“I’d say you could use mine, but there’s still no service.” Suzette drew the cigarette to her mouth and inhaled deeply, setting the smoldering end brightly aglow. It occurred to him that her stance allowed him a virtually unobstructed view down the front of her blouse. “I’m sorry about earlier. Edward hitting you and all.”
“That’s alright.” Andrew’s hand trailed to his cheek. Not much of a bruise had formed where Moore’s knuckles had connected, but the residual soreness from the blow remained. “He hits like a girl.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
Andrew laughed. “Please don’t. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
“That’s right.” Suzette inhaled on her cigarette. “I hear you’re going to be staying with us awhile.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s too bad,” she told him with a playful sort of smile that suggested she thought it was anything but.
Before he could open his mouth to answer, he heard a sharp sound, the staccato patta-pat-pat of automatic gunfire echoing from somewhere in the distance, deep in the woods. Startled, he whirled, eyes flown wide.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed, shoulders hunched reflexively, just as more gunshots rolled out of the trees. The noises overlapped, multiple rifles firing simultaneously, a heated exchange from the sounds of things. “Those are gunshots!”
“Sure sounds like it,” she agreed, using her fingertip and thumb to flick her cigarette butt into the courtyard.
“What are they shooting at?”
“The last guy they caught trespassing,” she said solemnly. Then she laughed. “I’m kidding. They must be out doing artillery drills, that’s all.”
She tipped her head back, downing the rest of her drink. He thought of how her breath had smelled like alcohol the night before and wondered if there was more than water in her glass.
“See you around, Romeo. Parting is such sweet sorrow and all that.” She dropped him a wink, then turned, walking back inside the apartment.
CHAPTER SIX
Seventeen hundred sharp, Andrew thought after he’d finished showering. That was when O’Malley had told him that supper was served in the dining hall—or dee-fack, as the case may be—and sitting on the side of what would be his bed while stuck at the Army barracks, he counted in his mind, trying to convert standard time to military hours. That’d be…what? Five o’clock?
He glanced at his bedside clock. Ten minutes to go. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and his stomach was growling again. About a half hour earlier, Corporal O’Malley had stopped by his room, delivering the clothes he’d been wearing at the time of his crash—his shirt, jeans, socks—all freshly laundered, still warm from the dryer.
“Thanks,” Andrew had said, surprised, as he’d accepted them.
“Don’t thank me,” O’Malley had replied. “Dr. Montgomery took care of it.”
Which had surprised him all the more.
He hadn’t heard any more gunfire that afternoon. Suzette hadn’t seemed particularly concerned about the sounds, as if they were common enough occurrences. That didn’t make them any less unsettling to Andrew, however. Sound in the mountains carried fast and far and he wondered if McGillis and Allcott had returned to the woods to look for him, had heard the shots and grown alarmed.
As he toweled his hair dry, he heard a knock at the door. “Hang on a minute,” he called, because he was still wearing only a towel around his waist. Thinking O’Malley might be bringing him another pleasant surprise—maybe an operational satellite phone or the keys to a helicopter waiting in the courtyard—he hurried to grab his jeans. “I’m not dressed. Hold on.”
He heard a quick series of beeps, someone punching in on the key pad, and had a split second to realize the corresponding click was the door unlocking before it swung open, quickly and wide, sending him stumbling back from the threshold in surprise. “Hey!”
His startled cry of protest cut abruptly short as Edward Moore stepped into the room, then swung the door smartly shut behind him. He raised his right arm, pointing at Andrew, and after a bewildered moment, Andrew realized it wasn’t the man’s finger he was aiming at his head.
Shit, he thought, blinking down the barrel of what appeared to be a semi-automatic pistol.
“Dr. Moore,” he hiccupped, eyes round, nearly crossed as he gawked at that cold, black hole bored into the muzzle. “What are you doing?”
Surely the guy couldn’t be that pissed off over a right hook to the gut. Could he? Andrew thought, very much alarmed, because whatever the reason, Dr. Moore was pissed about something. That much was plain. The man’s face had flushed bright red, glossed with a sheen of anxious perspiration, and his brows were furrowed so deeply, his eyes were all but obscured by the resulting shadows.
“Look,” Andrew said, backing up until he hit the nearest wall and thus could go no further. Helpless, he held up his hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he dimly hoped like all hell that the towel around his waist didn’t loosen and fall, because he figured being found with a bullet in his skull, buck naked on the floor would be a far shade worse than just the former. “About upstairs, what happened this morning, I was only…”
“Shut up.” Moore made a show of conspicuously thumbing off the safety on the pistol. “Who are you? How did you find me here?”
At a loss, Andrew shook his head. “I told you. I’m a forester. My name’s—”
“I know what you said.” Spittle sprayed in fine droplets from his lips as Moore’s voice rose a ragged, scraping notch. “Now I want the truth.”
In three swift strides, he collapsed the space between them. Andrew hunched his shoulders, closing his eyes as Moore shoved the gleaming barrel of his pistol against his temple.
“Please don’t,” Andrew whispered, frightened now; damn near the closest he’d been in his adult life to unadulterated terror. Because this guy wants to kill me. This isn’t a game. He’s come here to shoot me.
“How did you find me?” Moore demanded. “How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t,” Andrew said, wincing as the muzzle dug more fiercely into his head. “I swear to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, I swear.”
The gun remained pressed against his skin for another long moment, then at last, Moore drew it away. Uttering a shuddering sigh, Andrew remained rooted in spot, eyes closed.
“Haven’t you people done enough?” Moore asked. Some of that furious venom had been stripped from his voice, leaving a hoarse, nearly pained tone. Andrew opened his eyes hesitantly, and inexplicably found the older man staring at him with a pleading sort of expression, the pistol now dangling in his hand at his side.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Andrew said, and Moore’s face hardened again, that cleft between his brows deepening. Again, the pistol raised and Andrew cowered as Moore crammed the muzzle into his brow once more, forcing him to his knees.
“Please,” Andrew gasped. “Please, don’t.”
He gritted his teeth, his body tense as he waited for the horrible, thunderous report of gunfire, for what he assumed would be searing pain as the bullet punched through his skull. Moore pulled the gun away again, but Andrew remained rigid, frozen in place, paralyzed with fear.
“No,” Moore said, his voice low and guttural, nearly a growl. Andrew heard the soft sound of his footsteps and risked opening his eyes in time to see Moore walking out the door to his room. “That’s your way. Not mine.”