Sake Bomb (21 page)

July 31
^st

Manzanar, CA

A
black SUV
scuttled across the desert floor like a lizard seeking out a spot
to escape the blazing sun. 107-degrees, according to the blue
digits on the bottom corner of the rearview mirror. This close to
Death Valley, Julie believed it. The air conditioner blew full
blast, drying the sweat that drenched her when she’d pumped gas at
a little town down the road: Independence, California. Ironic.

At the entrance to the site, an American
flag snapped on its pole, the stripes faded and browned, edges torn
from years in service. Due to the winds, a fine layer of dust
blanketed the car, forcing Julie to use her wipers to keep it from
building on the windshield. Apart from a handful of vehicles, the
place was empty, the heat no doubt playing a role in keeping the
tourists at bay.

She couldn’t imaging doing calisthenics in
this weather, or anything else for that matter. Knowing the rows of
barracks she passed were not equipped with air and couldn’t keep
the swirling grit out, she had no idea how any of them had survived
the hot days. Nights either, since deserts turned to iceboxes once
the sun went down.

Did they ever know a moment’s peace
here?

Snatched from all walks of life—college
students and mothers. Soldiers and business owners. Artists and
activists. Religious, non-believers, and those in flux. Children.
Elderly. Sick and infirmed. Able-bodied.

Prisoners.

All of them;
thousands
of them.

Americans, just like her.

It was…surreal. Julie could almost see the
barbed-wire fences that once surrounded the camp, keeping the
obedient in. She knew a thing or two about balance. The natural
order of things mandated there be those on top and others on the
bottom, a dichotomy she rather appreciated in her personal life.
But in this case, she wished those made to feel lesser than would
have fought.

A left brought her past the remnants of a
garden. Just a few stones now, a crooked border. What had grown
there or how it survived was a mystery as just beyond it the
scrublands extended for miles. If not for the few buildings and the
bit of signage indicating what had once stood where, Manzanar would
be little more than a nick on a nation with more scars than face.
At least it hadn’t been turned into a shopping mall.

Arriving at her destination, Julie shut off
the engine. Offering in hand, she stepped out of the vehicle. The
heat was a heavy weight on her back that burned her fair skin. It
would not deter her. Nothing would. Gravel crunched under her
tennis shoes, punctuating her solo trek to the graveyard.

A lonely cenotaph stood against the backdrop
of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, dwarfed, as though its importance
would always be minimized. Three bold, black characters had been
carved on this face of the stark white obelisk letting all who
could translate know this was the Soul Consoling Tower. Over 140
“residents” of the camp died in this dry, empty place, yet every
one of the thousands forced to live under scornful watch of armed
guard had had their lives end here, too.

This tower, built by the hands of those it
was meant to recognize, simply wasn’t big enough for the task
thrust upon it.

More than dust brought moisture to Julie’s
eyes. Blinking rapidly, she swallowed the lump in her throat and
moved closer, clutching her gift. Other visitors had left colorful
bows and bright ribbons at the memorial. Little splashes of color
drowned out by the endless, drab brown sand. A bunch of carnations
were among the lot. Left yesterday or last week? Hard to know.
They’d scorched in the merciless sun, the life dried out of
them.

Julie walked one full circuit around the
tower, noting the two inscriptions on the back as she passed:
Erected by the Manzanar Japanese, August 1943.
She glanced
up to see the Inyo Mountains, a reminder that, even here in the
vast nothingness, everything had symmetry.

Four more trips around. Each time she tipped
the water bottle and whispered, “As the rains fill the rivers and
overflow into the ocean, so likewise may what is given here reach
the departed.”

At the end of the final circuit she placed
her own flower on the ledge, an oleander. She’d taken great care to
craft the pink paper, ensuring each of the five inner petals had a
slight twist, the outer five connecting to form a perfect star. And
while each part held appeal, as a whole it was a beautiful
specimen. She pulled a little beaker from her pocket, unstoppered
it and left it on the ledge. A string circled its neck, and she
centered the knot.

“
They were all so thirsty.”

Her phone beeped in her pocket and she
checked the GPS; headed back to her ride. The sadness that filled
her on arriving was replaced with optimism. This trip cleansed her.
And now that she’d done what she’d been sent there to do, it was
time she left. There were other stops to make, other souls to
remember.

One last look back at the monument and Julie
lifted onto the sidestep of her SUV, hoisted herself into the
driver’s seat. Shortly thereafter she exited the remains of the
Manzanar internment camp. On the pole at the front, the tired
American flag hung slack.

July 31
^st

Langley, VA

R
achel didn’t come
over last night. In fact, Fletcher hadn’t seen Agent Hayford since
she stormed—No, “stormed” was too strong. Drizzled? Yes, he hadn’t
seen her since she
drizzled
out of his office. The last he’d
heard was the echo of her sensible heels clicking on the building’s
old linoleum.

Heaving a sigh, Fletcher dropped into his
desk chair and slapped the notepad and papers from the briefing
down on the tabletop. Nothing brief about the morning meeting. Bad
enough it was delayed, but for his boss to drone on about the same
old same… Fletcher shook his head and sighed again. There was a
reason the CIA was dubbed the Center for Inefficient Assholes.

The clock showed 8:35
AM
. The request was made three hours before and a scan
of his desk showed no new folders.

She must be really upset. But, as Fletcher
often reminded himself, anything so obviously ancillary to the op
was not open for investigation. Anything ancillary was inefficient,
and Fletcher was
not
an asshole. Why couldn’t the woman be
as sensible as those damn heels?

Gray skies filled the view through the
room’s only window. It wasn’t a big window—the office was housed in
the Original Headquarters Building and lacked the space and
openness the new building boasted—but it was his window. He’d
earned that narrow, vertical pane the same way he’d earned the
certificates sprinkled amongst the framed pictures on his office
walls: by sticking to the missions and ignoring all else. Would
have been a damn fine field agent.

Rachel would never make it in the field. She
entertained the thought once, and he entertained her by listening
to the madness one night in the comfort of his bed. Then, as he
eased into her heat, Fletcher gently steered her focus back to the
importance of working her desk position. Her very safe desk
position. Where she wasn’t required to make the split-second
life-or-death calls field operatives had to make.

He wasn’t trying to stunt her growth. On the
contrary, it was all for Rachel’s protection. She was too nice, too
caring. Her kind heart too easily manipulated and there was no room
for that in the trenches. Things got tough in there, what with the
mud and blood and sweat and gunk field agents waded through in the
holes where they fought. No way Rachel would stomach gunk on her
sensible shoes.

Kizzie Baldwin? She was a different breed.
Kizzie was made for gunk, it seemed. Fletcher had overseen her runs
at Camp Peary a time or two—not that he would confirm or deny the
existence of Camp Peary or its use as the training grounds for the
CIA’s agents. However, on witnessing Kizzie in that particular
element, Fletcher knew she was one of the tough ones, a pinpoint of
focus in the surrounding chaos. Even at such a young age she had a
steely determination the older, more worldly trainees in her class
lacked. When Kizzie needed to do scary, she could
do
scary.
And then tamp it down and say something snarky a second later like
nothing ever happened.

Gave him the willies.

Rachel just didn’t have the brass Kizzie
did—not that it was a bad thing. It took all types. But Kizzie had
no problem with confrontation. Rachel, on the other hand, shrank
from it at every turn. Kizzie saying she’d visit
meant
she’d
pay him a visit. He wouldn’t know when or where, but she’d make
good on it if he didn’t get what she wanted. Rachel couldn’t go two
days upset with Fletcher.

On cue, soft clicks sounded on the linoleum
down the hall. A grin curved his lips. He was about to be proven
right.

8:47
AM
. He wanted
the files on his desk by 9. Files he could have gotten himself or
had any of the secretaries grab for him. Files he really didn’t
need by any specific time, but wanted Rach—
Agent Hayford
to
deliver.

She’d bring them through the door, he’d
flash his best bedroom smile, and that would be that. He’d explain
to her, again, that his job was to run ops, run the people in the
field.
They
were his problem. Fletcher had a hard enough
time protecting American lives without adding foreigners on non-US
soil to the mix. She’d understand and this whole business with the
kid would blow over like a tropical depression losing speed.

Kizzie and her visit? Fletcher could worry
about that later. He’d ignored her calls, knowing she wanted Intel
he didn’t have on a bomb that didn’t exist and a kid who wasn’t
pertinent. No sense wasting energy trying to convince her
otherwise.

Nope, Fletcher would focus on the steady
clip coming up the hall and the curvy woman who owned it.

The sound grew louder…louder…

He worked the smugness from his mouth;
twisted his head toward the door standing slightly ajar.

Any moment now Rachel would push it open
and—

Thunk!

The metal mail holder was mounted on the
back of his door and the weight of a delivery shook the wood. The
clicking picked up again, just as evenly, moving away.

Got softer…softer…

His brows drew together and a slow chuckle
shifted his shoulders.

Drizzle?

It seemed a storm was a’brewin’.

And headed straight for Fletch.

Tokyo, Japan

K
izzie lay
motionless in bed, eyes wide open, keeping the darkness company.
Not a completely unusual circumstance; she and night were good
friends. Darkness hid her when she worked and kept her secrets when
she slipped away. Night usually made her job easier, made
everything clear.

Not this night.

The covers rustled behind her, followed by
more steady breathing. Her bad shoulder ached from lying on her
side so long, staring at the soft glow coming through the split in
the blackout curtains. Another night of sharing a bed with Xander.
Nothing sexual, just sleep. Hell, he didn’t even touch her…well,
not in bed, anyway—that’d probably be too
vanilla
for a
Dom—and by all accounts this was as close to a gentleman as someone
of Xander’s deviant makeup could be. He even wore pants! Xander
wasn’t the problem.

Here in the dark, Kizzie shared another
secret with her old friend.

This was comfortable.

Never
get comfortable. Not on a job,
not
off
a job, and damn sure not on a pseudo-job with one of
your former jobs. But there was something very nice about having
Xander’s big, warm body so close.

Not ten feet away, the second container of
liquid tracer sat in her bag, untouched. So many squandered
opportunities to get him tagged. A good agent would have done it by
now. A good agent would do it
right now
.

Kizzie stayed put.

An hour before, she’d been watching him
sleep. Code Red stalker shit? Probably. But it was the only time
Kizzie could return the scrutiny Xander so often gave her. He lay
on his back, one hand tucked under his head, the other splayed over
his abs. She smiled at seeing him like that, relaxed and so damn
sexy.

Phil was right, it was hard to forget. After
a decade in clandestine ops, all evil
did
have one face.
Families, pet hamsters, prom dates—those things made her targets
human, and thinking of them that way made her vulnerable. So Kizzie
studied their atrocities, made them the same monster in her head.
And in her head
,
he
was
a
monster
—w
ho in their right mind would sell
a nuclear weapon on the black market
knowing
the kind of
blanket destruction it would cause? But in her gut, Xander was
different.

Too bad she might have to put him down when
this was over. She couldn’t hesitate, either. The man who listened
to classic hip-hop, the man who carried her out of tunnels rigged
to blow, the man who occupied her thoughts more each day—and
night—that guy couldn’t exist.

Except…he did.

Carbon monoxide
.
Slipped through
cracks and burrowed in so deep Kizzie actually wondered what it
would be like to be a submissive?
His
submissive.

The thought alone was foreign. Her
grandmother always told her she was born bull-headed and impatient.
Arrived in the world three days early just to prove the doctors
wrong.
“You were ready to get on with business of living,
puddin’.”

She grinned at the memory.