Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Asher walked into what was essentially Jamah's torture chamber. The shadows Mark reported seeing were bodies dangling from meat hooks in the wooden rafters overhead. Men, women, and children. All deceased. All in various stages of decomp. They'd obviously been there for days. Black pools of body fluids had long ago congealed beneath each body. The odor was rank. Asher suppressed his gag reflex.

Alex was speechless. So was Wyatt. Asher couldn't blame them. The alarm banging inside his brain for immediate attention posed a slew of questions that needed answering. If Jamah wasn't there, where was he? Was this horrendous scene what he'd planned all along, just a grisly distraction? Had he played on Alex's compulsive protective instincts when he'd threatened his family? Had he beaten Alex by escaping this death, too? Was that rat bastard in Virginia?

The more questions that bubbled up, the more Asher realized he wasn't where he should be. Marlowe wasn't protected. Was she alone? She should still be in the TEAM clinic. She'd be safe there, but was she? Had she bullied Libby and Judy into releasing her? Asher wouldn't be surprised. That was her MO. His heart kicked into overdrive, screaming, ‘Go, go, go. Run to her. Now.'

Until Wyatt bellowed, "Everyone out!"

Asher didn't ask questions. He was having trouble keeping his cool, but when an EOD expert said move it, you moved. Alex hung back, no doubt making sure his men were clear first. Too bad. Asher jerked his boss from behind him and shoved Alex out the door, toward the stairs. Protocol be damned. Alex was going first this time.

By then, Wyatt was leaping over the bodies sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. Alex braced his hands on the railings and swung over the same carnage. It wasn't until he landed on black marble that Asher saw the real trap, and it wasn't coming from the room behind him. He pushed off the top step and threw all of his weight down the stairs. The only things he could see were Kelsey's pretty face, her doe-like eyes, her tears, and the shit-ton of pain headed her way if he missed. Poor Lexie. Innocent little Bradley. No way could he let it happen.

Asher's shoulder landed square in his boss's back, sending Alex halfway across the spacious entry on his hands and knees. Just as he glared indignantly over his shoulder, a flurry of spears whizzed the length of the spacious entry with enough force they embed themselves in the opposite walls.

Opening that door upstairs must've set off a timer or something. Wyatt ducked and narrowly avoided two of the lethal projectiles. Asher wasn't so lucky. The one meant for Alex caught the back of his right shoulder, and down he went, no way of stopping his forward momentum or preventing the spear from doing its worst. It hit with frightening clarity. Tore through skin and muscle like it was nothing. Bones shattered as the metal shaft arrowed through his shoulder blade, ribs, and out his right pec.

On the heels of that shock came the not-so-quiet sucking sounds that torn flesh and ripped muscle made when the spear lost momentum and settled where it stuck. As metal came to rest, the sinister tone of a diabolical tuning fork vibrated through his pectoral muscle, making it twitch and lighting up every last nerve. Shit, he'd been skewered. Make that butchered.

Thank God, the impact sent him across the room, not into Alex. Dazed and reeling from the impact, Asher came to a stop on his opposite side and shoulder. He, Alex, and Wyatt had been caught in an intentional booby trap, a crossfire of spears hidden in the walls, all carefully camouflaged within the shadowy carved sandstone. All were positioned four feet up from the floor, a height meant to kill most men. Blood from somewhere, Asher hoped wasn't him, splattered the floor in a circle around him. There was so much of it. Too much. Couldn't all be his. From this single wound? No way. The hole that spear inflicted couldn't be this bad, could it? Not enough that he'd bleed out. Not from just one spear, right?

Asher stayed prone, not believing he was down and bleeding out, but still intent on protecting his boss and his boss's family. Alex counted. He was the one who mattered. Asher was expendable, just an agent doing a damned hard job. He arched his spine, intent on finishing the task at hand, but damn it. That small movement made everything hurt.

"What the fuck?" Wyatt bellowed, on his knees beside Asher now, frantically scanning his face, chest, and shoulder, only to do it all over again. Poor guy was shaking. His jumpy hands and fingers were everywhere. On Asher's chest, then his shoulder, then the spear. Testing. Probing and testing and—

"Stop touching me," Asher hissed, instinctively jerking away from those damned inquisitive fingers, banging his head on the floor when he did. Pain shrieked through his body at that sudden, stupid move. Every touch and every little movement sent hellacious vibrations tearing through him. All of him, damn it. Enough. "Don't pull it out."

"Wasn't going to, but brother…" Wyatt's voice cracked. Tears fell in salty drips down his face, off his eyelashes, and the end of his nose.

Shit. If the EOD expert was tearing up, this was bad. Really bad.

Time slowed even as Wyatt's efforts to stop the bleeding intensified. He didn't seem to know what to do, besides packing the entrance and exit wounds around the spear with Quik Clot, carefully not touching the son of a bitchin' spear.

Asher glanced over his shoulder to find Alex on his knees behind him. It was surreal, watching these two fierce warriors snapping, cursing, growling at each other. Telling him, over and over, that he was going to be okay, when he knew damned well that he wasn't.

He wasn't blind. A good foot of the spear extended out the front of his chest. He could only imagine how much of it lay behind. That portion not only kept him propped on his side but held him firmly in place. It'd take a hoist or a crane to get him out of this shithole, and he'd have to be drugged with something damned strong when it happened. If it happened. Slim chance of that. Alex and Wyatt were as helpless as he was. They couldn't save him. Not this time.

Hardened metal couldn't simply be snapped off like wooden arrows. Alex and Wyatt needed a cutting torch, and they needed it now. That or they'd have to pull this wicked piece of shit all the way through his body, another mistake that would hurt like hell, and, in the end, would still kill him. The spear was long and filthy. He'd bleed out faster if they removed it, and they hadn't brought enough blood-clotting powder, gauze, or foam to end this day on a hopeful note.

This was it, the end.

Exhausted, Asher let his head sink to the floor. The marble was cool against his temple. He was in shock. The initial pain had dulled. That was something to be grateful for. Interestingly, there was no plush Turkish carpet beneath him. Just a slick pool of red. His blood. Details, details…

Blowing out a shallow breath, he accepted the inevitable. No medivac chopper was coming this time. No PJ. No miracle. He'd done the right thing, and he'd do it again if given the choice. Alex would go home to hug his wife and kids, and that mattered. Alex built empires. All Asher did was survive that one really bad day in Somalia. A man could only be lucky once.

He blinked, fighting his approaching death. Pushing back at the darkness hovering at his peripheral like a lecherous, greedy ghoul. Trying to focus, to see Alex and Wyatt, to know for certain they were okay, but not succeeding. Everything went black. Okay then. He would die like a man, not a whimpering coward. Sluggishly, because his brain wasn't sending clear signals anymore, he reached out for Wyatt or Alex, before they slipped away, too. He couldn't see them, but he knew what kind of men they were. They'd stick with him until he passed. They'd notify his mom and dad.

One of the two grabbed his hand with the force of King Kong. Had to be Alex.

"‘S'okay," he told whoever it was. "Nothing hurts. Got no pain, so don't move me. Let me go." Man, it was hard to talk.

Asher knew how hard losing a brother-in-arms was. He didn't want Alex or Wyatt feeling guilty that he was down. "But Marlowe," he grunted, fear for her settling in. She wouldn't understand. Like everything else, she'd fight the poor soul who notified her. She'd curse them, might even knee them like she did him. "I… I shoulda been there, not here," he rasped, his voice too quiet in his own ears. "T-tell her she's… she's beautiful. She's … she's gonna…" Deep breath. Damn, that hurt. "…be okay."

Someone, Asher couldn't tell who, told him to shut up and slapped a mask over his nose and mouth. He dragged the mask off, his one last feat of strength. "T-tell her I love her," he whispered to whoever was out there. There was so much more he wanted Marlowe to know. But time? There was never enough of it when you wanted it most.

His fingers uncurled without Asher willing them to. There was no need to fight what was happening. He couldn't win this battle. His strength was already poured out on the marble floor. There was no calling it back. His role in this mission—in this short, special operation called life—was over. He could do no more forever.

His last thoughts should've been for his mom and his dad, but the only person in his mind was the backtalking firebrand he'd saved in Afghanistan. Asher breathed his last for the woman he'd loved since he'd first set eyes on her. "I shoulda kissed you, honey."

The last thing he heard was Alex bellowing, "Son of a gawddamned bitch! I said right gawddamned now!"