Sweat stung his eyes. Rain pattered the pavement, hissing as it hit. Lightning exploded in the sky and thunder soon followed. He increased his speed, leaving the stones almost as soon as they began to shift. If they waited too long, the storm would disguise the actions of whoever lay beyond those doors.
Falcon stood to the side, out of sight of the glass panes in the black doors, waiting.
Finally, Papa Rose lowered his foot to the brown linoleum. Two refrigerator cases stretched between him and his target. The tacky blood stuck to his heels when he inched forward, but at least his boots didn’t squeak.
The double doors exploded outward with a scream.
A very human scream. The world slowed down as he processed everything at once. A dark shadow cleared the threshold. The doors banged against one wall and Falcon. The impact knocked his weapon off target. A bullet slammed into the racks, spraying metal chips in the air.
Papa Rose raised his gun.
The shadow threw itself against the door holding the other soldier.
Fuck! If he shot, he’d hit Falcon. Muscle coiled around bone and he sprang forward.
Lightning cracked the darkness, illuminating the fear on the kid’s face. Wide blue eyes stared back at him. Dried blood glued the hair to the side of her head.
It’s a kid. The thought skimmed his consciousness just as he tackled her. Twisting at the last minute, he bore the brunt of the impact with the door. The rubber gave just a bit but the crash rattled out his bones.
Falcon’s groan transmitted across the wire.
“Do you need back-up?” Brainiac’s question swirled inside his head.
He wrapped his arms around the squirming kid, slithering up and down his body while her heels played his shins like a xylophone. “It’s okay, kid. You’re safe.”
She answered him with a jab in the gut.
“Kid? What kid?” Brainiac spat into his skull.
The door shoved against his spine and he and the kid slid along the floor with the grace of a sidewinder.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”
“Hold your position, B!” Falcon’s scream overrode the girl’s threats. “Get the kid under control, Papa.”
“We’re not going to hurt you.” He rolled, pinning her under him.
Her bones, as fragile as a hummingbird’s, shuddered. Once. Twice. A third time. Finally, she lay still. “Don’t hurt me. Please. Don’t hurt me.”
Christ Jesus. What had she been through? A body, decaying inches from her nose, told the story.
“We’re not here to hurt anyone.” Falcon squatted next to her bare feet. “We’re here to help.”
“Help?” She blinked.
He rolled off her. Close enough to contain her, but far enough to give her a little space. “Yes. We’re soldiers.”
She turned her head and stared at him, a wild animal gauging the threat in the darkness.
“You’re safe now.” Lowering his gun to the side, Falcon reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of cookies. He held them out to her. “We’re going to keep you safe.”
She stared at it for a moment. Her hand shook as she reached for it.
From fear or starvation? He clenched his jaw shut. Not that it mattered. The cookies would hold her until he got a Meals-Ready-to-Eat warmed up for her. The skinny thing needed food and they had extra.
Falcon smiled and dropped it into her waiting hand. His teeth gleamed white against his black skin. “Is there anyone else hiding in the back?”
She paused before biting the package. The corner dangled from her teeth when she ripped it open. She spit it on the ground then dumped the cookies into her palm. One by one, she divvied them up.
Papa closed his eyes for a moment. There was another survivor.
“Toby, you can come out now.” Once done yelling, she popped half in her mouth then fisted the other and pushed to her feet.
He turned to see a preschooler dragging a teddy bear emerge from the stockroom. “Daddy?”
Air froze in his lungs. His son Patrick had sounded just like that.
“No, not Daddy.” The girl stumbled over an outstretch hand trying to reach the preschooler. “Soldiers. They brought cookies.” She cupped his hand and poured his share into it. “See?”
“I yike cookies.”
Falcon cleared his throat and sniffed. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
Yeah, their plans for a one-way trip just crumbled. No way could they have a weenie roast over a nuclear fire when they had kids to get to safety. “I can take ‘em on my bike.”
He’d done it in another lifetime. His fingers curled into fists. This time he wouldn’t fail. Please, God. Don’t force me to ink another rose onto my arm. He was already fully sleeved.
Chapter Five
Seventeen-year-old, Emmanuel Saldana sidled to the back of the personnel carrier. So many people, yet most didn’t say a word. They should be celebrating, happy. They’d made it to the soldiers and safety. Plopping down onto the folded tent, he tugged a Halloween size bag of Skittles out of his pocket.
Life was good.
A German shepherd dozed near the gate. Its legs twitching as if it chased a plump rabbit in its sleep.
He stroked the coarse fur. The dog opened one eye as Manny scratched behind one silky ear. “It’s only going to get better. Right, boy?”
The dog woofed softly before closing its eye.
He ripped open the bag and shook a few of the rounds into his palm. Behind him, children laughed. He picked out his younger sister Lucia’s giggle over his brother Jose’s snort. The orphans he’d taken in, Mary and Mikey, were there too, being taught their lessons by Blind Connie. He picked out two yellow Skittles and popped them into his mouth. Lemon bit the back of his jaw. His favorite.
The engine rumbled to life accompanied by an odd popping noise.
The dog leapt to its feet, crouching low. He bared his teeth and growled.
The sugar sweetness glued Manny’s jaw shut. He blinked. That sounded like gunshots. Accompanied by a dull thwacking sound, bullet points of gray light blistered the canvas walls. The green fabric convulsed like a snake swallowing its prey.
“Gun!” Manny dove for the floor. “Get down!”
The German shepherd sailed out of the back.
No! He hadn’t meant to chase the dog away. His palms scraped the dirty truck bottom. Red, orange, purple and green candies bounced near his arm. One dirty sneaker and one red sock with puppies on it appeared in his peripheral vision. He whacked on an ankle. Puffs of ash billowed at his touch. “You need to get down!”
The owner of the ankle remained deathly still.
Shit! The person was too scared to move. He’d have to grab her or him. Manny levered his torso up.
Somebody wrapped a hand around his wrist and yanked. “Stay down!”
One arm slipped forward while the other buckled. He landed on his face and chin. The impact rattled out his skull, turning his eyes to pingpong balls in their sockets. He shook his head and followed the hand around his wrist to its owner. “What the—”
Wheelchair Henry lay at the other end. His gray pony tail made designs in the dust coating the floor and the wheels of his chair ticked as they continued to spin. “She’s already dead.”
“Dead?” How could that be? They were supposed to be safe. They were with the soldiers. The old man must be wrong. He glanced up.
The bullet had blown out the front of her face, leaving nothing but blood and clumps of brains in place of eyes, nose and upper lip.
He threw his attention back to the floor. A yellow Skittle wobbled on the floor. He reached for the candy.