Francisco yelped. Sibyl packed the Demerol carefully away and went to look at Janet's injuries. Dan clasped his hand as though Francisco were made of blown glass. Dan's hand shook. He'd been crying.
"Frank, what are you doing here?"
"The Hughes boy's appendix was about to burst," he gritted. "They figured... I was expendable."
"And who's—who's this young lady?"
Dan's voice control was shattering. His gaze kept straying from Sibyl back to the cot where Lucille lay, bandaged and silent.
Francisco discovered deep gratitude for the spreading bliss of Demerol. "Sibyl Johnson. Anybody going to relieve my curiosity? Can't believe you showed up like that, didn't think the cavalry showed up anymore..." He was babbling in the grip of the drug and didn't care.
Before Dan could answer, Logan McKee strolled into the room. Francisco groaned. McKee, the lunatic, loose and armed with a rifle... .
"Frank, I think you'll remember Captain McKee," Dan said quietly.
McKee strolled over and leaned down from an incredible distance. "Major," he saluted sloppily. "Didn't expect to find you here. We got 'em, Colonel."
Dan stood up and rubbed a hand across his face. "My wife's hit pretty bad." His voice shook. "Frank's hit, but he's not critical, thank God. Janet Firelli was grazed. Janet? How bad is it?"
Sibyl Johnson answered. "She'll smart for a few days, but it's not serious."
Janet made a strangled sound under her ministrations.
He heard Sibyl talking quietly to someone, but her voice and face grew incredibly muzzy as the Demerol took deeper hold. He tried to get Dan's attention, then forgot why.
Then he slipped quietly into darkness.
Charlie finished loading the last of Carreras' men into the back of the truck. He swung the door shut with a savage bang. Two at Stabiae... Three here. Five down. A veritable army to go. To get them all, they would have to declare war on global organized crime.
Charlie snorted. They were already at war with global organized crime. The bad guys just didn't know it, yet. He shivered in the intense cold and rescued Lucania from the floor of the truck. Thank God, none of the bullets had punched through anywhere near her. Wrapped up in her miles-too-big parka, she was fast asleep. Charlie headed slowly toward the bunker, holding her close as he could without waking her.
Logan McKee met him partway to the door. "Got to wondering if you were going to come inside."
"Just taking care of the meat."
McKee nodded. "They'll freeze solid out here. Thank God. Figure we'll just dump 'em before we go and let the vultures at 'em next spring.
"How'd it go in there?"
"Collins' wife was hit, real bad. Collins is taking it pretty hard. The doctor was hit, too, but not as seriously. If he makes it, maybe Collins' wife has a chance."
Charlie glanced up curiously. "Doctor?"
"Yeah. They had a couple of other hostages Collins didn't know about. One of 'em's a doctor. I'd met him a couple of times."
Charlie rubbed the side of his face. "Great. Two walking wounded."
"Four, actually. That Firelli girl was grazed by a stray round and the doctor's here in the first place because one of the hostages damn near busted an appendix."
"Great. Oh, that's just fine. With that many wounded, we're going to be stuck here for a while." Charlie drew in a lungful of biting air and glanced at his sleeping daughter. "Okay, maybe that's not so bad. We could use a little time to catch our breath, make some plans."
"Yeah, well, I'm freezin' my butt off. See you."
McKee headed back inside.
Charlie followed more slowly. He hunched his shoulders and pulled open the door. It creaked against the pressure of the wind. Charlie latched it behind him, then surveyed the shambles of the main room. It was hard to believe, but that biggest guard, Nelson, had actually made it out past McKee and Collins. The place was riddled with bullet holes. Charlie remembered Nelson. Shooting that bastard had given him more intense satisfaction than his very first orgasm with a girl, when he was all of fifteen.
Shooting Nelson would never return Sibyl's life, but killing another of her murderers helped, just a little.
Past an open doorway, Collins had huddled down beside a cot. The place smelled like blood and death. He didn't see any sign of Collins kid. He must be in there, too. It looked crowded, in fact, jammed with cots and injured bodies.
Four wounded...
Charlie gently set Lucania down and eased open her parka, so she wouldn't overheat, then shrugged out of his own. He draped it across a chair with a bullet hole through the back. He wondered emptily whether or not the food he could smell was still hot. It had been hours since he'd eaten anything.
He shrugged. He ought to go say hello, first, at least. He found to his surprise he dreaded having anyone else see him. He dreaded, more than he'd believed possible, the shock and pity he'd see in their eyes.
Christ, what was wrong with him? He and Lucania were safe—safer than his daughter had ever been in Bericus' house, safer than Charlie had been in four years. He squared his shoulders against burning welts and limped slowly across the room. It was too bad the doctor'd been hit. He could have used some medical attention for his back. The room was knee-deep in people and cots.
Charlie found McKee peering at an injured man dressed as an Army officer. Which, considering Charlie's stolen MP uniform, meant nothing at all. He must be the doctor. A dark-haired woman with her back to him had bent over a boy of about eleven or twelve. She was busy adjusting bandages along his abdomen. That had to be Zac Hughes. He wondered who the woman was and why Carreras had considered her a necessary hostage.
Charlie leaned tiredly against the doorframe. A kid of about fifteen, looking exactly like Dan Collins, glanced up. The boy noted his presence through fear-bruised eyes, then turned his attention back to his mother. McKee crouched down beside Collins and murmured something which Collins clearly didn't hear. McKee shrugged and stood up again. The woman kneeling beside the injured boy glanced up at McKee...
Charlie felt as though somebody had slugged him. With a baseball bat. He actually staggered.
Sibyl...
He must have made some sound, because she looked up.
Green eyes widened. Her whole face drained of color in the space of a single heartbeat.
"Charlie?"
His throat wouldn't work properly. Somehow, the sound came out anyway, strangled. "Sibyl..."
Without quite knowing how, he found her in his arms. She clung to him. She was weeping his name brokenly, again and again. He closed his arms around her back, crushed her against him, buried his face in her dark hair, still unable to believe she was alive. Wetness soaked through his shirt. For a moment, he wasn't sure which of them was holding up the other. Shudders coursed through both of them.
Charlie shut his eyes over stinging salt. For a moment, he was aware only of her warmth, the feel of her against him, the hiccoughing sound escaping her. He didn't know how, didn't care how. She was here, alive, and he was holding her. Nothing else mattered. Tension, fear, hatred, all drained out of him in that moment.
"Hey," he whispered wetly, "don't go all mushy on me now... ."
She shook her head mutely against his chest—and kept crying. He didn't think she would ever stop. Sibyl shifted in his arms, tightened her grip fiercely around broken ribs. Charlie gave a strangled cry and nearly went down.
Sibyl's eyes, wide and shocked and glimmering with tears, met his as she caught him.
"Charlie?" She sounded scared, looked scared. The look in her face hit him like a blow across the backs of his knees. He wobbled, then dragged himself up and braced himself against her.