Threshold (8 page)

As they closed in, Knight’s keen eyes saw an aberration far above the target area. “What the…” He’d seen something moving. He squinted, searching for movement, but found nothing.

“What is it?” Bishop asked, his voice coming in clear through Knight’s earphone.

“I don’t know. I—” Movement streaked across Knight’s vision again and he saw it for what it was. “Never mind. Condensation on my visor.”

“Knight, Bishop, you read?” Deep Blue’s voice filled their ears.

“Loud and clear,” Bishop replied.

“Listen, there’s some seismic activity in the area some of the analysts are concerned about. Shouldn’t be a big deal, but the sandstone valley is crisscrossed by tiny fissures created by thousands of years of rain runoff.”

“Got it,” Knight said. “Watch for falling rocks.”

“Exactly.”

“Thanks for the heads-up, Blue, but it’s time to pull!”

Bishop and Knight’s parachutes deployed like gunshots, ripping open one thousand feet from the desert floor. Seconds later, they were rolling on the ground, gathering their chutes, and running toward the faint glow of the nearby valley, where large shadows danced in the firelight.

Sometimes, after completing a HALO jump, rookies stumbled on shaky legs or fell to their knees, wobbly from adrenaline. But Bishop and Knight had long ago overcome the post-jump shakes, so when both men suddenly found themselves off balance, they knew something was wrong.

They paused.

“That was a little more than a tremor,” Bishop said.

Knight placed his bare hand on the ground. The sand was shaking, as though to the steady rhythm of a bass-laden hip-hop song. Either that or something—

Knight’s head shot up as a distant squeal rolled over the desert. “Was that a car?”

Bishop shook his head, cautiously moving toward the valley ahead. “I don’t think so. It sounded more like a—”

The scream came again, this time shrill and very human. Both men slid their weapons from their backs and ran as fast as they could to the cacophony of terrified cries pouring from the valley, praying someone would still be breathing when they arrived.

NINE

Richmond, Virgina

KING’S JAW HURT
from fifteen minutes of grinding teeth. The drive back to his childhood home had been slowed by traffic and had taken ten minutes longer than usual. All the while, he worried about having to have his father, who he’d just been reunited with, committed to some kind of mental institution. And with ten years of anger and frustration yet to be expressed, let alone forgiven, King was not happy about his father getting the clean slate a mental illness would provide.

He reminded himself that when his father left, he’d been sane. That, at least, provided him with some anger to hold on to. He glanced over at his father, who watched their hometown pass in a blur as they rounded Swanson Drive, the last in a series of suburban streets that led to the house. The man’s face was older, more wrinkled, but at peace.

A day after burying Mom and he doesn’t have a care in the world,
King thought.

“Ignorance is bliss, right?” King said under his breath.

To his surprise, his father had heard. “That’s why crazy people are so happy.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

Peter grinned at him. “Except I’m not crazy.”

“Mom’s dead, Dad.”

“Buried her yesterday.”

King nodded, glancing quickly at his father. The man was certifiable. “Open casket.”

“Did you look at her wedding ring?”

The rock in his mother’s engagement ring had been red. A ruby. Given to Peter by his soon-to-be fiancée’s father, a German jeweler. King thought about his mother’s body, about her hands folded over her chest. He couldn’t recall seeing the ring.

“Didn’t, did you?”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” King said, becoming annoyed with the insanity of this conversation and the disrespect it showed his mother.

“You know, you were a smart kid. I thought you could tell the difference between your mom’s body and a wax figure. Cost a pretty penny.”

“Just … shut up until we get home.”

A gentle ring sounded from his father’s pocket. King shot him a curious glance. “Thought you were hard up for money.”

Peter smiled. “Did I say that?” He answered the phone. “Hey.” He looked at King while he listened. “We’re almost there. No, not yet. He’s okay. Shaken. Yup. Okay. Love you, too, Babushka.”

King’s eyes were wide and his foot had fallen off the gas pedal. Babushka. He hadn’t heard the word in ten years and its use—a pet name for his mother—came slamming back into his mind. He grew serious, with murderous intent in his eyes. “That’s not funny.”

His father held out the phone. “You can ring her back if you want, but I think seeing her in person would—”

King yanked the wheel, turning onto Oak Lane, and hit the gas. Twin streaks of black rubber lanced out from the back tires as the car shot down the street. A second set of streaks squealed onto the pavement as, fifteen seconds later, King hit the brakes. He slammed the car into park in the middle of the street, flung himself from the car, and ran for the front door.

King twisted the doorknob and put his shoulder into the door like he was raiding a terrorist training camp. He scoured the living room and found it empty. Circling through the dining room, he entered the kitchen, where his mother spent most of her time either cooking or sitting in the breakfast nook, looking out at the backyard trees and her bird feeders.

The kitchen was empty. Feeling a growing anger at his father for perpetrating such a sick joke, but clinging to desperate hope, he opened the fridge. A full pitcher of lemonade, swirling with pulp, rested on the top shelf. King stared at the amber liquid and just as he started wondering if his father had come here earlier and made it himself, a gentle feminine voice broke his heart.

“Sorry to cause you so much pain, Jack—”

King turned and faced his mother, his legs weak, his mouth hanging open.

“But it had to be convincing.”

*   *   *

A TALL GLASS
of lemonade sat untouched in front of King. He sat at the small breakfast nook table with his returned father and still living mother, listening to an unbelievable tale. But what struck him more than their story was their affection. It was as though his father had never left. Their hands remained entwined the entire time. Their eyes glowed with love for each other. King had entered the Twilight Zone, and like William Shatner, wanted to throw open a door and shoot something. Instead, he picked up his perspiring glass and took a long swallow of lemonade. He placed the glass on the table and looked at his parents. They weren’t decrepitly old, but their age showed, which made their story so much harder to believe.

“Spies.”

His mother pursed her lips after taking a sip of lemonade and nodded.

“Russian.”

“He’s catching on, Lynn,” Peter said.

King looked at his father. “And you’ve been locked up for ten years, in the minimum security prison in Butner.”

“Told you I’d been in Butner. Now you can see why I never came to visit you.”

King rubbed his face. This was all too much. “And you went to prison—”

“I told you already, before the Cold War ended, your mother and I had fallen in love with this country. We kept our new identities and broke all ties with the Soviets in 1988.”

“Did they ever come after you?” King asked.

“Just once,” Peter said.

“And?”

Lynn took another drink, her eyebrows reaching up to her dark hair. When it was clear Peter wasn’t going to answer, she gave a gentle cough, smiled, and said, “I shot him. You were just a baby then.” She smiled at King’s shocked expression. “Don’t worry, he lived.”

“After that,” Peter added, “the Cold War ended in 1991 and we were forgotten about.”

“This is why you were opposed to Julie joining the military?”

His father nodded. “I wanted you both to live different lives, and to never fear for yours. But it seems the military is part of our genetic makeup.” He sighed. “If your sister had listened—”

Lynn put her hand on Peter’s arm. “Not now.”

His nod was nearly imperceptible. “When Julie died I thought it might not have been an accident. I started poking around. But was rusty. Asked too many questions. Was spotted poking around the base. Federal agents looked into my past and learned the truth.”

“I gave them every name and contact I had and was totally honest about what secrets we had sent home in exchange for your mother’s freedom and your continued belief that I had simply left. I got out of jail two weeks ago.”

“Why wait this long to tell me?”

His father began to reply, but King interrupted.

“And why
fake
Mom’s death?”

“There are elements in the current Russian government that are attempting to return to old Cold War policies. Shortly after my release we were contacted by an old KGB handler who assumed the dead end in our file back home meant we were sleeper agents.”

Lynn looked out the window, her eyes watching the shuffle of spring leaves in the wind. “We’ve been reactivated.”

“So you faked your death to what, escape?”

She nodded.

King chuckled.

“You think this is funny?” his father asked.

“You should have come to me from the beginning.” He looked at both his parents, amused, surprised, and thrilled to have them both back. “I have friends that could help.”

“You’re a soldier, son. This is the spy business,” Peter said. “Who do you know that could help us, chess pieces?”

King squinted at his father. “How
did
you know my call sign?”

Lynn smiled. “You let your guard down at home … and I’m a good spy.”

King’s stunned silence was interrupted by his cell phone. He ignored its ring as another question entered his mind. “What’s my real last name?”

“
Our
last name
was
Machtcenko. Yours has been and will always be Sigler.”

The phone chimed again.

“My maiden name,” his mother added. “Your grandfather really was German.”

“And a jeweler?”

She nodded.

As the phone rang a third time, King looked at the caller ID display and frowned.

“Who is it?”

“Unknown.” Which on King’s phone was virtually impossible. Thanks to Deep Blue, absolutely everyone who called this phone appeared in caller I.D., regardless of their personal preference. That this call showed as “unknown” meant the caller had impressive resources of their own. King stood and answered the phone. “Who is this?”

The unfamiliar voice on the other end was deep and strong. “Where are you, King?”

“You’ve got ten seconds to tell me who you are and then I—”

“Get back to Bragg, King. I’ll do what I can, but I’m not sure it will be enough.”

The line went dead.

As the pieces of the puzzle came together, King moved toward the front door.

“What’s wrong?” his mother asked.

“She’s in trouble.”

“Who is?”

“Fiona.”

His parents were on their feet, trailing him out the front door to the car, which his father had moved into the driveway. “Who is Fiona?”

Upon reaching the driver’s side door, King turned to his parents. “My daughter—foster daughter.”

He entered the car and started the engine. But before he could put it into reverse, the doors to the backseat opened and his parents climbed in. “What are you doing?”