Hearths of Fire (4 page)

P
icking up her
travel mug of coffee and Crest’s folder, Catori slipped on her oversized sunglasses and headed for the beach. The weather was still on the chilly side so she wore her favorite crocheted sweater once again, although this time she had on a pair of sweats. That still didn’t mean she would be parted from her flip-flops. The only way that was happening was if she had on her military issued combat boots that she used to wear on assignment. It made her wonder where they were and figured they were back home in California. It was still up in the air whether or not she’d pull them out and dust them off.

Her hair was drawn back into a ponytail, and with the glasses covering up the bags underneath her eyes, Catori figured she looked younger if the stares she was receiving from a group of twenty-something men playing volleyball were anything to go by. Mentally shrugging off their attention, she made her way a good fifty yards away to her favorite bench spot and took a seat, grateful that no one else seemed to be around this early in the morning.

Catori laid the file next to her and stared out over the ocean. Seagulls were making dives into the water, trying to catch their breakfast while the white caps of the waves still struggled to make their way higher up onto the sand. She watched a large sailboat miles out as it made its way across the horizontal daybreak. Taking a sip of her coffee, she also tasted the salt on her lips from the sea spray.

A jogger passed by with earbud cords hanging from his head. His pounding footsteps could be heard from yards away and she fought the urge to tell him that he was doing it wrong. Instead, she drank more of her coffee and realized that she actually tasted the flavor this morning. She turned her head, catching sight of the jogger as he kept running down the beach. His form was incorrect, and before too long she knew that his back would start to hurt within a mile. She hadn’t stopped using her workouts to relieve stress, but she’d been afraid to do her daily run in the morning for fear she would keep going and never come back. The itch to resume again was just under the surface—that lingering taste for the endorphins she craved.

Taking a deep breath, Catori didn’t know whether to be happy or sad that some of those long ago, everyday urges were returning. Instead of feeling either, she closed her eyes and raised her face toward the early morning sun and soaked up what warmth it was providing. It was still early spring and Mother Nature seemed to be having trouble acclimating. She knew exactly what she was experiencing.

Catori wasn’t sure if she sat on the bench enjoying the early morning peace for one minute or one hour, but either way her coffee was now cool. Putting it aside, she finally picked up the dossiers and placed them on her lap. She traced the outer edge with her finger, wondering what waited on her inside this file. Crest wouldn’t have picked anyone but the best, yet she already knew before looking inside at their resumes that she would nitpick their credentials all the way down to the way they tied their damn boots. She quickly pulled back the front cover of the manila folder before she could change her mind.

Hours later, Catori shuffled the papers back in order and placed them inside the folder. Eight names, five slots. The more she read about them the pickier she became. Three men were a given—Kane Taylor, Aaron Scott, and Daegan Murphy. The other two slots would have to be chosen upon a personal meeting. That wasn’t to say that she wouldn’t catch the other three in their personal environment. The thought brought her up short. Did that mean she was going to go through with this? Did that mean Red Starr HRT would once again be open for business?

The missions would never be the same. Catori wouldn’t have Red to bounce ideas off of or tell her that she was being too conventional. He had always told her that she had trouble thinking outside the box, which was why they had made such good partners. He’d been the risk taker as an elite operator and she had been the one with common sense as an operational planner and logistics specialist. Red had teased her endlessly over that and he would be the first to ask her where her good judgment had gone. She wanted to wail at him that had she been with him on that last mission it might not have gone so terribly wrong.
What ifs
could drive a person to a brutal end.

As if Red were sitting next to her and urging her on, she thought through everything that would be needed to resurrect Red Starr HRT. The camaraderie would be different and Catori would need to spend time with the men, training them to Red’s specifications. Crest was right when he said that Brendan had been the brawn. She’d need a lead operator, an Alpha male that led from the front, although one who knew his place. He would need to be an apex predator that could take orders and yet exercise initiative when needed. The success of this endeavor would, in large part, rest in whom she selected in this role—if in fact she even followed through with it at all. She would be the one to make any ultimate decisions. The edges of the thick file dug into Catori’s skin as she held it tight with her fingers, oscillating in her decision. Was she ready? Could she do this by herself?

A large raven flapped his wings as he softly landed on the back of the bench, joining Catori in her indecision. She looked over at the black-feathered bird, usually in search of prey. Was he as tired as she was? Did he need a break, like the two years she’d given herself? She’d been taught at an early age not to miss the signs that were being gifted. A raven here on the beach was somewhat unusual this far down the East Coast, but she could hardly miss the gravity of his arrival. For many tribes the raven was seen as a trickster because of his ability to shape change; however, holy men of many tribes called upon the raven to clarify their visions. He was a symbol of metamorphosis and change—a great harbinger of transformation. As if knowing he’d done his job, the raven cocked his head toward her and then flew away, signifying it was time for her to find her wings.

‡

Two months later…

C
atori swung her
red BMW Alpine Z8 convertible into a slot of a practically vacant parking lot of a rundown building posing as a garage. The faded and chipped cinder blocks that kept the square construction standing looked like it could be blown down with one small gust of wind. Summer had finally arrived, although a person wouldn’t know it by coming to this place. All the doors were shut along with the two paint-peeling garage doors. It wasn’t the most welcoming sight, but from what she’d seen of Mississippi she wasn’t surprised.

She’d spent the past eight weeks back home in California, making calls to reestablish old contacts. It wasn’t as hard to do as Catori thought it was going to be and she managed to revive over eighty-percent of her prior operational and logistics connections. The initial weapons she’d spent the last week acquiring had cost a pretty penny. In order to obtain the remaining weapons she would acquire she needed to install an appropriate armory to house them with twenty-four hour monitored security.

She hadn’t touched the money in Red Starr HRT’s bank accounts, and the fact that she still held a Class 3 Federal Firearms License eased the pain of getting what they needed. She’d contacted the storage unit holding most of the technology equipment she’d packed away and had everything delivered to her new base of operations—a bonded warehouse located on the southwest edge of the Unified Port of San Diego near Chula Vista. It had taken two weeks alone to figure out what needed upgrading and what could be salvaged.

The new building and grounds provided enough room for their brand new Sikorsky MH-60S Knighthawk, a medium lift helicopter, to have a new landing pad when they didn’t have it aboard the
Promised Land
.

The
Promised Land
was once a one thousand four hundred fifty ton three hundred six foot converted Crosley-Class High Speed Transport, or APD. She was currently moored along the pier outside the new Red Starr HRT facility. Sold for scrap in the mid-seventies, the ship had been used by numerous enterprises until Red had acquired it nearly twelve years ago. Since its return from Red’s last ill-fated mission, Catori had left it setting in dry dock awaiting a refit that Red had taken years to design. The crew had just finished the last minute shakedown cruise and was working on a very long list of red lines.

Considering the new Knighthawk hadn’t been delivered in time for the shakedown, Catori was certain the red line list would grow. All of Red Starr HRT’s assets were now either being actively moved to the new base in San Diego or being dispositioned. She’d hired an entire team of support personnel, however, she hadn’t technically hired one team member that was required to complete the organization’s primary mission. That was about to change.

Catori pushed up her sunglasses so they rested on top of her head, taking time to study the layout. John “Trigger” Dixon was third up on her list and was supposedly employed at Mac’s Auto Repair, the dilapidation in front of her. Recalling Trigger’s dossier, she didn’t find that surprising. He liked working with his hands and this would give him the outlet he needed after serving his time in the service. She was working her way backwards on the list and would save her lead operator for last. The first two men she met weren’t the right fit, although that didn’t mean they weren’t good at what they did. Red had always claimed she was too selective.

Opening the car door, Catori swung her denim-clad legs out of the vehicle and placed her sensible knee-high flat boots onto the graveled dirt. Much to her dismay, she’d ended up having to wear something else besides flip-flops and her issued boots. Knowing she should be presentable, she still chose something comfortable. Her black form-fitting blazer contained a thin belt, which she straightened before slamming her car door. The way the bottom of her coat flared over her waist it was easy to carry her Sig Sauer 9mm M11-A1 in a RHS Paddle holster on her right hip.

The only sounds to carry through the air were the rocks shifting under her weight and a bird cawing on a power line. The place seemed uninhabited, yet the bubbly blonde waitress at the diner in town said that Trigger would be here.

Walking to the tattered painted black door where the top window contained a diagonal crack within its structure, Catori tried the handle but found it locked. She rapped on the glass. When no one appeared, she wiped off the grime of dirt on the pane with her fist. Inside looked deserted, with a cluttered office directly in front of her and an empty stall to her right. The one farther down contained a heap of metal and she wasn’t so sure what the make and model was. Shit, she wasn’t sure it
could
be restored.

Taking a step back, Catori looked to her left and then to her right. She glanced back over her shoulder toward the long stretch of road and saw the oils of the blacktop surface rising as it baked in the sun. It was boiling out here and she wanted this meeting finalized so she could complete her drive to Missouri by nightfall. Deciding to go around back, she was walking along the side of the garage when she heard a growl that stopped her in her tracks.

“Good boy,” Catori said in a soothing tone in hopes that the large German Shepherd remained calm. The beautiful animal was standing toward the back of the building, his brown eyes riveted to her. She stayed where she was, not wanting to give the dog any reason to attack. “I’m friendly, Shep. No threat here.”

“Diesel, down.” The deep raspy voice that had given the order belonged to a man with a lean muscular form, not quite six feet tall. He wore a baseball cap twisted on backwards and he was wiping grease from his hands with an oil rag. His black shaggy hair immediately gave away that this was the man she was looking for. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“You can if you’re John ‘Trigger’ Dixon.”

Catori waited for the Shepherd to sit back on his hunches. She didn’t comment on the dog’s name, however apropos it might be considering he guarded a mechanic’s garage. From what her research suggested, Dixon worked for Mac. The older man was on the verge of retirement and he’d given a job to John upon arriving back home from his deployment. The former military man had to be ready to pull his hair out, no matter how striking it might be.

“Trigger?” John casually looked down at her waist where her weapon rested before going back to removing the grease from his fingers. “You’re military. I think you’ve come to the wrong place. I’ve done my duty to my country, ma’am. With the amount of metal in my left arm, I’m not really needed anymore.”

“I would disagree with that statement.” Catori could see the interest in his brown eyes, so she continued with her inquiry. There was something in his demeanor that struck a chord with her. Chemistry was vital when working with others in a life and death situation. She liked this man. “Your close combat maneuvers are outstanding. That kind of talent shouldn’t be wasted.”

“It’s not a skill that’s often used in the civilian world.” Trigger stuck his rag in his back pocket before crossing his arms and leaning up against the cinder blocks. She was happy to see that she had his attention. “You want to cut to the chase?”