Page 83 of Justice for Francesca

Hunched over Chaos’ body, Tripoli froze, mesmerized by the hulking figure approaching. It weaved left, then right, as if preparing for a fight. But Tripoli couldn’t fight him. He had to protect Chaos.

The figure drew closer still, and Tripoli realized the figure wasn’t weaving. He was simply walking purposefully, without hurry. He scrambled for his gun, but he never got a shot off. The shadowy man seemed to anticipate his movements.

“You can’t protect her anymore,” it said. “Only we can.”

Tripoli looked down. Instead of Chaos lying below him, it was Francesca.

Violently, Tripoli shook his head. He tried to yell at the approaching figure, but words wouldn’t come.

Struggling, he stood up. He could hear the muffled sounds of his teammates, trying to direct each other through the smoke from the flash-bang. He glanced to his left. Tiguan was yelling something at him. He tried reading his lips, but the man was too far away. He was motioning for him to back away, butTripoli refused. Then Oz appeared in the haze, motioning him away from Francesca.

“Leave her to us.”

Once again, he violently shook off the figure. The shadow was the enemy. He couldn’t let them take her.

Coming up behind Oz, he saw the silhouettes of the men who had been lost that day on the trail. Honcho, his arm missing. Mayhem, a hole so big in his chest, Tripoli could clearly see his exploded ribs and stopped heart. Keys, blood leaking from his facial features.

“Leave her to us,” the shadow said again.

The fallen soldiers stared at Tripoli over Oz’s shoulder. “Let her go, Trip.” It was Mayhem who’d spoken. “Let them take her. They can protect her so you can get help. Let her go.”

The smoke cleared, and the figures faded into the jungle. Tripoli sat on the edge of his bed, his forearms supporting him on his thighs, his hands hanging between his knees. Mannix packed one hell of a punch, and he still felt like his bell would never stop ringing. Impatiently, he waited for the nausea and ear ringing to stop.

The lights suddenly flickered back on, and he heard the elevator ping. Someone had summoned it downstairs. Probably Cosmos or Cruz or both. Tripoli stood up, went into his bathroom, and opened the security panel behind what looked and functioned like an ordinary light switch. He keyed in his code, and he heard the pop of the safe room door. Mickie pushed her way out.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, fear behind her eyes.

“No, but it will be,” Tripoli replied. “I hope.”

A body came rushing into the bathroom. “Mickie!”

“Cruz!” She rushed into his waiting arms, and Tripoli smiled at their reunion. He wanted something like that with Francesca, although he’d much prefer there not be fear and worry behind it.

Cruz murmured into her ear, kissed the top of her head, and hugged her tight. Over the woman’s head, he checked on Tripoli. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah, well, you try going a round with Mannix McCabe next time, okay?”

“Hey. I had to deal with Fionn in the alley and barely avoided Hubble piercing my ear, so you got off easy.”

Mickie pulled back in Cruz’s embrace. “What the hell are you two talking about? Oh my god, you’re bleeding!”

“Relax, Mick,” Cruz murmured. “It’s not my blood. I’m fine.”

She looked around. “Where’s Francesca?”

“The McCabe brothers have her,” Tripoli replied.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, tears in her eyes.

After another kiss to Mickie’s head, Cruz looked down at her. “Quint is downstairs. I asked him to take you home. I’m probably going to be a while.”

“You’re going after Francesca?”

“Yes.”

Tripoli snorted. “What happened with Fionn?”

“Hubble shot him in the shoulder. Didn’t even slow the fucker down. Hubble had to put a second one in him. Fucker punched my lights out and then took off running.”

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