Page 12

Archer

“Still no luck?” I ask, pausing on a street corner. Ever since we made use of the escape door from the underground tunnels, Legion has been trying to schedule an Uber. From here, it’s less than a ten-minute car ride to the Cathedral of Granada, or more accurately, the adjoining Chapel Real where an assortment of Isabella’s personal belongings are on display, including her jewelry box.

Legion blows out a frustrated breath. “Nothing. What the fuck is going on?”

“We should probably just walk,” Mia says. “How far is it?”

“Half hour.”

“By the time we find any form of transportation, we could be there,” she says determinedly. She’s right.

With the palace behind us, the city greets us with an assault to the senses. Warm, colorful hued buildings match the late afternoon sky, and my stomach grumbles at the myriad of scents coming from various bars. The old cobbled streets have given way to smooth marble. An engaged couple in plastic crowns and sashes is being serenaded by a tuna group, and the sounds of the instruments gets absorbed against the bustling white noise from neighboring restaurants and shops.

If this was any other time, any other circumstance for being here, I’d allow myself to enjoy it. But sharing a pitcher of sangria and a plate of tapas with Mia is not a luxury I can afford.

What concerns me is when we turn on the next street heading west. The streets are roped off and hundreds of people are gathered along the sidewalks. The vein in my forehead throbs at the sight. I crack my neck and reach for Mia, placing her directly in front of me. I pull her back. Against me. She doesn’t protest.

We all look to Legion. “This is the most direct route to the chapel,” he tells us.

Midas’s nostrils flare as he exhales, surveying what lies ahead of us. Blaze’s jaw clenches. Phantom’s pointer finger taps against the side of his hip. My free hand double checks my Glock concealed by my waistband.

None of us like the prospect of a crowd this large. Midas spots a street level window ledge and climbs on it. By the way he shakes his head, I can tell this may be worse than what it seems.

“Goes on as far as I can see,” he says, voice tight.

“So, through it or around it?” Legion asks, wasting no time.

I don’t care for either option to be honest. With the kidnappers growing bolder, who’s to say we wouldn’t run into them down a side street that is all but deserted. But weaving our way through thousands of people, the risk of being separated was too great for my liking. Either way, we wait for Midas’s decision.

His lips are set in a thin line. Midas nods almost to himself. “Through it. I don’t like it, but I like the alternative even less. Mia—you stick with Archer. Do as he says and stay in the center of the crowd; we’ll be flanking on opposite sides. Maneuvering will be shit,” he says, “but this way we can have eyes on multiple vantage points. If we get separated, we meet at the chapel. Stay alert.”

We begin to move, Phantom and Legion on the left side, hugging the buildings, Midas and Blaze on the outer edges of the street side, and Mia and I down the center.

The crowd is obliging as we pass, but it doesn’t take long before we’re pushing our way through the masses that have grown substantially denser. Church bells ring out in the distance. There’s a prideful excitement amongst the crowd. Too bad it takes just one stumble or fall and everything goes to shit.

“I think it’s the procession of the Virgin,” Mia says, turning her head so I can hear her better. “Happens on the last Sunday of every September.”

I lean down to her, so I don’t have to shout. Her ear is hot against my cheek and the smell of her citrus undertones mingles with her sweat. “Lucky us, huh?” I say with a chuckle. I hope my voice masks the anxiety I feel.

Both sides of the street have entire families gathered on their balconies. They’re cheering and waving, enjoying their elbow room, no doubt.

I look to the rooftops. No signs of activity, but the best snipers are successful because they go undetected. On the sides, the guys do the same, their heads on a constant swivel. And in front of me, Mia is a polite tourist amongst devout worshipers.

“ Lamento, ” she says. When a couple doesn’t budge to let us through, I place my hands on Mia’s hips, guiding her. I choose to keep them there, feeling better having contact between the two of us. As much as I’d like to sling her over my shoulder like a goddamn caveman, I’ll settle for this. I also don’t hate the way her hips gently flare out; a simple drop of my thumb and I can touch her ass. But I don’t.

Sweat drips between my shoulder blades.

This situation is doable, but it goes against all my training: there’s no easy out. You risk the safety of the bystanders if you have to draw a weapon in a crowd. Instinct would tell one to push your way to the street and use its availability, but it leaves you wide open and vulnerable.

Not to mention the fact that people can literally be crushed, trampled or asphyxiated. The risk of a crowd surge can shift in seconds, turning deadly.

A familiar uneasiness fills me up. I’m back in Iraq, on a night mission. Right before my squadron walked in on an ambush. The hair on my arms is raised, my heartbeat increases, and my stomach is riddled with a thousand tiny pinpricks. It’s okay though, good even, to let these sensations take over. To be aware of them. I’m alert, present. But the alternative outcome of this entire thing going to shit sits heavy on my mind.

A better person—a civilian—would take this for what it is: a religious parade. A gathering to celebrate their deity. But with my training and experience, this uneasiness is the only thing to feel right now, because I’m still here. I’m alive because I paid attention to my instincts. Reacted when my hackles were up. They’re not to be ignored.

My only job is to keep Mia safe right now.

That single word: job. It’s almost ironic. It had been true four days ago. It feels so much longer than that… Have I been lying to myself the entire time? Lying to Midas and the guys? About how much Mia has come to mean to me?

What was a routine job, has now turned into much more. More than I thought I’d ever allow myself to feel.

She’s no longer a photograph on a dossier, a simple client in a long history of company charts. Nor is she the best friend of the boss’s cousin. She isn’t an I-owe-you. Mia isn’t just our client; she is flesh-and-blood.

Because now, there’s a woman behind the profile sheet. One that makes blood rush to my extremities with a single hint of her perfume. One that doesn’t hesitate to risk her own safety if it means saving her father’s life. One that teases Blaze and the guys like brothers. Treats Ashlee like family. And one that doesn’t realize her own strength and bravery.

She’s selfless and kind. She has a strong moral compass. She’s everything that’s pure and good in this world.

And it’s these qualities that make it so damn easy to fall under her spell. Pretending has become a charade; the truth is I like Mia. More than I should. It was easy at first to dismiss the way her blue eyes gleamed in the light or the way she would delicately tuck her hair behind her ear. But now, it’s impossible to look away when she smiles or when she goes off on an academic tangent that she doesn’t even realize she’s doing. I can no longer ignore her presence or forget how soft she was under my fingertips. Or how goddamn sweet she tasted.

It’s why I wouldn’t hesitate to take a bullet for her if need be. On paper, it’s a job hazard, but in real life, it’s a hesitation I will not think about making.

We’ve been able to move a few blocks, but it’s been like trudging through molasses. The sky is growing darker and the street lights turn on. I glance to the sides at the guys. At first, I don’t see them. I look behind me. They’ve been held up and are now a dozen yards away. It’s too far for my liking, but I see Midas wave a hand to continue going.

Thick plumes of incense drift our way; the air is redolent with it. Then a steady drum rhythm carries. Ahead, applause can be heard, slowly making its way to us.

Mia pauses, taking in the processional that has now reached us.

At least thirty men in formal wear and white gloves carry on their shoulders an ornate statue of the Virgin Mary. She’s sitting, and across her lap is her son. He’s prostrate and shrouded. From here it’s too difficult to see much detail on his face, but hidden spotlights on the statue illuminate Mary’s features. Coupled with the movement and the basic detail, her grief-stricken face becomes more cadaverous as opposed to saintly.

The worshipers react, crossing themselves and bowing.

Cameras click. Flashes burst blindingly. Party crackers cause me to jump.

Then fireworks go off around us.

Mia yelps in front of me from the misgivings of the cracks. She crumples forward. She plugs her ears. The sight fucking tears my heart in two pieces. She’s frightened. It’s only been a day since the gunfight at the beach, and I’m pissed that something as celebratory as fireworks now holds a negative connotation for her. And I understand, I get it. All too well . It took a hell of a long time in therapy after I retired to find coping mechanisms for certain triggering sounds. I wish I could say I was cured, but certain traumas you can’t erase; you just learn to deal with them.

My physical contact with her is broken when she shrinks in place. The procession is now parallel to where we stand. The worshipers stir and then begin to crowd the metal gates at the street. I reach for Mia. A man knocks into me, pushing me toward the street in his attempt to get closer. Bodies shove and squeeze tighter around me. I push back with all my might. I only budge an inch. I look over the tops of heads, desperate to find Mia.

Her head pops up. A man in glasses is at her side, pushing her forward. Mia’s head whips back. Fear blanches her face.

“Mia!” I yell. My voice is swallowed by the cheering people around me. “Fuck! Get out of my way!” I shout, body slamming myself against the man that made me drift so far from her.

I’m trapped like a sardine in a tin. All my training has taught me that losing my shit is the worst thing I can do. Panic leads to fatalities. But right now, I’m about to fucking murder people if they don’t let up.

I’m no longer fueled by adrenaline. It’s dread that floods me.

Because I realize that Mia has just been taken.