Page 100 of Gamma

“Uh-huh. I’m listening, little Dickie.” My bead is on that hint of eyeball, sliver of cheekbone.

“You’d have to agree to let me go.”

“See, that doesn’t quite work, Dick. We went through a lot of effort to catch you. It sure would be a pain to have to chase your pathetic carcass again.”

“Then we’re at an impasse, I’m afraid.”

He shuffles, brings the girl with him. I wait.

“No?” His voice betrays a tremor. The gun at her temple slips. “You really think you’re going to get out of this with the girl alive?”

“You’re failing to take into account one thing, Dickie.”

“And that is?”

“This.”

I shift my aim down and to the left. I don’t think. It’s instinct.

I fire.

The bullet smacks between the girl’s thighs, high, nearly creasing the underside of her naked sex—Spaulding screams and the girl throws herself aside, to the floor. All at once, there’s a chorus of gunfire from around me.

Spaulding’s body jerks, riddled with bullets from half a dozen guns.

I holster my weapon and run over to the girl. She’s shaking, sobbing. Whimpering and wailing. I can’t understand a word. I don’t need to. I peel off my vest and helmet and toss them aside, scoop the girl into my arms.

“Ssshh. You’re safe now.”

She flinches, and then realizes it’s me, that I’m a woman. She curls into a tiny sobbing ball and just…dissolves.

“Anyone know what she’s saying?” I murmur.

“It’s Icelandic, I think,” Harris says. “I recognize it but I don’t speak it.”

I look over my shoulder—Richard Isaac Spaulding is dead.

“Leave him there.” I stand up with the girl. “Let’s go.”

I carry the girl through the darkness—Apollo walks beside me, lighting the way with the flashlight attached to the underside of his pistol.

We come out to daylight, blinking. The Humvee is waiting, idling—the man at the .50-cal is smoking a cigarette, snapping to attention behind his weapon with the lit stub in his teeth as we emerge.

Dad is beside me—he’s already stripped out of his armor, and his shirt. He croons something, and the girl twitches.

“You speak Icelandic?” I ask, incredulous. “Since when?”

“I know a few words—I signed a deal there a few years ago. Your mother and I went, remember? I picked up some words and phrases.”

“What’d you say?”

“That she’s safe.” He has his shirt in hand. “Let’s get her covered.”

I touch her chin. She unfolds, just a touch. I’m sitting on the bumper of the Humvee; her eyes flick to mine. I show her the shirt, and she blinks in confusion. Still in shock, still overwhelmed by trauma and terror.

I bring the neck of the shirt to her head, she shies, but lets me tug it down and over; then, she understands and cooperates in putting her arms through the sleeves. She’s tiny and Dad is huge, so it’s big enough on her to be comical, but it covers her. This alone does wonders to pull her from the trauma shell.

Dad opens the back door of the Humvee, and I slide in with her. She curls against me, head under my chin. Babbles something.