Echoes of Vengeance

Candice's P.O.V.

The safe house we ran to was a plain little cabin in the hills outside L.A., the sort of place that smelled of pine and dust, and I was pacing the wooden boards of the floor, which creaked under my feet, my thoughts full of the pictures of the flames of the villa licking the sky and the devastation of the war cutting deeper into our lives and Mantovani sat at the rickety table cleaning his gun, his green eyes fixed but distant, his weight of leadership making him look invulnerable and at the same time, infinitely human. Sanna was lying in the corner on a cot with his burns bandaged by the gentle hands of Mom and she sat next him now, her fingers twisted and intertwisted with his, and their relationship a silent passion born of the ashes, that even in this messiness of things, the flame could still burn and the love not be killed. Conti, with his patched up face straining with every word, called out to the scattered company, with a low, urgent voice, which cut the sheriff in a dozen slices, and the mystery was increased when we learned that the stolen cellar books contained not alone a business account but personal records--birth certificates and old photographs and even letters of the deceased mother of Mantovani--and it was like stealing our souls of our very souls.

I ceased pacing, and kneeling beside Mantovani, my hand to his knee, touching the warmth of his skin through his jeans and he looked up and his features relaxed a moment and drew me upon his lap, where I fitted snugly in place, his arms encircling me like a blanket around me. You can not allow him to win this, I said, speaking softly with my lips against his ear, and he shook his head, and his breath was scalding my neck of his kiss, a caressing feeling that made the old fire between us burst into flame, transforming fear into lust, passion into strength. And we kissed now, slow and easy, his fingers creeping under my shirt to feel the contour of my back, and I melted against him, the familiar pain of having to forget the war a moment and not wanting to forget the war a moment and not wanting to desire the war a minute and not wanting to resist the war a minute, and Mom looked over and looked at me and at the same time knew I was all right and worried I was all right, but she never broke in, she realized that this was how we had made it.

In that cabin the night dragged on, the war looming like a ghost outside the window, and we sat at the table and had an improvised supper of canned soup and stale bread, Sanna speaking steadily as he outlined our revenge, getting Ryan to go outside and lure the sheriff into view--and Mom startled us all, her voice firm, "We must end this without any more blood, as far as possible; consider of the families on both sides, and we must remember that the sheriff is a human, as well as a reflection of ourselves, all the more so. Conti shook his head, bandaged shoulder and undefeated heart, and proposed that we spread false information in the ears of the sheriff through the moles we had captured, and get him into our trap, and Mantovani reached out his hand across the table and touched my hand, and his hand was a word that we should fight to the end together.

When the rest were asleep on cots and couches they brought me to a little bedroom in the rear, the door clicking behind us, and in the low light of a solitary bulb, Mantovani undress me and his hands lingered on each inch of my body and he was whispering, You are my anchor, Candice, in this storm, you are the only thing that keeps me straight, and as we made love on the narrow bed, by making love to me, slow and hard, every inch of the entry would be a proclamation against the cruelty of the war. He went in me with a beat that said never-endingly and his lips on mine and his hands on my hips and I fell on him, saying his name like a prayer, the relatable rapture of being lost in each other, and he was temporary glue that joined us together like no vow.

Morning was too soon, and the sun poured in between cracked blinds, and we were ready to strike, guns were drawn, vests strapped on, the reality of the war rested down on us like a heavy coat, and Ryan was blindfolded in the van, and pleadings of mercy fell on deaf ears, but that I could not help feeling a twinge of pity, I saw in him the boy he could have been without the shadow of his brother. Mom gave me a bear hug and then we drove away into the desert with the sun scorching us, and the intrigue was unfolding as Conti got the tip of a double agent--the sheriff had guess at our move, and set up decoys at the safe house, and mom said, "Go back to me, both of you,," and Sanna said, "Go well, son; close this chapter, and we drove into the desert, where the sun scorched down upon us.

The air of the desert had been dry and hot, and I felt it gluing my skin on as we headed towards the coordinates, dunes rising around like silent sentinels and Mantovani in coms told me to keep my eyes open, this might be a trap, but onward we went, our hearts flaming with righteousness. We approached the compound, under the thin cover of cacti, guns raised, and that, and inside, we did not meet the sheriff, but his lieutenants, a gun battle raging in the dark halls, and bullets leaped as I covered the flank of Mantovani, my shot killing a man leaping into the shadows, and the violence of war was a roar of noise and movement. Conti turned right and his wound only made him slower but not halt him, and room after room was cleared, and there were stores of arms and stolen files, and the intrigue bore us on, showing liaisons with cartels that increased the danger by far more than we had supposed.

Mantovani banged in the last door and a command center was shown, with maps on the walls, our villa marked in red, and there on one of the laptops was a live feed of the sheriff laughing in an unknown location, taunting, You think you can end me? I have only begun! and as we downloaded the data there was an alarm bell, the building was loaded with explosives, there were timers of five minutes. We ran, hauling prisoners of the officers, the desert heat beating us into a wall as we ran to the vans, Mantovani pushing me forward, and his hand could not be taken off, enthusiasm and fear stirring his eyes.

We had gotten out just as the safe house burst and the shockwave flung us into the street, and as we were driving away, dust clouding our mirrors, Mantovani kissed me and tasting like sweat and survival, "We're alive--that is all that counts and then Conti, speaking over his phone which we had snatched, "There is a message here--the sheriff to an unknown number: Phase two: take the princess to-night."