Kathy rolled herself out of the bed and sat on the edge for a second, wondering if she should just get up and get dressed. Maybe have some coffee, or maybe even a cigarette with the others.
She could hear her father — in — law’s voice in the kitchen. It sounded a little like her husband’s.
Jimmy’s was a little deeper. His words came quicker.
It had been ages since they’d talked. Ages since they’d last slept together. It had been in this bed. Her back and legs and arms ached to feel him curled around them.
She thought she heard the baby stirring. Kathy took two steps, peeked over. He lay on his back with his eyes closed, mouth open, arms casually flung apart.
A perfect little boy. She reached down and though he was sleeping, picked him up and held him tight against her chest.
CHAPTER 52
The man felt less substantial than he expected, his body lighter, thinner, yet he struggled viciously, writhing and snaking below Mongoose.
It was all or nothing. The Iraqi’s gun was surely empty, but he’d pound him with his bare hands if he won, kick him into unconsciousness and then go back and get one of his men’s guns. Mongoose fought despite the pain, flailing and shaking and punching and rolling, butting his head into his captor’s chest, working his legs and knees as if they were battering rams. Every cell in his body flared with inhuman anger. He heard himself screaming, felt himself being pushed over, bulled his shoulders and screamed again.
The gun was in his chest, between them. The Iraqi was screaming, too.
“I’ll let you go!” Mongoose yelled. “I’ll let you live because you let me live, but I’m escaping. I’m living.”
They rolled over twice. Pain was his whole body. He’d never known a time when he wasn’t pain. Mongoose kicked and crashed his head into his captor’s chin, felt the groan.
Fingers clawed at his eye. A nail gouged at the corner, burrowing into the edge of his nose. Fog and dirt and sweat and sand swirled around their bodies, consuming them with a fine, misty crud.
The gun was between them. Mongoose felt its barrel against his chest.
“I’ll let you go,” he told the Iraqi. “I’ll let you go, but my guys are coming back and I’m going with them.”
There was an explosion, and the pain that had taken over his body disappeared. The air turned to metal and hung in his nose.
The Iraqi let go of him. Dazed, Mongoose slipped backwards, lay on the ground a good while. The sky was lightening. It was dawn.
“I meant it,” he told the Iraqi, sitting up. “My guys are coming back. You can come with me if you want.”
Mongoose looked over and saw the major’s body prone on the ground, a large, black and red oozing hole covering three — fourths of his throat.
CHAPTER 53
A-Bomb pushed his plane to follow his boss.
The thing was, Knowlington was a different guy in the air. Not a bad guy, a good flier definitely, but different.
He was quicker with his words and used a hell of a lot less of them.
Plus, on the ground he let people toss their ideas in. Up here, wham-bang, this is what we’re doing. Follow along and keep your lip zipped.
And your cockpit music turned down.
Not that A-Bomb was the sensitive type. And hell, the old coot knew what he was doing, even if they were flying a good ten miles south of where A-Bomb was sure Mongoose had gone out.
The pilot shifted in his seat, feeling himself into a good position. One of these days he was going to figure out how to get some form-fitting thing going on. You couldn’t use a thicker cushion; the ejection force was so severe the metal base would slam up through a pad and hit you harder than a bullet. Still there ought to be some way of making the frame itself more comfortable. Kind of thing was done all the time. All it took was creative customization. Maybe old Tinman could handle it. Guy had a way with metal.
A-Bomb stretched his neck, working against a kink. His eyes slid around the Hog’s panels, making sure the numbers agreed with his gut. They did.
The idea to use the Mavericks was a damn good one. Hell, they should have found Mongoose by now.
Not that he wanted to think about that too much. He decided it was probably not a bad time for a Twinkie. Except that he didn’t have any left.
Have to go to the backup chocolate Twizzlers in his leg pack.
A-Bomb slipped his hand down toward the pocket’s zipper and retrieved the bag of candy. One thing about war— you could never get enough licorice.
The colonel was already pushing his Hog into the bushes as A-Bomb finished wadding the Twizzlers into his mouth. They were near the trucks they’d splashed on the way north before dawn. He could see them in the foggy haze, ghost trucks haunted by dead men.
Something was moving down there.
No way it could be anything but an Iraqi soldier, right?
Shit.
He gripped his stick tightly and leaned forward, his plane a dark green angel streaking toward earth.
CHAPTER 54
His eyes were open. They were a small part of the face, with brown irises glossy in the growing blue light.
The final trace of surprise lingered in the cheeks.
Mongoose did not want to touch the body, but he could not leave Kathy’s letter in the dead man’s pocket. He knelt, feeling his joints crack; suddenly dizzy, he reached out to steady himself and put his hand on the dead man’s chest.
The letter. I have to get the letter.
Mongoose fumbled with the button on the dead man’s shirt pocket. His chest was still warm.
The wrong pocket. He removed his hand as if he’d felt a scorpion, undid the other button, grabbed the folded envelope.
Something else slipped out of the pocket. He could tell from the slick backing back that it was a photograph. Mongoose bolted upright and began running away, back toward the burned out shells of the trucks the A-10As had smoked.
He didn’t get very far before finding himself almost out of breath. He told himself to relax, told himself he’d be rescued soon. He needed to get into checklist mode.
Checklist mode. First item ― make sure the rest of these bastards are all dead.
He needed a weapon. The closest body was about a hundred yards away, at the edge of the road. The man’s rifle lay in his out-stretched hand.
Dead? Or was he just pretending, waiting until the American dropped his guard?
Mongoose stopped, edged to his left, off the highway. He froze, scanning beyond the man for any movement.
Nothing.
He edged out further. The ground had a good layer of dust on it, but was hard-packed. He could step easily. It wasn’t like walking on a beach, with all its loose sand.
For just a second, he smelled salt water in his nostrils.
Checklist mode.
The Iraqi wasn’t moving, but something beyond him was. Mongoose pushed his legs and his lungs, started walking, heart-pounding. His muscles were stiff but they seemed to move easier the faster he went.
It was a Russian rifle, an assault gun. Mongoose snatched at it, ready to pry it from the man’s hand, but it came up so easily he nearly fell over.