A moment of silence ran between them, as palpable as a touch. He could hear her breathing, even- soft inhale-exhale, the faint rasp and slither as she rubbed a fold of her robe between her thumb and finger. Then she murmured, "How long does it take?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On whether or not you have someone to hold you," he said, reaching out and gently grasping her shoulder's, easing her back.
She didn't actively resist, but he could sense her surprise, her initial reluctance. He gently tucked her into the curve of his arm, drawing her close. She blinked up at him, the expression in her pure blue eyes solemn, questioning, hesitant. "Shhh," he murmured, as if she'd protested. "Just relax."
Whatever she saw in his face must have reassured her - God, how could she be so blind? - because with the barest hint of a sigh, she let the steel flow out of her bones, let herself sink and mold against his side, into his warmth, as he pulled her closer.
She was soft and warm and she smelled good. His senses swam at her nearness, at the delirium of finally holding her, feeling her, smelling her. She buried her face in his shoulder, trembling. Her shoulders jerked a little, and he murmured something soothing as he cuddled her closer.
"I'm not crying," she said, her voice muffled and faintly forlorn.
"Go ahead if you want to. What's a little snot between friends?"
She burst out laughing, the sound muffled against him, and tilted her head back to look at him. "I can't believe you said that."
He kissed her. He'd wanted to for, God, years, and when she turned her face up, her lips were just inches from his, so, what the hell, he did it. He cupped her face in his hand and kissed her as gently as he could, giving her plenty of space to pull back if she wanted to - but she didn't. Instead she gripped his shoulder with one hand and kissed him in return, her lips parting, her tongue easing out to touch his.
The earth shook; a gigantic boom rocked the entire house. A tiny part of Creed credited the upheaval to the kiss, but the bigger part of him knew better, and he wrapped both arms around her as he rolled the two of them off the sofa to the floor, covering her protectively with his body.
Chapter 16
As soon as Teague blew the bridge, Bill, Troy, and Blake began laying down fire into the outer rim of homes. They weren't deliberately trying to hit anyone, but neither did they care if they did. The only thing that kept their aim a little high was the knowledge that a bloodbath would bring every law officer in Idaho down on them when it was discovered, which could be bothersome.
Blake was using a Weatherby Mark V Magnum .257, a truly sweet piece of work that packed a heavy punch. Billy had a Winchester; Troy, a Springfield M21. The Weatherby and Winchester were good hunting rifles; the Springfield was more suitable for sniping. Teague's chosen weapon was a Parker-Hale M85, with a bipod system for stability. Both the Springfield and the Parker-Hale were long-distance rifles, capable of reaching out and touching someone a mile distant, if the person pulling the trigger had sufficient skill.
Teague had chosen the weapons with their differences in mind. Blake and Billy would take the night shifts, when the infrared scopes would be needed. The scopes had a physical limit; anything beyond four hundred yards just wasn't going to show up. So their rifles were best for the middle ranges. Troy and Teague could use high-powered binoculars during the day, and their long-range rifles would put the fear of God into anyone they saw moving about the community. These, too, had infrared scopes, but Troy and Teague wouldn't have to depend solely on them.
Goss and Toxtel were positioned to move in close to where the bridge had once spanned the rushing mountain stream, once the debris had settled. With their handguns they were responsible for any close-range action, which Teague didn't expect at all.
The roar of the explosion and the subsequent rain of debris hadn't vet settled when people began running out of their houses to see what was happening. Calmly and deliberately, the four men began shooting, driving the good citizens of Trail Stop farther and farther back.
As soon as the lights went out, Cal was moving, reaching for his weatherproof flashlight and heading for his door. If the electricity was out at the feed store, which was one of the first buildings on the way into Trail Stop, then it was almost certainly out for the entire community - and Cate was alone in her house. He was at the door when the explosion knocked him off his feet; he was already rolling when he landed, the flashlight gripped tight in his hand so he wouldn't lose it.
Bomb.
The darkness, the explosion, the blast of the percussion, threw him straight into battle mode. Adrenaline roared through his body, and he didn't stop to think, didn't have to think, because this was not second nature at all but first nature, his nature. Thrusting the flashlight into his front pocket, he opened the door and crawled out onto the landing of the outside stairs. There were no vertical safety railings around the landing, just a frame made of weathered two-by-fours. He gripped the edge of the landing and swung himself over, hanging for a split second before dropping into the darkness. Since he couldn't see the ground, it was difficult to anticipate and control his landing, but familiarity let him judge it within a cat's whisker. He bent his knees to absorb the shock, tucked into a roll, and came up behind his parked pickup.
He was already on the ground when the first shot was fired.
His ears were ringing from the explosion, but he could still pinpoint the direction the shots were coining from... correction: directions... four different firing locations. Rifle fire, from across the stream. The explosion had come from the direction of the bridge; maybe a vehicle had exploded while crossing the bridge, but he didn't think so, the sound was all wrong. Since there was nothing else in that direction, instinct told him the bridge had been blown. Why and by whom were questions that would wait. fie had to get to Cate.