THE RANK HUMIDITY had turned the mud hole into a sauna. Miguel took a long drag on a cigarette. His lungs burned. He was alive. For now. If he made it home, he’d remember to thank God. It was still too early to celebrate.
Bringing the cigarette to his lips took several attempts. His hands hadn’t stopped shaking since the chopper had let ’em down—what was it? A month? Two months ago? The days blurred into one long, hellish nightmare with no end.
A mosquito landed on his arm. Bloodsucker. He slapped at it but missed. He’d never survive with that kind of aim. Draft didn’t care about precision. Point and shoot. He’d follow orders. Always did.
Until now.
An explosive crack seized his attention and his breathing. He dropped the half-smoked cigarette and reached for his weapon, but his nails dug into thick mud. His weapon was gone. His eyes darted around the hole. Where was it?
Panic claimed his breath as the familiar squishing of boots against soft earth grew closer. They were coming and they would kill him. He couldn’t tell who the enemy was any longer.
Biting down on his lip to stop it from quivering, he tasted blood. Proof of life, but for how long? He didn’t want to die. He wanted to go home. His frantic search landed on the bayonet. Miguel lunged for it and wrapped his clammy hand around the thick handle. He struggled out of the muddy pit, afraid it would become his tomb.
The swamp became his foe, slowing his escape. His boots slipped in the muck that threatened to hold him until he could be killed. He couldn’t slow down and he couldn’t hide—they’d find him.
Screaming startled him. He swung around and found her standing there. She stumbled backward into a tree. Her lips formed a small o as tears fell from frightened eyes.
The footsteps sounded behind him. They were coming. Miguel tightened his grip. They were coming to kill her. He couldn’t stop them. Salty tears stung his eyes, barely blurring her terrified expression.
It was too late.
Miguel took a step toward her and she screamed. He wanted to tell her to stop, but he knew if he opened his mouth his screams would match hers. He closed his eyes and swung his arm, bringing the bayonet down—
“Stop! Please stop screaming!” Miguel Roa’s eyes snapped open, her screams echoing in his ears. Why couldn’t he stop it? He should’ve protected them.
The throbbing in his head sent sharp pains to the back of his eyeballs. He groaned, closing his eyes. How long had it been since his last blackout? With more effort than it was worth, he pushed his eyelids open. The dark surroundings of his home spun around him. Miguel rolled to his side and let the cool cement floor bring him back to his senses.
When he was certain his world wouldn’t shift, he lifted his head. Slow and steady he pushed himself up to a sitting position on the floor. His legs stretched before him, Miguel stared at the boots still laced on his feet. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty. What day was it?
Every muscle ached. Miguel couldn’t remember his blackouts being this bad before. But then he could hardly remember anything about the dark lapses in time. No recollection of the minutes or hours when he slipped into the recesses of darkness. Or what caused them.
Well, that wasn’t true. His nightmare was proof of that. Atonement for his sin.
Using the edge of an end table for support, Miguel winced as raw pain lit a fire in the palms of his hands. Withdrawing them left a smear of blood on the wood in their place. His vision blurred at the sight of crimson fissures carved into his skin.
A metallic taste filled his mouth. Miguel focused on the sink. If he could just get there and run cold water over the cuts . . . splash his face . . . return to reality. The shattering of glass made him jerk around, sending his vision and the room careening. Miguel reached for something to hold him upright but found nothing except for air. He crashed to his knees, the pain jolting through his arthritic joints.
A shadow crossed in front of the window. Heavy footsteps slowed at his front door. Time seemed to still before his door swung wide open.
“Get out of here.” Miguel’s words came out thick. “I’ve got nothing to steal.”
“I’m not here to steal, amigo.” The man stepped into the home and into the moon’s waning glow. The light was just bright enough to expose the visitor’s ill intentions. “Where’s the painting?”
“Wh-what painting?”
The blow came quickly and sent Miguel’s brain rattling inside his skull. He slumped the rest of the way to the floor as warmth slid across his forehead.
“I won’t ask again.”
“Who”—the pressure behind Miguel’s eyes grew—“are you?”
The heat of the intruder’s breath curled around Miguel’s ear. “A collector. Where’s the painting Sydney stole?”
“Sydney.” Her name scratched against his throat. A glimpse of her face. Her blue eyes flashed in his memory.
The wide strokes of blue and green crashing over each other on the canvas. Tumultuous Ocean. Sydney had brought the painting to him. When? Last night? It felt so long ago. He squeezed his eyes tight. What happened? All he could remember were her eyes. Shocked. No, scared . . . she was scared.
And he was too late. Again.