The Good Soldier

by L. T. Ryan

  Frank turned and disappeared up the stairs without another word.

  I reached the top of the ladder and sprinted toward the burning stairs. I made it halfway up when an explosion ripped through the house, sending a fireball down the stairs and knocking me off my feet. I lay on the floor of the basement. Flames danced all around me. Panic set in. I couldn't see the boy. Where was he? I had him over my shoulder, and now he was gone.

  The faint sound of crying penetrated through the maniacal crackling of the flames. I sat up and saw the outline of the boy on the other side of a wall of fire. To my right was a sink and a bunch of towels. They looked like they had been thrown down to the kids from time to time to clean themselves off. Or wipe themselves. It didn't matter. They were all I had. I turned the faucet on and doused the towels, then draped them over my head and shoulders and torso. I leapt through the fire, grabbed the kid and covered him with the remaining towels. I picked him up and held him across my body, close to my chest.

  By this time, the stairs had been on fire for several minutes. I didn't know how safe the wood would be, but we didn't have much of a choice. It was the stairs or the pit. The pit might not burn, and would keep us from inhaling the smoke that sought to violate and render our lungs devoid of oxygen. If the house came down, there'd be nothing to stop it from crushing us.

  I backed up as fast as I could and sprinted toward the stairs. My thought was that the less time I spent on a step, the lower the chance of it breaking under my weight. It was a good idea, in theory. My legs pumped high and fast and I hit the stairs at full speed, taking them three at a time. Two broke under me when I reached the top. I twisted my body to the side as I fell, so as not to crush the child.

  A heavy veil of smoke surrounded me. The walls and ceiling were covered in muted oranges and reds, engulfed in flames. The fire winked and flashed an evil grin at me. It had me. Here we were, so close to the door, yet so far from freedom. A few more feet and we'd be out of the house. Instead, I was down with my legs dangling, and my stomach and chest on the hallway floor. The fall knocked the wind out of me. I was unable to get to my feet. The only way out of the house had been swallowed up in a wall of fire.

  Then I heard a loud collective hiss, like steam escaping a kettle. Soon after, water pelted my body.

  "Come on, Jack," the voice sounded tinny, far away. It was Frank. I felt his hands grab my chest. They tried to pull the boy away, but I wouldn't let go. Finally, they pulled me to my feet. My thighs and calves scraped against jagged wood. Splinters larger than fingers embedded themselves in my flesh. The pain they caused only served to push me forward. I moved past the men who rescued me and carried the boy through the smoldering doorway. I ran as fast as my legs would carry us.

  Flashes from the edge of the yard blinded me and I stumbled. Again, I fell to the ground, making sure to turn so I received the brunt of the fall.

  "Let me take him," Frank said.

  I relented and let go of the boy. Someone pulled me up from behind and ushered me across the joined backyards of the burning house and its rear neighbor. I managed to keep my legs going until we reached the street, and the safety of our van, where my body collapsed.

  Chapter 8

  Frank had recognized the fire department battalion chief and convinced him to let us take the kids to the station house. The main part of the building was older and largely unchanged from the picture on the wall that had been taken during the twenties. They had added on a few years back, and the station provided more than enough room for our agents and the kids.

  Two FBI agents met us at the station and began the process of gathering information from the kids and contacting parents. I sat close enough that I could hear the elation of the mothers and fathers through the phone as they were told their children had been found. I couldn't help but think of the dozens, maybe hundreds of parents of those kids who had already been sent away.

  A couple firefighters made their way to our area shortly after the trucks and ambulances arrived. I pulled a gray wool blanket tight around my shoulders and across my chest. I thought that maybe I could hide by doing so. All it did was draw their attention.

  "Sir, are you OK?"

  It took a moment for my eyes to drift right and focus on her. She wore blue pants and a white shirt, which was smudged with soot. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail that reached past her shoulder blades. Dark brown eyes stood out against her pale skin. She had attractive features, and I couldn't help but wonder what she'd look like dressed up and with makeup on.

  I nodded and let my eyes drift past her, hoping she'd move on. When she didn't, I spoke. "What's your name?"

  "Sarah Parkerson." She pointed to a nametag above her breast.

  "I'm OK, Sarah. Check on someone else. We had a couple guys shot."

  Her eyes widened, and I realized what I had said. This woman had no idea who we were. I could only image what thoughts were racing through her mind at that moment.

  That was the first sign that something was wrong with me.

  "No, you're not," she said, brushing aside my last comment. "Let me check you out." She pulled at the blanket until I relented. First, she checked me for a concussion. Then checked my blood pressure and listened to my lungs. "Sounds like you took in quite a bit of smoke. Concussion. Mild, though. You got a couple nasty cuts on you. We should get you to a hospital and get those stitched up. They'll want to observe you for the night. Come on."

  I ignored her outstretched hand and tried to wave her off like I was swatting at a fly that had annoyed me. "I'll be all right. Check on the kids."

  She smiled and squatted until she reached eye level. "We've already got guys checking on the kids. I was sent to check on you."

  "I'm not going to the hospital."

  "Yes, you are."

  I sighed. There was no getting rid of her, it seemed.

  "No, he's not," Frank said. "We have the ability to take care of him."

  Sarah shrugged and said, "Suit yourself. It's not on my conscience." She stood and turned and walked away, stopping to look back over her shoulder. "I'll be checking on the other guys. Shout if you need me."

  I watched as she walked toward Harris and McKenzie, who were sitting on a bench, their backs against a table. She tended to Harris in a matter-of-fact manner, then moved on to McKenzie.

  Frank returned with a chair and placed it in front of me, backward. He kicked one leg over and placed his forearms across the chrome railing that outlined the chair back.

  "What?" I said, now annoyed with Frank that he'd blocked my view of Sarah as she bent over to work on McKenzie. I leaned to the left to in an attempt to reestablish line of sight, but she'd moved on.

  Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Lit it and didn't offer me one. "Want me to see if I can get her number for you?"

  "Hey," Sarah said. "You can't smoke in here."

  Frank waved her off without looking back. "Well?"

  "Go to hell." My head pounded in retaliation with every word that came out of my mouth.

  "Jack, I got bad news." Frank's right hand dropped. His cigarette dangled from in between his index and middle fingers. The smoke twisted around his arm and continued upward, creating a withering fog between us. "We lost Klein." He paused to take a drag. "And Carmichael."

  The scene outside the basement entrance replayed in my mind. Both men shot at point blank range with an automatic weapon. I remembered how Klein's eyes focused on me as he collapsed to the ground.

  "I know," I said, casting my eyes downward.

  "We're gonna have to answer questions about that."

  "Christ, Frank. They've been dead two hours and that's all you're worried about?"

  Frank leaned back. Had he worried I would strike him? "I'm hurting too, Jack. We lost two guys. Don't think for a second that doesn't affect me."

  My ears burned with anger, but I pushed the conversation forward. I saw the night in bits and pieces, but couldn't find the thread to stitch it all t
ogether. It was like I was looking at a giant jigsaw puzzle I had completed hours early, only to find that someone had come in and scooped up half the pieces and run off with them. Now I needed answers to put it all back in place.

  "What about the guys in the kitchen?" I said.

  Frank glanced around, then said, "They're on the way back to the office. Our office," he added as if it needed clarification. "We'll get plenty of cracks at 'em to figure out what the hell is going on. I'm probably going to get the other team on them as well." He took a drag and then made an explosion gesture with his hands. "Any evidence in the house is gone. Burned in the fire."

  "How'd the fire start?"

  Frank shrugged. "I'm hoping these guys can answer that for us at some point."

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. I felt the room start to spin, forcing me to reopen my eyes. I shook my head rapidly.

  "You OK?" Frank said.

  "Yeah." I lied. That was the second sign something was wrong with me.

  "Anyway," he continued, "with all the bullets flying around, we could have shorted out something that set it off."

  I replayed scenes from the night in my head. They were distorted and disjointed, but I wasn't trying to play the movie in sequential order. I needed something that danced behind a thin curtain, out of reach. Then, I saw it.

  "Frank," I said as I reached out for his arm. "In the dining room there was a potted plant in the corner. A big palm looking thing. There was a black box on the floor next to it. I thought it was some kind of watering device. And… damn, I saw one in the kitchen, too."

  "What kind of box?"

  "Plain. A black box, square, nothing discernible about it."

  "So what about it?"

  I swallowed hard and leaned in to whisper. "Someone started the fire from outside of the house."

  Frank cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "You think-"

  "The boxes were detonators."

  "There weren't any explosions, though."

  "Yeah, think of flares. They sparked and leaked gasoline or some kind of flammable mixture. Caught the plant on fire. The one in the kitchen, ah hell, I can't remember what that was next to, but I'd bet money it was something flammable."

  "We missed one." Frank lowered his eyes. "We let one of those bastards get out."

  "Impossible," I said. "We had guys on the roofs across the street. They would have neutralized them. It's more likely someone pulled up while we were inside. If they remained in their car, our guys across the street wouldn't have gotten a good look at them."

  Frank nodded. Said nothing.

  A quick flash lit up the area in front of me and I blinked hard as I recalled someone taking pictures as we escaped the house. "Photographers. Frank, was someone taking pictures?"

  "Yeah. Backyard as we got out. Some neighbors. A couple of them stayed. A couple ran off."

  "You don't think the same person that set the fire snapped pictures of us, do you?" Panic filled my voice.

  Frank's eyes drifted up and to his right. His mouth dropped open an inch and he pointed over my shoulder. I turned my head to see what the hell he was staring at. The station had a TV mounted to the wall behind me. The picture was on and the sound off. The local news was on. And the topic of the day was the fire. Using the chair, I stood and stared at the picture of me holding the blond haired boy with the house behind us, engulfed in flames and spewing dark smoke into the air like wily, wispy hair on a demon.

  "Tell me they don't have my name," I said.

  "Someone unmute this TV," Frank said.

  A man dressed the same as Sarah, minus the ponytail and other enticing parts, jogged over and fiddled with the TV until the sound came on.

  My ears still rang from the gunfire earlier in the night, so I took a few steps closer to the TV to hear. The room started to spin and my vision closed in on me from the outside in. Eventually, everything went black. The third sign something was wrong with me.

  I didn't recall hitting the floor or being taken away from the fire station and placed in the back of a van and driven away.

  When I opened my eyes and saw Sarah standing over me, I thought we were still back at the firehouse. But there was something familiar about the surroundings.

  "Welcome back." She forced a smile, but it did little to hide the concern in her eyes.

  "What happened?" I said.

  "You passed out. I think I misdiagnosed your concussion. It's more severe than I thought."

  I felt the IV lines in my arm and realized we weren't at the fire station anymore.

  "Why are you here?" I asked.

  "I'm bound to you, legally," she said. The corners of her lips turned up a bit. "At least until someone more qualified can take over."

  "Why are you still here?"

  "I thought we were going to the hospital, and instead we came here. Like I said, I was your first responder. I had to stay with you." She straightened up and looked around the room, then over her shoulder at the lobby past the window. "What is this place?"

  I lifted my head and glanced around. We were in the SIS infirmary. "Somewhere you shouldn't be. Has Doc seen me?"

  She nodded. Said nothing.

  "What did he say?"

  "That you have a concussion."

  "Thanks, that was helpful."

  "That's what I said." She smiled, then went back to checking my vitals.

  I wondered how she managed to get in the van in the first place, much less convince Frank to take her back to SIS headquarters. I must have taken a nasty fall for him to be that concerned.

  Frank stepped into the room. Smiled at Sarah and nodded at me. "Gave us a scare, Jack. Doc says you're going to be fine." He turned his attention to Sarah. "Miss, I'll need to debrief you. We'll need to give you a statement and have you sign some papers. Basic stuff, really. In a nutshell, you'll never be able to say you saw this place."

  "Don't you mean I have to give a statement?" she said.

  Frank shook his head and held out his hand toward her.

  Sarah smiled as she glanced between Frank and me. The smile faded, and I assumed she figured out that Frank hadn't been joking. The concern I had seen in her eyes moments ago turned to fear.

  "What if I refuse to sign?" she said.

  Frank's expression remained stoic. "You won't do that. No point in talking about hypothetical situations. At least not if you want to leave." He wrapped his hand around her elbow and led her to the door and out of the room.

  She stopped a few feet into the lobby and pulled away from Frank. Turned around and made eye contact with me. The look on her face was one-third quizzical, one-third scared, and the rest, excited. Her lips were parted, but she didn't say anything. Frank grabbed her elbow again, and guided her across the lobby toward his office.

  I watched until she was out of sight. "See you around," I said softly, wondering if it was the truth.

  Chapter 9

  The concussion turned out to be severe, and Doc insisted I be kept in the infirmary for four days. He watched over me during the day and a nurse came in at night. She'd been coming around as long as I'd been in the SIS, and I figured we had an arrangement with her, too.

  Doc let me leave headquarters on Christmas Eve. I spent the next two days alone. Me and a few bottles of whiskey. Against doctor's orders, or course. Christmas came and went and I barely noticed. My parents called a couple times. Mom, presumably. I didn't answer. I hardly talked to my brother Sean anymore. He was two years my elder, but once he turned sixteen it seemed we were much farther apart than that. I dialed his number a couple times, but never hit send. What was the point? There was no other family to speak of.

  I received a call on Christmas day from my old partner, Riley Logan. He didn't go by Riley though, or Logan for that matter. I'd always called him Bear. And perhaps a few other choice words when we were rivals in Marine Recruit Training. We talked for an hour or so. He caught me up on his adventures in the Marines, working with the CIA. A lot of time spent in Afr
ica, he said. That life seemed so distant to me now. I found it hard to remember what it was like to be tied to a contract with the Marines where I was a servant to the CIA. He said he was getting out soon and thought the two of us could go into business together. He had a few connections in New York who could help us get started. Offer us a contract or two. I wondered if the two additional years he'd spent in the military would clash against the two years I'd been out. I told him I'd think about it. For now, my gig in the SIS paid well and kept me busy. Plus, I didn't have to travel far from the mid-Atlantic. We ended the call after a bit of banter. My mind wandered from Bear to the people we knew and the experiences we had together.

  I ran out of alcohol late in the evening on the twenty-sixth and passed out before ten p.m. Woke up early in the afternoon on the twenty-seventh. I'd been staring out the window the night before and left the blinds open. The sun bore down on me, its rays cutting through my retinas like a knife through warm butter. I shut my eyelids tight and rolled away from the window. A loud rap at the front door echoed off the hardwood floors and walls of the narrow hallway that led to my bedroom. I rolled over one more time and swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood up too fast. Blood took its time reaching my brain, leaving me feeling out of sorts. Another series of knocks reverberated off the floors and walls. I reached for my nightstand and pulled open a drawer and grabbed my Beretta.

  I took my time walking to the front door. Whoever was out there rapped on it again. They had to have busted their knuckles by this point. I cracked the door with one hand, and held my gun in the other, shielding it with my hip.

  "You look like shit, Jack," Frank said.

  Hung over and still feeling the effects of a concussion, I found myself in no mood for his jokes. I let my arm drop to the side, aiming the gun at the floor. It swung three inches forward, six inches back. Over and over, like a pendulum. "Thanks," I said. "Come on in."

  Frank pushed past me and walked toward the couch and said, "Better put that thing away before your shoot your big toe off." He sat down and crossed his legs and folded his arms over his chest. He shook his head side to side as his eyes followed me around the room.