Fracture (10 page)

     “‘…mind getting the knife out of my boot?’” I smile at the quote. “So full of innuendo.”

     “Good movie, too. Aren’t you a little young to have seen it?”

     “They have these handy things called DVDs. I saw it in college.” Movie nights were our alternative to going out and getting trashed every weekend. “God, I haven’t seen a movie in years.” I’d loaded a number of them onto my laptop before we left and brought a few along as well, but I haven’t watched many. Not since Ryan died.

     “The city isn’t completely cut off from the outside world.”

     It might as well have been. Cell coverage is spotty, Internet connectivity worse, and they’d stopped delivering mail regularly months ago. On the rare occasion a mail truck makes it through the city’s borders, people flock to the post office, hoping for news of the outside. Yes, we have electricity, running water, news coverage and satellites, if you know how to find it.

     I just made the conscious decision to avoid contact with the world outside Sarajevo. To protect my family and friends, I told myself, give them plausible deniability.

     “I know,” I say quietly, “but it hasn’t done me any good.” Cold, flat words, tainted with anger from my parents. Confusion from my brother. Grief and disbelief from Ryan’s family. Ignorance from my friends, unaware of how dangerous it’s gotten over here. And once I left the embassy, going home stopped being an option.

     There. There it is. A slight crack in the floorboards. The edge digs into my fingertips as I pry it up. “Is there a light or something on that table?”

     He flicks on the bedside lamp. “Better?”

     I snort in response and stretch out on my belly. Two large camera bags sit on top of a sleek laptop, cables jumbled and catching on the edges. “You’ll have to check the camera bags yourself.” Stacking the equipment on the floor, I scoot back and come up on my knees as Declan sits up, placing his feet on the floor. “Do you need to rest longer?”

     He winces. “No. Not gonna make it hurt any less.” He unzips the first camera bag and pulls out a lens. “There’s a bag in the closet for the laptop. Unless they trashed that, too.”

     It takes a minute to find it, buried under a small heap of blankets and sheets and towels, some ripped to pieces. I slide the laptop inside along with the cables and zip it closed. “Where did you find a dark room in this city?”

     “Didn’t. Why?”

     I lift the strap over my head, settling it across my body before picking up one of the camera bags. “There’s photo paper all over your living room.”

     He grabs the second camera bag and slings it over his good shoulder. “I’ve got a small printer. It’s easier to see how a photo will turn out if you print it. Computer screens can distort things.”

     “Oh.” We make our way out of the flat, pausing at the top of the stairs. He refuses my help, clutching the bannister as he clumps down the stairs. The street is eerily quiet — no more sirens, no more shouts. The sky’s cleared enough for the moon to cast its fitful light over the broken buildings, and I stare up at them as we pass, for once not caring who finds me.

     The tumbled bricks and splintered wood, glass shards glittering in between, hurt to look at. “This used to be such a beautiful city, and they keep destroying it. You have to wonder if they’re going to give up someday and just let it rot.” It’s not the first time the city’s been split apart by a violence so fierce it rubs out its history. We pass an abandoned church, the doors hanging from their hinges, the façade stripped of anything of value. Nothing’s sacred here anymore. Not even God.

     Declan huffs out a breath. “It’s still a beautiful city. You need to look past the destruction.”

     I could. But it’s safer, familiar, to sink down, let the gloom wrap itself around me like a warm cloak. Shaking it off, rebuilding the hope inside that I can make this new life work for me is a terrifying prospect. I don’t want to face it without Ryan. That wasn’t the plan.

     “How long are you here for?” My brain’s folding in on itself, dragging me to that place where I spend days in bed, unmoving.

     “What day is it? I was probably supposed to contact the extraction team a day ago. Or more.”

     I smirk. “Extraction team? What is this, SEAL team six?” 

     His answering laugh blows away the shadows crowding my brain. “I don’t know what they’d call it. That’s what I call them. A highly skilled group of people who are supposed to get me out of a city no one can get into.”

     “How
did
you get into the city? All the checkpoints are under heavy guard, and I heard the countryside isn’t much better than the city.”

     He’s quiet for a moment, the thunk of his boot echoing off the buildings. “It’s not as bad, but it’s getting there. I was dropped a few miles from a checkpoint and walked in.”

     “But that must have taken hours!” I knew it was possible to sneak out of the city on foot; plenty of people had done so already. Every so often I’d start making plans of my own before I remembered I had no money, no passport, and no clue how to go about sneaking into another country and not get tossed out. It’s easier to stay put, even as it chips away at my sanity.

     “I needed the pictures.”

     He doesn’t say anything after that, and we walk the rest of the way to my flat in silence. Once inside, it’s clear the distance was more than he should have gone, his hair damp with sweat, lips flattened with pain. He fishes the pills out of his pocket, pops two free of the pack.

     I stop him before he can swallow. “Go on. I’ll get you some water.” I point through the open bedroom door and follow him inside, scooping up wayward clothing and tossing it in the closet. After filling a glass in the kitchen, I bring it to him, waiting while he swallows the pills. I grab one of the pillows and take it out to the couch.

     He’s climbed into bed when I return for an extra blanket. Too different, too many faces, and I can’t reconcile his earlier words with the man in front of me. “You didn’t really mean that, did you? Earlier?”

     “If you’re going to be vague about it, yes, I meant it.”

     I open my mouth to continue, and some part of my mind scolds me. The horse is dead. It’s time to stop beating it. This aching, beaten man is far more complex than he’ll admit. That’s all I need to know.

     And I’ll do well to remember he only kissed me so the next time I murmur a man’s name in my sleep, it’d be his.

     “Never mind,” I mutter. “Good night.” I shut the door behind me, strip off my clothes, and fall onto the couch, squirming to pull the blankets over me.

     The dreams that come are fractured, fragments of Ryan and I, pieces of Declan, and always, always a city bent on grinding itself into the dust.

     Obviously, the “club” doesn’t open the next night.

     Murat comes by with detailed descriptions of the carnage, and my anger rises with each word. Pointless, completely and utterly pointless. Innocent people dying because not so innocent people think it’s a good tactic to keep others in line.

     Declan just gives me a mild look as I sit fuming, hands clenched into fists. “Going out?” he asks once Murat leaves.

     “No,” I mutter. I’m not stupid enough to go tearing through the streets to find Cristian and demand an explanation for the government’s actions. This isn’t my war, anyway. Who wins isn’t my concern. I can’t bring myself to stop stringing him along, not yet. The information he unwittingly passed on is why there were Molotov cocktails at the ready the day Declan was beaten.

     And I can’t quite give up the hope that he might be able to help clear my name so I can go home.

     Morning slides into afternoon, into evening, into night, and we wake and do it all over again. Days pass. We spend hours sitting in the quiet of my flat, sometimes reading, sometimes having actual conversations where those little tidbits you glean about one another are exchanged. He’s the oldest of five and older than me. Our mutual love of
The Master and Margarita
leads to the discovery of other favorite books and movies, though his taste in music is atrocious. I tell him about the time I convinced my brother I was Santa’s special helper and could get him anything he wanted for Christmas as long as he was my slave. He told me how he’d dislocated his shoulder twice before, once playing rugby, once reaching for a shot on location in Kabul.

     “You’ve been to Afghanistan? By choice?” Another level of hell. A hot, swirling dust storm of hell.

     He shrugs, then rotates his injured shoulder. He can do it now without the fine lines of strain running over his face. “The money was good.”

     “I’m beginning to sense a pattern here,” I say dryly. “You just love being tossed into volatile situations, don’t you?”

     His grin is bright and quick. The bruising on his face has mostly shaded to yellow, the swelling negligible. The expression shouldn’t be charming. It is, and it disturbs me on a level that’s still insulted by the cocky bastard who pops up at random moments.

     It’s cozy, disconcertingly so, and I'm frustrated by the fact that he doesn’t touch me and goes to bed each night in
my
bed while I’m left with the couch.

     We have more company. Ismael, bearing alcohol. Doctor Gudelj to check his shoulder. Zlata comes over and flirts outrageously with Declan, and he’s borderline rude. It doesn’t deter her in the slightest. In fact, I think she gets off on it. Strange, having people over, after month upon month of keeping my location a secret.

     “You have a sweetheart waiting for you? A lover? She must be anxious.” Zlata’s fingers run down his forearm, and I can see the skin twitching from here.

     He leans forward and picks up the glass of water on the table. “I just take them as they come along. We fuck, I leave, I come back, she’s no longer in the picture. It’s a good system.” That grin again. Yes, definitely disturbing.

     Zlata’s hands are wandering again. “I like the way you think.” Her smile is slow and sly.

     Subtle, Zlata. Real subtle.

     Mila takes one look at him and immediately pulls me into the kitchen. Her words tumble over themselves and she loses her English in her excitement, but based on her sister’s reaction I think she’s telling me how hot Declan is. Which is weird, because he’s not.

     She blushes and fumbles her way through a stilted conversation with him, or stilted on her part, since all she seems to be capable of is staring.

     By the time she leaves there’s a black cloud hanging over my head. I haven’t left the flat since the night of the bombs, and I can’t handle being trapped in here with him.

     Except up until the sisters showed up, I hadn’t felt trapped.

     “I’m going to see if there are any vacant flats around.” I slip on my sneakers and grab my coat. My legs are begging for a run.

     “Why?” He’s fiddling with something on his laptop and keeps his eyes on the screen.

     “Because I’d like my bed back.”

     He glances up, one side of his mouth lifting in a smirk as he studies me. “You got something against sharing?”

     The proposition combined with his expression, so smug, so arrogant, should not have heat gathering between my thighs. “Why would I want to share a bed with a man I know is just going to shunt me aside sooner rather than later?”

     “Because it would be fun.” Lacing his hands behind his head, he leans back, eyes glinting with amusement.

     “Not my idea of a good time.” I shrug my coat on. “You’re getting a new flat. I’ll be back in a while.”

     His smirk drops away, a blank mask sliding into place. “Good luck with that, lass.”

     It rained earlier, the wet chasing away the stench of smoke. I’ve let too much time lapse. I swing through one of my usual routes, the end point one of the supply drop offs. I need to find new ones. Can’t become predictable. The old storefront is boarded over and empty, the back loading dock a perfect place for food supplies to be unloaded, away from the prying eyes of the neighborhood.

     Edging through the broken door hidden behind a stack of crates, I let my eyes adjust to the gloom of the interior before tiptoeing forward, listening for voices. I switch on the tiny flashlight stuffed in my pocket. They’ve been here recently, and I snag a few cans of food and a loaf of sandwich bread, then break the seal on a refrigerated crate. Eggs! Oh my god, actual eggs. And butter. Saliva pools in my mouth. Drooling would be a bad idea.

     My cache of burlap sacks hasn’t been moved, and I grab one and fill it with the food I’m swiping. Stashing it near the exit so I can sneak in and carry it home later, I head for the next alley, the next drop. Medical supplies. The clinic’s okay for a while, supply–wise, which is a good thing because I missed the truck and the crates have been moved to their final destination.

     Winding through the neighborhood, venturing further out in search of more information, I almost miss Cristian as he stalks down the opposite side of the street. The fury I’d felt when I learned of the waste laid to the hospital rises, and I struggle to bank it. Anger won’t do me any good here.

     I suck in a breath and step out onto the street, hurrying across to catch up to him. “Cristian!” I hiss.

     He whirls around. The heavy scowl on his face transforms into a bright smile, one that’s not entirely faked. “Nora.” He reaches out and pulls me to him, kissing my cheek as usual. Then he crowds us into a doorway. Always so concerned we’ll be caught. I’m grateful for his paranoia, though. In a neighborhood where the residents have consciously chosen to remain neutral, being seen fraternizing with either side brings up questions you can’t answer.

     “Did you do it? Did the government blow up the hospital?” Crap, there goes my anger.

     He freezes, then nods slowly. “It was necessary.”

     “Really?” I say bitterly. “It was necessary to blow up people who were unable to defend themselves?”

     Ice hangs from his words. “It was necessary to stop the rebels from regaining strength and advancing. Many of those who died were their soldiers or sympathizers. The few that weren’t were unfortunate collateral damage.”