Gabe (In the Company of Snipers, #8)(106)
He’d called it a vertical holster, so much different than the one he wore where the barrel rested horizontally in the pocket, its grip aligned for quick access.
The barrel of her weapon was aimed downward, the end of it snug in the holster’s pocket. To draw it, she’d have to wrangle the heavy thing up and out of the holster, then bring it into horizontal position in order to aim.
It wasn’t like he meant for her to actually use it. He’d set her straight on that point.
“Don’t pull this weapon unless you intend to kill someone, Shell,” he’d said, his breath heavy in her face. “Promise me. This isn’t the time to bluff or play chicken. People will die tonight. I don’t want you to be one of them.”
She’d nodded quickly and obediently to prove she meant what she’d said, but mostly she couldn’t speak because of the pounding inside his chest. Gabe might’ve looked fierce and protective, but electricity had crackled around him. His heart had to have been lodged in his throat, the pulse of it throbbing at the hollow of his neck. An unspoken sadness had lingered in his gaze, and she’d known instantly. He was thinking of his friend, Darrell. That little boy with the grenade launcher. And he was scared he’d lose her before this night was through.
Her fingers had ached to cup his chin, her lips to kiss the mouth that had driven her to the brink of abandonment earlier, simply because he’d looked so forlorn. Undecided. Like Mark Houston had looked earlier. Like it had taken Gabe’s powerful boss a moment of anguish before he’d decided to send his friends into war.
The reality stunned her. This wasn’t the news or a reality show. She got it. Mark had truly been scared that he might have to send his team to their deaths. They weren’t just soldiers, nameless faces on news reports she’d never cared about enough to watch.
They were Ember’s handsome husband, Rory.
The stoic Taylor.
Brooding Maverick.
That cute blond guy, Connor. Izza, his gorgeous wife.
They were all—Gabe.
She’d seen it in the depth of his green eyes in that armory, so dark and black they frightened her. He loves me. He wants to kiss me, too, but he won’t. Because he might die. Because I might die.
That did it. Even with Ember nearby and strapping on her own array of weaponry, Shelby had cast caution to the wind. If that was to be Gabe’s and hers last moment together, she meant to grab hold and hang on tight for once in her pathetically controlled life. The second she’d reached for him, he’d clutched her to his chest, squeezing the air out of her, but also squeezing life into her with a fervent kiss. And she’d surrendered, because that was what she’d wanted more than breath itself. Him.
The lights of the glorious city ahead drew her mind from that reverent moment in the armory. That kiss. She lifted her fingers from the holster at her side to her bottom lip, savoring the only taste of eternity she’d experienced. The only one she wanted.
A melancholy energy filled the vehicle. Ember had to be worried sick for Rory. Gabe’s jaw was hard set at a sharp angle, his chin jutted forward. He’d turned himself to stone.
So that was what soldiers did. They shoved their humanity aside to do what needed doing.
Shelby swallowed hard, her throat dry. She pushed her glasses up her nose one last time.
I can do stone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
God, this is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever done—drag a complete novice, a pacifist at that, into what may turn out to be Hell. But what choice is there?
Gabe purposefully approached the Mall from the southeast. He jumped the curb and parked due east of the Washington Monument. Crowds were heavy, but security seemed lighter than usual, not that he could trust the usual array of Metro PD uniforms anymore. Lack of a good visual hadn’t stopped the FBI from swarming David’s or Mark’s teams.
Palming his cell phone he checked the time. Forty-two minutes and counting, IF the FBI intel David had intercepted was correct.
Not enough time to find the bomb.
Not enough time to save the Vice President.
Not enough time to do anything.
Too bad. He meant to try.
“Move it,” he ordered, his boots already on the ground, and damn it. Ember should’ve worn work boots, not stilettos. Shelby scurried to his side, nearly looking the part of a covert agent, but Ember? Well, so be it. How the hell do women walk in those things?
He set a beeline to the World War II Memorial, angling through the crowd, his impossible mission to save everyone falling behind with every step. Shelby and Ember stayed close.
Within minutes, the lighted southern Arch of Triumph, the one commemorating the war in the Pacific Theater, came into view. And God, the sight of the memorial at night robbed Gabe’s breath.
The semicircle of fifty-six granite pillars, each representing an American state, district or territory, stood in muted honor to the thousands of men and women who’d given their lives for the sake of freedom. Due west stood the lighted Lincoln Memorial, the silvery reflection pond stretched in between like a regal carpet from one monument to the other.
Reporters were everywhere. A wealth of elderly veterans, too. This was a reverent place for heroes, not the site for a smoldering hole in the ground, a burial place for all these poor people.
The gall of the impending disaster spilled more acid into Gabe’s stomach. He scrubbed a hard hand over his chin and kept his panic to himself, but damn it. Where the hell is Fallon? His van? Becker? Shit, where’s the damned VP?