Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(13)

Headlights swam over us from a passing car and then fell away. “You’re a good man to help them.”

He looked out the window and shrugged. “It takes many hands. But there are never enough.”

“Every soul counts,” I offered, thinking of Malik.

“So now my turn. Who are these men chasing you? And why do they flex so much muscle?”

“I think they’re trying to prove to me that this is too big. That I have no hope of winning. But, honestly, I don’t know who they are. Not exactly.” I glanced out at the passing city. Somewhere out there was one small boy. “I just know we’re after the same thing.”

“And what is that?”

I shook my head. “Forgive me, Jesús. After all your help, I owe you an explanation. But the story isn’t mine to share.”

“It’s okay.” He touched his heart. “We, all of us, carry others’ stories. Maybe someday you can share, when this is over.”

If it ever was.



Forty minutes later, satisfied we weren’t being followed, Miguel pulled up to the curb in front of a weather-beaten motel with a miniscule lobby and ten rooms set along the long arm of an L. The entire street was lined with similar motels of the kind frequented by American and European teenagers taking a gap year before college—clean and safe but without any frills.

“I figured you’d want a quiet place and a clear view of the street,” Jesús said. “One way in, one way out.”

I nodded, pushing back a wave of fatigue that threatened to swamp me. “It’s perfect.”

“Wait here. I’ll get the key.”

When he returned, I made my farewells to the infantería, then Jesús and I walked together down the long arm of the L to Room 9. I unlocked the door, and we inspected the room. Nothing more threatening than another spider, this one in the bathroom.

Jesús turned to me. “I will be right outside if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Jesús, but no. You’ve done enough. This is a good place, and we weren’t followed. I’ll be fine.”

“You said that the last time we parted. Am I right? No, my friends and I will stay close by and keep watch. We’ll see everyone who comes and goes. Anything suspicious, we’ll come and get you. You focus on sleep.”

I groaned. “I’ll sleep—”

“When you’re dead.” He rolled his eyes. “Such a Marine. That day is too far away, mi amiga. Sleep. Even the toughest warriors need their beauty rest.”

I shrugged out of his jacket and tried to hand it to him, along with his cap.

“Keep them. Souvenirs of the night you lived.”

“Let’s hope that wasn’t a one-off.”

“It never is. Until it isn’t.”

I laughed, but the laugh turned into something else. Another tsunami threatened to buckle my knees. I touched Jesús’s cheek briefly, conscious of the blood on my palm, under my fingernails. “Gracias, amigo. For everything.”

“It is my pleasure.” He caught my hand. “Buenas noches, Sydney. Sleep well.”



Inside the room, I bolted the door, dropped my duffel on the bed, then ripped off my bloodstained clothes and stepped into the shower. The stall was moldy, and I had to share the space with the spider I’d spotted earlier. Jesús had lifted his foot to crush it, but I’d stopped him. No more death. Sharing the room with the spider seemed only fair, since I was the interloper.

I took my corner, and he took his, but he scurried away as soon as I turned on the tap. Fickle friend. I cranked the faucet until the wheezy stream of water was as hot as it would go and then let it burn away the surface of my skin still stained with Angelo’s blood. I used every bit of soap and shampoo as I scrubbed my hair and body, then stood with my face turned into the spray and rinsed my mouth until I no longer tasted blood. My weeping mixed with the fall of water, and I could tell myself the tears were only that—a warm mingling of oxygen and hydrogen.

The minutes ticked by, and still I did not move. Then the air shifted, and the stall seemed to shrink, and, even in the heat, goose bumps ran down my back. Behind me, I sensed a ghostly presence. I didn’t have to turn to picture Angelo standing with me in the small space, his ruined face awash with water, his butchered hands hanging helpless near his thighs. I kept my back turned and my eyes closed, for I could not bear to see him.

Our ghosts are our guilt.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, water leaking into my mouth where it mingled with the tears. “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. I didn’t know they were following me. And I didn’t know they would go after you.”

A thick silence greeted my words.

My counselor would have advised me to turn around, to face my demons and confirm that they existed only in the traumatized space between my ears. But although Peter Hayes had served in Iraq just as I had, he had not spent long nights alone with the newly deceased. Hayes was wise about many things, but about the dead, I feared he was, well, dead wrong. If I turned, I would learn that I was not alone.

I spread my hands flat against the ancient tiles and pressed my forehead to the slimy wall. The water pounded the back of my head and neck, burned down my back, and roiled at my feet as my chest heaved with sobs.