Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(164)

Sandra stood, and a look of relief began to spread across Kurokawa’s face, along with something else: a kind of triumph. “So,” Sandra said, “I think it’s best all around if we don’t put my husband in the position of making that decision. God knows he’s had enough to worry about, largely because of you.” For the first time, she displayed the little .380 Colt. “You know, I had this all along and could’ve used it whenever I wanted. I probably should have, a time or two, but better late than never.”

Kurokawa’s eyes bulged. “Lady San—” he began, but never had a chance to finish. When the pistol was empty—Annoying how the slide doesn’t lock back to let you know, she thought absently—she started to toss it on his bloody chest. Reconsidering, she put it back in her waistband and scooped up Kurokawa’s Nambu. Then she glared at Silva. “Anything to say?” she demanded.

“No, ma’am,” he replied, taking a chew and then digging a rusty snuff can out of a pouch. “Cain’t imagine how hard it was to rake this up,” he said conversationally. “Never used snuff myself, dippin’ er snortin’ either one, it bein’ a womanish habit by my lights. One o’ the boys on Tarakaan Island, offa S-19, said this was his granny’s—sent him candy in it—but I don’t believe him. Had ta’ trade him two pouches o’ good, sweetened chew for a empty damn can.” Reaching down, he opened Kurokawa’s perforated shirt, twisted the lid off the can, and dumped what looked like little horns on the blood-seeping wounds. Closing the shirt, he suddenly pounded the spot several times with the butt of his Thompson.

Sandra watched it all, as the shakes began to take hold once more, but no regret touched her. “What was that about?” she asked. Then she remembered their time on Yap Island and her eyes went wide. “Was that . . . ?”

“Oh, just a little idea the Skipper gave me. Had another, maybe funner prank floatin’ around in my head, but this’ll do.” He paused, gauging the battle. The fury of the fighting seemed to be dying away as it neared. “Reckon Chackie’ll be here quicker than I thought. Let’s get inside.” He pointed at Kurokawa. “Might wanna put up a sign warnin’ folks not to go pokin’ around the little garden that sprouts here, directly.”

Hisashi Kurokawa wasn’t dead, and he watched through the searing waves of agony as the one-eyed man and that murderous, ungrateful woman stepped into the HQ building. His HQ! His chest and stomach where the bullets hit were a sea of pain he could hardly bear, but whatever the one-eyed man had dumped on him was worse. It burned like fire, quickly spreading outward from his wounds until it felt like flames would flare from his fingertips. Oddly, though, even as the pain mounted, so did his ability to discount it, ignore it: to think clearly and plan. Soon the pain, while just as excruciating, simply didn’t matter anymore. The only real inconvenience was that he didn’t seem able to move. Even his eyelids no longer obeyed. That didn’t matter either. The fighting will end and someone will find me, tend me, heal me. Captain Reddy will understand how indispensable I am. And I shall help! I’ll prove my loyalty over and over, until the last doubts fade away. Then again, my time will come . . .

But it wouldn’t. Even as he lay there, scheming to the end, hundreds of tiny filaments probed his capillaries, luxuriating in the nourishing blood, questing deeper, faster, releasing the toxins that made their host so cooperative. In a matter of days, they would have fed enough to provide a firm foundation for the swiftly crawling kudzu-like plant that would burst forth from the rotting corpse.

? ? ?

One final time, the fighting surged around Kurokawa’s HQ compound as Chack’s Brigade made its push, but any Grik trying to shelter there took fire from within. They quickly fled or were cut down. The Brigade flowed past, shooting as it went.

“Hey, Chackie!” came a familiar voice, calling from the bullet-pocked building. “About damn time you got here!”

Chack paused, looking for the voice. When he saw a helmet rise from the other side of a bullet-riddled windowsill, followed by a one-eyed, grinning face, he snorted a laugh. “Major Risa, with me!” he ordered his sister, who was bounding past. She took a few more running steps before glaring back, blinking resentment before she could cover it. “Bring a squaad to investigate this building,” Chack told her. “I believe there are friends inside. Captain Cook!” Abel Cook was acting CO of the 1st North Borno. “Continue the pursuit, if you please, but keep a raa-dio close at haand.”

“Aye, sir,” Cook replied grimly, and sprinted on.

“Friends,” Risa said woodenly as she joined him.

“Yes,” Chack told her definitively as Silva appeared in the doorway. He was followed by Sandra, Diania, Sergeant Oolak, and finally Lawrence. “Good ones,” Chack stressed, “worthy of our sacrifice this day.”

“But Major I’joorka . . .”

“Is a soldier, and a friend as well. With the Maker’s help, he may recover. Most important, his injury was not your doing. It was the fault of the war. Just as our reunion with these friends is made possible by the war.” Silva was with them now. He pounded Chack on the back and swept Risa up in his arms.

“Hey!” Silva asked Risa in alarm. “What’re you cryin’ about? Ain’t you glad to see me? I’m damn sure glad to see you!”