Invasion: California

us thinking?”

That brought a flicker of annoyance to Romo’s hatchet features. He pushed the barrel against Paul’s left cheek.

“You fled the battlefield, Gunnery Sergeant. You left Maria Valdez for the Chinese torturers. They abused her and cut her into pieces, mailing those to the Colonel.”

“They’re sick bastards,” Paul said. He was about to say more, but he closed his mouth instead. What good would it do to tell Romo how it had eaten at him, leaving Maria? It had reminded him too much of the Arctic, out there on the pack ice. The Chinese had butchered Maria like an animal, huh. It figured.

“Put your hands behind your back,” Romo said.

Paul laughed. “That’s right, I’m going to let you hogtie me so you can play your games. Screw you, Romo. Shoot if you think you have to. Earn your pay.”

Romo moved fast, taking the tip of the barrel away from Paul’s check and swinging it down toward his leg. Paul figured he had nothing left to lose. He didn’t see Frank or the other Mexican. It must mean it was just the two of them. Paul jerked his leg aside as Romo pulled the trigger. The bullet creased his pant leg and his flesh, leaving a furrow, but it failed to incapacitate. The assault-rifle’s kick against Romo’s shoulder gave Paul a fraction of a second to act, and he used it. He thrust himself at Romo and kicked up as hard as he could. It was an old-fashioned groin kick, catching the assassin even though Romo instinctively tried to block by twisting his hips and closing his legs.

The toe of Paul’s boot did its job. Romo crumpled as only getting smashed in the balls could do. The assassin released the assault rifle and flopped onto the ground. He clutched his groin, groaning, rolling on the dirt.

Paul grabbed the rifle, put the barrel against Romo’s head and started applying pressure to the trigger.

“Hey, what’s going on?” That sounded like Frank.

Paul took two steps away from Romo and looked up. Frank the Recon Marine carried a canteen in each hand. Behind him was the other assassin. He had a heavy pistol in his hand, held against his leg.

“Our Mexicans were ordered to kill me because Valdez’s daughter got captured on a mission I happened to survive,” Paul said. “The Chinese chopped her up and mailed the parts to her father.”

Frank swore under his breath.

Before Paul could tell him the same thing he’d told Romo, shots rang out from behind the other two. They came from the bushes fifty yards away. The Mexican gunman groaned and sagged down. Frank dove onto his belly.

Paul hit the dirt as bullets zinged past him. Bushes shook over there. Yeah, Paul spotted barrels poking out. He fired at a bush, slithering backward, firing and slithering some more.

Frank tried to do the same thing. Chinese fire hit him. With his assault rifle and as he shouted, Frank sprayed the bushes. The Chinese sprayed back. A round caught Frank in the face and the former drill sergeant deflated as death claimed him.

A second burst caused the gunman to scream in agony. It was a terrible sound. Maybe it rattled the Chinese soldiers. They stopped firing for a moment.

It gave Paul time to slither into hiding behind a grassy knoll. He popped up as Romo crawled after him. For the first time there was something new on the assassin’s face. It was grim determination to survive. Paul fired at Chinese soldiers, giving the assassin cover. He wasn’t sure why he helped Romo. Maybe the man’s determination showed him that a portion of Romo’s humanity yet remained.

A second later, the assassin panted beside Paul while peering up over the knoll.

The Chinese soldiers fired again, killing the gunman and ending the dreadful screaming.

“We got a problem,” Paul said.

Romo eyed him strangely, with seemingly mixed emotions.

“You want to see me suffer and the Chinese want to kill me,” Paul said.

“No…the problem is that you have a rifle and I don’t.”

“There’s one out there,” Paul said, indicating Frank’s assault rifle.

Romo’s nostrils widened. His head whipped forward as the Chinese started firing at them. Well, they fired at the grassy knoll, as both men ducked down. Bullets chewed the soil. How soon would it be until the Chinese fired some grenades?

“Do you know how many are out there?” Paul asked.

Romo shook his head.

Paul kept low. He needed to think, to use his wits and figure out what made the most sense. They were behind enemy lines—far behind them—and the Big One might have already started. Romo was a bastard, and Frank and the gunman were dead. Hmm. Those two might have died anyway. Yeah, the place must be crawling with Chinese for those soldiers to have stumbled on them like this.

Cheri. Mike. What was going to happen to his family? He had to make it back to LA and make sure they were okay.

Romo popped up his head, maybe to see what the enemy was doing. The action brought immediate fire. The assassin ducked behind the knoll as bullets plowed dirt and hissed overhead uncomfortably near.

Paul crawled up, shooting back as he pulled the trigger twice. It made his rifle kick, letting him know it was alive and well. If he didn’t fire back, the Chinese might start getting brave. As he slid back behind the knoll, he noticed Romo with a knife in his hands, and turned his rifle toward him.

“No!” Romo said, holding up the knife, turning it sideways. “This isn’t to kill you.”

“You’re going to fight them with it?” Paul asked with a sneer.

“We have to flee.”

“I’m heading out alone,” Paul said.

“Two are stronger than one,” Romo said.

“Usually that’s true. But I can’t trust you. So no, one is better this time.”

Romo nodded. “You should think this… Why did you help me just now?”

“Reflex, I guess. Don’t let it bother you.”

“That is the second time you helped, maybe saved my life.”

“Yeah?” Paul asked.

Romo frowned intently. “I owe you a great debt. But I am the Colonel’s man.”

“Keep thinking about it. I’m leaving.”

“No. Wait. You and I…we must become blood brothers.”

Paul stared at the man. “Are you nuts? Blood brothers, like Indian mumbo-jumbo? You just tried to kill me.”

“Not Indian,” Romo said, “but White Mountain Apache.”

“Apache like the little feather in your ear? Since you’re Mexican, you must be Aztec.”

The dead eyes came alive as if shutters opened into Romo’s soul. It showed a blaze of emotion.

“Do not tell me what I am, white man. In the old days, Apaches often raided into Mexico. They took women, one of them my great grandmother.”

Paul noticed a lull in the enemy gunfire. He lifted up and fired a burst, causing three Chinese soldiers to dive back into cover. He slid down and began crawling away. Romo crawled beside him, with the knife still in his hands.

“You feel you cannot trust me,” Romo said as he crawled. “I understand. But you saved my life twice now. I owe you a debt, and I pay my debts, always. Besides, we need each other if we’re going to make it back alive.”

“I don’t need you,” Paul said. “I’ll make it by myself.”

“You are greased death, this I know. But you will need to sleep sometimes. Then you will need a lookout. I will need the same thing.”

Figuring they were far enough away, Paul climbed to his feet and began to run past trees. He wore combat fatigues, his helmet and a few supplies on his belt. The rucksack was back at the temporary encampment with Frank and the gunman’s corpses.

Romo ran tirelessly beside him.

Soon, Paul slowed to a walk. He heard shouting Chinese behind them. Last night had taken its toll. He had been battered, smashed and might have gotten a concussion. Yeah, he could probably use some help. Did it really