Blood Ties Read Free

Jennifer said, and the difference between her acting scared and genuinely being scared was pretty obvious. The truth was that she was, in retrospect, a fairly lousy actress. She’d been doing her best to manufacture concern over being discovered when it had simply been this “Meg” doing the banging. Her reaction, however, was night and day. She was back to whispering, not because she was trying to feign fear but because her throat had obviously constricted. All the blood had drained from her face; you can’t fake going deathly pale. Her hands were shaking. Whatever turn this whole business had taken, it was one she hadn’t been prepared for. “He . . . he wasn’t supposed to be back . . . not for . . .”
    â€œJennifer!” I heard the clicking of a key in the lock. The bolt turned, and the door started to open, but then it banged to a halt as the upper chain latch snapped tight. “Jennifer, are you in there? What’s going on? This is ridiculous!”
    Her voice strangled, she looked to me with total panic. “He was supposed to be out on maneuvers! He was . . . I don’t . . . he . . .” Her body seized up. Beyond shaking like a virgin on her wedding night, she clearly had no idea what to do.
    I, for my part, did. I dove under the bed, grabbing at my belongings, and yanked out my pistol from my effects just as the door burst open, the chain snapping off with a sound like a rifle shot.
    A very large soldier was standing in the doorway. He had broad features and a black, bristling mustache that seemed to have a life of its own. His uniform was stained with dirt, and there was a backpack slung half-off his shoulders. Clearly, this was a man who had, just as advertised, been out on maneuvers. The poor bastard was obviously looking forward to coming home, washing the dirt from his tired and battered body, and maybe having a nice lay with his wife before collapsing into a welldeserved coma.
    Fortunately, he had no weapon in his hands. His rifle was nearby, leaning upright against the wall of the hallway where he’d rested it. I had a brief glimpse of a raventressed wo man—the mysterious Meg, no doubt—bolting down the stairs, casting a quick glance behind her as if to have a final glimpse of the disaster she had left in her wake.
    Seeing me with my pistol pointed squarely at him, the soldier reflexively started to reach for the rifle.
    The cocking of a trigger makes a sound like none other in the world. It commands immediate attention and typically freezes all movement. If anyone was going to have respect for that distinctive noise, it was going to be a soldier, and this fellow was no exception. His hand froze mere inches away from his rifle. He stayed in exactly that position, hand outstretched, while appraising me in the way one typically assesses a threat. I could see that he was studying my aim, whether my hand was steady, whether it looked like I knew my way around a weapon or just happened to carry one around on the off chance someone might be thinking about killing me. In short, he was weighing the odds of his getting to his rifle, aiming, and firing before being the recipient of a bullet in return.
    â€œDon’t,” was all I said, but really the word was just for additional emphasis. Our eyes had locked, and the looked that passed between the two of us spoke volumes. My single utterance was not a plea for mercy, and he knew it. It was a monosyllabic warning to him that, if he tried it, he was likely going to die doing so. At the very least, he was going to wind up with a bullet in him.
    Very slowly, he withdrew his hand from anywhere near the gun. He straightened up and squared his shoulders. This was a proud man; I almost felt sorry for him.
    â€œVery wise,” I said in regard to his decision not to try and arm himself.
    â€œKeep your compliments to yourself.” His gaze flickered from me to his petrified wife, then back to me. “What