That Jack had moved so far up the ranks after Panama was a shock to Pat Kincaid, and in many ways to Jack as well. He’d almost walked away, but instead he’d remained steadfastly loyal. He had owed it to his unit and himself to see it through, stand up during the fallout, defend his decision, and take his punishment. In the end, however, Pat Kincaid had decided to bury the situation and “protect” Jack’s future-something Jack had neither asked for nor wanted.
Then the Colonel had the audacity to demand an apology and a thank-you, or Jack need not come home for Christmas.
Except for weddings and funerals, Jack hadn’t been home since.
But he wanted to see his brother. He simply couldn’t plan a scenario that would guarantee he could go to San Diego, visit Patrick, and leave without running into Colonel Kincaid.
Life has no guarantees.
He’d considered watching the hospital and going in after the Colonel left. According to Dillon’s message, Patrick would be released within the week. It would be easier to control the situation if Jack went to the hospital then to postpone a visit until his brother was home.
Scout walked over to Jack with Padre-Father Francis-at his side. The priest was drinking bottled water; Scout was on his third draft. Sitting at the table next to where Jack stood like a stone sentry, they all faced the door.
“Go,” Scout said.
Jack didn’t have to ask what his longtime friend meant. He didn’t say anything, but glanced at Padre. Padre had been Frank’s nickname since he and Jack met that first day of basic training when they both signed into the Army Rangers. Frank was a couple years older, and when it got out that he was a Catholic seminary dropout, the name stuck. Jack thought it ironic that when Padre left the army five years ago, he’d gone back to the seminary.
Padre had told Jack that the nickname saved him. Jack told him he’d saved himself.
Scout said, “We just got off a successful op, we have no pending assignments, now’s the time.”
“Something may come up.”
Scout shook his head. “You’re the last person I expect to make excuses.”
Jack tensed. “The Guatemala situation came down fast. If we hadn’t responded immediately, the outcome could have been worse.”
“We’re not the only guns for hire.”
Jack frowned-he didn’t like the expression, though it was accurate.
Padre interjected, “Is Dillon in San Diego, too?”
“Yes.” Jack glanced at Padre. His friend knew what was important to him, and the irony that Padre-a man Jack had fought beside, a man he had saved, a man he had almost died with-had become his confessor wasn’t lost on him. In many ways, Padre was a closer brother to him than his twin, Dillon; in fact, half-Cuban Jack looked more like the full-blooded Cuban priest than he did his fair-skinned twin. In other ways, they were worlds apart.
Scout drained his beer and centered it on the worn wood table and continued. “Do you think I couldn’t handle the team on my own? Or was putting me second in command lip service?”
“You know it wasn’t.”
Scout shook his head. “You’re fucking scared.” He tipped his beer to Padre. “Sorry.”
Padre smiled. The scene always played out the same.
Jack didn’t respond. Fear didn’t come into it. Rage did. He didn’t know if he could stop himself from punching the Colonel in the jaw. All the wasted years when Jack could have been a brother to his six siblings, a son to his mother. All lost because Colonel Pat Kincaid couldn’t accept Jack’s decision in Panama.
What was he supposed to do? Let innocent civilians die because the intelligence had been wrong? He had been forced to act, even though by disobeying direct orders he could have jeopardized the mission. Jack had been willing to be reprimanded for that decision, even if it had resulted in a court-martial.
Pat Kincaid hadn’t even allowed his son to take the heat.
“Take my plane,” Scout offered.
Jack cracked a half-smile. Scout babied his Cessna. He didn’t like anyone flying it, even Jack.
“You must want to get rid of me.”
“I want you to see your family.” Scout’s fingers danced on the scarred table. “I have no family. I’m married to this job. But I’m older than you, I don’t know how many more years I’m going to be able to do this. And then what? My parents are long dead, I have no wife, not even an ex-wife I can bitch about. No kids that I know of-a couple cousins I haven’t seen in half a lifetime. You have something damn rare, and though you don’t talk about it, I know you’ve enjoyed your visits with your brothers and sisters. Right, Padre?”
He nodded. “I’d say so.”
Jack shuffled, under fire. “Dillon and I have come to terms.” It was good to have his brother back, even though it wasn’t the same as when they were kids. And he was getting used to Dillon’s girlfriend, though he was still wary about the fed. Maybe because she seemed to know too much about him without trying. Jack demanded privacy.
“I’ve known you for how long?” Scout asked.
It was a rhetorical question, but Jack answered. “Nineteen years.”
“Nineteen years,” Scout said before Jack finished. “I buried your puke when you got malaria in fucking Belize, so I think I got some say in your life. Go to San Diego. See your family. It’s not like the team and I are going to up and disappear on you.”
Jack stared at his beer.
“You want to,” Scout said.
“Jack.” Padre spoke quietly and Jack looked at him. “Don’t let your father stop you from doing what you need to do.”
“I don’t want a confrontation.”
“I’m not going to tell you what you should do.”
“You want me to forget.”
“You can’t forget.”
Padre was the only person who knew exactly what had happened in Panama that caused Colonel Kincaid to disown his oldest son.
“You want me to forgive.” Jack could barely say the word while thinking of his father.
“I don’t want you to do anything. But I know how important reconnecting with your brother has been, how invested you are in your family’s well-being, and how guilty you’ve felt over what happened to Patrick. Sometimes, face-to-face is better than a cell phone. You need a truce.”
Padre was right. Jack wanted to be in San Diego for his family, but he also needed to be there for himself.
Jack turned to Scout. “You’ll loan me your plane?”
“Hell, if I’d known it’d be this easy to convince you, I’d have said you could fly commercial.” Scout laughed. “Yeah, you can borrow her. Just be careful, okay? She’s a bit temperamental, prefers a light touch, and sometimes you’re a might heavy-handed, know what I mean?”
“I’ll treat her as if she were my own.”
“God, no. Treat her like she’s my plane.”
Jack laughed and sat down next to Scout and Padre, feeling the tension dissipate. “I’ll leave at oh six hundred, be back in twenty-four hours.”
“Take all the time you want,” Scout said.
“I can’t take too much time off. Bills to pay,” Jack said. “Twenty-four is about all I can spare.” And all he could take, knowing everything could blow up if his father pushed.
The door opened and Chief of Police Art Perez and two of his deputy cronies sauntered in. “Great,” Scout mumbled.
“Leave it alone,” Jack said, not taking his dark eyes off the head cop. Perez didn’t want Jack in Hidalgo anymore than Jack wanted Perez as the chief of police. Neither of them could do anything about the other, and Jack lived outside the city limits, so Perez couldn’t even harass him effectively.
Except here.
Six foot two-a half inch taller than Jack, but with a paunch that suggested fifty pounds heavier and a disdain for regular exercise-Perez strode over to the table, hands in his belt. He had the demeanor of a man who had to prove his manhood each and every day.
“Father,” Perez acknowledged Padre. His
mother worked at the rectory part-time and liked Father Francis. Hispanic men almost always deferred to their mothers, especially in matters of faith.
But Jack wasn’t a priest, and hadn’t even made a very good altar boy thirty years ago. He hadn’t won Mrs. Perez over.
“How are you, Art?” Padre said. “Would you like to join us?”
“Another time.” Perez stared at Jack. Jack stared back. Perez turned to Scout. “I heard you had some excitement down in Guatemala.”
“Not much,” Scout said. “Maybe we can find some here.”
“We have an early morning.” Jack stood. The last thing he needed was Scout sitting in jail indefinitely for assaulting the chief of police. It had happened once before, when Scout and Deputy Leon started a bar fight.
Padre picked up on the cue, though Scout was slower on the uptake. It was earlier than his usual close-down-the-bar night.
“Yes,” Padre took Scout’s arm. “You need to fuel the plane.”
“Going somewhere?” Perez asked.
“Personal,” Jack said.
The silence was thick. Scout mumbled something about men with big guns and small dicks and Perez reddened.
Jack extracted them from the tense situation and they went outside. Nearly midnight and still warm, but the humid breeze off the Rio Grande felt good.
“Want to fly me out to San Diego?” he asked Scout.
“Naw, I have a date with Rina and the boys Wednesday morning.”
“I’ll be back by then.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I don’t want to miss taking the boys to their first Major League ball game. Just take care of Carrie, okay?”
Jack had never named any of the planes he flew, though Carrie the Caravan was Scout’s pride and joy. To Jack, planes were simply transpo.
“Of course. Let me give you a ride home.”
Ethan-he’d dumped his first name in favor of his middle when he returned to the United States-didn’t think it had been a good idea to snatch Price’s dog tag, and he definitely didn’t think it had been smart to mail it to the FBI, but he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to upset Karin. He didn’t want her to leave him. She’d saved his life and he needed her.
Far back in his mind, Ethan knew she needed him as well-she wanted him to teach her all the tricks of his trade, his unusual aptitude for acupuncture. But that was certainly a modest exchange. He couldn’t have done any of this without her, and he’d be grateful for the rest of his life. The life he owed her.
“You okay?” she asked as he drove south.
“Fine, love.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. Clear.
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t want you to get in trouble,” he said. “What if they trace the dog tags back to you? I can’t lose you.” His bottom lip trembled and he bit it hard enough to draw blood. He barely felt the puncture.
She leaned over and wiped the blood from his lip with her index finger. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her put her finger with his bright red blood into her mouth, then sucked her finger with her eyes closed, a half-smile on her lips.
He swallowed thickly and squirmed in his seat.
“They won’t trace it to me, or you, or anyone. It’s a game, Ethan. They’ll be chasing their tails. I wish I could watch.” She laughed, as if she were amused.
They’d gone out of their way to mail the package from Reno-not only far from their next destination, but it would point the police in the wrong direction. Because so far her plans had worked exactly as she’d promised, Ethan believed her. And he loved her.
They’d left Sacramento at three that morning, dumped the van, picked up another vehicle, hit Reno, then turned down Highway 395 and drove through the Owens Valley. The bleakness of the desert made him want to drive the truck off the edge of the next cliff. A few cars, a few trucks, and nothing. Highway 58 wasn’t much better, and now I-40 cutting through the Mojave Desert as the sun set low behind them made him want to scream and jab a needle in the eye of the bitch riding next to him.
Ethan hated sitting in the car for hours doing nothing. At least she let him drive. He’d have blown his brains out if he had to sit in the passenger seat for fifteen hours.
He’d almost killed himself many times. Karin had stopped him. He hated her for it. Loved her for it. It depended on what memory came back and where it hurt.
“You’re brooding,” she said.
“It wasn’t the same this time.”
“Price was a worthless bum.”
“I’m sorry I got carried away. I just wanted to try something different.”
“It worked beautifully,” she cooed.
“But he died. It didn’t even take that long. I don’t understand how it happened.” And that’s what bothered Ethan most of all. He’d studied and practiced and perfected his discipline. Price shouldn’t have had a heart attack. It took the fun out of making him pay for the months of pain Ethan had endured.
She put her hand between his legs-close, but not quite touching him where he wanted.
“You didn’t make a mistake. You tried something new and he had a heart attack. Maybe he had a weak heart, maybe he was a drug addict, we don’t know. But think of what you discovered! When we’re done with everyone on the list, we should explore the possibilities of serious damage.”
“Nothing’s permanent.” Except memories.
“You don’t know that. Look at what happened to Price.”
“Like you said, he could have been a druggie or had high blood pressure or something.”
Ethan had been a guinea pig. Punctured and pained to perfect the techniques of his captors. He would be better than them. They hadn’t killed him-maybe they couldn’t with the tools they’d chosen-but they had made him want to die. Wouldn’t it be something if Ethan could slide in a couple of well-placed needles and cause a heart to stop? Had he done that with Price? Had he come up with something new? Better?
“I need to practice,” he said.
“You’ll have time. But first, we finish with the plan.”
She touched him there now; he was hard. “Just a couple hours and we can take care of this.”
He squirmed. He wanted her to suck him so hard it hurt. But he would wait.
They drove mostly in silence, though she was tormenting him with touches and kisses and whispers that kept him in a constant state of agitation. They arrived in Flagstaff as the sun disappeared. Here they would change cars again, rest, and tomorrow night take out another of the men who had destroyed Ethan: Frank Cardenas.
He shivered with anticipation. She thought it was about sex. Sure, sex had something to do with it. But more, he wanted to please her. To show her what he’d learned. He knew she enjoyed watching him poke the restrained men. He always asked if she wanted him to continue, and she always said yes. Keep it going as long as possible, until they pushed their victim to the breaking point.
The cabin they’d shared for the last six months was in the mountains above Flagstaff. He parked and got out, stretched, feeling free. The cabin was a large, spacious three-room A-frame with a loft. While he didn’t like being confined, it was okay as long as he could see out the windows.
Ethan turned to her, putting their bags inside the cabin. “Do you want-” he began, but her face had changed somehow …
“What?” he asked her.
“I’m excited about tomorrow.” She took his hands and put them on her breasts.
“You like watching me work.” It pleased him. He didn’t smile much, but now his lips turned up with a rare grin.
She nodded and licked her lips. He cleared his throat and squeezed her breasts again, rubbing her nipples hard with his thumbs. Karin was pretty, older than him, but that was okay. She dyed her hair so often he didn’t remember her natural color-maybe blond-but he liked it now, a reddish brown, long, making her look younger and sweet.
“It was fun, wasn’t it?”
She nodded again as he pushed her against the wall.
“It was a neat trick. I didn’t know you could hit a point and stop the vocal cords from working.”
“It doesn’t work like that. But to scream, you need air.” He touched her neck, his finger trailing down her chest, across her nipples.
“But,” he continued, “if the pain is so unbearable you can’t draw in a deep breath, you can scarcely breathe, you can’t scream.”
“It helped,” she whispered. “We were practically in the open.”
That had excited her, too, that they’d been bold and almost reckless. Almost because she hadn’t left anything to chance. They’d taken care of security, cameras, and had disguised themselves just in case anyone saw anything.
He leaned over and bit her ear, then sucked her lobe. He slid his scarred palm underneath her shirt, down the backside of her jeans and squeezed. She moaned and he lost himself in her.
“Watching men die turns you on.” He rubbed her.
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am not.”
She was lying. He felt her excitement, the forbidden thrills that pain and control and being gods gave them. He felt the power, the power that had been denied him for months. He’d been nothing, he’d been an experiment, poked and prodded and subjected to pain so intense, so vivid, it made him beg to die.
“Kill me. Kill me. Please. God no. No more. Kill me now. Now, God. Don’t!” His plea came on jagged breaths as the man wearing black gloves slowly pushed the ultra-thin needle behind his testicles and made him scream so violently that his vocal cords became raw.
Months of screaming had damaged his larnyx to the point where Ethan could no longer speak without a rasp.
Now he had the power. The control. He would make them all pay. Those who’d left him to suffer. They should have killed him. Why didn’t they just shoot him?
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