“I don’ tink so. Not so easy. Many of prends, yes. For dem, you die.”
Gunfire would result in injured bystanders. Stone had to hit first, and hit hard, so that wouldn’t happen. Some men just thrived on the violence, the conflict. When those kind of men had the promise of bloodshed in their teeth, they wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t back down, logic be damned.
A breath, a pause, time slowed to treacle as Stone shifted his weight with the motion of the train, ignoring the screaming in his thigh as he forced his weight on the muscle. Another breath, and he lashed out, blade held low, hammer-style, extended from the bottom of his fist with the blade toward his body. Strike into the thigh, high on the leg, near the crotch, drag the blade through meat. Withdraw. Step back.
The pistol clattered as it fell from surprised, limp fingers. Stone bent and scooped up the dropped weapon and shoved it into his waistband, watched as the man sagged back into the crowd. No one screamed, no one saw. The man’s eyes glazed, fluttered, his mouth worked vacantly, silently, voice leached by agony. Pants leg darkened by blood, the liquid sliding underfoot, pooling unnoticed. Someone shoved, and the tattooed man stumbled, lurched, fell into someone else, who shoved him as well, thinking he was drunk.
The train stopped again, and Stone grabbed Wren’s wrist, pulled her with him into the exodus. The crowd dispersed outside the train, and others boarded. The doors closed, and the train chuffed as it began drawing away. Now a scream rent the air, audible even over the noise of the crowd and the roar of the train. The human body held a lot of blood, and the femoral artery carried much of it, especially in the Scarpa’s triangle, where Stone had sliced him open.
It was peak morning hours, so another train arrived within three minutes, and Stone and Wren followed the crowd on board. Adrenaline still ran rampant through Stone, who noted that security guards were already swarming through the station, walkie-talkies held to mouths. The transit authority security guards had a much quicker response time than the city’s police, it seemed.
The map of stops printed on the wall of the train informed Stone that they had only two more stops before the United Nations stop, which was where he was planning on exiting, since it was closest to the Embassy. Wren held on to his arm, both supporting him and herself.
“Is it easy for you?” she murmured up to him, her liquid brown eyes conflicted.
“Is what easy? Killing someone?” Stone rubbed his hand on his shorts, feeling the blade in his pocket. “No. It’s never easy. I do what I have to, to keep you and me alive, but it’s never easy.”
“Will you have nightmares about it?”
Stone sighed. “I already do, sweetheart.”
“I keep…I keep seeing his eyes. He looked so—so surprised.” Wren’s voice shook. “Every time I blink, I see it. Red…so much blood.”
“I wish I could have done that for you, Wren.” He buried his nose in her hair. “I would have. I should have.”
Wren didn’t answer, just pressed her face to his chest and breathed, shaky, feeble breaths.
Two stops later, they debarked the train, just as a vague announcement went over the PA about a delay in the schedule. Stone clenched his teeth and hustled them through the crowd, weaving to avoid contact with the security guards. He doubted anyone had seen enough to even identify the perpetrator as American, much less describe him, but he was covered in blood from his wounds and the earlier fights. It was best to get clear, just in case.
Descending to street level was easier than ascending, fortunately, as Stone could hold the rail and hop down each step. They found themselves on United Nations Avenue, heading west. Sirens howled somewhere far away.
He hobbled slowly, glancing behind him at the oncoming traffic, waiting for a taxi. He couldn’t make it on foot to the Embassy. He just couldn’t. The adrenaline was flooding away, leaving him shaky and tired and numb, as well as dizzy from blood loss.
An ancient white Toyota slid to a stop in front of them, hailed by Stone’s waving hand. Wren slid in first, and Stone next, lowering himself with a trembling arm.
“US Embassy, please.” He barely recognized his own voice.
“Maybe hospital betta?” The cabbie was a young man with long hair and a scraggly beard.
“No, just the Embassy.”
“Okay-sure.”
Fortunately the cab ride was gentler than the last one, and it was a matter of minutes before the cab bumped to a halt in front of the white stone and black iron gates of the Embassy of the United States of America. Stone dug in his pocket, found it empty.
“I don’t—don’t have any Pesos,” he mumbled, feeling himself fading quickly.
Wren shoved a pile of bills over the seat, not bothering to count. “Come on, Stone. I’ve got it covered. Get out for me, okay?”
He was dizzy, weak, but he shoved the door open and hopped away, nearly falling. Wren was there in moments, her skimpy, stolen dress hiked up and baring most of her flesh. “You need some clothes,” he said.
“That’s the last thing I care about right now.” Wren glanced toward the gate. “Will they let us in? I don’t have a passport. I don’t even know where it is. In my purse? That was gone a long time ago. When they first took me, I think.”
“They’ll let us in,” Stone growled.
A blue-uniformed guard wielding an assault rifle approached them, young and hard-eyed and intense. “State your business.”
“I’m Lieutenant Stone Pressfield. I’m a retired Navy SEAL. My girlfriend was kidnapped.” Stone couldn’t get all the words out right. “I got her back. We need…we need help. Let us in.” She wasn’t his girlfriend, but it just came out, slipped out.
The guard’s eyes raked up and down Stone’s body, taking in the numerous injuries. “I’d say you need medical attention, sir. You look—”
“I know, dammit!” Stone snapped, reverting to military posture, ramrod straight, glaring down at the young man. “But first, we need to get off the street. I need to brief someone about what happened. Goddamn it, I just—I need to sit down.” He felt himself stumbling, falling.
Wren tried to catch him, but he was too heavy. He felt hard arms go under his armpits, dragging him. He fought to get his feet underneath him, to walk, but darkness was encroaching, weakness and exhaustion and blood-loss and hunger dragging him down. Radios squawked, garbled. He felt himself laid down on a cold floor, and then Wren’s soft, warm hand touched his face.
“Stone? Are you okay?” Her voice was afraid.
He blinked, fluorescent lights overhead blinding him. “I’m okay,” he mumbled. “Just tired. Stay with me, okay? Don’t leave my side, no matter what.” He had to stay awake, had to make sure she was safe. He’d gotten her this far, he couldn’t let go now.
But he was so tired, so weak. It hurt, it all hurt. His whole body throbbed like fire.
Voices around him, English, both native and accented. He was lifted up, jostled, eliciting a groan, set on a stretcher. “Wren?”
“I’m here. We’ve got an escort of soldiers. They’re taking us to a hospital.” More movement, vehicle doors closing, engines rumbling.
“Americans? Don’t trust anyone.”
“Lieutenant Pressfield.” The voice was gravelly, the voice of someone used to shouting. Stone opened his eyes to see an older American man, lean and weathered. “I’m Commander Daniel Stanton. Your friend Nick alerted us to the situation. We’ve had people looking, but all we’ve found is your…handiwork. You don’t have to worry anymore. We’ll take care of everything from here”
“Commander…Wren lost her passport. She needs medical attention too.”
“It’s all covered, Pressfield. Relax. You brought it in, son. Well done.”
The sound of a confident military voice did something to Stone, sent him back. He should salute, but he couldn’t move his arm. “Sir.”