Jack Wilder - The Missionary

The sounds of traffic coming from ahead of them had Stone increasing his pace, but their progress was constantly frustrated by the fact that the shantytown roads didn’t follow any kind of plan, and they constantly had to backtrack and find another way when their path gave out at a dead end.

And then Stone made a turn, cursed, and came to a stop, the pistol in his right fist rising. From behind him, Wren couldn’t see anything around his broad back, but the way his body tensed told her all she needed to know.

She risked a peek around him, and saw that the way ahead was blocked by three men with short, compact machine guns. Cervantes wasn’t one of them, thank God.

“Be ready,” Stone breathed, not taking his eyes off the men in front of them.

Wren nodded, not sure what to be ready for, but she tried to mentally prepare herself to move. She glanced around, saw a narrow opening just ahead on their right. She would break for that opening. Her hand trembled, and she realized she was panting, almost hyperventilating. She slowed her breathing and focused on Stone’s back. She wasn’t ready for gunfire, for blood and death. She wasn’t ready. There were too many men, and she wasn’t going to be any help.

The moment drew out until Wren’s nerves were shredded.

It happened between one breath and the next. She saw, almost in slow motion, Stone’s back flex, his arm lift, hands coming up to cup the pistol, his body twisting slightly. The pistol jerked in his hands, popping with a deafening blast, once, twice, three times. As soon as the first BANG! reached her ears, Wren jerked into a run, lunging for the opening, feet slipping in the mud. She slammed into the side of the building, pain wracking through her as something sharp scraped her arm through her shirt, her bruised or cracked rib screaming until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, but she kept moving, twisting away from the building, through the opening, slipping again, feet shooting out from beneath her, sending her into the mud. The slimy wetness splashed, coating her, smelling awful and dripping in her hair, down her skin, coating her khaki shorts and white shirt.

It wasn’t entirely mud, she realized.

Wren choked back the vomit and struggled to her feet. Gunfire barked just feet away, chains of single rounds from Stone, chainsaw chatter ripping from the machine guns. Several rounds thunked and cracked into the side of the building, spitting shards of wood and splinters of concrete, dinging off metal, ricocheting into the alley. Something hot and angry buzzed past her ear, causing her to lurch forward, slip, and stagger toward the opening.

Silence reigned, then, deafening and thick. Where was Stone? Was he dead?

She peered around the corner, crouching low, ignoring the howl of pain and the stench now coating her. Two bodies lay in the street, bleeding red into the mud. Something bright flashed from a window, accompanied by a deafening racket. The mud at her feet exploded, the building by her face exploded, and something stung her eyes, flecked her cheek.

“Get back!” Stone’s voice shouted from several feet away. “Get the fuck back, Wren! Stay down, goddammit!”

She threw herself backward as the fire flashed again, and the buzzing, snapping, whizzing of bees past her face had her tumbling to her backside into the muddy sewage. Stone’s gun banged twice, and she heard a grunt and a harsh fading curse in Filipino. Silent moments passed, and then she heard Stone’s angry voice, Filipino denials, and then…

BANGBANG.

Stone appeared in the mouth of the alley, a fresh red crease along his stomach weeping crimson. Blood was spattered on his chest and face, tiny red dots. It wasn’t his blood, she realized. He was breathing hard, each breath making his muscles swell and his chest expand. His eyes were hot and dangerous, but they softened as he approached her. He reached out with a slightly shaky hand and plucked slivers and shards from her hair, and then wiped a palm over her cheeks, one side and then the other. She hissed when his hand ran over something sharp embedded in her skin.

“Shit, sorry.” He bent closer to her face, eyes narrowed, and pulled a splinter from her skin, tossing it aside. His eyes met hers. “That was stupid, Wren. Next time, stay out of the way.”

“I just…I’m—I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I just needed to know if you were—”

“If I’m worried about you staying out of the way, I’m not focused on them , and that’s what’ll get us killed.” His eyes flashed. “If shit gets hairy, get out of the way and stay out of the way until I get you. All right?”

Wren nodded. “I get it. I’m sorry I distracted you.”

Stone’s gaze raked over her. “Fell into the mud, did you?” His tone was jocular, although the tight wrinkles at the corner of his eyes betrayed the fact that he was in pain.

Wren tried to bury her nausea, but couldn’t entirely. “It’s not just mud.”

Stone’s eyes widened. “Oh…oh, shit.” He seemed to be suppressing laughter.

“Yeah. Exactly.” She glared up at him. “I’m glad you think it’s so funny.”

“Sorry, it’s not funny.” His expression sobered up, but then he leaned close and took a whiff. “We gotta get you cleaned up. You stink, babe.”

Wren wanted to come up with a witty reply, but everything hurt. She sagged, feeling herself stumble, and then she was caught in strong arms. She was so tired. She was trying to be strong, but…she just couldn’t anymore. She felt something hot curling in her throat, something wet sliding down her face. “I’m sorry, Stone. I’m just so tired. And it hurts. It hurts.”

“What hurts?” His voice was tender.

She tried to breathe through the need to cry, refusing to let it out. “Everything.”

Stone cursed and pressed his fingertips to her side, prodding gently until his touch, gentle as it was, found her hurt rib. She couldn’t mute her agonized whimper. “Shit. How the hell are you upright?”

She liked the raw admiration in his tone. “Didn’t have a choice, did I?” She was so close to crying, to just breaking down.

But there were dead men in the alley, and someone would find them soon. She levered herself out of Stone’s warm embrace, breathed deeply and wiped her hands on a clean part of her shirt, then brushed away the tears that had escaped. Shallow breaths, careful movements. Adrenaline was wearing off, she realized, and reality was setting in.

“Let’s go,” she said, trying to sound stronger than she was.

Stone watched her, as if assessing. She took shallow breaths and tried not to move. Stone shook his head. “Try to take deep breaths regularly. I know it hurts, but it’s important, since it’ll prevent infection, hopefully.” He took her shoulders and gingerly helped her twist at the waist. “Does it hurt more when you move like this?”

Wren couldn’t get words out, could only gasp and nod. “Yes,” she said, when she could breathe again.

“That’s a good thing, actually. It means it’s just muscle and tissue damage, maybe some bruising to the bone. I don’t think it’s broken.” He peered around the corner, and then moved out into the open. As they neared the bodies of the men he’d killed, Stone gathered her close to his side. “Don’t look.”

Wren didn’t want to. She buried her face against his arm, letting him guide her past the bodies. She smelled blood, and something else, something indefinable. It was, she realized, the smell of death.

She opened her eyes as they turned a corner and heard the sounds of traffic. They’d left the shantytown, which hopefully meant access to food, water, and somewhere to rest.

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could go on.