Читать книгу The Keeper - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 7

“WHAT ABOUT YOU, OAK?” PFC Heath Johnson asked. “What do you want in a woman?”

Doing a routine sweep through his little portion of Baghdad, Major Jackson Oak Martin was only half listening to his fellow comrades enumerate what qualities their ideal woman would possess. He’d been through this area countless times over the past few months and was familiar with every pile of garbage, every mate-less shoe, every blown-out window. He carefully scanned the area ahead, every sense tingling.

Something had changed.

“Eyes out, guys,” Jack told them, slowing down as the hair on the back of his neck prickled uneasily. “I’m pulling a weird vibe.”

“Bullshit,” PFC Chris Fulmer scoffed, seemingly annoyed and bored, his usual mood. “It’s the same old, same old here, Major. Nothing’s happened in weeks in this area. I don’t know why we can’t move on,” he continued to predictably complain. He grunted. “Ignorant-ass waste of time, if you ask me.” He shot a grin at Johnson and pulled a cocky shrug. “You want to know what I want in a woman, Johnson? It’s simple enough.” He made an obscene gesture.

The group laughed and Jack quickly quieted them, growing increasingly uncomfortable. Dammit, he knew something was different. Could feel it. He looked left, then right, along both sides of the cluttered abandoned street. He scanned the rooftops and windows, the blown-out cars and debris. On the surface everything appeared undisturbed, innocuous even, but every iota of intuition he possessed was telling him that it wasn’t, that something—however small—had been altered.

And the small things were just as capable of getting them killed as the big things were.

“You’re a shallow bastard, you know that, Fulmer?” Johnson told him.

The young Nebraskan was as wholesome as the farm he’d grown up on, intelligent and wise beyond his years, and had quickly become one of Jack’s favorites.

A dreamy expression drifted over Johnson’s face. “I just want a woman who can cook. One who knows that potatoes don’t come out of a box and are better mashed, with gravy. One who knows how to fry chick—”

A blast to their immediate right cut off the rest of what Johnson was going to say, along with his legs.

Jack felt the power of the detonation roll over his body—a terrible shock of pain to his right ear—and felt himself fly through the air and land hard on his left side. He couldn’t catch his breath—it had been knocked out of him—and struggled to force the immediate panic aside. Debris and dust clouded his vision, making his eyes water and sting. He lifted his head, saw Johnson shaking uncontrollably on the ground, part of Fulmer’s skull clasped in his own hand, and Wilson and Manning were both bleeding from various parts of their bodies.

Oh, Jesus …

He immediately radioed for help, then, heartsick and terrified, lunged into action, crawling with more speed than grace to Johnson’s side.

The boy’s big blue eyes were wide with shock, and his mouth worked up and down. He grabbed Jack’s sleeve and yanked him down. His ashen lips moved shakily, but no sound emerged.

“Medic’s on the way,” Jack assured him, tearing bits of fabric from the edge of his jacket to fashion a makeshift tourniquet. So much blood, he thought, working frantically, his hands slippery with it. It was a mortal wound, he knew—he was familiar enough with war to know that—but he had to try, had to help. This was Johnson, dammit, his friend.

Johnson writhed and tried to bat his hands away, but Jack roughly pushed him back down. “I gotta do it,” he told him, feeling his insides vibrate with dread. “I know it hurts like a bitch, but just stay strong, buddy.” Jack could feel his heart thundering in his chest, the tremor in his fingers, a trickle of something wet and sticky running down his neck.

Before he could attach the second tourniquet, Johnson jerked him around hard, his pale, freckled face a mask of pain and desperation. He kept talking—seemed to be desperately trying to impart something significant—but his lips only moved. Seemingly frustrated when Jack didn’t respond, Johnson tried harder, appearing to scream. He said whatever it was again, gave him another little shake, then fell back against the ground once more. His eyes drifted shut.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

“Johnson,” Jack said, grabbing the boy’s shoulder. “Stay with me, Johnson. Dammit, don’t—”

A hand suddenly landed on his shoulder and Jack whirled and struck out, sending the medic sprawling. A second medic was right behind the first and a helicopter had landed in the street fifty yards from where they were located. Jack watched the blades whirl, belatedly noting the lack of sound. He frowned, his gaze darting from one person to the next, watched their lips move, saw the action and reaction.

Dread ballooned in his belly and his heart began to race even faster as the unhappy truth slammed into him.

PFC Heath Johnson had just uttered his last words … to a man who couldn’t hear them.