The Missionary (14 page)

The first thug was alone in the aisle near the corner, surrounded by deodorant and shampoo and soap and toothbrushes. Stone gathered his nerves, tightened his grip on the knife, and lunged. The thug heard or sensed something at the last second, whirling, and the blade missed his throat—Stone’s original target. The tip glanced off his cheekbone, and Stone sent his fist into the thug’s face, buying a split-second. With a quick slash, he dragged the blade across the man’s exposed throat, unleashing a sluice of blood. It was messy, but effective. Stone danced away from the hot spray, moving past the falling body, around the corner before it hit the tile. He had to search three more aisles before he found the second thug, who had taken a bottle of soda, opened it and was chugging it, earning the irate scolding of an apron-clad worker. As he approached from behind, Stone heard the thug laughing, telling the terrified but determined young man to get lost. When the thug hefted his gun, the worker scurried away. Guzzling the soda, the thug didn’t hear Stone come up behind him, nor did he notice the blade as it flashed upward, under his diaphragm and into his lung, collapsing it. Stone lurched toward the exit once more. Shouts and screams erupted as the bodies were discovered, and Stone used the sudden chaos as an excuse to slip away, hopefully unnoticed. As he stumbled back toward his previous hiding place, he saw Wren spinning in circles. She had a child’s pink
Hello Kitty
backpack on her back, and a terrified expression on her face.
 

Stone whistled, and she whirled around, relief flooding her features as she saw him approaching. Horror replaced relief when she saw the knife in his fist, the blood coating his hand and forearm. He cleaned the knife on his shirt, and then slid it between his belt and shorts.
 

“You—you weren’t here,” Wren said. “Where—what happened?”

“We had company.” He turned Wren around and unzipped the backpack, scooped up the shirt and one of four liter-bottles of water.
 

The shirt was several sizes too big, but it would cover him. He uncapped the water and took several gulps, then dumped it over his crimson-coated forearm, scrubbing away the worst of the blood.
 

Wren took the bottle when he handed it to her. She drank, closing her eyes in obvious bliss. Recapping it, she eyed him. “So we had company? And you…you killed them?”

“Couldn’t let them find us, or get word back to Cervantes.”

“Are you…did they hurt you?”

Stone shook his head. “No, babe. They never even saw me.” He stuffed the nearly empty water bottle back into the backpack, rummaged again and pulled two energy bars out, unwrapping one and handing the other to Wren. “Good job, Wren. You got some good stuff. Eat this. We gotta hole up, get off the street.”

He led her back to the intersection, where he stopped and scanned, spotting a hotel across the road. He pointed, and Wren nodded, understanding. It turned out to be a fancy place, nicer than Stone would have chosen as a hideaway. He didn’t have enough Philippines Pesos, so he had to pay for a room with some of his American dollars. The clerk behind the counter eyed them carefully, suspicion filling his features as he took in their ragged appearances.
 

Stone peeled a hundred dollar bill and slid it across the counter to the clean, groomed, neat-looking Filipino man. “My girlfriend and I had a bit too much fun, know what I mean?” He let the number on the bill show, but didn’t give it to the clerk yet. “We lost our luggage, but we’re too exhausted to go buy new stuff.”

The clerk reached for the money. “I will get new, no problems, no problems.”

Stone jerked it back. “See, the other issue is, we’re kind of eloping. So we need it to be kept quiet.”

The clerk narrowed his eyes. “Eloping? What dis?”

Stone leaned close, whispering conspiratorially, dragging Wren against his side. “Getting married, but her parents don’t know. It’s a secret.”

Smiling wide, the clerk nodded. “Ah, yes, yes. Run away, get married.”

Stone let him take the money. “So, if any of her brothers comes looking, you haven’t seen us, huh?”

“You need doctor, yeah?” The clerk’s eyes focused on Stone’s blood-soaked shirt.

“No. I just…fell. I’m fine.”

“Sure, okay, man.” The clerk clearly knew exactly how Stone had gotten hurt, but he said nothing.

“I’m feeling kinda sick, you know?” Stone said. “So, if you happened to know where to get some antibiotics, there’d be another one of those in it for you.” He tapped the $100 bill with his forefinger, which was crusted with blood he hadn’t managed to clean off.

“I might. Not cheap, but I get it.” He glanced at Wren, his expression openly curious, if not lustful.
 

She blushed under his scrutiny and giggled, pressing closer to Stone and nuzzling his neck. Stone had to force himself to stay calm, to play the part. It was difficult, though, with Wren’s mouth against his throat, her shy laugh in his ear, her arms around his neck. It was a game, an act, though it felt like anything but.
 

It was purely to convince the clerk, then, that he pressed a kiss to her cheek, and then her lips. It wasn’t that he wanted to kiss her, obviously. He just had to play the part. That’s all. Yet he couldn’t catch his breath as he tasted her mouth, felt her warmth, her tongue touching his upper lip. She was responding, giving in, playing the part back.
 

Only, the kiss went on longer than it needed to, and when they broke apart, Wren’s flushed face and widened eyes didn’t look faked. Nor did her surprise, or her raw desire.
 

“I tink you need room for dat, huh?” The clerk handed them the envelope with two key-cards, the room number written in marker across the front. “Number two-two-tree.”

Stone took the envelope with the keycard and tugged Wren to elevator. She clung to him, but now it wasn’t merely for support. There was another element to way she held on to him. It was closer, somehow. More intimate. Her palms were flat on his chest and her eyes were locked on his face. Her full breasts were pressed against him, showing him tantalizing glimpses of her tan skin.

The elevator opened, and a young Caucasian couple stumbled out, laughing uproariously, holding on to each other, reeking of alcohol. The man had dreadlocks held back by a white bandana, and he wore khaki capri pants, flip flops, and a tie-dyed Grateful Dead shirt. The girl was dressed similarly.
 

“Dude, you’re like, bleeding, man,” the dreadlocked drunk said. “You okay, dude?”

Stone growled. “Dude, I’m, like, fine. Mind your own, like, fucking business.”

The guy held up his hands. “Sure thing man. Whatever. I was just thinking, I’ve got some vikes in my room. Thought you might want one, you know?”

“Vicodin?”

He nodded. “Yeah, man. They ain’t, like, legal or whatever, but they’re the real deal.”

Stone fished out a $50. “I could use one.”

The couple lurched back onto the elevator, and Stone and Wren followed them to their fourth-floor room, which stank of pot and cigarettes. Empty bottles of vodka were scattered everywhere, and Stone saw an ashtray full of joint roaches. Dreadlocks picked up a small cellophane packet with four large white pills stamped with the word “Vicodin”.
 

“Here, man. The fifty should cover it.” He took the bill and handed Stone the baggie. “Anybody asks, you didn’t get that shit from me.”

“And you never saw us,” Stone said.

“Saw who?” Dreadlocks answered.
 

Stone just nodded, prodding Wren out of the room and toward the elevator. As the door left, he heard the girl ask her boyfriend, “Are you sure he wasn’t a cop? He kind of looked like a cop. And that looked like a gunshot wound.”

 
“I don’t know, man. He might’ve been. But he didn’t arrest us, did he?” A thoughtful pause. “Besides, we’re in the fucking Philippines, aren’t we? I don’t think an American cop can arrest us here. Juris-duty, or something.”

“You mean
jurisdiction
, you moron.”

Stone shook his head and led Wren back to the elevator. A thought struck him, and he dug into his pants pocket, withdrawing Wren’s cross. He dangled it in front of her by the chain. “I thought you might want this back.”

Wren took it in a trembling palm. “Oh my god, Stone. Thank you.” She pressed the cross to her lips. “This was an adoption gift from my parents.”

Stone hugged her briefly as the elevator doors whooshed open. As soon as they found their room, Wren dropped the backpack onto the floor and fell onto the bed, then winced.
 

“God, a real bed. Thank you, Jesus.” She pressed a hand to her ribs, taking a deep breath and shifting her torso.

Stone watched her sprawl, watched her breathing slow and become even, and then she was asleep. He watched her for a few minutes more, and then snatched the backpack up and moved into the bathroom. He lowered himself onto the closed toilet seat and then, holding his breath, peeled his shirt away from the wound, expelling his pent-up breath in an explosive hiss as the clotted, drying blood snatched at his skin and at the open wound.
 

Before he did anything else, Stone needed to be clean. He turned the shower on, washed down one of the Vicodin while he waited for the water to get hot, and then stripped out of his shorts and stepped in. The water scoured his skin and the torn flesh, but the heat felt good, relaxing his exhausted muscles. He stood under the spray for a moment, and then washed up and got out, wrapping a towel around his waist.
 

Taking a seat on the toilet, he grabbed the closest towel and pressed beneath the wound. He took an unopened bottle of water, and, using the tip of the knife, worked a small hole into the bottom of the bottle. The spray from the shower had set the wound bleeding again, so Stone held the towel beneath the entrance wound, and then, tilting his body back as far as he could, squeezed the bottle so water squirted in a thin, high-pressure stream into the bullet hole. His breath expelled in a gasping moan, but he gritted his teeth and squirted more water in, catching the excess as it sluiced away, pink with blood. He soaked through one towel, tossed it into the tub, and grabbed another, pouring water into the wound until the bottle was gone. Then he fished the small bottle of antiseptic spray from the backpack, opened it, and sprayed the entrance hole.
 

The next part was trickier. He had to do the same to the exit hole, which he couldn’t really reach on his own. He debated trying, but knew it would ineffective. Pressing the towel to the opening, he shook Wren awake.
 

She moaned, murmured, and then finally cracked her eyes open.
 

“Sorry, babe, but I need your help.”
 

Wren sat up and blinked, shivered. Her forehead was dotted with sweat, and she scratched at her skin, then caught herself and stopped. “Help with what?”

Stone crossed the room to resume his seat on the toilet, this time facing the tub to give her access to the exit hole. “Squirt some water into the hole for me.”

Wren knelt behind him in the small bathroom, taking the red-soaked towel from him. She handed him one of the unopened bottles of water, and he poked a hole into it, then handed the bottle back to her.
 

“Will it hurt?” she asked.

“I’ve got a bullet hole in my side,” Stone said. “Everything about it hurts. I’ll be fine.”

Wren cupped the towel against his back and poured the water onto the hole. Stone suppressed the hiss of pain, grinding his teeth until they hurt.
 

 
After she’d used the entire bottle, he nodded. “Good,” he said. “Now spray the antiseptic on it. A lot, from an inch or two away.” She sprayed it liberally, and he couldn’t stop a groan from escaping. “Good. Okay, now open the tampon for me.”

She did so, and Stone slid it into the hole, grimacing and growling as the cotton scraped the raw edges of open flesh. The string hung down his side, and he ripped a piece of the medical tape and fastened the string to his skin so he could pull the tampon free later. Wren had bought a roll of gauze, so he wrapped that tightly around his body, covering the wound and applying a bit of pressure. He taped the ends to his skin and then sank back against the cold porcelain, trying to even out his ragged breathing.

It would have to do for now. He was lightheaded and weak, which meant he’d lost a lot of blood.

“What now?” Wren asked.

“Now we hope I don’t pick up an infection. If that clerk can find some antibiotics, I’d be happier, but if not, we’ll just have to pray.”

Stone uncapped the bottle he’d already opened and drank from it. He finished the liter and then forced himself to his feet. He was dizzy, exhausted, hungry, and tense. He checked the latch on the door, then slid the chain into place, and propped a chair under the handle. Finally, he couldn’t stay upright any longer.

“One of us should really keep watch, but I don’t think either of us is capable. I’m dead on my feet.” He sank gingerly onto the bed. “You should take a shower before you fall back asleep.”
 

Wren nodded and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. After a moment, the shower turned on and Stone was left to picture her naked and wet beneath the water. Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She rounded the bed and lay down on the edge, stiff and seeming unsure. Stone wrestled with himself briefly, and then gave in.

“Get over here, babe.”

“What?” Wren’s eyes were wide.
 

Stone extended his arm and crooked his finger at her. “Come over here. Closer, so I can hold you.” Wren wriggled over until her head was on his chest. He curled his arm around her, holding her waist and trying not to let his hand wander lower. “Better?”

Wren nodded, and within moments was asleep. Stone wasn’t far behind, despite the fact that they were both wearing nothing but towels.
 

*
 
*
 
*

An unknowable time later, Stone woke up with Wren curled against his uninjured side. She was tensed, even pressed against him. He knew by her breathing that she was awake.