Читать книгу Single With Twins - Joan Elliott Pickart - Страница 8

The air was thick with smoke from the burning buildings and had an eerie orange cast. It even tasted strange, like dirt, charred wood…and fear.

Bullets thudded into the low, block wall with a maddening tempo as Mack Marshall crouched next to the old man and woman who were clinging to each other, trembling with fright.

“Hang on,” Mack said. “The good guys know we’re pinned down back here. They’ll get us some cover fire and we’ll make a run for it.”

The couple stared at Mack with wide, terror-filled eyes. Their expressions told him they hadn’t understood a word he’d said.

Damn, Mack thought, he’d really done it this time. All the other photojournalists had pulled back. But him? Hell, no, not Mack Marshall. He had to get closer, to go for a few more pictures that no one else would get, to push his luck right to the edge. Luck, which was obviously running out very, very quickly.

He could die here. He could actually get shot full of holes and die in the dirt in this godforsaken place, his lifeblood seeping into the ground to be trampled by strangers’ feet and forgotten, as though it had never been there. As though he had never existed.

Damn, he could die here…and no one would cry because he was dead.

Mack shook his head slightly in self-disgust at his depressing thoughts, but there was nowhere to escape from the chilling truth. Yeah, sure, he had friends scattered around the world who would feel badly that Mack Marshall had finally pushed his luck too far, once too often, and had bit the big one.

Mack was a helluva photojournalist, they’d say as they raised drinks in a final tribute to the reckless man who had never been without a camera around his neck and dynamic words to describe what he had seen.

Mack deserved all those awards he’d received over the years, they’d decide, filling their glasses again, but…by the same token…he sorta deserved his come-uppance too because he continually pushed his luck to the point of ridiculous and had finally paid the piper for the risks he’d taken.

Here’s to Mack. Drink up, boys… The king is dead and which one of us will be the next king? Here’s to Mack…what was his last name again?…oh, yeah, Marshall. Mack Marshall… Did you notice there was no family at the memorial service for Mack?

No one.

There was nobody there who cried.

A bullet zinged through the air above Mack’s head and he ducked even lower, cursing under his breath as he was pulled roughly from his dreary, mental ramblings.

The old couple gripped each other tighter, closing their eyes, their lips moving with whispered prayers.

“No,” Mack said, shaking the man’s shoulder. “Stay alert, be ready to run. Don’t give up now. How are you going to see the terrific pictures I took of you two if you quit on me now?

“Never let it be said that Mack Marshall didn’t take the extra step to get the perfect photograph, the one that puts him a cut above the herd. The picture that this time just might be the one that got him killed.”

The old man and woman bobbed their heads in jerky motions, willing to hang on to the sound of Mack’s deep voice, grasping at anything that hinted at hope.

Mack stiffened suddenly and narrowed his eyes.

“That’s it. Hear it?” he said. “That gunfire is from the good guys. Yeah, I can see them up on that rise, and they’re giving us cover. This is our last chance.” He crept behind the couple and gave them a push. “Run. Now. Go!”

The elderly couple ran, hunched over, moving as quickly as they could. Mack was right behind them, bending low, one hand flat on the old man’s back to propel him forward.

They had to get to that building across the street, Mack’s mind hammered. Go, go, go. Ten more feet. Five. Move, move, move. Almost there now…three feet left and they would be safe and—

A bullet slammed into Mack’s left shoulder, the force of the impact causing him to fall onto his back in the dirt. White-hot pain rocketed through his entire body as a black curtain began to descend over him.

No! his mind yelled. He’d seen the friendly hands reach out and pull the old couple into the building. He had been one stride away from escaping the danger in the street.

And now he was going to die? Here? In the dirt? He was only thirty-seven years old, and he was going to die in a village in a remote part of a country that half the people in the world had never even heard of, or gave a damn about?

He was going to die alone, knowing that when the final words were spoken over him, no one would cry?

No-o-o!

Then everything went black.