Jack Wilder - The Missionary

Stone smirked, a cold, arrogant smile that was a lie to cover the fear in his gut. “Yeah, probably not. You can try, though.”

A fist knocked on the door to the outside, drawing Cervantes’ attention for a split second. It was all Stone needed. His hand flashed up, knocking the pistol barrel away. His knee rose to slam into Cervantes’ kidney, and then Stone snatched the pistol away. Cervantes stumbled, gasping and clutching his side. The men dividing the marijuana turned to see Stone cupping the pistol in the Weaver Stance; BLAM—BLAM—BLAM. Three down, holes in heads; desperation lent Stone unerring accuracy. Cervantes threw himself backward, through the doorway from which Stone had come. Cervantes must have had a spare gun, because gunfire roared and bullets spat, missed, buzzing like bees past Stone’s ear. Cervantes scrambled to his feet and lurched to the right, through another doorway, and Stone’s answering rounds dug into the dirt at his feet.

Stone followed Cervantes, moving sideways through the door, sacrificing speed for caution. His ears ringing from the deafening gunfire, he heard only his own breathing, muffled huffing as he scuffed from door to door, sweeping corner to corner. He heard a door open somewhere, but he was disoriented and couldn’t locate the source. The rooms were all dark, and Stone had no light source. He should have brought a lantern, as unwieldy as it would have been. Better than blind in the darkness, where every shadow could hide Cervantes.

He crept through another room, feeling the tension creep up his spine with every step he took. His instincts jangled, the intangible warning sign that something was about to happen. Just before he’d jumped out of the back of a cargo plane for his first combat mission, his CO had told him to always, always listen to his instincts. The tighter your asshole puckers, the lower you should duck.

Stone’s asshole was puckered into a knot, so he ducked, dropping to his belly. Muzzle burst flashed overhead, and he rolled, firing upward. A grunt told him he’d hit something, but then gunfire blasted again, and a kiln-hot hammer of pain hit his thigh. He rolled away, hit a wall, then felt something hard against the back of his head.

“Got’chu now.” Cervantes’ voice was strained. “Stand up. Slowly.”

Stone couldn’t have stood up quickly even if he’d wanted to. He leaned against the wall and forced himself upright, teeth grinding. Cervantes grabbed him and shoved him toward the dim light a few rooms away. Stone stumbled, caught the door frame in order to remain upright. Back into the room where he’d first encountered Cervantes, the dead men slumped over, bleeding into the piles of green. Cervantes, bleeding from a deep gouge along his cheek, and now missing his left earlobe, kicked a dead man off a chair and shoved Stone into it, then cast around the room for something to tie him up with. Stone’s bullet had nearly killed Cervantes, missing his brain by less than half an inch but ‘nearly’ wasn’t close enough.

Two of the dead men wore belts, and Cervantes knelt to unbuckle one, keeping an eye and his pistol trained on Stone. While Cervantes’ attention flickered to his attempts to free the belts, Stone fished the small knife out of his pocket and stuffed it into his combat boot. Cervantes wrapped one belt around Stone’s midsection and pulled it tight, pinioning his arms against his sides and his body to the chair. The other belt went around his wrists, binding them together. It was sloppy, but effective. It wouldn’t hold him long, but it would slow him down enough now that Cervantes had more of an upper-hand.

“And now, I kill you slowly. Before dat, I tink I fuck your girlfriend while you watch.” Cervantes went to the closed door that led into the shanty-maze. Stone felt panic turn his blood to ice as Cervantes strode into the next room.

A moment later, Cervantes screamed, “Where da fuck she go?”

Hope swelled in Stone’s belly, but he kept his expression neutral as Cervantes stormed past him.

Stone scanned the room. Each of the dead men had had a gun of some sort. But now, upon closer examination, he realized there were only two firearms left.

17

Wren held the heavy gun in both hands as she tiptoed through the darkness. Every sound startled her, forced her to fight to keep her breathing quiet and her step light.

She’d heard several gunshots, and then silence. She’d emerged from the darkened room expecting to find Cervantes waiting or Stone dead. Instead, she found three men with holes in their head, the accuracy a trademark of Stone’s skill. She’d snatched the first weapon she saw, a blocky, black thing sitting on the table. It was heavier than it looked, and merely holding it made her shiver in terror at the thought of using it. She’d never fired a pistol before. She’d used a rifle once, with her father, and a shotgun a few times with Jon, out in the Virginia countryside. They’d only shot at targets. This was for real.

The part that scared her, more than holding the gun, more than being naked and alone in the darkness, more than knowing Cervantes and his men were somewhere close by, looking for her, was the knowledge that she was absolutely prepared to pull the trigger, if she got Cervantes in her sights. As prepared as she could be, at any rate.

A gunshot from off to her left. Wren huddled against a wall until a second shot rang, and then silence. Her toes touched some kind of fabric, and she felt around with her hands, the dim light revealing only vague shapes. A blanket. Something hard underneath it. Cold flesh. A leg. Alive? Dead? She couldn’t tell. She followed the leg up to hard ribs, felt a faint heartbeat, thready and slow. Pulling away the blankets, she found a small pile of clothing, what felt to her touch like a minidress of some kind. She found the opening and pulled it on, tugged it on. It was far too small, constricting her chest and not even completely covering her ass, but it was better than being naked. She tugged it down farther, feeling her breasts squeeze up and out of the too-small bodice, and her backside hanging out beneath. She wished for proper clothing, knowing she wouldn’t find it here.

Her violated privates throbbed, ached, and that only fueled her rage. It was cruelty for the sake of cruelty, inflicting agony simply for the joy of hurting someone else.

Wren had had enough.

She turned around and went toward the direction where she’d last heard gunfire. She crept through the darkness, straining her ears.

“Where da fuck she go?” Cervantes, discovering her absence. He wasn’t far away, and was moving toward her.

Wren spun in place, found a corner, and crouched in it, making herself as small as she could. Feet scraped on dirt, a darker shadow filled the doorway to her left.

“I know you’re here somewhere, little bird,” Cervantes said. “Give up, and I may let your man live. He gonna bleed out soon. You can help him.”

Wren didn’t breathe, didn’t move. Cervantes moved on, into another room. She slid into the doorway he’d come through, following the bluish-white light of the lantern. She had to save Stone. She knew better than to believe Cervantes would let either of them go, at this point.

The shadows grew lighter as she moved toward the lit room. Looking down, she could see her dress was jade green, and didn’t do anything to hide her body. It displayed it, if anything. Which was the point, really, she supposed. Her heartbeat ratcheted into a pounding crescendo, her gut roiled, but she kept going. She couldn’t afford to let her fear stop her now. Stone was just through that door. She knew it.

She saw him, then. He was covered in blood. His thigh was gushing crimson, his face and shoulders were crusted with dried blood from a gash on his head, and the wound on his side had reopened. Knotted belts tied him to a chair, and he thrashed, struggling against them, trying to wiggle loose.