With each mission, it seemed, that was becoming harder and harder to do. The screams, the faces, the horror – they haunted what remained of his shredded soul, forcing him to shut down a little more each time, to distance himself from others. Little by little, he was becoming less than human, his ability for compassion fading, a price to be paid for the cold detachment he commanded out of necessity now.
He always reserved the worst parts of the missions for himself to spare his brothers as much of the horror as possible. It would come back to haunt him – that was a certainty. But it would be later, when he was safe in the solitude of his cabin, when his life and the lives of his brothers were not on the line. Only then would he allow it. Until then, to the rest of the world, he would continue to be the Iceman.
Two of his brothers – Kieran and Shane – were in similar positions among the trees just outside the village, awaiting the satellite intel from Ian back at the base. Out here, the three of them formed a deadly triangle. No one would be leaving this party unless they allowed it.
A man ran directly toward him. He wasn’t like the others – i.e., not a native. Instead of the minimal draped cloth most of the men wore around their masculinity, this man wore actual clothes – khaki shorts, button down short-sleeve, sneakers. His hair was shorn close to his head, but not short enough to be military.
The brilliant backlight flared as the nearest hut caught fire, making it impossible to distinguish the man’s features, but he didn’t move like one of the villagers. Kane felt a sinking feeling in his gut. He didn’t have time for an in-depth analysis of the mechanics; he just knew this man was not one of the locals. That meant he was a fucking relief worker.
Son of a bitch. If there was one, there were probably more, too. No wonder the bastards had picked this village to plunder. With relief efforts there would be more food. More trinkets. More medicine. More drugs. Fuck. He’d bet the other small villages had played hosts to similar do-gooders, too. Irony was such a vicious bitch. Those that had come meaning only to help had ultimately brought about their downfall.
This hadn’t come up in Ian’s intel. Unfortunately, the bad guys rarely left any survivors, which was one of the reasons it took so long to track them down in the first place. By the time anyone realized a small tribe had vanished, the offenders were long gone, and no one was left to tell the tale.
Kane’s belly hugged the damp ground, unseen in the thick undergrowth, his finger poised a hair’s breadth above the trigger. He needed to alert the others that there were more than just indigenous here tonight.
Before he could even whisper the words into the miniscule transmitter, the man went down about twenty feet from cover, the angle and distortion of his features telling Kane that he’d been shot in the back. As the man fell, Kane’s assessment was confirmed. Definitely not a native. A sudden surge in flames to the left illuminated the man’s much lighter skin tone, northern European features, and fine, straight hair. On the ground, blood pumped out of the middle of the man’s back at an alarming rate. He was already gone; it had been a kill shot through the back, right to the heart.
Kane’s cold blue eyes didn’t even blink. At least it had been a quick death. Not like some of the sorry bastards who had been less fortunate. The ones now screaming in agony, begging for help or pleading for death from just outside of his field of vision. Thank God for small miracles.
Those same icy blue eyes widened seconds later when another figure approached the man. It was decidedly smaller, and despite the speed with which it moved, did so smoothly, fluidly, almost as if floating. It was dressed in dark cloth, covered from head to ankle, with only a slit around the eyes and the flash of tiny, delicate feet bare beneath the covering. A woman?
A stupid woman, he quickly surmised. She started with each gunshot like a scared little mouse, but continued her forward progress until she fell to her knees beside the man. The wife, perhaps?
Something twisted in Kane’s gut, some ancient hard-wired male instinct he forced himself to tamp down. Chivalry had no place here, and it would mean little to his family if he and his brothers didn’t make it back home in one piece.
The figure leaned down as if speaking to the man. It took only a few seconds for her to realize he was past saving. Then she did the most unexpected thing of all. She rose up on her knees and bowed her head. Kane swore he saw her make the sign of the cross, then incredibly - heard the low soft murmurs, an angelic voice that had no place here in Hell. The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want...
English. American. Jesus Christ. What the fuck was she doing here in the middle of this mess? His cold detachment flickered.
This was not part of the plan. Kane watched, transfixed, his body itching to do something, knowing he could not yet give away their position. He spoke almost silently into his transmitter.
“American female, two o’clock.”
He heard the soft curses through his earpiece. “What the fuck is she doing?” came an angry whisper.