He stepped into an alley and out onto a busy street. It was clear there was a lively nightlife here.
Banja Luka was made up of mostly Serbs, who had driven Bosniaks, Croats, Roma, and others out of the city.
He stopped a passerby and asked for directions to the safe house. The man smiled at Chry in his arms, and 2-Stroke made a joke about too much libation. The man laughed and continued on. His stomach growled at the smell of meat grilling, coffee thick in the air as he passed numerous coffeehouses.
He started toward the area where the man had pointed. He walked the block, turned right, then left and found himself on the street he was looking for. He stopped in front of the house.
He looked for a good place to set Chry down and found a secluded garden area, hiding her under bushes. He dug in her pack for the key and approached the house slowly. It was dark, no lights shone in the windows, but it was clear someone was doing landscaping and maintenance. He walked up the sturdy back steps and fitted the key in the lock. The door opened easily, and the house smelled clean, like someone had just scrubbed the place.
Pulling the handgun from his holster, he entered the tidy kitchen, the hum of the appliances soft in the air. He checked closets and moved into the living room, then climbed the stairs to check both upstairs bedrooms and the bathroom situated between them. There was no one there.
He quickly descended the stairs and retrieved Chry, shaking at the cold. He was worried about her, the blood still seeping from her wound. He started up his combat breathing to calm himself. Panicking would lead to mistakes and, in this case, death. With his training kicking in, he was thankful for the way it always saved him, kept him grounded. Keep a clear, calm head and he would get through this, get Chry through this. Re-entering the house, he closed and locked the door, then without turning on any lights, headed for the stairs. The stairs creaked gently on the risers as his boots barely made a sound. Once he was in the largest bedroom, he set her on the bed
He went to the bathroom and flipped on the light. He found a fully stocked first aid kit under the sink and he headed back to the bedroom.
He stripped off her wet clothes, covered her lightly with the throw at the end of the bed. He went to the dresser and found underclothes and jeans. He pulled out a clean white T-shirt and briefs along with a pair of jeans that looked like they would fit him. He dressed, then took all of the wet clothes to the bathroom and dropped them all into the tub.
He grabbed the first aid kit and pulled off the throw. She shivered and groaned, then opened her eyes.
“Neo,” she whispered in a panicked tone. She reached for him and he clasped her hand.
“It’s all right, babe. We’re at the safehouse.” He pulled on the gloves in the kit.
She relaxed back as he assessed her wound. It was low on her abdomen, just above her hip. He slipped his hand under her butt and gently turned her, then breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s a through and through,” he said.
“Good.” She licked her lips. “No bullet.”
There was still debris he needed to clean out of her wounds. He found some painkiller and rushed to the bathroom for a cup and some water so she could swallow them. With a pair of tweezers, he worked quickly to pull bits and pieces of cloth out of the wounds. Chry gasped a couple of times, but otherwise she was a trooper. He opened up several packets of cleansing wipes and thoroughly cleaned the wound. She was still bleeding bad enough, but he’d have to make do without battle gauze or pressure bandages. He packed both wounds with regular gauze, then helped her to sit up. She groaned and clutched at him, her wet hair falling over her breasts. He pressed one large gauze pad to the front wound and the back, then rolled tape tightly around her waist. As gently as he could, he helped her to lie back down.
He cleared up all the first aid debris and pulled off the gloves, wishing for his tac vest that had his own personal first aid kit with antibiotics. He would have to see if he could get his hands on some. She was going to need them.
He rose and went back to the dresser, searching until he found a soft pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. He helped her to dress, then lifted her, jerked down the covers, and set her back down, pulling the blanket over her.
He went downstairs to the fridge and found bottled water, cold cuts, and bread. He made several sandwiches and some chicken noodle soup he found in the pantry.
Back upstairs, he made her drink one whole bottle of water and coaxed most of the broth from the canned soup into her. Only then did he let her sleep.
It was his plan to go to the consulate here in town and get their help. He wasn’t sure if they could even protect them from Darko. The man had no regard for international laws. He and Zasha were nothing but renegade thugs.
He guessed that Darko would go to the consulate first. He had no idea how much time they had, but Chry couldn’t travel in the shape she was in. For now, they were safe, and for now, she was bandaged, fed, and hydrated.
He headed for the dresser where he’d set his gun. He gripped it, found some oil downstairs and broke down the firearm, cleaned and dried it, then put it back together. He thumbed on the safety and set it next to him.
He sat down in the chair beside the bed and watched her sleep. His body was fatigued, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest. Someone else had a key to this house. He would need to keep watch in case they came back.
Reaching out, he brushed her partially dried hair off her face but she didn’t stir. He checked her pulse for his own peace of mind and sighed when it was strong.
All day as they rode toward the river, he’d wrestled with his feelings at the same time as he kept vigilant. It was now second nature.
His feelings weren’t.
He couldn’t outrun all the things that were chasing him. That rage. It had scared the hell out of him. So much anger, pain, and frustration, and not all of it was tied to seeing Chry practically getting blown up.
He was sure he couldn’t outrun himself—or images of her. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Chry as she’d been early this morning, her naked body gleaming in the moonlight, the aching truth in her eyes when she’d told him she loved him.
But it wasn’t just her. There were other disturbing memories taking shape at the edges of his mind, memories he didn’t want to let out. He had learned a long time ago how to erect barriers. Even as a kid, he’d known how to do it. He had tried to do it with Chry. And now all those things were shifting around in his head, and it scared the hell out of him. He knew deep down in his gut that the flashbacks and the haunting nightmares were stemming from an unwillingness to deal with anything to do with his past.
When he’d shut it all down after Riley’s death, it had to include Chry, but now she was bringing back so much, and he was drowning in the sensations.
If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the day he’d left. It was as if so much of his world was ending…and maybe it had. He was going to BUD/S, and there was no room for anything, hadn’t been room since he was fourteen. But lying in the barracks on that first night and seeing her number come up on his phone made him feel like he’d slammed face first into a concrete barrier.
Fury had erupted inside him at the unfairness of life, a fury he channeled into determination that got him through BUD/S at the top of his class.
But now that uncontrollable anger was back. He would have to understand it, wade through it, force himself to face it all, or he would certainly lose his mind.