The Missionary (13 page)

The sounds of traffic coming from ahead of them had Stone increasing his pace, but their progress was constantly frustrated by the fact that the shantytown roads didn’t follow any kind of plan, and they constantly had to backtrack and find another way when their path gave out at a dead end.

And then Stone made a turn, cursed, and came to a stop, the pistol in his right fist rising. From behind him, Wren couldn’t see anything around his broad back, but the way his body tensed told her all she needed to know.
 

She risked a peek around him, and saw that the way ahead was blocked by three men with short, compact machine guns. Cervantes wasn’t one of them, thank God.
 

“Be ready,” Stone breathed, not taking his eyes off the men in front of them.

Wren nodded, not sure what to be ready for, but she tried to mentally prepare herself to move. She glanced around, saw a narrow opening just ahead on their right. She would break for that opening. Her hand trembled, and she realized she was panting, almost hyperventilating. She slowed her breathing and focused on Stone’s back. She wasn’t ready for gunfire, for blood and death. She wasn’t ready. There were too many men, and she wasn’t going to be any help.
 

The moment drew out until Wren’s nerves were shredded.
 

It happened between one breath and the next. She saw, almost in slow motion, Stone’s back flex, his arm lift, hands coming up to cup the pistol, his body twisting slightly. The pistol jerked in his hands, popping with a deafening blast, once, twice, three times. As soon as the first
BANG!
reached her ears, Wren jerked into a run, lunging for the opening, feet slipping in the mud. She slammed into the side of the building, pain wracking through her as something sharp scraped her arm through her shirt, her bruised or cracked rib screaming until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, but she kept moving, twisting away from the building, through the opening, slipping again, feet shooting out from beneath her, sending her into the mud. The slimy wetness splashed, coating her, smelling awful and dripping in her hair, down her skin, coating her khaki shorts and white shirt.
 

It wasn’t entirely mud, she realized.

Wren choked back the vomit and struggled to her feet. Gunfire barked just feet away, chains of single rounds from Stone, chainsaw chatter ripping from the machine guns. Several rounds thunked and cracked into the side of the building, spitting shards of wood and splinters of concrete, dinging off metal, ricocheting into the alley. Something hot and angry buzzed past her ear, causing her to lurch forward, slip, and stagger toward the opening.

Silence reigned, then, deafening and thick. Where was Stone? Was he dead?
 

She peered around the corner, crouching low, ignoring the howl of pain and the stench now coating her. Two bodies lay in the street, bleeding red into the mud. Something bright flashed from a window, accompanied by a deafening racket. The mud at her feet exploded, the building by her face exploded, and something stung her eyes, flecked her cheek.
 

“Get back!” Stone’s voice shouted from several feet away. “Get the fuck back, Wren! Stay down, goddammit!”

She threw herself backward as the fire flashed again, and the buzzing, snapping, whizzing of bees past her face had her tumbling to her backside into the muddy sewage. Stone’s gun banged twice, and she heard a grunt and a harsh fading curse in Filipino. Silent moments passed, and then she heard Stone’s angry voice, Filipino denials, and then…

BANGBANG.
 

Stone appeared in the mouth of the alley, a fresh red crease along his stomach weeping crimson. Blood was spattered on his chest and face, tiny red dots. It wasn’t his blood, she realized. He was breathing hard, each breath making his muscles swell and his chest expand. His eyes were hot and dangerous, but they softened as he approached her. He reached out with a slightly shaky hand and plucked slivers and shards from her hair, and then wiped a palm over her cheeks, one side and then the other. She hissed when his hand ran over something sharp embedded in her skin.

“Shit, sorry.” He bent closer to her face, eyes narrowed, and pulled a splinter from her skin, tossing it aside. His eyes met hers. “That was stupid, Wren. Next time, stay out of the way.”

“I just…I’m—I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I just needed to know if you were—”

“If I’m worried about you staying out of the way, I’m not focused on
them
, and that’s what’ll get us killed.” His eyes flashed. “If shit gets hairy, get out of the way and stay out of the way until I get you. All right?”

Wren nodded. “I get it. I’m sorry I distracted you.”

Stone’s gaze raked over her. “Fell into the mud, did you?” His tone was jocular, although the tight wrinkles at the corner of his eyes betrayed the fact that he was in pain.
 

Wren tried to bury her nausea, but couldn’t entirely. “It’s not just mud.”

Stone’s eyes widened. “Oh…oh, shit.” He seemed to be suppressing laughter.

“Yeah. Exactly.” She glared up at him. “I’m glad you think it’s so funny.”

“Sorry, it’s not funny.” His expression sobered up, but then he leaned close and took a whiff. “We gotta get you cleaned up. You stink, babe.”

Wren wanted to come up with a witty reply, but everything hurt. She sagged, feeling herself stumble, and then she was caught in strong arms. She was so tired. She was trying to be strong, but…she just couldn’t anymore. She felt something hot curling in her throat, something wet sliding down her face. “I’m sorry, Stone. I’m just so tired. And it hurts. It hurts.”

“What hurts?” His voice was tender.

She tried to breathe through the need to cry, refusing to let it out. “Everything.”

Stone cursed and pressed his fingertips to her side, prodding gently until his touch, gentle as it was, found her hurt rib. She couldn’t mute her agonized whimper. “Shit. How the hell are you upright?”

She liked the raw admiration in his tone. “Didn’t have a choice, did I?” She was so close to crying, to just breaking down.
 

But there were dead men in the alley, and someone would find them soon. She levered herself out of Stone’s warm embrace, breathed deeply and wiped her hands on a clean part of her shirt, then brushed away the tears that had escaped. Shallow breaths, careful movements. Adrenaline was wearing off, she realized, and reality was setting in.
 

“Let’s go,” she said, trying to sound stronger than she was.

Stone watched her, as if assessing. She took shallow breaths and tried not to move. Stone shook his head. “Try to take deep breaths regularly. I know it hurts, but it’s important, since it’ll prevent infection, hopefully.” He took her shoulders and gingerly helped her twist at the waist. “Does it hurt more when you move like this?”

Wren couldn’t get words out, could only gasp and nod. “Yes,” she said, when she could breathe again.
 

“That’s a good thing, actually. It means it’s just muscle and tissue damage, maybe some bruising to the bone. I don’t think it’s broken.” He peered around the corner, and then moved out into the open. As they neared the bodies of the men he’d killed, Stone gathered her close to his side. “Don’t look.”

Wren didn’t want to. She buried her face against his arm, letting him guide her past the bodies. She smelled blood, and something else, something indefinable. It was, she realized, the smell of death.

She opened her eyes as they turned a corner and heard the sounds of traffic. They’d left the shantytown, which hopefully meant access to food, water, and somewhere to rest.
 

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could go on.

12

Stone held Wren tight against his uninjured side, trying not to let her get jostled. They were on a bus heading north; he was thinking of Quezon City, a lively area of Manila where two Americans wouldn’t be quite so out of place. He wasn’t heading south toward downtown commercial Manila, though. That’s where they’d be expected to go. They were both a mess, and drawing stares. Stone was clearly gunshot. Wren was covered in mud and shit, barely conscious, and obviously in pain. He’d stuffed the pistol into his waistband, but the butt was still visible.
 

Inconspicuous they were not.

They rode the bus for around twenty minutes, and then, simply to throw off any possible pursuit, switched lines. As they transferred, Stone grabbed a guide to the Manila bus lines, consulting the map as he held onto a vertical bar. Four stops later, they were heading toward Quezon City, part of the massive, sprawling Metro Manila area. It had been the capital of the Philippines for a few decades, and was still the wealthiest part of the country. Which meant
 
access to better food and hopefully some kind of medicine.
 

After far too long on the rumbling, rattling bus, Stone half-carried Wren off the vehicle and onto Visayas Avenue where it dead-ended into Tandang Sora Avenue. Here, their rough and ragged appearance drew even more stares from the scurrying crowds. Cars rushed by, honking, squealing brakes, buses rumbled, voices chattered. Stone tried to push away the burning shriek of pain in his side, and the stares.
 

He pointed. “There, a Savemore.” He directed them toward it, then found a small gap between buildings and slumped into it, wedging himself in place. “Go in, buy us some supplies. Bottles of water, as many as you can carry. Some tampons. A shirt for me. Bandages and medical tape. Antiseptic spray, if they have it.” He handed Wren a wad of pesos.

Wren took it, and hesitated. “Tampons? Why? I’m not—I mean—”

Stone grunted as he shifted to a more comfortable position. “Not for you. Me. Small ones, light ones. Best thing for through-and-through wounds. We’ll need food too. A backpack to carry everything.”

“I’m going in by myself?” she asked.

Stone nodded. “You’re less…conspicuous than I am. Don’t talk to anyone. Keep your eyes peeled, watch around you, behind you. You feel anything weird, like a bad feeling, or if you see anyone suspicious, get out of there ASAP. Don’t stop, don’t come back for me, just run.”

“But what if—” Wren’s eyes were wide, her voice tremulous.
 

Stone cut her off. “You can only deal with the here and now, babe. This is all there is. What ifs won’t keep you alive.” He took her hand in his and tried to send courage through his gaze. “You’ll be fine. You’re just getting some supplies. Don’t worry about me. Don’t even think about me. Get in, get out.”

Wren nodded, straightening the folded, wadded, colorful pesos. “You won’t…you won’t leave without me?” She wouldn’t look at him, staring at the ground between her feet.

Stone shifted upright, gathered her against his chest. She felt small and warm against him, fit perfectly underneath his chin. “No, Wren. I’ll never leave you. I’ll be right here. Promise.”

She took a deep breath and stepped away, folded the pesos in half and straightened her body, wincing as the movement stretched her injured ribs. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

“Remember, water, a shirt, tampons, food.”

“Got it.”

“And Wren?” Stone didn’t let her hand go just yet. “I need you to hustle, okay? On the double, babe.”

She nodded, swallowed hard, and backed away, entering the market. Stone moved deeper into the space between buildings. It was a gap, really, not even properly an alley, so narrow he had stay sideways to fit. Now that Wren was out of sight, he let himself slump, let himself hiss and groan as he pressed a hand to the wound. It hurt so bad, so bad. He was worried about infection, but he doubted he’d find any antibiotics. He’d just have to keep it clean and hope. And pray.
 

He was struggling to stay upright, beyond exhausted. Then he felt the tingling at the back of his neck, the tightening of his gut. Warning signs. Apprehension.

He slid a pistol from his waistband and shifted farther back, deeper into the gap, ignoring the heat and the pain. He felt his senses sharpen, his focus tuning in. He heard a heavy footfall, voices. The sounds stopped near his hiding place, and then he heard two voices conversing.
 

“
Nakita sila nung matandang babae na bumaba malapit dito.
”
The old woman saw them get off the bus near here.

“
Hanapin sila. Ibalik nyo yung babae kay Cervantes. Patayin yung lalaki.
”
Find them. Cervantes wants the girl. Kill the man.

Stone’s Filipino was sketchy at best, but he caught enough to know they were talking about him and Wren. He tightened his grip on the pistol and held his breath. He heard them move forward, saw them pass by him, one and then a second. He waited a few more seconds, then moved to the street, peering out from his hiding place. They were readily identifiable, two powerfully built men with submachine guns out in plain sight, interrogating people on the street. They cornered a man sitting in the lee of a building, old and wrinkled and tired, hunched over a bottle. The old man pointed with an unsteady hand, seemed to be speaking at length, gesturing. When the two thugs had the information they wanted, they turned away. The old derelict lifted a hand in supplication. Even from a few hundred feet away, he could see the cruelty in the way the two thugs stopped, turned around, tossed a peso to the dirt in front of the old man, and then kicked him when he reached for it. He hunched into a ball as kicks rained down, the thugs laughing as they brutalized him.
 

Stone’s fury burned hot as he watched the two men stroll away, laughing and shoving each other. They were heading directly toward the market. Wrenching himself into action, Stone followed. Ahead, he could see the entrance to the Savemore, where Wren had gone for supplies. The two men wove through the crowds, scanning, shoving people aside, casually ignoring the glances and curses. Stone had to stop them before they spotted Wren. But he had to do it without attracting attention.

A vendor stood at a cart, chopping vegetables with a large knife. Stone dug another wad of pesos from his pocket, pointed at the knife and held out the money. The vendor looked baffled, but shrugged and handed over the knife. Stone shoved his pistol back into his waistband and returned his attention to the market. The thugs were inside the pharmacy. Stone broke into a run, pressing his palm to his side and stifling the groans of pain. He headed through the door, down an aisle, behind one of the men. They’d split up, providing him with an excellent opportunity to take them out one at a time.