Page 27 of Harris

Doing nothing.

Watching.

And then I spotted the little girl. Strapped in a five-point harness into the front passenger seat. Tiny, so small your eyes skipped right over her. Trapped by the seatbelt, suspended. Puck was shooting. Thresh was holding the Wrangler off the ground as Duke tried to extricate Nick from whatever was trapping him.

No one had the girl.

Fuck it.

I didn’t think, I just acted. I ran, hauling my big ass across the dirt, slamming bodily into the Jeep, rocking it. I ignored Nick, who was shouting at me.

Ignored Puck, who was also shouting at me.

Ignored Thresh, who was doing something utterly superhuman, and also shouting at me.

Duke was the only one not shouting at me.

Bullets were still snapping overhead.

The motorcycles were somewhere close by. There was one, off to the left, the rider skidding over the crest of the hill, submachine gun dangling from a strap. I didn’t think again—my hand yanked my Beretta out of the holster, and I drew a bead on a T-shirt covered torso, and then the pistol bucked in my hand, and the rider slumped, and the bike tipped, hit sand, and skidded.

I holstered my weapon and returned my attention to the little girl. “Cleo? Hi, sweetie.” I tried to keep my voice soft, despite the circumstances. “I’m gonna unbuckle you now, okay? You’re gonna have to grab on to me real quick, and we’re gonna get out of here, okay?”

Cleo just howled.

I took that as an okay. I jabbed at the red button that released the five buckles with one hand and grabbed the girl around the middle with the other. I caught her weight as the buckles released her, and yanked her body against mine. God, she was so small. Like a little doll, made out of porcelain. Had a hell of a set of pipes on her, though, piercing my eardrums with her screams.

Not that I blamed her one bit.

As soon as I had the girl in my arms, I got my ass moving again, running as fast as I could back to the Humvee, hearing bullets goingsnap-snap-snap, hearing the reports from everywhere. No buzzing, though, no angry-bee sounds of bullets coming too close. I hit the edge of the open back door of the Humvee with my stomach and hips, effectively tossing Cleo in, and then I jumped in after her. She was on the floor, crawling away from me, finding a corner and huddling in, staring around her, screaming, sobbing. Fine black hair. Brown eyes. Dirt track tears on her cheeks. Shaking uncontrollably, staring around her, confused, terrified. I wanted to comfort her, but had no idea how.

I heard another motorcycle engine, but this one was coming from the wrong direction. I crouched in the opening of the Humvee’s back door, pistol in both hands. I saw the front wheel of a motorcycle spitting rocks and dirt, flying up from the canyon, the rider leaning forward to take the slam of the landing. Seeing the Humvee, seeing me, he braked hard then gunned the throttle, spinning the dirt bike in a circle so he could arc around the back end of the Humvee and go for me—and Cleo.

He was another casually dressed guy, dark hair, jeans, a T-shirt, Chucks on his feet. A big ol’ silver handgun tucked into the front of his waistband, hauled free as soon as the dirt bike was level once more. Spitting and sliding to a stop, the rider sitting back, lifting the gun. To shoot me? Threaten me? Take Cleo back? I don’t know.

Fuck that.

I don’t even remember drawing the gun, I just popped off a shot without thinking.BAM!The gun bucked in my hands, and a dark spot spread on the rider’s chest. He looked confused, the barrel of his hand-cannon of a pistol drooping. I shot again, a little higher, and this time I saw the spray. Bile rose in my throat as his neck just beneath his chin turned into a smear of red, and spray blasted out behind him. He rocked back, slid to one side, toppled backward, and then he and the bike collapsed.

Cleo was screaming bloody murder, hands over her ears.

I holstered my Beretta and moved in a crouch closer to her. I hated kids. I was no good with them, and they never liked me. They were always scared of me, no matter what I said or did. This was no different as Cleo shrank, away from me, further into the corner.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” I murmured, going for a calm, soothing voice and only managing to sound like I was talking to a little puppy or something, “We’re going to bring you back to Mommy and Daddy, okay?”

“M-m-m-Mama?” Cleo whimpered.

“Yeah, Mama. We’re gonna go see Mama. Can you sit on the bench, there?”

Cleo nodded and scrambled onto the bench, and I sat beside her, facing the opening, effectively shielding her. I hauled out my pistol again and kept it pointed at the opening, reminding myself to make sure I knew who was in the opening before shooting.

The gunfire was dying down, and I heard voices.

Thresh, first, his arm a bloody wreck, his face strained. Puck, jumping behind the wheel, slamming the door closed. Duke, next, his arm around Nick’s middle, helping him inside.

Suddenly, the back of the Humvee was crowded, smelling like man-sweat and something acrid, and blood.

We were moving, bumping, jouncing over hills.