Page 58 of Hard Beat (Driven 7)
I collect as much information as possible – the destruction of buildings, the emotional devastation on civilians, gauge the hostility versus the willingness to help the soldiers, anything and everything to add to my report and allow the viewer to understand the magnitude and importance of this campaign. I take it all in, filter through the things I have to be vague on now and details to clear with Sarge later before I can give an in-depth report. All that matters is I find a place to set up right now, get the feed up live, and file a story before anyone else gets here.
So you’re the one.
I chuckle to myself, my mind flashing back to the first night I met Beaux and the comment she made that’s never been more true than right now. Yep, I’m the one that every reporter hates and wants to be all at the same time. I find a setup that I think will work to report from just as loud shouts break out across the square. Soldiers are physically coercing three men from a house who are not cooperating. The soldiers have their guns drawn on the locals as shouting escalates from both sides, hands gesticulating wildly to try and bridge the language barrier in an attempt to mediate an already volatile situation.
“Thomas?”
I look up to find Rosco bearing down on me. “Yeah?”
“We know it’s not your first rodeo, but Sarge wants to make sure you’re vague. No location. No confirmed hits on high-value targets. No —”
“I know the routine, Rosco. I’ll play by the rules,” I confirm, irritated he’s even saying anything as I look back down to my computer to finish setting up my connections.
It’s a split second that lasts a lifetime for me. So many things happen simultaneously, but at the same time feel like they are their own individual moments: I swear I hear “BJ” called somewhere behind me at the same moment I realize the constant comforting click of Beaux’s shutter is gone. I snap my head up just as Rosco’s eyes widen at something over my shoulder.
And I know in an instant that it’s something to do with Beaux. That gut instinct I’ve spent my career honing picks up on something, and my heart plummets to my feet.
“Beaux!”
We both call her name as I whirl around to make out what he’s seeing. She doesn’t hear us, too damn preoccupied with her camera in one hand and that big heart of hers that she wears on her sleeve. She’s walking toward a dog lamed by something wrapped around his hind quarters. He whimpers, tries to walk, and stumbles.
Everything clicks into place at once for me. Snapshots that play together to show what’s about to happen minus the sound of her shutter.
Pure, unfettered terror steals my voice as I move on instinct – fight-or-flight – and knock everything over, my only thought to get to Beaux.
Rosco’s shout rings through the chaos around us and adds to the riot of fear screaming in my own head.
Beaux stops a few feet from the dog before her body jerks at the absolute commanding terror in Rosco and my voices even though I swear no sound even came out of my mouth.
Her face. I know before anything further happens that the look on her face will forever be scarred in my mind. At first it’s confusion, parted lips, widened eyes, as she ever so slowly lowers her camera.
One second. All it takes is a split second for the confusion to morph into a perfect visual of
her panic-stricken fear that is like a vise grip on my heart.
My feet feel like they are wading through concrete, legs seizing up and not moving nearly fast enough to get to her.
She drops her camera. I don’t know why I focus on that, the sight of it falling and then stopping and recoiling back up like a bungee jumper when the strap around her neck loses slack.
Her body contorts, arms pumping, legs pushing, eyes locked on mine pleading with me in an apology I never want to accept.
C’mon, rookie, I call to her silently, urge her, beg her to put as much distance between herself and the dog caught in the improvised explosive device.
C’mon, baby.
The explosion rocks me to the core. The earth beneath my feet is nonexistent as I’m thrown into a spin cycle of smoke and sound and the complete unknown before my shoulders end up finding the ground again.
I’m stunned, shell-shocked, paralyzed. Unable to speak, can’t think, can’t hear anything except for a high-pitched ringing in my ears, and I am terrified to see.
Beaux?
Beaux.
Beaux!
My mind screams with fear; the horrific images of war in my memory mix with the thought of Beaux producing visuals I don’t want: her small body impossibly contorted, soft skin marred, long hair matted with blood. I hear the sound of Stella screaming in pain, but I’d swear it’s Beaux’s voice this time around.
Then the pain that radiates throughout my body and the sensation of my skull feeling like it’s beneath the wheel of a car rolling at an excruciatingly slow pace drown out everything else.
