Keepsakes
by
Maria Santicelli
Copyright by Maria Santicelli 2012
All Rights Reserved
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Copyright © Maria Santicelli 2012
Cover Illustration © Maria Santicelli
Cover Design © Maria Santicelli
Edited by Licelli Bonifazi
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead, locations or incidents is purely coincidental or used fictitiously.
Smashwords Edition Licence Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and buy your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This one is for you, Claudia, because you’re the best friend a girl could want … and because you like the boys almost as much as I do.
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The first time it happened, Ty didn’t think anything of it. To give him credit, he also didn’t have much time to make anything of it, given that he was busy ducking behind the window frame of a bombed high-rise building, hoping and praying not to get blown up until reinforcements arrived. He hoped even more that the medics would be able to patch up Pascuzzo’s right arm before he bled to death in a godforsaken town somewhere south of nowhere. Getting hit by heavy duty projectiles was never fun, but losing control of Pascuzzo’s more than competent fire arm in such a sticky situation was bad. Deadly, if they were really unlucky. Thankfully they weren’t completely alone, although it could’ve been better.
“Hang on, kid!” Hadenfeldt shouted over the deafening sound of bullets raining into their cover. “Just stay awake!” He hastily pulled Pascuzzo’s glove off, spraying blood all over the floor.
Ty nearly gagged at the sight, and was even more scandalized when Hadenfeldt then stuffed the ruined, wet thing into his thigh pocket, uncaring that it soaked the fabrik and stained it a dark red. It all happened so quickly that Ty momentarily doubted his own eyes, and yet the moment passed as if played in super slow motion. It was the weirdest thing he’d seen in a long time, even weirder than McLendon’s origami contest last spring.
Why the fuck would Hadenfeldt waste time with trash?
And then, only a couple of seconds later, as if nothing unusual had happened, the colonel had his knife out and desperately sawed away at Pascuzzo’s kevlar suit to free the wound and stop the bleeding.
Ty fired an answering salvo at the assholes on the other side of the street, smiling grimly when he took out two at once. McLendon’s frantic voice went unheard from the radio at his belt; right now there was nothing their pilot could do but wait out the firestorm and go ballistic while doing so.
A few yards away, the other two teams assigned for this job fought alongside Ty. Colonel Brown motioned for him to send Hadenfeldt and Pascuzzo back into the building and away from the battle. Seeing a good dozen grenades before them, Ty quickly complied. Pascuzzo was in no shape to survive a bombing war, not even one they were winning, but when Hadenfeldt resisted, roaring some nonsense about responsibility and support, Ty solved the problem by hollering Brown’s name while pointing at his boss.
“He’s bein’ difficult, sir!”
“Rhys, get your ass outta here, damnit!” Brown ordered. “This is not the place to be missish about the chain of command! And bandage that kid up if you can spare a minute!”
Hadenfeldt glowered at the both of them but thankfully didn’t waste even more time with pointless arguing. With a grunt, he heaved Pascuzzo’s weight up and dragged him off, the good arm thrown over his broad shoulders and used like a truck tow.
“A bit quicker, perhaps, Hades?” Ty snarled.
“You’ll pay for that!” Hadenfeldt bitched back.
Just then a sudden, loud whine made Ty’s teeth clench and eardrums ache.
“Fuck off, man!” he screamed. “Cover, cover, cover!”
“Reinforcements are here! Pump’em up before they get us!” Brown shouted. Unseeing, his hand hectically waved Hadenfeldt away. “And you, go!”
Hadenfeldt cursed, the words overpowered by the obnoxious noise. He reached the bullet-ridden doorway and threw himself and Pascuzzo behind the next wall.
Ty hoped that it’d be enough.
As soon as he was gone, the men aimed their grenade launchers and fired, hailing the building on the other side of the street with volatile madness.
For a second, everything was eerily silent. Nothing registered, not the dull sounds of more bombardment from the other side of the enemy house nor the warning howl that hopefully made their enemies wet their pants before they got busted.
And then the missiles hit concrete and steel and Ty witnessed fiery mayhem. White-hot sparks exploded into orange fireballs that ripped apart everything in the immediate vicinity. Heat and too much light burned his eyes before he could close them, and so he curled up in an attempt to let the blast wash over his back. His suit took the brunt of the impact, thank God, but the sudden, dry heat that raced over the street and through the hollow windows still cut off his air supply, making him fight every instinct he had to gasp out for breath and choke on the smoke and dust.
When he finally heard the rough, bossy voices of their rescue troops, he bonelessly sprawled on the floor and let his head thunk back against the wall. Hands helped him up and someone asked if he was okay.
After that, it was back to the base. Not the camp, because Pascuzzo needed a real hospital and not a field doc to save his arm, but Ty didn’t care. He was just glad to see everybody still breathing, although Pascuzzo didn’t look too well, lying on a stretcher on the floor in the back of the van and frowning with pain despite being doped with painkillers that could put a horse to sleep. His sleeve was cut off completely (and man, he could totally hear the higher-ups grouse about the money this stunt would cost them) and his arm tightly wrapped with a clean pressure bandage. Hadenfeldt sat right beside him, absently stroking the bloody forearm with one hand and fingering his gun with the other. The fingers of Pascuzzo’s glove peeked out of his pocket like curious rabbit ears.
Feeling tired and drained, Ty leaned back in his seat and ignored the bite of the seatbelt as the car shot uncaringly over debris-covered roads. With one boot at Pascuzzo’s hip he kept him steady, finding comfort in the casual gesture and knowing that he gave comfort in return.
All would be well, at least this time.