Blood Alone by James R. Benn Read Free Book Online Page B

I an assassin? Had I done my job?
    My arm was tired. As I sheathed the knife my hand shook.
    “Rocko, save us both a lot of trouble and tell me what the deal is,” I said. “Why are you so interested in me? What’s with the handkerchief? And who else is looking for me?”
    “Everyone’s looking for you, kid. But I haven’t turned you in, have I?”
    “Who’s everyone?” I asked.
    “The army, for one. And friends of the friends .”
    “I thought some MPs and officers might be looking for me. But what do you mean ‘friends’? Whose friends?”
    “Not yours, kid. If you’re smart, you’ll untie me and let me take care of everything. I can hide you until you get your senses back, then we’ll set things right. You still got that fancy handkerchief? It could be your ticket out of this mess if you hand it over.” He said it with a smile, his head cocked to the side, eyebrows up, oozing sincerity and concern. I had tied his arms tight at his waist, crossed over and knotted at the wrists. His hands stuck out and he twisted them, palms up, beseeching me to listen to reason for my own good.
    “It’s somewhere safe. I’m smart enough not to trust you. Now tell me who these friends of yours are.”
    “They ain’t friends of mine, they’re friends of the friends, know what I mean? Jesus, I told you too damn much already. Now untie me, willya?”
    “No, I don’t know what you mean! Who’s Charlotte? Where is this Lieutenant Andrews?”
    “I can’t tell you anything, don’t you understand? They’ll kill me. Forget what I said. I got connections, kid. You can trust me. You gotta. Now be a pal and untie me.” A desperate, pleading tone had crept into Rocko’s voice. His hands clenched, then steepled into a parody of prayer. He was afraid of these friends of his, whoever they were. I wanted to trust someone, I needed to trust someone, but if this guy was my only choice, I’d take my chances alone.
    “No thanks, Rocko. Sorry about this.” I gagged him again with the T-shirt. He shook his head, making muffled, growling noises, then a low, resigned moaning. I felt sick at the sound, disgusted with Rocko and his naked pleading. The reality was that this was all I knew of my life: a petty thief and coward, mysteries of purgatory, and dangerous friends; the comfort of a knife in my hand, the practiced ease with which I’d held it, and the nightmare vision it cut across my brain. I had to leave.
    I grabbed my gear and squeezed behind the stacked cases of grenades, figuring the way I came in was the best way out. I lifted the canvas flap. The cool evening air washed over my face. It was quiet. I pushed my helmet, pack, and Thompson out under the flap, then slid myself out. On one knee, I blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness. I reached for the helmet. My hand felt the netting and the steel beneath it. With that touch, a name came to me. Harding. Major Harding. Sam Harding. He was the one who had told me about shiny helmets, and aimed fire, and. . .
    The surge of joy at recalling this name ended as a sharp stabbing pain erupted at the base of my skull. Then, darkness.

CHAPTER • FIVE
    I AWOKE WITH A throbbing head and a name on my lips. Harding. I opened my eyes and found myself back inside the tent, face-down on the ground. I’d been hit by someone who knew what he was doing. It had been a sharp rap, the same as the one I’d given Rocko. All in the wrist, enough for lights out followed by a pretty good chance of waking up again.
    Harding. Sam Harding. Major Sam Harding. I saw his face, sharp angles and squinty eyes. Close-cropped dark hair, traces of gray flecked across the temples. I knew him. I remembered him.
    Great, but what was I doing here, and who’d given me that smack on the skull? And why? I pushed myself into a sitting position and rubbed my head. There was a bump behind my ear that hurt like blazes when I touched it. I had to stop getting hit in the head. That’s what Punchy had always said.