Warrior (Freelancer Book 2)

by Irving, Terry

  "Good morning, trooper."

  Rick put his hand over the bleeding scratches on his arm and continued to focus on the cat. "This animal is a goddamn menace."

  Eve walked over, picked up the heavy orange cat, and began to scratch under his chin. "So are you. Anyway, you hit him first."

  "He attacked me." Rick was beginning to come down from the terror and adrenaline of the dream. "I was just sleeping peacefully."

  "No. You were screaming, and it was heading up to that wonderful fire-siren sound I've come to know and love." She put the cat out on the porch where it glowered at Rick through the screen door. After a long moment—Rick was sure the cat was vowing revenge—Max stalked off to his tree and disappeared. "So I used Max to quiet you down."

  Rick examined the four deep gouges in his arm. He didn't think they'd be fatal. "Couldn't you have just woken me yourself?"

  Eve didn't turn from the mirror where she was examining the woman's version of a man's suit she was wearing. "No, I've found it's risky if I'm not already in bed with you. Then I can hold on to your chest until you realize we're not in a rice paddy. Twice last week, you took a swing at me when I woke you up to switch drivers. There's not a lot of space in a VW Bus to dodge, you know."

  "Damn. I didn't know that." Rick looked at her with real pain on his face. "I'm sorry."

  "No reason to apologize, trooper. You're still fighting the war in there, and I've just learned to take a few safety precautions." She turned to look at him, and he could see her smile. "Like siccing a cat on you. I figured Max could handle himself."

  She tossed him a washcloth, and Rick used it to wipe the blood off his arm. "Sure, when I'm asleep AND on another continent. Let's see how tough he is when I'm awake. I'm calling that cat out, best two out of three."

  He sat on the side of the bed and wound a clean gym sock around his arm to stop the bleeding. "I need to pick up some weights, don't I?"

  "And a motorcycle. I don't think you can get any real relief in a VW Camper."

  "It lacks a certain something. Maybe because it can't go over 55 miles an hour and the only real danger is when a strong wind tries to turn it over or blow it off a bridge. But I think I can solve the motorcycle situation today."

  Eve finished her critical self-examination, pulled up the grey pinstriped skirt, and began to tug at her panty hose. "I HATE these damn things. Yes, you do need your weights. You couldn't sleep for hours. I could tell by your breathing."

  "Well, so much for being considerate and letting you sleep." He headed for the bathroom. "You ready for the first day at the law firm?"

  "I'm not putting these glorified socks on for nothing. Damn it!"

  Rick looked back to see her bend over, inspect a hole, and begin to peel off the panty hose. "That's three pairs this morning," she complained as she hurled the most recent pair into the trash. "And that's my last pair. You're going to have to stop somewhere so I can pick some up on our way downtown."

  She went back to staring at her clothes in the mirror and making minute adjustments.

  "Why can't you break with tradition and just wear the clothes you're comfortable in?" Rick asked as he was loading up his toothbrush.

  "Because, as an Indian and, even worse, a woman, I've already got two strikes against me. I'm not going to let the other paralegals get any advantage. These aren't clothes, they're armor, and the slightest chink will give them a chance to put a knife in me."

  Through a mouthful of toothpaste, Rick said, "Man, you women fight rough."

  She turned and began to examine her back and sides. "You have no idea. I had to fight my way into the measly five percent of my law school class that they 'set aside' for women. I'm going to have to go into government because no reputable law firm will allow a woman to take the lead on a case—" She turned to the other side. "And now I'm going to be the punching bag for every legal secretary at Marsden Angle."

  Rick spat and rinsed his mouth from the faucet. "Why?"

  "Because I'm a 'paralegal,' and no one knows what that is."

  Eve walked to the bed and began examining two pairs of dress shoes. "I'm not a secretary, and I'm not an associate, and I'll be doing some of the work of both. Hell, they only invented 'paralegals' last year. I have no idea what I'll be doing, but I can guarantee that every woman who's spent years fetching coffee and getting hit on by her boss is going to hate me."

  Rick leaned against the bathroom door. "Speaking of 'getting hit,' what is going to happen with Sage and Kristee?"

  Eve picked up one pair of high heels with a clunky, thick sole. "Well, you heard last night that the guys have found a job for Kristee. She's going to do maintenance on the mainframes with Eps over at Riggs. They've already gotten her security clearance and an ID badge."

  "What about Sage?"

  Eve threw the clunky shoes on the bed and picked up a black, conservative pair. "You know, the guys have genuinely taken to her. By the time I got down for breakfast, Eps had already showed her all the 'cool' features of the house and Scotty was teaching her chess using Lucky Charms for pieces."

  She turned around and held out both pairs of shoes. "You pick."

  Rick turned and headed for the shower. "I may be dumb enough to go three rounds with a professional 'watch cat' but I'm not dumb enough to do that. Why don't you just go all the way and ask me if that dress makes you look fat?"

  "Does it?" Eve spun back to the mirror and Rick escaped into the shower.

  CHAPTER 21

  May 21, 1973, Washington, DC

  "I'll see you tonight," Eve said as she slid down from the high VW Camper seat.

  "Should I pick you up?" Rick asked.

  "The traffic down here in rush hour is horrible. It's not worth it. I'll just take an L bus." Eve turned and considered the brick walls and glass doors of the squared-off building on 16th Street. "Plus, I don't know when I'll be getting out. The saying is that 'the lights never go out at Marsden Angle' because someone is always working. Usually, some desperate associate."

  She turned and gave Rick a smile, "And now, one desperate paralegal."

  She slammed the bus door shut and turned to walk into the building. Rick thought that no one else would notice the slight touches as she made sure her clothes were exactly right or the way she re-gripped her leather briefcase just a bit tighter as she opened the door.

  The VW chugged away from the curb and slowly picked up speed, just making second gear before he hauled the flat steering wheel around to turn onto H Street. Across Lafayette Park, about a hundred demonstrators were outside the White House. A quick glance told Rick that the protesters were vets, but their signs were about missing benefits, not stopping the war. They looked bedraggled but determined.

  Rick wondered how his former housemate, Corey Gravelin, was doing. He'd been the one chosen to hold the film with the evidence of presidential crimes, the film that had cost Rick two friends and nearly his own life. From what he'd seen in a cursory look at the headlines for the past few weeks, it looked as if the White House was in full meltdown. There were days when Rick was sure that the president was the only person left in the place; the rest were either in jail, in disgrace, or in deep conversations with prosecutors.

  Couldn't have happened to a better bunch of people as far as Rick was concerned.

  He felt a sudden intense pain as he remembered the friends who had died only a few months before because of secrets that the government was willing to kill for to keep out of the press.

  Dina Scholten had been the first to break through the emotional walls he'd constructed after his return from Vietnam. They were a part of his dogged attempts to keep his nightmares under control, but she'd showed him that he could have friends—he was going to have the dreams anyway. Dina and Hector Rodriguez, one of the few other survivors from his platoon, had both died because they'd helped him after a government hit squad marked him for elimination.

  Rick shook the tension out of his shoulders and brought his attention back to the living—the d
ead would show up tonight anyway. There would be plenty of time to talk to them.

  First, he had errands to run. He didn't want to park the VW in any of the underground parking garages—to be honest, he wasn't sure it would make it out again—so he drove slowly in search of a parking spot—finally locating one a block north of M Street.

  He walked over to the American Broadcasting Network on 18th Street, enjoying the tentative warmth of an early Washington spring day. After the brutal cold of the Montana winter, it felt great. It was a shame that it would be followed, all too soon, by sweltering humidity. In Washington, when the real summer hit, the colors drained out of everything. Even the trees, green now, would turn gray in a month or so from the amount of moisture in the air.

  Today was one of the days when Rick could understand living in Washington. The azaleas were blooming, the sunlight seemed to caress rather than burn, and every office worker had found a reason to get out and enjoy the city.

  As he turned up the short walkway to the door on 18th, it opened and Larry Summers, the security guard and fellow vet, said, "Hey man, I know you were scared of that next game of chess but running away for six months is taking the game a bit too seriously."

  "Scared? Hell, I was out getting my ass beaten by a bunch of 10-year-olds so I'd dumb down enough to give you a fair game," Rick said, as they exchanged a "black power" handshake. "How's it going?"

  "Same old," the slim black man responded. "The Watergate thing is so crazy they had to put on another courier. The White House seems to leak a new story on the hour. Don't quote me, but I swear I saw Mayweather actually smile the other day."

  "Jamie?" Rick stepped back in mock surprise. "I didn't think he knew how."

  "Yeah, well, the tension is getting to everyone. Last week, Ken Garrison punched out Evans over a story."

  "Garrison?" Rick shook his head. "He's the nicest guy in the place."

  "Well, he knocked Tom flat and just walked out." "And as the sole officer of law and order on duty, did you respond appropriately?"

  "Sure did. I held the door and saluted him as he passed by." Larry grinned. "Evans always treated me like one of those little blackface jockeys rich people have on their lawns."

  "Oh that's just wrong." Rick said, "For one thing, you're way too tall."

  Rick expertly dodged a half-hearted punch and headed down the hall past the newsroom, shaking his head at the idea of the unflappable Garrison taking a swing at anyone, much less the man who would decide if any of his stories made air. The tension here must really be amazing.

  Since it was still only mid-morning—hours away from the Global Report's six o'clock deadline—the newsroom was almost empty. The writers were seated with their backs to him, diligently examining their newspapers. This might have been a bit more impressive if they weren't both reading the sports section.

  A single desk assistant was on duty, a heavy-set black man whose name Rick didn't know. He was clearly not enjoying tending to the wire machines. As Rick watched, he grabbed the rolls of copy and distributed them, making sure to slam them on each desk with enough force to make them look like crushed beer cans.

  "Hey, dude! Where did you disappear to?"

  On his right, Don Moretti was leaning against his doorway smoking a cigarette. He flicked ashes on the linoleum floor and asked, "Did that imitation can of film work out for you? You never came back after that."

  The film can had been part of a desperate plan to rescue Eve from the fixer someone had sent to make sure that any evidence the president had taken bribes from South Vietnam stayed lost and forgotten.

  Since the agent and a Korean woman who worked for him had ended up dead, Rick wasn't about to discuss it.

  "It was perfect," he said.

  When Rick didn't offer any more details, Moretti took a long look at his face, nodded slightly, and took another pull on his cigarette. "Glad to hear it. You know, it's amazing how much I learn just talking to you."

  "It's because you're a trained journalist, Don." Rick continued toward the rear of the building, "You'll have to excuse me. I'm going to see if Casey Ross is around."

  "Looking for your old job back?" Moretti asked. "They were pretty pissed when you just disappeared, but the last two guys missed air."

  Rick stopped and turned around. "Missed air?"

  "Yup. Apparently they never learned to tell time."

  Moretti turned back into his edit room. "That or the drugs burned out that part of their brains. They didn't even realize that it was a problem even after everyone started to scream at them. It was not a pretty sight. You might have a chance after all—compared to these guys, you're a Rhodes Scholar."

  "It's not a very high bar," Rick said and heard a snort of laughter from the editor.

  Nothing had changed at the Assignment Desk. The wire machines kept up their steady rhythm, the phones rang constantly, and the editors were in much the same positions as the last time he'd been there. It did seem as if the hanging haze of cigarette smoke was a bit thicker, but Rick supposed that could just be his over-exposure to fresh air.

  Casey Ross was bent over his typewriter with a telephone jammed against his shoulder. He glanced at Rick and wordlessly pointed at the empty desk next to him, never losing his concentration. Rick nodded to the other two editors and carefully made his way through the tight spaces between the desks, chairs, and wire machines.

  He made it to the empty chair and dropped into it. Since it was comfortable and out-of-the way, he decided to stay for as long as possible. He lit the Zippo on his thigh, fired up a Winston, and settled back, happy to observe.

  From the steady cadence of the conversation, Ross was repeating an argument he'd obviously had many times before. "Geri. It's a great story. We both know that. But New York simply isn't interested."

  Ross paused and made a face while listening to the other side of the conversation.

  "Geri, Geri. Don't get all upset. Yes, strip mining is a serious issue, and no one is more interested in environmental stories than I am. But, with everyone lining up for gas, they want stories on where to get more energy, not the problems that might cause."

  Ross lit another cigarette while he listened.

  "Strip mining" had caught Rick's attention, and he began to listen to the conversation, pretending to leaf through a copy of the Christian Science Monitor, Ross was clearly trying to wrap it up. "Geri, Geri. Stop for a second, will ya?"

  After a short pause, he began again. "Look, you keep researching the story, and I'll keep trying to get the show interested. Hey, you could even try to sell it to the morning show. However, for today, you concentrate on tonight's story like a good girl. Mayweather is doing the news, but you'll cover the dinner the Nixons are throwing for the returned POWs. I mean, you'll have Bob Hope, Jimmy Stewart, and John Wayne—there's got to be a terrific piece to be made out of that."

  After a series of quick "Yesses" and an "Absolutely," Ross hung up the phone and dropped his face into his hands. "God, why did we let broads into broadcasting?"

  Rick stopped pretending to read the paper. "Who was that?"

  "Geri Hardin."

  "Where did she come from? I thought Carol Ann was the only female reporter."

  "You mean Romper Room's 'Miss Peggy'?"

  Rick snorted, and Ross said, "Hey, far too many years ago, that's where Carol Ann started. On the other hand, Geri was in Saigon. She went there to be with her boyfriend, of course, but she ended up stringing for us; and, I hate to admit it, she didn't do bad at all. So when she got tired of death and destruction, and found out her boyfriend was screwing half of the girls on Tu Do Street, she dumped the guy, came back home, and got a job as a reporter."

  Ross took a final drag on his cigarette and crushed it out in the overflowing ashtray on his desk. "And if you're about to say that she slept her way into the job—"

  "I wasn't."

  "All I can report is that it wasn't with me," Ross finished. "Now let's turn to the subject at hand. Meaning you."


  The desk editor stopped and Rick assumed he was looking for an explanation of where he'd gone and why, something Rick certainly wasn't about to give him.

  "Well, I'm looking for some work. I don't think Cosmopolitan Courier is going to hire me. Not until I pay for their bike at least. So I need to keep a low profile for a bit. You know how hard I can work, and I just figured I'd check."

  Ross studied him for a moment. "So no explanation?"

  "Nope."

  "OK. Do you still have a bike?"

  Rick shook his head. "I will in a couple of days. I had to leave it…well, I left it with a local biker gang, and the negotiations to get it back are going to be ticklish."

  "I'll bet." Ross smiled and then looked at one of the TV screens that were playing silently on the wall over the wire machines. After a moment, he pointed at the TV marked "Network" where a commercial filled with quick cuts of smiling faces was running. "As you can see, the network, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to start a morning show so we can get our collective butts soundly beaten by the Today Show."

  He swiveled back to face Rick. "Here's the thing. I have to find a desk assistant to cover an overnight shift—1:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m.—and all the prima donnas we've got on staff think they're too good to work at night. I believe they think that a lack of sleep will hurt their chances for that anchor job that's just around the corner."

  Ross shook his head. "An anchor job is never going to happen to anyone in this group of turkeys. However, we still need to staff these hours. You game for a little midnight madness?"

  "Sure. What do I have to do?"

  "What does any desk assistant do?" Ross said, putting his hand on the phone but not picking up the receiver. "Roll wire, get coffee, and run scripts. It's not like it requires any skill."

  He picked up the phone and said into it, "One second."

  Then to Rick, "So, you're our new semi-official overnight D.A. Since you've never given us any information about yourself, we'll make it freelance. And, as a bonus to the worst possible hours, you get to be off the streets, something you appear to be interested in."