Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Saving Sarah (Kindle Worlds Novella) (New Orleans Connection Series Book 7) (9 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Darkness surrounded him.  He reached out, fingers touching a wall of some kind.  With each step forward, his fingertips skimmed its hard surface.  He knew it was a dream, though he didn't know how he knew—the knowledge was simply there. 

Before him in the distance a faint light outlined a door.  Every instinct screamed for him to open that door.  The answers he sought waited behind its closed portal.

He took another step forward, and then another.  It felt like he was slogging his way through knee-deep sand, yet he soldiered on.  The closer he got, the brighter the light shone around the door, a halo of golden light. 

After what felt like hours, though he knew it was mere seconds, he'd gone far enough to stand before the white panels.  His heartbeat raced, thumping so hard in his chest he thought it would explode outward—whether in anticipation or fear he wasn't sure, but it didn't matter.  Getting through the door became his priority. 

"She's in there, you know." 
Sarah
.  Where had she come from?  She hadn't been there moments before.

"I've been with you the whole time, you just didn't notice me." 

"You think Anna's behind that door?"  He gestured toward the still-closed passage. 

"Don't you?" 

His gut agreed with her.  Anna's essence beckoned him from behind the door.  A sense of rightness spilled through him.  This was it.  The moment he'd been both waiting for and dreading, merging into this one final outcome.  The dreams had changed and morphed over the last few days—from those at the beginning where Anna was dead.  Brutally murdered, her body battered and bruised almost beyond recognition, with her haunting eyes gazing sightlessly.  The last dreams showed her still alive—and waiting for him to rescue her. 

"Let's go save her." 

His hand turned the doorknob and he pushed the door inward.  Light spilled across the jamb, and he glanced toward Sarah, noting the look of pure joy on her face.  Taking a step forward, his feet sank into thick blue carpet, it's rich color a stark contrast against his combat boots. 

"Anna?"  Sarah called out, her voice filled with hope.  "Where are you?" 

Silence.  No answering cry of welcome.  No racing into her sister's embrace.  Had he been wrong? 

A soft whimper, so faint he almost missed it, came from across the room.  Sprinting forward, he shot past the bed toward another open doorway that led to a bathroom. 

Anna lay curled into a ball, huddled against the vanity, her face obscured by a fall of dark hair, her forehead against the rim of the tub.  Blood spread in a spiderweb pattern across the marble tile floor, though her shoulders rose and fell in shallow breaths. 

"Anna?" 

Her body stilled at the sound of his voice, and he waited, afraid to step closer.  A soft sigh escaped her lips when she finally raised her head off the edge of the bathtub.  Very slowly, she turned to look at him—though he wondered how she could see him at all. 

Both eyes were nearly swollen shut, ringed with bruises.  A cut a couple of inches long spanned her forehead, crusted with drying blood.  A knot the size of a goose egg decorated the side of her jaw, and there was a cut on her lip which dribbled a trail of red.

"I know you." 

His eyes widened and he took a step forward, getting closer, though moving very gingerly, trying not to spook her.  She looked in bad shape, almost as bad as his dreams at the beginning. 

"I knew you'd come.  I waited for you, my warrior."  She tried to smile but raised a hand to her lip, because it opened the cut and started bleeding again. 

"My name is Ranger."

She got a faraway look in her eyes.  "I dreamed about you, you know.  Knew you'd come for me, knew you'd find me." 

A gasp sounded behind him, and he heard hasty footsteps on the marble.  "Anna, sweetheart…"

"Hi, Sarah.  I like your friend."  As if she'd exhausted her last ounce of strength, she slumped back against the vanity, her head lolling to the side.  Ranger barely reached her in time to keep it from smacking against the porcelain tub. 

"We have to get her out of here!"  Sarah's voice echoed throughout the bathroom.  Ranger wholeheartedly agreed with her, sliding his hands beneath Anna's body.  He stood, cradling her against his chest, shocked at how frail and delicate she appeared. 

"Can't go."  Her words were slurred.  "Monster will find us." 

"The monster won't get you, honey."  Ranger made the solemn promise, meaning every word.  Anybody tried to touch her, and he'd send them to the fiery pits of hell personally. 

Anna reached up and cupped his jaw, and he noted two fingers were twisted and probably broken.  Damn, but she'd taken a lot of abuse, and he felt guilt sweep through him.  He should have found her sooner.  Searched harder. 

Her small hand patted his cheek.  "Don't feel sad, Ranger.  There's still time, but you have to hurry.  This hasn't happened yet.  Hurry," she repeated, "because the monster is coming back—soon." 

He ignored Sarah's gasp as he strode past her, Anna in his arms.  An impending sense of doom shot through him, instead of the elation he should feel at the knowledge that Anna wasn't dead. 

The slamming of a door stopped him in his tracks, Sarah right beside him.  The room had darkened to almost black, the daylight that had shone moments earlier through the big windows giving way to dusk, though there was still enough light to see the figure silhouetted against the door—huge and menacing—and blocking the only exit from the room. 

"It's too late," Anna whispered, her body trembling within his arms, "the monster is here." 

# # # # #

Ranger bolted upright, his breath burning in his chest, as he gasped for air.  What in the hell was that?  He'd never had a dream like that before.  He swung his legs over the side of the sofa, sitting upright, and scrubbed his hands over his face.  Felt the sweat soaking his skin. 

After they'd talked with Walter, Remy made them head back home, refusing to let them go and question the bartender.  Said that was his job, he was a professional, and knew how to check out Danny's story better than two amateur wannabe detectives. 

They'd waited around for hours, but he hadn't called them yet, so obviously he was still checking into Danny's alibi for the timeframe in question.  While he sat on his hands, doing nothing—feeling useless. 

"Ranger?" 

Damn, he must have made a noise and woke her.  Sarah stood silhouetted against the dim light from the hall.  He was still shaky from the aftereffects of the dream, and not ready to face her.  It was too fresh—too real. 

"Sorry if I woke you." 

"You didn't, I was awake."  She walked into the living room and sat on the edge of the coffee table, directly across from him.  "Sounded like a bad dream."

"You could say that." 

"Want to talk about it?" 

He stared at her, and felt something shift inside.  There wouldn't be any more holding the truth back from her.  Let her think he was a freak, if he didn't open up, he'd shatter into a million pieces. 

"Yeah, but we're gonna need coffee first."  He stood, his knee bumping against hers.  With a graceful move, she took his hand and rose, walking with him to the kitchen.  He held onto her hand for one heartbeat, then two, before pressing a soft kiss against her palm and releasing it, motioning for her to sit at the peninsula.

Moving around the kitchen, he popped a coffee pod into the machine, before opening a cabinet door and yanking down two mugs.  Sliding one into the machine, he hit the button and waited, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. 

"What time is it?" 

He glanced at the clock on the microwave.  "Five thirty."  They hadn't gotten a lot of sleep, since they'd only gotten back to his place after two a.m. 

She rested her elbow on the countertop, her cheek in her hand, and yawned. 

"Why don't you go back to bed, sugar.  Get a little more sleep." 

"No, tell me about your dream." 

He shrugged, trying to downplay it, though he wished he could forget it that easily.  That damned timeclock was counting down in the back of his head, like a ticking time bomb. 

"I don't know where to start."  He passed her the mug, and got out the milk and sugar, passing them as well, knowing she liked her coffee really sweet and creamy, then started the machine for his own cup. 

"Start wherever you feel comfortable."  She took a sip and closed her eyes, her expression blissful. 

"The beginning goes back a long time, to when I was a kid.  I'd have dreams about stuff that would come true." 

"That must have been nice." 

He shrugged.  "Sometimes.  But then they started taking a darker turn.  I'd dream about something bad happening and it did."  He waited a beat to see if she'd say anything, but she simply took another sip of coffee, looking at him, curiosity written on her face. 

"I didn't talk about them much, because people tended to look at me funny.  The ones who didn't understand called me a freak."

"That's awful.  Nobody should talk about a child like that.  Dreams are a gift."

"Maybe for most people—mine are more like a curse."  He took a big hit of his coffee, putting the mug on the countertop when he noticed his hand trembling.  Aftereffects of the dream or the rage he felt bottled up inside? 

"I stopped telling anybody about the dreams, and after a while they stopped.  Until I got back from Afghanistan.  Then they started again.  The therapist the V.A. sent me to said it was PTSD, but that was a load of…" 

"I didn't know you were in Afghanistan."  There wasn't any judgment in her gaze, no sympathy, just simple understanding. 

"Yeah.  That's where I met Wolf and his team."  He threaded his fingers through his hair, pulling the long strands off his forehead.  "Anyway, the dreams started up again right after that.  My mom used to call them prophetic dreams.  Stuff that was going to happen or meant to happen.  I see it, as vivid and real as a movie playing out on the screen." 

"And you had one just now?"

"Before that.  I should have told you from the beginning.  Dammit, I just didn't know how."

He saw the moment she understood his words, with the slight stiffening of her posture, the precise way she set the mug onto the counter. 

"You dreamed about Anna."  It wasn't a question.

He blew out a deep breath.  "Before I ever met you, I'd been having dreams about a dark-haired girl I'd never seen before.  Strange dreams, not like the ones I normally have.  These weren't crystal clear, more like abstract and distorted, but yeah, I dreamed about Anna."  

"What did you see?"  There was no hesitation, only a simple demand for the truth.

"Sarah…"

"What.  Did.  You.  See." 

"Death."

Her indrawn gasp of breath spoke louder than any words.  Even if she'd been expecting it, he shouldn't have blurted it out like that. 

"Anna was dead?" 

"Let me finish.  In the beginning, yeah, she was dead.  But," he raised a hand to stop her interruption, "the last couple of dreams have been different.  In them, she's still alive." 

"But you said your dreams always came true." 

He raked a hand through his hair again, a tic pulling at the scar in his cheek.  How could he explain what he didn't even understand himself?

"When I dream about something, it's always the same.  It doesn't vary or change in any way.  Until I started dreaming about Anna."

"What's different?"  Her body was drawn tight as a bowstring, but at least she still listened.  That was good.

"They're changing—the dreams.  They went from Anna being dead," he watched her wince but plowed forward, "to still alive.  Hurt, but there.  The dream tonight, I won't explain it, but let's just say if we don't find her soon, time is running out." 

"But she was still alive—in this dream?" 

"Yes."  Damn it, he might as well tell her.  "You were there too, in the dream."

"Me?" 

"When I found her, you were there, right by my side."

He watched her closely, could practically read every thought.  Knew even before she spoke what she'd ask for.  And what his response would be.

"Tell me the dream." 

"No."  Simple yet firm.

"You have to." 

"Sweetheart, I don't have to do a damned thing." 

She recoiled as if he'd struck her, and he cursed beneath his breath.  He hadn't meant to be so abrupt, but she didn't need to visualize what he'd dreamt.  It would hurt her too much.

"I see." 

He doubted it, she was too pissed to understand.  "Sarah, I…"

"Don't.  I'll get my things and go back to the hotel."

"Like hell you will.  Somebody already ransacked your room once.  I won't let you walk back into a dangerous situation.  They might come back, and you'll—"

"What?  Be helpless?  I've got news for you, Mr. Boudreau.  With or without your help, I am going to find my sister.  You want to withhold valuable information?  Fine.  I won't ask again."  She tugged at the bottom of the T-shirt she'd slept in, and his gaze was immediately drawn to her long legs beneath the hem, and the way it outlined her breasts.