Of course not. Spider never had any intention of following through with the exchange. I holster my Glock and drop to my knees, clawing at the soft soil with my bare hands. On the other side, Cricket starts digging at the opposite end, matching my urgency.
My nails peel back in my desperation to reach her, but the pain’s nothing compared to the hell waiting for me if I’m too late.
Finally, my hands hit wood.
“I’ve got you,” I breathe, frantically working my fingers along the edge of the boards. My heart’s pounding so hard I can’t hear anything else.
I wrench the top off with all my strength, a broken sound ripping from my throat when I see Zilphia’s tear-streaked face.
She’s alive and in active labor, gasping through a full-blown asthma attack, her panties and leggings bunched around her thighs, the top of a tiny head already visible.
“Grab her legs,” I bark at Cricket, hooking my arms under her shoulders. She’s covered in dirt from head to toe.
I lie back against the nearest tree, positioning her between my thighs. Cricket tears her shoes off, then yanks her panties and bottoms down her legs.
“I have your inhaler.” I pull the canister from my cut pocket and give it a firm shake. I never leave home without it, even when she’s not with me.
I spray two doses into her mouth, and within minutes, her breathing starts to steady.
I toss the inhaler aside and grip her spread knees. “I need you to push, Zilphia.”
She shakes her head, sobbing. “It hurts… I need a hospital.”
“There’s no time,” I murmur, pressing a soft kiss on her temple. “Our girls need you to push.”
“Okay.” She draws in a deep breath and bears down, straining with everything she has to bring our daughters into the world.
“She’s coming,” Cricket yells. “Keep pushing.”
Moments later, a sharp cry pierces the chilly night.
“I officially declare myself the God Daddy,” Cricket grins, gently placing the squirming bundle on Zilphia’s chest.
“Oh my God,” she weeps, her voice thick with emotion. “Oh my God… she’s here.”
She’s beautiful and so damn tiny with a wild mop of golden curls. I trail a finger down her soft cheek. “Don’t cry, sweet angel. Daddy will always take care of you.”
I unsheathe my Bowie knife and cut the umbilical cord.
Zilphia gasps. “Her sister is coming.”
Cricket rubs his hands together. “Okay, baby number two, let’s go.”
Zilphia pushes and pushes until our second daughter makes her debut with a shrill cry.
“Congrats, it’s a boy,” Cricket announces, lifting the little human for us to see.
I’m speechless for a second or two, then a smile spreads across my face. “Hear that, Zilphia? We have a son.”
“The tech was wrong,” she says, smiling back at me.
Cricket lowers him beside his sister. I slice through his umbilical cord—feeling like a million bucks. Like his twin, he has a head full of golden curls.
“I have to push again,” Zilphia pants, bearing down.
Cricket recoils, his eyes fixed between her thighs. “What the fuck, man? She just delivered two aliens.”
“Those are the placentas, you moron,” I retort, securing the Bowie back at my hip. “Every baby has one. Keeps them alive.”
