what Doc was doing. It wasn’t her head that had been impacted. It was her heart. She batted away his hands.
“I’m fine.” Harper smiled. “I’m better than fine.” She was in love, and the love of her life was buried under the debris in front of her. She returned to the pile with a vengeance.
“Sure you’re okay?” Preacher asked as he tossed two bricks to the side.
“Yeah,” Harper choked out. Dust filled the air, burned her eyes, and clogged her nose. “I’ll be a whole lot better once we reach Rafe.”
Preacher spoke quietly into his comm. “Perimeter check.”
A Spanish-accented man replied, “Secure.”
“Status,” Preacher demanded.
“Chaos in the street behind you. The tangos weren’t focused on their mission. Typical. Most have disappeared. If they’re local, I’d bet they went to check on their families. How much longer?”
“Unknown.” Preacher’s answer disturbed Harper. They had no idea what shape Rafe would be in when they got to him. Broken bones? Concussion?
Harper couldn’t think about that right now. They had to get to him first.
Although it seemed as if she’d been digging for hours, it had been only a few minutes. Her biceps were burning from the repetitive motions. The pile was disappearing quickly with all the help. They’d moved a few feet into the alley.
Doc had picked up a large chunk and turned to throw it onto the pile at the end of the alley. Harper reached for the next piece and saw the black outline of a battered boot. She kneeled and threw off bricks. A calf. His leg was bent as if he’d curled up into a ball.
Preacher was right beside her. When Harper turned and tossed the next brick, she saw Doc pulling his stethoscope out of his backpack.
He had to be alive. He had to be. She couldn’t lose him now.
On their knees, she and Preacher handed pieces to Doc, who handed them off to someone else. Others had joined in their rescue.
Harper lifted another large piece and found battered metal. Fast as their hands could move, she and Preacher passed debris to others. Rafe had tried to cover himself with a trash can lid, but hadn’t completely succeeded.
Gashed and dented stainless steel covered his head and shoulders. When Harper lifted the circular metal, Rafe’s hand was still clenched around the handle. His arm moved up with the lid.
He’s alive.
Just as relief began to wash over her, his hand slid out of the hole and fell lifelessly next to his hip. He’d curled as tightly as his large frame would allow against the wall of one of the few buildings left standing whole.
Rivers of blood formed paths on either side of his off-center nose and drew red lines across his angular face. His wavy dark hair was matted with drying blood. Eyes closed, he lay so still, limp. Nothing moved, not even his chest. He wasn’t breathing.
He was dead.
She knew it in her mind, but her heart wouldn’t let her believe it.
Tears ran down Harper’s dirty face. She couldn’t catch her breath. She sat frozen on her knees, hands listlessly at her sides. She had no strength left to lift them. She wanted to touch him, but she was afraid to know the truth. Afraid to know her greatest fear was real.
“Let me in there, goddamn it.” Doc bulldozed his way past Harper. “Do something with her,” Doc said over his shoulder to Preacher.
Doc kneeled next to Rafe’s body, blocking Harper’s view.
Preacher gripped her shaking shoulders and stood her up, out of the way. She could now see Rafe. He lay motionless amidst the broken debris.
Rafe was dead.
She couldn’t breathe.
She was racked with pain from her head to her aching feet, but nothing matched the hole where her heart had just been ripped out.
Her entire body shook with uncontrolled adrenalin, exhaustion, and fear.
Preacher pulled her into a hug before her legs gave out. The words he said were incoherent mumblings, unable to surpass the screams in her mind.
Harper never took her focus off Rafe.
* * * *
“Thready, but I’ve got a pulse.” Doc’s words were like water thrown on the raging fire that had been destroying Harper’s heart. She didn’t know love could hurt this much or that losing the man she loved could destroy her in the process.
That wasn’t going to happen.
He was alive.
She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Probably why she couldn’t catch her breath a minute ago.
You have to let it out in order to breathe in.
She forced in the next breath and huffed it out.
Breathe. Just keep breathing. Doc will take care of him.
“Heartbeat is very weak,” Doc told anyone who was listening, stethoscope still in his ears. “Help me lay him flat.”
Harper withdrew from Preacher’s embrace and both assisted in carefully moving Rafe. She didn’t want him to feel any pain. He could have broken bones or internal injuries.
Stretched out at the end of the alley, Rafe finally moaned and moved his head.
“He’s coming around.” Doc pulled a small tablet from his backpack then placed a cuff on Rafe’s bicep that would transmit all his vitals to the miniature computer. He clipped a small device on his index finger and red numbers flashed onto the LED screen.
When Doc began unbuttoning Rafe’s shirt from the top, Harper quickly started at the opposite end. Together, they removed his Kevlar vest then tore his T-shirt down the middle.
Doc placed five quarter-sized patches around his torso then touched a button to watch Rafe’s heart in 3-D. With the swipe of his fingers, he rotated the picture to inspect it on all sides.
“Looks good,” Doc announced.
Thank God. Rafe was going to be all right. She could see on the monitor that his heart was beating steadily. A heart she now considered hers.
“Harper, talk to him. Bring him out slow.”
Harper knew this routine. When a warrior was knocked out during battle, he’d often come back to reality fighting, literally, as if no time had passed and he was still in the dangerous situation that had knocked him out. Getting punched was not high on her list of things to do right now, so she laid her hand on his chest, careful of the transmission pads, and leaned close to his ear.
