His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. A message from one of his guards that his brother and niece were on their way up. Jack took the notice as his cue to jog up to his bedroom to put on some dry clothes. By the time he returned downstairs, Jaime and Maddie were making their way inside the foyer.
“Smells good, Uncle Jack,” Maddie told him with a broad smile as her father helped her take off her Hello Kitty backpack.
“What’re you making?” Jaime asked, sniffing the fragrant air wafting from the kitchen.
“Your favorite—beef tenderloin con balsamico and homemade tortellini,” Jack told him before scooping up Maddie in a hug. “How was your day, micina cara? You graduating from college yet?” he teased, resting her on his hip.
“I’m in first grade, silly!” Maddie scolded, patting his five o’clock shadow with her little hand. “Bobby Preston pulled my hair today, and I told him if he did it again, I’d hit him in the mouth.”
Jack laughed as Jaime scowled.
“Wonder where she picked that up from, huh?” Jaime said with a dark look. “Che palle!”17
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Jack replied before rubbing his niece’s nose with his own in an Eskimo kiss. “Cara, you know sometimes little boys pull your hair because they like you.”
Maddie huffed, exasperated. “Then why doesn’t he just tell me that instead of pulling my hair and making me mad?”
“Because sometimes boys can be stupid.”
“Most of the time boys are stupid,” Jaime corrected as he walked past them and into the kitchen. “But you can’t go punching every stupid boy in the mouth, Maddie,” he chided.
“You leave that to me and your daddy, okay?” Jack whispered, making her giggle before he set her back on her feet.
Jaime took a quick taste of the tomato sauce. “Needs more garlic.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Jack leaned across the kitchen counter and smacked his brother away. “Stay away from my sauce.”
“Fine, fine!” Jaime shrugged, moving toward the fridge. “Did you go to your appointment with Dr. Carmichael today?
Jack sighed, stirring the sauce. “Yes, ‘Ma.’”
“Hey—I’m going to take you comparing me to mom as a compliment.” Jaime poured a glass of milk for Maddie.
“Are you still sick, Uncle Jack?” Maddie asked, a look of worry crossing her face.
“No, micina cara,” Jack told her gently. “Dr. Carmichael is helping me get all better.”
And though Jack hated to admit it, he kind of was. Unlike the gentle, almost coddling doctors at his posh rehab, his new therapist was forthright and irreverent. He didn’t seem to give a damn who Jack was or how much money he had. And he definitely didn’t mind calling Jack out on the carpet every session, making him address the hard facts with a kind of trenchant candor that was strangely appealing.
“So I found an NA meeting downtown that’s near your office,” Jaime told him as he popped open a club soda.
“I tried NA meetings before, but they didn’t take,” Jack responded, moving back toward the stove.
“Why didn’t they take?” Jaime asked. “If you’re worried about true anonymity—don’t worry. The mayor’s in this group, plus two judges, and the tech billionaire who told me about it. It’s totally discreet. Everyone just thinks it’s a weekly lunch meeting.”
“It’s not that.” Jack pressed his lips together as he worked on stuffing the tortellini. “I just don’t do groups.”
“You mean you don’t do public displays of vulnerability,” Jaime retorted, his gaze astute. “You know there’s no shame in this, bro. You’re not the only one struggling out there—”
He smacked his hand against the counter in frustration. When Maddie jumped, startled, Jack smiled ruefully. “Sorry, cara. Can you do me a quick favor and go play in your room for a little bit? Your daddy and I need to talk about work.”
“Can I watch a cartoon?” she asked, recognizing an opportunity when she saw one as she scooted toward the staircase.
“Sure, baby,” Jaime told her. “Uncle Jack and I will call you when dinner’s on the table.”
“M’kay.” Maddie hustled up the stairs in a flurry of pink tulle.
“What the hell’s eating at you?” Jaime asked, wheeling around. “I’m just trying to help—”
“Just stop it, alright?” Jack barked. “We eat dinner almost every night, you check on me during the day, you even found me a goddamn therapist. Jaime, I know you care, but you need to just stop worrying. I’m doing okay. Lay the fuck off!”
Jaime crossed his arms. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? I know when you’re okay and not okay. I know you better than anyone!”
“You didn’t know I was getting high on your pain meds, did you?” Jack replied, regretting the words almost as soon as they were out of his mouth when his little brother winced.
“That’s because I was high on my pain meds at the time,” Jaime snapped back. “And you may not be getting ripped off your rocker anymore, but you’re full of shit if you think I believe a word you say when you tell me you’re A-OK. I don’t give a shit what you tell everyone else. But you don’t bullshit me—not ever.”
Jack returned to making dinner, though he was a little too brutal with the soft shells of tortellini. “I’m just taking it day by day.”
Jaime leaned on the counter. “I know, but there’s no shame in asking for help. There’s no shame in getting support when you need it.”
Jack lifted a thick brow. “Have you been watching Dr. Phil again? Because you suck as a couch therapist.”
“Fuck you; that guy knows what he’s talking about.”
Jack put a stainless steel pot onto the stove. “Jaime, I know you mean well. But you need to back the hell off. I’m seeing Carmichael a couple times a week, and right now, that’s enough. Can we talk about anything else please? The weather, the Bulls, the business—”
“What about Sam?”
He tensed. “What about her?”
“You’re strangely calm when I bring her up now,” Jaime remarked, cocking his head. “A month ago and you would have been putting your fist through a wall or wearing a hole in the carpet if I mentioned her name.”
Jack shrugged. “Maybe all that therapy and meditation is making me zen.”
Jaime’s eyes narrowed. “Or maybe you have some information that’s making you weirdly calm.”
He opened the oven to check on the tenderloin, studiously avoiding the observation. Jaime was too goddamn intuitive at times. His attention to detail was bar-none. That’s what made him such a good software developer.
“What are you up to, Jack?” Jaime prodded. “My spidey senses tell me you’ve got something up your sleeve.”
Jack said nothing. Less incriminating that way.
But Jaime wasn’t buying it. Not for one minute.
“You know I can find out,” Jaime taunted. “The things I could do to your tech would make the NSA jealous. What are you up to?”
Jack continued to ignore him as he added the tortellini to the boiling water.
“You won’t tell me?” Jaime asked. “Fine, I’ll hack into Sam’s system and find out for myself.” Jack didn’t doubt for one moment Jaime would do it too. Jaime was uncommonly gifted, diabolically talented. Thankfully, he had enough scruples to generally leave people well enough alone, but he knew exactly which buttons of Jack’s to push.
Jack pressed his hands on his granite counter as Jaime indolently picked up the laptop case he’d left by the front door. “I know the man who’s protecting Samantha, alright?” Jack confessed. “You never met de Soto, but Dad bailed him out of a bad situation. He used to bring him around the gym a few times when we were kids, taught him how to box. Said it kept him busy and off the streets.”
Jaime’s mouth dropped open. “Did you hire this guy to protect her? And why in the hell would Sam agree to that? She’s got a legion of her own people for protection.”
“Wasn’t me. Honest
to God.” Jack held his hands up, shaking his head. “I didn’t know anything about it until Dad told me.”
Jaime looked stunned. “So wait—this guy already knew Sam and Dad?”
Jack nodded. “De Soto’s Delta Force now. Dad helped him get into the ROTC here in Chicago during high school, then he got a full ride to Texas A&M. He was one of Samantha’s classmates. They came up together as cadets.”
“What are the goddamn chances?” Jaime marveled.
“Right?” Jack nodded.
Awareness dawned in Jaime’s eyes as he put two and two together. “But how did you get him to agree to report back to you on what Sam’s up to?”
Jack didn’t even bother to look sheepish. When his father had told him what happened after he’d awoken in rehab, Jack had seen it as a sure sign. It was the one thing he’d held onto during his darkest days since this had all gone down. “Dad helped de Soto get the leave from the military so he could protect Sam. He’s been temporarily reassigned to her, so he kind of owes us one—”
“Sam doesn’t need you to take care of her, bro,” Jaime pointed out. “She’s got an army of guys who would charge into oncoming traffic for her.”
“De Soto just happens to be one of them now. He also happens to be close to Dad, so more’s the better.” He shrugged.
Jaime crossed his arms. “You know she’s going to lose her shit when she finds out that you’re spying on her.”
“Says the guy who bugged her phone.”
“Hey, I did that for you,” Jaime pointed out.
“Whatever the case, de Soto is there,” Jack reasoned. “And since she won’t accept help from me outright, this is the least I can do for her while we’re apart.”
Jaime shook his head slowly. “This is ‘Bad News Bears,’ man. You mark my words.”
“I’d rather risk her wrath than be swallowed whole by worry,” Jack told his brother, resolute. “Amor regge senza legge, fratu.”18
“You’re not high, dude. You’re fuori come un balcone!”19 Jaime responded, shaking his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Warning or not, I’m sleeping better now than I have in months,” Jack replied as he pulled the tenderloin out of the oven. “If Sam wants to rage, I welcome it. I’d rather have her anger than her silence. Now help me set the table. Dinner’s ready.”
*
March—Early Morning
Tel Aviv, Israel
R O X A N N E
Rox woke with a start, jerking upright, hands splayed in the air like she was falling hard and fast. The nightmare felt so real, it took her a moment to register that she was safe, tucked up in a soft bed inside a cool, dark room.
Her phone vibrated on the night stand, the rattling harsh in the quiet.
“Jesus,” she whispered shakily, realizing that the phone was what must have wakened her. She snatched it up, turning it on as soon as she saw it was Sam.
“You’re calling me in the middle of the night because you’re punishing me for sending Alejandro to you, aren’t you?” Rox asked, not bothering to say hello.
“Tell your asshole brother to go back to Delta Force,” Sam told her unceremoniously. “He’s driving me batshit crazy. When he’s not trying to boss me around, he’s hovering over me like a pageant mom.”
“I heard that!” Alejo called out in the background, and Rox smiled in spite of herself.
“You were supposed to!” Sam snapped back. “See what I mean?” she complained into the phone. “Make it stop. Make him stop. Call the dogs off.”
“Not until I bury Lightner, and I’m getting close—I can feel it,” Rox assured her, sitting back against her headboard. “How’s the back?”
“It’s fine,” she sighed. “It’ll be even better when everyone stops treating me like an invalid.”
“You are an invalid,” Rox pointed out. “You’d probably heal faster if you stopped pushing so hard.”
“Now you sound like your brother. So quit stalling, mija—tell me what you’ve got?” Sam prompted.
“I tracked down the surgeon Lightner used yesterday,” Rox told her flatly.
“Why doesn’t this sound like good news?”
“Because it was like finding a needle in a haystack only to discover the needle was poisoned,” she sighed. “Lightner blinded his surgeon after his last check-up, so the good doctor couldn’t ID him for anyone else who might come looking. The doctor had been paid cash up-front before the surgery, and he only knew Lightner’s real name. There are no records of the procedure, no photos, nothing of use—we’re literally back to square one.”
“Dammit.” Sam was quiet a moment before she said, “You know, it’s ancient folklore that the architects of the Taj Mahal had their hands cut off after the tomb was finished, so that they could never recreate the work again.”
“How do you even know shit like this?” Rox asked.
“I like history.”
“Why?”
“Because it repeats itself. Now what are you going to do next?”
Good question. Rox rubbed her brow. “There are three things Lightner needs: new IDs, men, and munitions. I’ve asked Avi to work his counterfeiting connections to see who’s plunked down some cash for some seriously good papers. I’m working the men-and-munitions angle.”
“How much money did you leave him with?”
“Well, between me siphoning all his accounts, Jack buying out Leviathan, and MI-6 and Interpol sealing off access to all the active accounts under his name, I’m thinking he can only have a mil or two to work with at most—pretty much whatever he could take with him when he got on that container ship because he was too hurt to go very far,” she reasoned. “If it were me, I’d be working with loose diamonds. They’re virtually untraceable, easy to carry, sell, and trade. He’s going to be looking for a new source of income soon.”
“For his taste, bet you dollars to donuts Lightner’s going after something in the black market trifecta: drugs, guns, or girls,” Sam guessed. “But getting into drugs at that level is too territorial and so is dealing in girls,” she murmured, thinking aloud. “Given Lightner’s background, going into guns makes the most sense. You don’t need to have any loyalties or kowtow to anyone to be an arms dealer.”
“Good point.”
“Outside of the U.S. and Russia, some of the best military equipment in the world is made in Israel,” Sam remarked. “It’s easy to access here, relatively inexpensive, and you only need to get your hands on something very few people have in order to make a bundle of money fast. From Israel, you can sell black-market arms to the Middle East, Africa, or Southeast Asia. Boom—one and done.”
“Shit,” Rox murmured, rubbing her brow. “I’ve got to find that fucker before he pulls anything like that off.”
“You will,” Sam told her, confident. “I wish I was out there with you,” she added with a frustrated sigh. “I hate sitting on the sidelines like this.”
“Sam, maybe this is the universe’s way of saying you need to focus on other things right now.”
Sam made a noise of discontent.
In the dark, Rox touched the ultra-fine scars on her face, the residual marks from what had felt like endless surgeries. Barely noticeable, but she could feel them. Rox knew where all the breaks were, each of the hurts and aches—all the terrible things she’d survived.
“Do you remember what you told me when I was recovering from the last surgery?” she asked Sam. “The first time I saw my face and cried?”
“Roxy, don’t go back there…”
“You said there is something beautiful about scars. You said scars meant the hurt was over; that the wounds were closed and healed and done with,” Rox reminded her quietly.
“On very rare occasions, I sound wiser than I really am,” Sam replied, droll.
“No, you sound as wise as you are, Sam. Maybe you just need to let yourself rely on the people who care about you. Let us carry the burden a while. You’re not alone in this. Don’t make yourse
lf feel like you have to be.”
Sam was quiet a long moment. “When did you get so smart?”
“When you saved my life,” Rox answered. “Now let me and my brother do our jobs. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything worth knowing.”
*
Same Time—Early Evening
Wyatt Ranch, Texas
S A M A N T H A
Sam hung up the phone, lost in thought.
“You done with Rox?” Alejandro asked, popping his head into the library.
“Yeah,” Sam said with a nod.
“Dinner’s almost ready. Hannah wanted me to let you know.”
Sam pushed up from her chair slowly. “I think I’ll skip it tonight. I’m feeling pretty bushed,” she admitted.
Alejo frowned. “You should eat.”
“So we can go round for round some more?” She waved her hand. “I’ll pass. I think I’ll have a hot bath, relax for a bit.”
Alejandro’s eyes followed her as she slowly made her way up the staircase. “You hurting?” he asked.
Sam smiled bitterly. “Don’t you know? I’m always hurting.”
Once inside the en suite, she poured herself a hot bath in her deep, polished copper tub, liberally adding salts and fragrances, inhaling the fragrance of jasmine and lavender—a small but delicious luxury. Samantha stripped off her clothes in front of the beveled mirror, looking at her body—really looking for the first time since all the surgeries as her hand touched the marled skin of her scars. She’d lost too much weight, the hallow of her cheeks making her look a bit gaunt. She touched her shoulder, then slid her fingertips down the cool weight of her breast, over the ridges of her ribcage to the silky skin of her belly.
She closed her eyes, remembering what she’d looked like as a girl, soft and dewy where she was all angles and sinew now, her scars emphatically defined against the tan of her skin. Sam touched the raised skin where her hip had been torn from shrapnel, up to the scar where she’d been lacerated from a knife during a separate mission. She reached back, turning to look at the nickel-sized cicatrix on her shoulder, a bullet wound from her second tour. Sam recalled being shot felt like getting punched forward, the pain so sudden and shocking, it was nearly surreal. And now… the finale. Her eyes grazed over the careful stitching on the freshly raised scar traversing her lower back like a deep red lance. The latest wound in a lifetime of hurts. Another reminder of her mistakes.
Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three Page 13