Collateral Damage (8 page)

Pain wrenched his back as he landed hard. He squeezed two shots at the threat coming their way, aiming much lower than he should have. The bullets would hit the ground, but damn it, this was a neighborhood. He didn’t want bullets going anywhere but into the bastard shooting at them. No collateral damage on his watch.

Before the man could return fire, Jack kicked the door closed; feeling damn glad the house was brick. Their only vulnerability would be the windows and the wood.

A quick glance around revealed a large mahogany hallstand on the right. With an adrenaline-charged push, he rose up and sent the heavy stand tipping over. It slammed against the front door and wedged it shut. The muscle strain left his arms shaking. He slid back to shield the woman with his body as two more bullets hit the door.

Barking loudly, the Shepherds came running around the corner.

“Stop! Lay!” Jack shouted. The dogs obeyed slightly, whining as they dropped close to the floor, but still inched toward them. He prayed they wouldn’t get shot. It was the best he could do to keep them safe.

“Who’s shooting at you?” the woman cried. Semi-squashed beneath him, she sounded seriously confused and panicked. She tried to wiggle away, making him even more aware of her soft curves.

“Me? This is your house.” Jack kept searching for the intruder from every angle he could stretch.

“You’re the one with a gun.” Her tone of voice clearly accused him of bringing this disaster on her.

Was she serious?
“That gun happens to be saving your ass at the moment,” he hissed as she shifted and brushed something he shouldn’t even be aware of at the moment. Damn. He craned his neck, searching out the shattered windowpane for signs of the shooter.

“This just can’t be happening.” She pushed up from the floor.

“It is.” He urged her back down. “Keep your head low and move with me to the right. Make sure the dogs stay down too.”

“Sasha, Sam. Stay,” she commanded and the dogs stopped crawling. They were luckily positioned behind an upturned sofa.

She looked completely dazed, pupils dilated with shock, complexion sheet white. If she was involved in any terrorist activity it was obviously not in fieldwork. She was like a lamb in the crossfire, making him wonder how she could have any connection to her AK-47 toting spouse.

He regretted his irritation. She was upset, had a right to be upset. She didn’t know him from Adam, and the shooting hadn’t started until he came onto the scene.

Still, he could be wrong about her. Her shock could be an act to disarm him. So could her accidental contact with his groin. Whatever the truth was, he needed her glued to his side and far from any position to nail him from behind or run away. He slung a leg over her hip, keeping her anchored against him and focused on the threat. Out the side window, he saw the attacker approaching slowly, about two yards from the porch steps.

Locating a brass doorstop against the wall, Jack angled up and threw it. Sunlight glinted off the shiny surface as it sailed across the living room and demolished one of the front window panes some thirty feet away.

Somebody had done a number on her house. The place had been trashed big time. From his observation point low to the ground, Jack saw the attacker outside duck and turn in the direction of the broken window.

Jack had the perfect head shot, but his hand trembled. Bracing with his other hand, he squeezed off two rounds just as the woman shifted. And, hell, her thigh firmly brushed against his groin.

She froze, clearly realizing just how interesting he found her. He wasn’t at attention in that department, but he wasn’t exactly at ease either.

“Damn,” he muttered. The woman was deadly, like kryptonite. Distracted by her and her movement, he’d missed the headshot and hit the target in the shoulder. It wasn’t even the bastard’s gun arm, either. The attacker dropped to the ground, bringing his P226 up and firing on the house, close to where they were. The woman cried out.

Jack responded with a volley of shots out the sidelight then rolled with the woman to a new position, protecting her with his body. They were face to face, chest to chest, and everything else to everything else, right down the line with him on top. She was breathing too rapidly and would likely hyperventilate. He listened intently for the slightest sound from outside, but had to calm her down, or he’d have a bigger problem on his hands.

“Shh. It’s okay.” He met and held her frightened gaze as something potent arched between them. “Lauren.” He fixed her name in his mind. The thunder of her heart beat against his chest and the warmth of her seeped inside of him. “He can’t hurt you. I won’t let him, okay?”

She nodded.

“Try and take slow breaths and be as quiet as possible.”

Lauren nodded again, and he couldn’t stop himself from brushing his thumb along her cheek. If she was as innocent a bystander as she looked, then she was being damn brave.

Nothing but silence came from outside. Had he hit the guy with a lucky bullet?

He could hear the dogs inching closer to where he lay with Lauren and let them. A minute more, and he was going after the shooter. He wanted the dogs at her side then.

Though Jack’s edge wasn’t as sharp as it should be, he hadn’t lost it as completely as he thought either. Adrenalin and experience made up for his injured condition.

Just then a thud on the living room floor sounded. They’d rolled the opposite way after the gunfire and now he couldn’t see into the room. Had the killer crossed the porch and climbed inside the broken window without Jack hearing? He levied off Lauren and came up with his gun aimed as he ran across the foyer. Thick smoke billowed into the air.

Maybe he’d lost more of his edge than he’d thought.

Chapter Eight

Fayetteville, North Carolina.

Maryam “Mari” Dalton stared at the blurred array of chips stacked on the mini-mart’s shelf and gripped the shopping cart handles for dear life. Raw pain ripped through her as fresh as if someone had just plunged a knife into her breast. Cheetos, crunchy or puffy. Potato chips, BBQ or cheddar, ridged or baked. They all clawed at her heart and brought tears to her eyes. She blinked, sucked in air slowly, determined to hold the growing storm of grief at bay, but then spied the Doritos and the dam burst.

You, a bag of Dorries, and my ’57 Chevy are all I’ll ever want
. Neil’s teasing voice echoed through her mind, a bare whisper of his deep, rumbling drawl. His comforting arms would never hold her again. He was gone. The only person to have ever loved her was gone.

She couldn’t do this. Not now. Not yet. Pressing her fist to her mouth to stifle her cry, she rushed for the exit, her head down, the folds of her h
ijāb
covering her head and most of her face thankfully hid her distress. She hadn’t wanted to see anyone she knew, hadn’t wanted to hear the condolences that would only scrape her pain raw again. She hadn’t wanted to go anywhere she and Neil had been together, so she’d driven past the airport in Fayetteville to buy food she didn’t feel like eating but did because of the baby.

She hadn’t counted on the snack aisle. It had been Neil’s favorite section, his domain. He’d plan a get-together with the guys and then go crazy buying the snacks. Doritos were his favorite. Didn’t matter what flavor, from spicy to ranch, he loved them all and ate them with everything. He even put Doritos on his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches…

Allah, please help me
—

“Miss! What’s wrong?” the elderly clerk asked as she ran past the only check-out line in the tiny food mart. She could barely meet his watery, blue-eyed gaze, magnified tenfold by his thick eyeglasses. The smattering of gray hair plastered neatly in place on his mostly bald head made her sob harder. Neil’s hairline had recently receded and he’d often ask her if she could love a bowling ball.

“I must go,” she cried, blindly rushing. She reached the exit, barely registering the blurry, dark mass on the other side of the glass until she plowed through and the door hit the man’s face.

“What the fuck!” he yelled. Blood welled in a cut above his sharp brow as he settled his hard gaze on her. His shaved head and tattooed temple were as abrasive as his aura.

Mari stood frozen, horrified she had hurt someone, but before she could apologize, the man’s features twisted with rage and he shoved the door back at her. Her nails splintered and her fingers jammed and buckled from the force of the blow. She cried out. Thrust back into the store, her heart pounded, more from the chilling hate in his expression than from the pain stabbing up her arm.

“Hey! What’s going on?” the elderly clerk yelled, running toward her.

Mari pulled her hand close to her breast and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I—”

“Bitch!” the man from outside yelled. He jerked open the door and barreled inside. He touched his cut brow then looked at the blood on his fingers. “You cut me!”

“Let it go, Dugar,” said a second man, pushing into the store. Though sporting the same shaved head and tattoo, this man’s gaze only held disgust when he looked at her. “We don’t need any trouble. Slayer’s orders, man.”

“Let it go? That’s what’s wrong with our fucked-up country now. That’s why we’re fucking doing what we’re doing. That raghead’s whore cut me and I’m not letting it go!”

Mari staggered. She’d seen the reports worldwide about the violence. About Muslims attacking Westerners, Christians, Jews. About Westerners, Christians and Jews attacking Muslims. With the destruction of the worldwide oil industry, chaos had erupted. But that insanity, that hatred was somewhere else. Not here. Not in the place she’d come to embrace as home.

“Stop right there and get out. I’m calling the cops,” the clerk yelled, edging to Mari’s side.

“Shut up.” The raging man shoved the elderly clerk hard, knocking him into a waist-high display of pickles in huge jars. The force of the violence toppled the clerk over backward and the pickle rack collapsed beneath his weight. Jars fell, shattering on the tiled floor and gushing green fluid. Vinegar and dill fumes flooded the air, burning Mari’s nose.

Cut and bleeding several places from the jagged glass raining down on him, the clerk struggled to rise. His eyeglasses hung around his throat and pickles sat on his shoulders and lap.

“Don’t move,” Mari told the old man, moving to help him. Wasn’t there anyone else here? She couldn’t remember having seen anyone. To think she’d deliberately chosen an out of the way place she’d never been before, uncaring that the neighborhood wasn’t exactly perfect. “Help!” she screamed. She was sure the clerk would cut himself even worse if he tried to get up before some of the larger pieces of glass were moved.

“Shut up, bitch! And don’t you dare turn your back on me. Get on your knees and kiss my dick and maybe I’ll let you live.”

Mari reared back in shock, his words slapping her soul. It had been so long that she’d almost forgotten the face and touch of evil. Almost but not quite. She’d only known gentle kindness from Neil. She’d only known goodness from the people she’d met since coming to America with Neil.

“Get out,” the clerk shouted, elbowing to his side. “The cops are—” He gasped, clutching his chest, his eyes bulging with fear as the color drained from his face. Suddenly, his whole body spasmed and he fell back as if dead.

“Allah! No!” Mari cried.

The enraged man grabbed her h
ijāb
and pulled hard to the right, jerking her off balance. She fell to her knees and the rest of her face and her hair were exposed, violating her beliefs of propriety as deeply as pieces of glass sliced through the fabric of her abaya and into her skin. Pickle juice set her cuts on fire. Tears stung her eyes.

“Let her go, Dugar.” The other man set his hand on Dugar’s shoulder. “Slayer isn’t going to like this.”

The man shoved his friend away. “Shut the fuck up, Bean. She owes me.”

Then the monster yanked her purse from where it had fallen from her shoulder and tossed it to the other man. “See what she’s got.”

Ignoring the men, Mari reeled for balance to stay upright and to protect her baby. She was sure if she fell to the ground, she’d never get up. The monster would no doubt kick her with his heavy boots. Or rape her. Or kill her. She’d lived through violence before—a lifetime ago.

As she pulled away, the last pins holding her h
ijāb
in place ripped out strands of her hair. But it didn’t matter. All she could think of was protecting her baby and how she could keep the horror of the past from happening again.

Her mind and her body shook beneath the waves of panic threatening to incapacitate her. Just like before her abaya was trapped beneath her knees, keeping her pinned down, hindering her from escaping. She struggled to rise, her knee grinding deep into the glass as she fought to free the restrictions of her dress. She had barely wedged one foot beneath her to get up when her attacker wrapped her h
ijāb around her throat.
He jerked her face into his crotch, cutting off her air.

She couldn’t breathe. Blood roared in her ears. Her mind screamed for her to do something. The monster wanted her to fight him, wanted an excuse to kill her and she didn’t waste precious time struggling. She pressed her face into his groin, making him think she’d do what he wanted. That was the fastest way to get air. Her smashed fingers were almost numb, but she forced herself to pull down his zipper. She nudged her head against his rising bulge, her body shuddering with revulsion she tried to mask. She scoured the ground with her unhurt hand, praying for a miracle.

The monster laughed and eased up his chokehold on her. Mari sucked in precious air. “See, Bean. She wants it. All women really want it no matter what they say, how they act, or how they dress.” He thrust his hips. “This raghead has himself a good whore.”

Mari’s heart pounded impossibly harder as she found and grasped a large shard of glass. She ignored the sting of it cutting into her flesh as she positioned herself. She only would have one chance. She pulled open one side of his fly then brought her other hand up. The full sleeve of her abaya covered the glass in her hand. Using the force of her weight, she stabbed her attacker in the groin.