Real Miracle

He’d been crazy to do this, to come here. To this street, tonight.

Frigid December air settled around Eli Austin as he sat in the driver’s seat of his parked car outside the old house and cursed his ill-advised decision.

He knew better. The somber weatherman he'd caught on the tube at the motel had warned that this Christmas Eve was going to be one for the record books. Better stay indoors, folks. Celebrate at home.

Ha! Celebrate. He hadn’t celebrated Christmas Eve or Day for three long, horrible years, and never would again. The night of the worst decision of his life?

No, thanks.

To make it worse, the car had vinyl seats, a killer in the dead of a sub-zero December night. The way the plastic bit into his ass, it was a wonder he had any feeling left.

But oh, he did. His gaze skimmed the old house left on the sorry-looking block, mostly ready for demolition. Oh, yeah.

Lots of feeling left there.

A fog of icy breath materialized in front of him, then dispersed quickly.

He should have stayed in the warmth at the cheesy motel. Rested up. Prepared mentally for the grueling job in the early hours of the morning that had to go off without a hitch, if he was to live.

Instead, he’d driven, eyes glued to the road, the weird gas gauge on the funky car dipping lower every three minutes.

He'd had to come here, to see the old place, one last time.

And he’d sat here, weirdly mesmerized, since.

If only, by sitting here a bit longer, time would shift and he’d find himself back in the scene he’d left, three years ago…able to make a different decision.

But no. It wasn’t possible. The wind screeched down the alleyway of the cold, winter street in one of Jack Bay’s most questionable neighborhoods. Rattled it thoroughly, with him inside it. Reminded him where he was in the stream of time, and that there wasn’t no going back.

So here he sat, on a bizarre Christmas Eve—when others were toasty warm inside with their families and loved ones, eyeing presents with anticipation, replaying the accumulated routines of holiday festivities together—on a forgotten road, in a dirty old car, cold and alone.

For going on two hours now.

He reached into his pocket, felt the only connection to the holiday he had. Puffy, plastic holiday stickers the little kid outside the department store had pressed into his hand earlier, insistent. Brown eyes wide, she’d focused on him, standing beside her older sister who was collecting for the disadvantaged. She’d approached him, out of the whole crowd of passersby, and then she’d dumped Santas, mistletoes, and cartoon reindeers into his palm. Ignored his quick smile, the shake of his head no.

Closed his fist around them with chubby little fingers, while never taking her eyes off his.

And then she’d melted back into the scene, beside her sister, as if she hadn’t just given him the whole clutch of Christmas stickers she doled out to the little kids walking by, one at a time.

He was still shaken by that, truth be told. When a little kid of five felt you needed a pile of Christmas stickers just to get through the season, things were off.

But he hadn’t needed her to tell him that.

The wind jostled the car again as it blew another solid gust down the lone street in the northern Canadian town of Jack’s Bay, and it whistled in at the door frame.

God, he needed heat. Warmth.

He’d start the car to let it cough up some heat but any attempt at doing so would probably roust half the neighborhood. And that was directly against his mission tonight.

Lay low. Be unnoticeable.

And it was critical. Anything that would stop the completion of his mission tonight was unacceptable.

He yanked his jacket sleeve up, noted the time on the nondescript watch with the scratched face.

Four hours to the drop. It was why he had the no-name vehicle, why he’d been so careful he wasn’t followed. The men he was dealing with, ‘the bastards’ as he fondly called them in his mind, were an unknown quantity. All he knew for certain was that they’d do anything to get what they wanted, especially hurt those he loved. They were so outside of the law, he couldn’t even go to the cops about them. They had informants everywhere—they’d know.

He took another scan of his surroundings, checked in the rearview mirror to make sure he hadn’t been followed. To complicate matters, the cops had nailed him as one of the bastards too.

Well, he couldn’t blame them. He wasn’t any too proud of his activities the last few years. Once he’d left Delta North, things had gone downhill. Fast. In fact, he was roundly ashamed of himself.

And Masters…

Masters was a whole matter on his own.

Almost as dangerous as the bastards, the man was on him. Hard. The cop was as dogged and determined as a worldwide computer virus. Nothing stopped him.

If he’d sensed the guy had morals at least, he could work with him. Or respect him, somehow, even while he tried to stay out of his reach.

But three previous close calls—when no one else ever had gotten even remotely close to him, he was that good at covering his digital tracks—had made him realize this guy was different. And for a cop, dark. The stories of what he’d done to those he deemed on the wrong side of the law weren’t pretty.

So he had no choice but to lay low until he could discharge his duty tonight.

And then he was gone, from Jack’s Bay. For good.

From those he’d known all his life. From the men he’d served with in Delta North Team. Dante, who’d gone on to become a star hockey player, and had been irreplaceable, in hockey, as in war. But his eyes were still shadowed, as he traveled the globe, despite the fame…

From Rufus, the gentle storekeeper, on Main Street. Still lonely, still kind to all who entered his shop, he’d been a reliable and steadfast special ops soldier. From Parker, the champion of all wild animals, cheerful, but on his own, as well. And from Rand, who still hadn’t gotten over his father’s death, and took solace in too many one-night stands, and increasing amounts of booze.

Lastly, from Og, the tough bulldozer of a man, who didn’t engage in anything as paltry as feelings. Until he got the news about his younger brother, the unbelievable trouble he was in. They’d all seen the etch of terror on his face. The worry that he’d failed Michael since their parents had died and it might just cost him his life…

They were all his blood brothers, his brothers in arms. He missed them tonight as much as he ever had, even though he’d disappeared a while ago. Though after tonight? It would be forever. He’d never catch sight of them, accidentally, as they walked on the street. Worst of all, though?

He’d be gone…from her.

And there, he could go no further. He shoved the thought away.

The bite of fear surfaced again, so he forced his mind back to strategy and timing. Focus on what you could control, be one thousand percent prepared.

This was it, the payoff night. The big one. Four hours before he finally saved the life of the jerk who'd screwed his life totally over.

Bitterness rose in him, warred with responsibility. He tried to hate him, he really did, but it was no use. The thread of love in his chest gave a jerk as it always did when he thought of him, quickly grew to a steady vibration, until he knew he’d always make whatever sacrifice was necessary. Always.

Damn him. Damn Ian Casper Austin.

Stinking little brother.

The image swam into his mind, one of many that seemed to have a life of their own, ones he couldn’t seem to kill, even when he was the angriest. Ian’s pajama-clad legs dangling over the worn kitchen chair, nowhere near touching the floor, peanut butter smearing his face. Looking up at Eli with impish charm, begging for more jam to smear on the ‘toats’ he loved so much.

Jammy. Hell. He’d nick-named him jammy, for the PJs and the food.

He’d never thought the sweet little kid would turn so abruptly, for no known reason, and that it would take a whole lot of bad to save his life.

He pushed the thought away. He couldn’t focus on that, if he was to save him. Back to basics.

The dull street. The bitter night.

The drop. The final package had to be delivered, and cleanly. Once done, he and Ian would be free of the bastards that had claimed Ian’s life for the last four years, and then had claimed his too, for the last three. What a cost there’d been. Monumental on a personal level.

All to keep the brother who’d gotten in with the bad crowd alive. The little brother he’d left the military for, hell. Left all of his former life. Not just Delta North, where he’d served proudly, using every bit of tech knowledge he’d amassed over the years to assist the elite unit of both American and Canadian soldiers, cobbled together in the historic tradition of the Devil’s Brigade.

But everything.

Then, he was off the grid, for good. They both were.

And those bastards had better look over their shoulders cause he coming for them. They’d never know what hit them.

But now, for a few minutes, he was here. A quick journey into sentimentality, revisiting the places that had meant the world to him in the past, one last time. Before they were gone to him forever.

He hadn’t allowed this in all of the last three years. Not once, though he’d wanted to come, to feel the feeling again. Not once.

But tonight was for him. For the memories.

For her, damnit. The girl who’d loved him before Delta North, who’d waited for him when he went overseas to serve. Picked up their lives together when he got back, when he was army reserve again.

All the way through, whatever he did. She just loved him.

The wind rose again. The houses around him were shut tight against the December cold and he knew more than half the inhabitants were jacked on the latest street drug. He saw his cell phone power was dipping. He needed to use the state-of-the-art charger he’d crammed into the glove compartment earlier, to keep it out of view.

If he was stopped and the cops saw it, it would flag him. Ordinary men, going about ordinary lives, did not own such paraphernalia.

He turned the knob of the glove compartment, cradling the front of it as it fell open with a click. He yanked the mass of paper out, grabbed the charger, and something fell to the floor. Canary yellow and tiny.

Recognition stirred in his mind. Reaching long to pick it up, he scooped it away from the frozen dirt on the rubber mat.

His heart hammered in his chest, as he saw the faded writing in the spot of light from the streetlight.

Admission One. Summer Blockbuster—Titanic.

His heart clenched. He yanked off his glove, held the paper between his calloused fingers. He swallowed clumsily, as his eyes filled with tears.

Her lips on his. Soft, then yielding. And while the Titanic floated on the screen, his heart had floated into a new world. Corny, like a film, but true. Real. Her hand holding his tight, not letting go as they left the tiny theatre, where she'd begged, as a theatre major, to go for the replay.

Later, they'd ended up here, her eagerness palpable. The walk she'd led him up was broken, concrete chunks missing. Weeds grew everywhere.

The house they would later buy for their very first home.

And like a movie, the scene in his mind faded to black. Mercifully.

Now here he was, three hard years later, staring at it. The house. Unable to turn the key in the ignition, yank himself away from it once and for all, and let it slide into the dream world of hazy images he’d wonder one day had really existed.

Force yourself, Austin. Look at it. Memorize everything.

He did. Forced his gaze to it, ignored the accelerated, hard pounding of his heart.

It hadn't changed.

The place had been a mess even in those days. Even idyllic Jack’s Bay had rough areas, and this was one such neighborhood. Always on the roster for improvement, always somehow left behind. But it hadn’t mattered.

It was what they could afford, and others had started out on this street, built good lives.

And they were together. With dreams and hopes and plans. That was all that mattered.

Then he'd gotten the call, and he'd had to drop everything. Leave everything behind. Worst of all, her. Without a word.

Tish.

Her face, questioning, sad, but worst of all—accepting—had surfaced in his dreams in the second year of his forced service to the bastards, after he'd convinced himself he'd forgotten her. Had moved on.

And the fact that dream-world Tish expected nothing less of him, that he'd go back on all his promises, just as her friends and their mutual acquaintances had muttered previously—still gutted him.

She hadn't known. No one could know.

His gaze swept the place. Clapboard siding at odd angles, the gutter hanging on to the roof as if by a prayer. Or a death wish. Wanting—needing to go down with the ship.

Or in this case, the dump.

The dull color of the window frames—old paint, no doubt lead-infused, clinging to the bleached wood in patches. The rickety stairs—one was missing.

A mess.

Something like old memories, inescapable regrets tasted stale in his mouth. His fingers tightened around the edge of the old ticket stub. He stared at it, her laughing face intruding. Dropping it as if it suddenly burned his fingertips, he made up his mind. Straightening his shoulders abruptly, his eyes caught the path of the flimsy shred of paper as it dropped to nestle against a clump of dirtied snow on the filthy mat.

His fingers tightened around the frozen steering wheel. What a sentimental jerk he was being. He'd made his choices long ago, paid the price. The choice had put him outside the law, and worse, outside all that was good - an honorable Canadian soldier no more. A new role, one that had never fit for him, but he’d forced it to.

There simply hadn’t been a choice. Not if he wanted Jammy to live.

Enough. “Quit mooning about it, Austin,” he growled. "Get the hell on the road." He pumped the recalcitrant pedal.

"Damn it." he ordered. "Work." The bite of ice-cold metal froze his fingertips as he gripped the clutch of keys in the ignition. He needed to get away from this graveyard of memories.

Up past the narrow sidewalk, the door of the dilapidated house opened, and he snapped his attention to it. Someone in a puffy, light-colored coat emerged, a tiny spot of light hovering around their middle, and he traced it quickly to a mitt-held flashlight.

A sharp hitch in his breath. No one was supposed to be here.

His throat tightened and his gaze focused sharply on the figure. Enemies were everywhere, and they didn’t always dress like bad guys.

The form swiped the light upward, and a splash of LED light reflected back on the face.

Holy hell. The blood rushed through him, and in the same weird, universe-shifting instant, his heart jumped to life.

What was the woman who was supposed to be a thousand miles away, living in some fancy villa in the Mediterranean with her rich new husband and all the luxury she'd ever wanted doing here? Here, in the low rental district? In this dump?

And especially on Christmas Eve?

She stopped, looked out to the street.

And for the life of him, he couldn’t turn away. Wouldn’t.

The glow from a streetlight illuminated her—a thick swathe of it cut across her face diagonally. But in that strip her eyes showed. Something deep within him shattered, and broke.

Those eyes, the ones that had always stopped him in his tracks. Deep brown, in stark contrast with her bleached blonde hair. Tish Taylor, the enigma. She’d focused those eyes on him, way back, commanded, and against every bone in his body, he’d obeyed.

And it hadn’t just been him following orders. He’d given them too, and she’d been powerless to disobey. Together, they’d found a place only the two of them could inhabit, despite their huge differences.

Warmth spilled through him and he could barely swallow. Everything else faded into the background as he watched her looking out at the street.

Tish! I’m here. I’m here!

Look!

The little boy inside the jaded man took over, cried out to her, danced, practically erupted with eagerness.

But she didn’t see, couldn’t. He was darkness in an even darker picture, he’d made sure of that.

She didn’t know he was there.

And the reality of it cut him to the quick.

And then, she did it. That one little gesture.

Lifting her hand to the wee bit of forehead above her right eye, she rested the pads of three fingertips, as if she was thinking hard.

Tish.

God, Tish.

A branch jutting across the edge of the rickety porch roof shifted, placing her in shadow, and just as quickly, her eyes disappeared into the dark. The swathe of light shook, rested over her lips.

Something stabbed through him in the general vicinity of his heart and he hardened in an instant.

That mouth. The one that haunted his dreams.

Still did.

He stared at it, riveted to it as if he was a sharpshooter watching for a signal from those expressive, luscious lips.

But what he didn't expect was the definite downturn in them, broken off by a wince that disappeared as she turned abruptly and faced the side of the porch.

It was only the training he’d been through that made him hold his position and observe instead of running to her and demanding she tell him what she was doing there.

And why the hell she was upset.

Though years had gone by, it was still Tish. His Tish.

The woman he'd cut in two.

Tish walked to the edge of the porch, to the railing bracketing the side. He watched in amazement as she reached over, grabbed something with effort, then proceeded to pull a naked pine—a Charlie Brown tree times infinity—up and over the rickety fencing. Clutching it firmly in her mitted hands, she flicked off the light and went inside, dragging the tree in with her.

And suddenly, the house was shut up again, dark as it had been before. No lights on inside. As if no one was there.

Only now he was all too aware that the girl he'd loved and lost was in its deplorable, blacked-out depths with a pine tree that should have been consigned to a garbage dump.

What was she doing in there in the dark?

He scrutinized the area around him. Nothing had changed on the street. Still the dark winter night, the frozen car. Unearthly silence, as if all goodness had packed up and left the district, and even evil was considering if it wanted to poke its nose out.

But the rapid beat of his heart said something different. It was a live thing in his chest, despite the training that allowed him to bring that very same organ to heel.

It was no use.

Yanking the keys out of the ignition, he shoved the car door open, the heavy creak of it registering only at the periphery of his consciousness.

He’d come for old time’s sake, but he had only one goal now.

And that was to find out what the hell Tish Taylor was doing in the part of Jack’s Bay she'd done her hell-bent best to get as far away from as possible.

Tish kicked the dank cardboard box out of the way as she dragged the dry, better-left-for-dead evergreen to the corner of the bare living room and attempted to prop it up against the ancient plaster wall. The thing barely had any of its needles left, but somehow it had managed to leave a trail of them on the dirty, old hardwood floor.

“What a mess you're making, you crazy conifer.” She tried to prop it upright. Right here, in the corner, beside the huge opening into the back room of the small, war-time home, was where she wanted it. Even though the place was dark, moonlight and the odd streetlight washed in enough light for her to see in the abandoned house.

But she didn’t dare put on any lights of her own. The world in this part of the town wasn’t as friendly as it had once been. She needed to stay under the radar.

Which suited her fine. This night was for her, and for hiding out from the world.

She planted her boot on the tree’s trunk and shoved, hoping it would remain vertical. "Stay.”

But the thing didn’t. She winced. The tree, sad as it was, was her tree now. How to make it stand erect?

A rusty piece of grating, protruding from the broken plaster of the wall, caught her eye. Bracing her hand against the wall, she bent it, captured the top of the tree in its arc. Finally, she hooked the old metal onto the sharp end of a slat that was exposed on the other side. Hitched her breath as she released it, stepped back, and...

...the tree stayed.

Success.

A smile formed on her mouth, and she stopped for a minute, surveying it. Yes, it was a malformed piece of greenery, the very antithesis of holiday cheer.

But it was hers.

The wind suddenly rattled the old, ill-fitting windows at the back of the house as it whooped and circled around the tiny backyard of the old ramshackle home, reminding her where she was. The place was a holy mess.

But glancing at the tree from its top down to its bare branches at the bottom, a slow, steady warmth grew in her.

Yeah. Her tree.

All hers.

Already the place seemed less lonely. Less abandoned. As if a hobo of an evergreen was enough to give some Christmas spirit, some hope, even a smattering of joy to a home.

Tish sighed. Wasn't that why she'd come back here, tonight of all nights? Far from the glittering lights on the luxurious villa Christoff had just added to his roster of exclusive real estate in Italy?

She looked at the patches where the plaster had been knocked off the wall and the old wood strapping showed through. Faded, patchy.

This place had held all her dreams, just a few short years ago.

Then she looked down at the fourth finger of her left hand, and the pale band of skin, sighed.

Christoff was better off with it back.

And, she thought with a wince, she was better off here. Even if it meant pain—and it did.

She moved back from the tree, suddenly uncomfortable with her plan. She looked around the old room, and memories swirled.

Damn it all, she was determined to spend the night here, the way she'd intended to three years ago. Even if he'd never followed through on the plans they'd made so carefully together.

She was going to have the Christmas she'd wanted back then, even if she was alone, and divorced. She was going to remind herself that dreaming—even if it didn't go quite the way you wanted—was still the way she was going to live her life.

Funny, all that had died as soon as she'd lived three days with Christoff, despite the luxury, the sun, the beauty surrounding her.

And she never wanted to live that death again.

But the tree—it had no decorations. Didn't her sad little tree need decorations?

Scooping her scarf up off the floor where she'd tossed it earlier, she wound the creamy wool around the old branches. She stepped back and inspected it. “Yep, that'll do,” she whispered, and her words were strangely present, heavy, in the cold of the December night in the vacant room.

Satisfied, she sat on the opposite side of the room, on the floor.

She was going to stay right here, stare at that tree, and think about her life and where she intended to go from here. Until the answers came to her. She'd clicked the switch earlier for the furnace, and the old behemoth had sputtered into life and coughed some heat into the room. Yes, it was still chilly, but she wouldn't freeze.

And maybe, just maybe, her emotions would thaw too. Three years of holding on to someone was enough. Way enough.

A spurt of heat bellowed up through the ornately carved heat registers, blew a puff of dust up, and she welcomed the bit of warmth. A few more minutes, and she’d brave the upstairs and look for what she'd left here so long ago, to see if it was still there. See if it had any answers for her.

She pulled in a deep breath, plan set in place.

Suddenly, a loud creak invaded the atmosphere.

Her senses jumped to alert. The old place may have been her dream once, but she wasn't kidding herself. The neighborhood had gone down in the last decade. There was a reason big chunks of this block were on the demolition roster.

She sat, still. Waited. Listened.

Two more telltale creaks. They came from the porch, a scant ten feet away. She saw the footsteps in her mind's eye as they occurred, could picture the snowy boot. Watched the pressure exerted on the old wood. One step, and then the other. It could only mean one thing.

An intruder.

Hell. She should never have gone out there to get the damn tree. She’d known that. She felt her heart drumming hard, moving in that space where reality stretched. One second. Two.

But the desire for a tiny bit of cheer for her Christmas…

Pushing herself off the floor and quiet as a mouse, Tish turned toward the arched opening from the living room into the tiny hallway. A weapon. She needed something. She wouldn't go down easily. Determination grew in her. This was her house, wasn't it?

Her mind scanned possibilities, even as she thought of the best way to wreak the most damage on the intruder. Blow to the balls? The head? If it was someone hopped up on drugs, no way they were going to get her. Couldn’t be a burglar, could it?

Thoughts swirled as she scanned for anything at all she could use.

In the dining room at the back, she found it. A rusted piece of rebar lay on the floor, poking out into the doorway. She closed her mitted hands around it, hefted it. Then she crept back to the front, took up her station behind the front door, hunched over, and listened.

More creaks, solid ones, and her heart was beating into her throat now. Someone was on that porch.

Suddenly, the door danced in its frame, and she jumped back. Someone was shoving it hard. Fear spilled through her, but she intuitively raised the rod. Her breath came in bursts. And someone was still slamming it hard. Would it hold?

The old metal of the lock gave. With her heart in her mouth, she watched it open.

The scent of cold air assaulted her as the bulk of the intruder appeared and took over the space of the entryway. Assessing.

Her whole body moved as if orchestrated, and she lowered the rod wildly just as the intruder shifted and turned to her. He yelled. “Tish!"

“Eli?”