Gabe (In the Company of Snipers, #8)(71)

Gabe tossed. He turned. Did all the things a sick guy with muscle-aches that felt more like he’d been run over by an eighteen-wheeler did. He stripped down to his boxers and polo, covered his head with a pillow, and wished the hot drink Shelby had given him would kick in and let him drift away. He brushed a sweaty hand over his face, wondering who the hell she really was—bossy or kind. Both?

She’d surprised him, the way she stood up to Becker for Kelsey. The girl definitely had guts and the hot toddy was a nice surprise. Kind of like her. It went down sweet with a burn.


Rain and wind hit the front window. A stab of lightning lit the room, a flickering strobe that ended with a distant peal of thunder. Zack walked the line tonight. In the dark where murderers skulked and insurgents lingered...

One minute, Gabe was uncomfortable. The next, he fell into a dream where little boys giggled and teased. That blonde little gal squealed about spiders. Whisper and Smoke joined in a game of tag. Round and round they ran.

He played along, counting to ten in a game of hide-and-seek that in some way transported him back to that stinking hillside in Afghanistan. That day. That nightmare. That other little dark-haired boy.

WHOOSH!

Incoming! Run for it!

The ground shook. Men screamed and bellowed. Confusion reigned. Black smoke filled the bunker, burning his nose with the rank smells of burning diesel, raw sewage, and blood.

He scrambled out of the line of fire, groping for his weapon. Gotta find that kid. He was just here. Sonofabitch! Where’s my rifle? My helmet?

Incoming! Night turned to day. Run, for God’s sake! Don’t just stand there, kid. Run!

Thunderous detonations sucked the air out of the night and—he couldn’t breathe.

Someone grabbed his neck. Where’s that damned kid, for Christ’s sake?

Panic clawed up his throat. Not even it could find a way out. No scream. Just the sucking rattle of a man running out of air and time. The gasp of a guy who couldn’t draw one... damned... breath.

He blinked. The kid. He’d just materialized out of the smoke and confusion and he still wore that same haunting smile. He put a hand on Gabe’s shoulder and patted him. No words. Just that brown-eyed smile that beckoned Gabe—back into Hell.

No! No! Never again! God! Help me. I’m dying here!

Someone pounded his shoulder, but he couldn’t see who it was through the smoke. Taliban maybe? Enemy? Friend? Taylor? Darrell? Names flooded back.

“Gabe! Gabe! Stop it. Oh, my gosh, you’re hurting yourself.”

A woman? Here? No way.

A man needs air to speak. To scream. His lungs tried to suck in a breath. They wheezed, shutting down even as he needed them to open up wide and let him live.

The shoulder pounding shifted to his chest. Dead center. Like the bloody body shots to Alex. And Darrell.

Outright fear cranked up the noise inside his head. He kicked, writhing away to escape the stranglehold at his neck and the deadening touch of that little boy’s hand. Always the same damned question. Why look for him? The little guy always shows up and it never ends well when he does. He’s the bringer of death. Every. Damned. Time!

Adrenaline swamped what was left of Gabe’s thin control. Get off me, you sonofabitch! Let me go!

“Gabe. I’m here. Stop it.” The voice reached into the murk and pulled him apart, unraveling the nightmare strand by freaking strand. The grip at his windpipe lessened.

“You’re hurting yourself. Stop it.”

At last! Air. He sucked in one long pull of it. Oxygen flooded his head. Another life-saving gulp replaced the last. He stilled, letting it fill and replenish until his mind cleared. The little boy had vanished.

“Where’s... where’s... the kid?” Thank God, he’s gone, but where’d he go?

“What kid?” A shadowy figure loomed overhead but... he... she... wasn’t... them.

The black smoke of the Afghanistan battlefield evaporated into the soft light of Kelsey’s front room. Someone peeled his fingers from their death grip at his throat.

Damn. It was... me. I was choking myself. Shit.

He fingered the oxygen mask that had suddenly appeared on his nose, pulling in more of the sweet, soft air. Good. I can... breathe... again. Good. I’m not... there.

His vision cleared. Damn it. He’d backed himself into the corner by Kelsey’s brick fireplace. He’d torn his polo shirt in the struggle, the buttons scattered to who knew where. A lamp lay on the floor beside him, its light bulb still on, but somehow, unbroken. Some magazines. His bedroll, upside down and kicked to hell.

The shadowy figure emerged while he sucked in gulps of oxygen, trying to clear his head and still his quaking body. A medic? Zack? Bright inquisitive eyes peered down at him behind horn-rimmed men’s glasses. God. Not Shelby.

Yes. Shelby.

He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at her. The ostrich in the sand routine didn’t work. Her fingers remained light on his forehead. “Gabe? Can you hear me now? Are you okay?”

Tenderness. Not what he needed. Hell, no.

Her voice sounded frightened, kind of squeaky and tight. He must’ve scared her. Hell, yeah. He’d scared himself, too, more than he could ever explain.

The kid seemed so real. The kid with the grenade launcher. That damned kid. The one his subconscious soul kept trying to save...


Hyper-vigilance. There was no understanding it until a person lived it.