She nodded, glancing at Garret instantly. He caught her look, and his eyes narrowed.
“It’s my parents’ house, isn’t it?” he growled.
She shook her head, clutching the phone tightly. “I’m sorry,” she muttered primly. “But you have the wrong number.” Then not knowing what else to do, she slammed the phone down.
Garret shook his head. “You’re not very good at this, Suzanne.”
He headed off down the hall. After a shocked minute, she went after him.
“Garret? Garret, what are you doing?”
He didn’t say anything, but in the dim light of his room she could see him pulling on his shirt. Her lips thinned, her arms folding tensely in front of her. She straightened her shoulders and, ignoring the tightness in her chest, prepared to do battle.
“I’m not letting you out of this house, Garret.”
“Sweetheart, I’m not asking permission.”
She stormed toward him, her hazel eyes turning molten gold. “Darn it, Garret. If you leave this house, I’ll… I’ll—”
He cut her off with a simple, harsh look. “You’ll do what, Suzanne?” He turned his face a little. “Blacken my other eye? You Maddensfield people need another form of retaliation. I’m growing bored.”
“You can’t go out there,” she persisted, refusing to be derailed by his black humor.
Garret merely pulled on his shoes.
She began to seriously contemplate ways of knocking him unconscious. Maybe she could lure him into the kitchen. Would a frying pan really work, or was that only good in the movies? Her hands slowly crushed the folds of her nightgown.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked at last, the frustration raw in her throat. “You know it’s probably a trap.”
“It’s my parents’ house,” he said levelly, tying the last shoe. He rose, and the fear crept up her throat like bile.
“Damn you, Garret. Can’t you trust Cagney even a little bit?”
“It has nothing to do with that,” he said, already striding to the door. At the last minute, she flung herself in the doorway, earning herself a droll raised eyebrow. “Sweetheart, you don’t weigh much more than a sack of potatoes. I could fight that fire with you flung over my shoulder. And I will if I have to.”
She glared at him, and at that moment, seriously wished she did have a frying pan in hand. He could use a sharp blow to the head.
“Cagney is taking care of everything,” she said yet again. “And the fire department here does fine. There’s nothing you can do, Garret, but get yourself in a whole lot of trouble. And your mom won’t give a fig about the house if she loses you instead.”
He leaned down, his lips so close she could almost feel them on her cheeks. “Give me a little credit, Suzanne. I’m a professional. I’ve been trained just for these occasions. And what good was all that training, if I can’t use it to help my own family?”
“Cagney has training, too,” she replied stubbornly. “And so does the fire department.”
“Goodbye, Suzanne.” And true to his word, he physically lifted her up and moved her out of the way as if she wasn’t any more nuisance than a small child. He strode down the hall while she rubbed her arms and searched desperately for some other way to make him stay.
Darn it,
she thought with a sigh, and scurried to the kitchen for the frying pan. But by the time she was at the entryway with cast-iron skillet in tow, the front door was already open. She stormed out to the porch, but it didn’t make a difference.
For all intents and purposes, the night had swallowed Garret Guiness alive.
He could smell the acrid odor of burning fabric as he came closer. Thick clouds of smoke billowed up, the humidity-swollen wood putting up a good fight. But there hadn’t been a decent rainfall for weeks, so the clear winner of the battle was never in doubt.
He crept along the perimeter and kept his senses tuned.
He had to come tonight, if only because he was meant to come. Of course the fire was a trap. But he’d been playing mole for over a week now; he wanted this matter resolved. So Mitch and Jessica could return to D.C. and have their children in peace. So his parents could sleep at night without wondering what was about to happen. So Suzanne could get on with her life.
He eased around to the front and saw his parents standing in their bathrobes in the front yard. Dotti had her head on her husband’s shoulder, Henry’s arms around her, as together they watched their home of thirty years burn. Just a few feet away, Cagney stood with his hands on his hips, his sheriff’s badge gleaming on his chest, his black cowboy hat pushed back on his forehead. His face was grim as he watched the flames.
They’d all grown up in this house. Doorways still had pencil marks tabulating the years of their growth. Garret’s room still had a dent in the wall from the time he went to punch out Jake, but the quick-thinking boy had ducked at the last moment. And then there was the cupboard under the counter where Liz always used to hide when they played hide-and-seek, and the attic with its treasure trove of limbless G.I. Joe dolls, cracked water guns and broken wooden horses. When they were younger, the house had been their universe. But even as they grew older and traveled and built their own lives, the house remained home.
And standing here now, looking at his parents and Cagney, he knew there was nothing he could do to save it.
Already water streamed onto the blaze, targeted toward the roof. The house itself was beyond hope, but there were plenty of water-starved trees just waiting to be seduced by the fire. If that happened, the situation could get out of hand pretty fast. Firemen began to climb up the ladder toward the roof of the house, and Garret could almost feel the weight of an ax in his hands.
So much fire, crackling at his skin, licking his hair. The searing heat, the choking smoke. But they drove into it anyway, man versus fire, a drama replayed time and time again in a war with only battles and no victory.
He led the men into the blaze because he wanted to, because after the churches of Rwanda, the streets of Haiti, he needed to do something real. He needed to feel alive.
And he led the men into the blaze because he had to.
He continued around the perimeter, not knowing what he was looking for, but certain he would find it anyway. At the periphery of his vision, he caught a faint movement and he instantly stilled.
There, to the left.
He slunk down low, and moving with the slow, agonizing pace only a pointman can truly appreciate, he journeyed over. The shadow shifted again, then suddenly seemed to melt into the darkness.
He moved faster.
But suddenly the tall grass was still, the night consumed by only the crackle of flames and thunder of water. He frowned, peering carefully and wishing he had his infrared goggles. SEALs generally had good toys; he wasn’t quite as well versed in the old-fashioned ways.
He came to a matted spot in the border grass and sank to one knee. Big, heavy man, judging by the depth of the depression. He rustled through the trampled grass and shortly came across the cigarette butt. He brought it up and sniffed it. American made. Marlboro, maybe.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, that fitted.
He shook his head and began to follow the trail through the grass. The other person was good, he concluded after he lost the trail for a second time and began backtracking once again. So D.C. thought a professional hit man. His mind turned it over and dismissed it without any logical reason. He would dwell on it more later; for now he just wanted to pick up the trail. But suddenly he was at the edge of the field, wide open road materializing before him and not even a decent moon for light.
He sat down hard on his heels. Damn.
And heard something crackle to his immediate right.
He fell back abruptly, falling flat on his butt as he sought the cover of the grass. He tried scrambling up again, but his hand slid out from beneath him. He went down hard, feeling the pain in his wrist. Then his head hit the rock, and he didn’t feel any pain at all.
The water lapped against the shore, peaceful and rhythmic. Leaning closer, he could feel the light spray against his face and looked at the waves with something akin to longing.
He hadn’t dived for a year now. Instead, he’d studied the mastery of rock and fire. Still, he missed the water. And these days, he found himself suddenly missing his home.
He shook the thought away and focused on the man beside him. They’d been crouched on the shoreline for two hours now. It was cold out, and the night an inky black that didn’t set well on a man’s nerves. Garret could feel the ripples of hypersensitivity snaking up and down his back, but Zlatko didn’t look tense or nervous. He just loomed large and grim, the way he’d looked for the past three days now. Since the time they’d found the camp.
Garret looked away and watched the water once more.
Any time now, a boat should appear—if it had gotten through all right.
“How long do we wait?” Garret asked at last.
“As long as it takes.”
“There’s no guarantee that it’ll get through.”
“It’ll get through.”
“And then, Zlatko?”
“Then we launch our own war.”
Garret shut up, mostly because he didn’t have an answer for that last statement. He’d helped pile the bodies of the people who had kept him. He’d closed the eyes of the women who had cooked his food and teased him about finding a wife. He’d lived with them, laughed with them and shared with them for a year.
In the beginning, he’d helped them set up the camp establishing a new home after their village had been destroyed by the Serb forces. And he’d watched as they’d sent their children away, hoping they could at least find a future far away from the land that promised none. And he’d risen with their men each morning, going off to the city to save what could be saved, to fight when they could fight, because it was their land and they did still care.
In the past year, he’d learned to care, too.
“They come from Kazakhstan?” he whispered, and hated himself for the question.
Beside him, Zlatko simply nodded and lit a new cigarette.
“It’s a long way from Kazakhstan to here, my friend,” Garret continued. “And with the embargo…”
“They’ll get here.”
“How? Down the coast? Do you know how many miles that is?”
“What does it matter? All that we care is for them to arrive.”
Garret stiffened, but managed to shrug his shoulders casually enough. “I just like knowing the big picture,” he grumbled after a bit. “I didn’t believe in Santa Claus as a kid, either—there was no way you could convince me a 250-pound man with a stack of toys was gonna fit down the chimney.”
“Italy,” Zlatko said, impatiently crushing out the barely lit cigarette. “I think they go to Italy, then down the coast from the border and upriver from there. Takes a bit, but it can be done.”
Garret made a show of glancing at his watch while he tucked that piece of information away. Kazakhstan to Italy, through the border, down the coast, up the major tributaries. Intelligence would want more details than that.
The funeral pyre burned in his mind, and the self-loathing passed through him like a wave.
The sound of breaking water penetrated the silence. Beside him, Zlatko stiffened. Moving quietly, both men drifted down to the shore. They exchanged looks and nodded to each other in wordless communication. Zlatko went forward while Garret held back with his hand on the Ruger at his waist.
While he looked on, Zlatko helped pull the small boat ashore. Two men stepped out, holding a rough crate between them. After a few words, they opened the case for Zlatko’s inspection, revealing a cache of AK-47s. One of the men’s hands moved beneath his jacket, and immediately Garret’s hand tightened on the Ruger. He slipped it out and dropped the safety. But the man simply produced a piece of paper, which Zlatko examined with interest.
Garret relaxed his shoulders, and as he did so, the sound of a second boat broke the silence. Zlatko reached immediately for a gun, and even as Garret watched, one of the “deliverymen” yanked out a pistol from the small of his back and pointed it at Zlatko’s head. Garret rose and fired off three rounds. The man fell without even a gasp.
The second man pivoted, a gun materializing in his own hands. But just as he raised it up, Zlatko charged with a low roar. The burly man slammed the deliveryman to the ground, catching him with one succinct blow. Shots came from the river, and Garret jumped down to the shoreline.
“Grab the case,” he yelled, spraying covering fire the best he could with a pistol. His gun suddenly clicked blank, and with a cry of fury, he threw the gun at the approaching boat.
“This way,” Zlatko roared out, and shots targeted the sound. Garret saw his friend lumbering along with the case and sprinted toward him. Bullets whizzed past, and he heard a low grunt as one found its mark. But Zlatko didn’t stop moving.
They tumbled into the underbrush, Zlatko dropping the case once and the weapons spilling out. Garret grabbed one, but the light feel indicted no bullets. He swore softly, tossing the weapons back in and grabbing the case from his friend. He hoisted it onto his shoulder and kept moving.
“Through here,” he directed, stumbling over the rocky terrain with his burden. Zlatko stumbled behind him. And the sound of bullets tore through the air.
They ran along the twisting goat trails, scrambling and tripping and falling, but gaining ground from sheer knowledge of the territory. Finally, they came to a myriad of caves, and Garret ducked into the third one. Zlatko followed.
They collapsed against the wall halfway down, pressing themselves against the cold, damp stone. They could hear the sound of their labored breaths, and it was loud and conspicuous in the echoing cave. They heard the thud of footsteps, the sound of falling rocks and scrabbling feet. Garret heard swearing, then abruptly, the scraping of boots faded.