Authors: Kathy Disanto
“He probably blames me.”
Dennis ambled back from the coffee
maker. He turned his chair around and straddled it, arms resting across the
back, one hand wrapped around a steaming cup of French roast. The ruins of a
bacon-and-egg breakfast littered the table between us. “Who?” he said.
“Jack.”
“For?”
“Sadie.”
“That’s bull,” he replied calmly,
and took a sip.
I shoved my plate aside and folded
my arms on the table. “Think so? If I hadn’t boarded with her—”
He held up an index finger. “Remind
me again.
Whose
decision was that?”
“Okay, dumping me in her lap was
Jack’s idea. The come-and-get-me broadcast wasn’t.”
“Nope, rattling the Ferrymen’s cage was
definitely your brain child. And it worked.”
“Great. Wonderful. Except for the
part where I skipped town and left Sadie to pay the bill.”
“You don’t give her much credit, do
you?”
“What?”
“Sadie. You don’t give her much
credit.”
I scowled. “How do you figure?”
“Did Iceman brief her on why he
wanted to put you at her place?”
“You know he did. In detail.”
“There you go. You reckon she was
experienced enough to understand the risks involved? Hell, she probably
understood them better than you did.”
“Still—”
“She could have turned us down, told
Jack to find someplace else. She didn’t. She made her choice, A.J.” His lips
curved slightly. “Knowing the Sprite, she was probably hoping to get a shot at
the Ferrymen
herself. Like I said yesterday, some habits die hard.”
“Maybe you’re right. Strike that.
I
know
you’re
right.” I ran a fingertip around the rim of my
stoneware mug. “It’s just ….”
“What?”
I blew out a breath. “Cuey,
Michaels, Bugsy, and now Sadie. I feel like a Jonah.”
“Well, shake it off and start
feeling like the woman who’s going to help us hunt down these bastards. We’re
going to nail them, and sooner rather than later, thanks to you. But you gotta
keep your head in the game. If Sadie could get a message out from wherever she
is now, she would second me on that.”
“In no uncertain terms. I can
almost hear the lecture.” I smiled crookedly. “Thanks.”
“Hey, no problem. You’re part of
the team now, right? Teammates take care of each other, keep each other
focused.”
“Uh … right.”
Part of the team. Teammates.
When feds talk like that, it makes
my teeth itch. I’m all for cooperation and working together for the common
good, but you don’t want to obliterate the boundaries. I mean, you’ve got the
law and you’ve got the press. Lot of times we see eye to eye, but just as
often we don’t. The two sides have even been known to disagree on what the
common
good
looks like. You want my opinion, when the story comes down to press
versus police—and it usually does at some point—you’re either a reporter or a
team
player
(read:
parrot
). So, you’ve got to walk that fine line.
Not that I’m above using the other
side’s terminology when it suits me. As in …. “If I’m part of the team, maybe
you wouldn’t mind satisfying my curiosity.”
“About what?” he asked warily.
Hah! So much for team spirit.
“Jack and Sadie. How did they meet?”
He relaxed enough to smile. “Never
managed to worm the story out of her, huh?”
“Not for lack of trying.”
“She tell you anything at all?”
“Only that they met when he was with
the Teams.”
His dark eyes narrowed as he ran the
need-to-know analysis. I half-expected him to stonewall and was pleasantly
surprised when he shrugged. “The names and dates are still classified, but I
don’t see any harm in sharing the parts that aren’t. Off the record.”
My three least favorite words in any
language, but sometimes you can’t get around them, and I was curious
.
“Sure.”
“Our squad was tasked with bringing
in a rogue scientist last seen shopping WMD research around the Terror
Triangle. Air dropped us into the sand about forty klicks from the Persian
Gulf, and headquarters said wait there for our contact. We sweated through six
miserable days, but nobody showed.
“Day seven, we spot a kid coming
toward us, toting a man-sized burlap sack and herding three of the mangiest
sheep you ever laid eyes on. So we activate our cloaks and settle into our
hidey holes to wait him out. Well, wouldn’t you know it, the grubby little beggar
squats down eighteen meters in front of our noses and starts to eat lunch. Okay,
that’s a pain in the butt, but it’s not a serious problem. Again, all we have
to do is lay up until he moves on. Only the kid is taking forever with that
lunch.
“Almost an hour goes by before he swallows
the last bite of naan, dusts off his hands, and announces, ‘I appreciate the lunch
break, but what do you say we stop playing hide-and-seek? I hate sheep, I’m
not getting any younger, and we’ve got a collar to make.’”
“Sadie,” I guessed with a grin.
“None other. She was quite a
surprise, and I don’t mean that in a good way. We bitched and moaned at first,
but the grumbling didn’t last more than the day or two it took us to realize this
middle-aged woman no bigger than a minute rated expert on any weapon from a blade
to a sonic cannon, didn’t mind being dirty, and always humped her share of the gear
without whining.
“We spent three months tracking the
target’s mobile lab, waiting for a chance to snatch him and his would-be buyers.
Three months dug into sand up to our eyeballs, with our heads on a swivel. Living
like that strips you down to what’s real. You get to know one another pretty
quickly.”
He paused for a drink of coffee
before continuing, “Sadie told us CIIS tried to tie her to a desk when she
turned thirty-five. She threatened to resign, knowing good and well they
couldn’t afford to lose her. How many agents can speak five or six languages
or know the local customs of at least that many countries better than most
natives do? Anyway, headquarters backed down. So there she was, middle-aged
and still in the field, sent along to make sure us knuckle-draggers kept the
grab nice and legal.”
“I take it she and Jack hit it off
especially well?”
“Are you kidding? Once they found
out they both had degrees in criminology, the two of them were thick as thieves.
Sadie filled Eagan in on what worked in real-world law enforcement and what
wasn’t worth a damn outside the covers of a textbook. Even gave him the
back-story on the guy we were after. How CIIS uncovered his plans to defect
and tagged his DNA so they could track him, then set up the op in a way that
would let them net a couple other birds at the same time. Iceman ate that
stuff up with a spoon.” Baker shrugged. “Guess it was in his blood. His dad
is a cop. So are both his uncles. Only one who didn’t go into law enforcement
was his twin brother, Sean.”
I held up a hand. “Wait. Back up.
Jack Eagan has a twin brother?”
“Fraternal. They don’t look all
that much alike. Sean is two minutes older and an inch shorter. Dark hair,
brown eyes.”
Eagan had a family. A twin, for
God’s sake. So much for my theory about him being chiseled off an iceberg. Promising
myself I would find out more later, I gestured for Baker to go on. “What
happened then?”
“We pinched our targets as planned.
We went our way, and Sadie went hers, but she and Jack stayed in touch. She even
called to let him know the twerp and his buddies got life without parole. Eagan
was jazzed about being part of that.”
“But he stayed with the Teams.”
Dennis nodded. “For four more
years. Then we worked with Sadie on another case, gathering intel on a sex
slavery ring with players on three continents. Iceman picked her brain
nonstop. She finally threw up her hands and told him anybody who liked to ask
questions as much he did ought to sign on with the Service. When the
assignment was over, he took her up on it.”
“So did you.”
“Yeah. The Sprite definitely knew
how to bait her hook. Anyway, not long after we came on board she retired and moved
to Hobson’s Hope. Claimed with the two of us to fill her shoes—one for each
boot, she said—she could leave with a clear conscience. Jack visited her whenever
he got the chance.”
“So she was his mentor, as well as
his friend,” I said. “Losing her, especially this way, has to be a blow.”
He nodded again. “The stuff we do
…. You know you’re going to take losses. You tell yourself you’re mentally
prepared, but you’re not. When one of your team goes down, it carves a hole in
you. Every damned time. You can train yourself not to rehash the details and
refuse to play What-If, but that hole never heals.
“Most days you can cage the emotions
in some dark corner of your soul. But now and then—when you’re alone or tired
or sick or drunk—the memories break loose and tear you to pieces until you can beat
them back. The dreams are the worst, because you’re helpless all over again. But
you deal with your demons and go right back out, because carrying the fight to
the enemy is the only way you can lay those ghosts to rest for a while.” He
paused to study my face before adding , “Of course you already know all that,
don’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered quietly.
How many times had I relived the
explosion in my dreams? How many nights had I lurched awake with a gasp, drenched
in sweat and drowning in survivor’s guilt?
Dennis leaned toward me, his
expression earnest. “Look, A.J., I know you want to do your part, but you
better think long and hard about what you’re getting into with this talent of
yours. Like I said yesterday, losing friends and teammates never gets easier.
The more of them you lose, the rawer it gets. If you stay at this, one way or
another, you’re going to bleed.”
Truth didn’t come any colder or harder,
except there was more to it.
“I believe you, but it doesn’t
change my decision. I can’t
let
it change my decision. How would I live
with myself, Dennis? Knowing I could have made a difference but chose not to
because I didn’t want to pay the price.”
“And if the price includes family?”
“You think I haven’t faced that
possibility?” I didn’t mean to bite his head off, but that spot was still tender.
Always would be. I forced myself to calm down. “It’s not like I plan to hang
out a shingle or advertise on the air. All I can say is I’ll do my best to
keep them out of harm’s way.”
“Keep whom out of harm’s way?” Jack
wanted to know, as he joined us in the kitchen.
“My family.”
“Ah.” He strolled over to the
cabinet, pulled out a cup, and poured some coffee. Leaning against the
counter, he took a leisurely sip. “Speaking of your family, I just got through
talking to your brother.”
My heart bobbled but only for a
beat. Whatever he had to tell me couldn’t be bad news, or he wouldn’t be lounging
against the counter, coffee in his right hand, left hand tucked casually in the
pocket of his blue jeans.
“Which brother? Why didn’t I get to
talk to him?”
“The pushy prosecutor. And you
didn’t get to talk to him, because he was on his way into court and only had a
second to pass along a message.”
“Which was?”
“Malcolm Conover called WNN, looking
for you. Maxwell gave him the story we agreed on. You’re off the grid, probably
Lone Rangering a hot lead. Conover left a callback number in case you came up
for air.”
My scalp prickled with that familiar
mix of apprehension and excitement I live for. “I don’t get it. Why would
Conover try to contact me? There’s no way he could have guessed I saw …. He left
a number? That’s all? He didn’t say why he wanted to talk to me in the first
place?”
“He claimed he has some information.
Said he wouldn’t share it with anybody but you.”
“Multibillionaire philanthropist
calls with a hot tip for a crime reporter?” said Dennis. “I’m surprised Maxwell
remembered his own name, let alone the fact that Jim was his emergency point of
contact.”
“He definitely smelled a scoop.
Records show he was on the horn to the DA’s office a nanosecond after the
transmission ended.”
“Maxwell isn’t the only one who
smells something,” Dennis muttered. “I do, too. And it’s not a news story.”
“A trap,” I agreed, mentally running
through my options. It was a quick sprint, because there was only one. “It doesn’t
matter. I have to call. So far, he’s got no reason to believe I’ve made him.
That’ll change in a New York minute if he thinks I’m avoiding him.”
Eagan nodded agreement. “Already
put the wheels in motion.”
“I wonder what his angle is?” I said.
“What does he hope to accomplish?”