That was good. It taught him that not every family lived in fear and that not all men who wore uniforms in the service of their country were bullies, but it wasn’t enough to change the way things went in his own life or his mother’s. His father was a dark presence that at first engendered fear, then rage and, ultimately, rebellion.
By the time he was sixteen, Zach was pure trouble.
He drank beer until he puked, popped whatever pills he could get his hands on, skipped school more often than he attended it. And he screwed every good-looking girl who was willing, and damn near all of them were because by then he had his old man’s height and leanly muscled build, his mother’s dark hair and green eyes.
At first, his mother pretended not to know the dangerous game he was playing. That had been her pattern with him; she never acknowledged anything that happened to him, even the beatings. There’d been a time he’d despised her for it. Eventually, he’d figured it was her method of survival and, after a while, whether she loved him or not no longer mattered.
But there came a time when not even she could ignore his behavior. He knew it was because she feared that the old man would blame her when he finally found out that his son was bad news.
“You have to stop misbehaving,” she said, early one morning.
A morning just like this one, Zach thought as he sat on the terrace of his condo.
It had dawned cold and clear, the scent of winter in the air and Thanksgiving a day-old memory.
Why he was thinking about all that now was beyond him, but he’d awakened early even though he’d been out late last night. Force of habit, after all these years. He hadn’t been doing anything special: Thanksgiving was just another day.
Sitting on the terrace, wearing sweats, his feet bare despite the chill, he could almost hear his mother’s admonishing voice after the school counselor phoned and warned her that one more incident of insolence and her son would be suspended.
“You have to stop misbehaving! Daddy’s bound to find out, and you know he’ll be upset.”
Zach had laughed, first at her insistence on calling the monster who abused them Daddy and then on her making it sound as if he’d be in for a verbal reprimand.
Two hours later, when the old man arrived home, his mother told him about the call from the school. About Zach laughing.
The old man took a well-worn Garrison belt from where he always kept it, hanging from a hook in the kitchen, a constant reminder of what the word discipline meant.
Zach got the worst beating of his life. It might have killed him if his mother, for the very first time, hadn’t tried to stop it.
“Fucking bitch,” his father had snarled, and he’d hit her so hard she’d flown across the room.
The sight of her on the floor, this woman who had borne him, who had finally come to his defense, turned Zach from cowering boy into enraged man.
He’d gone at his father.
His father had tried to fight back but Zach was bigger, stronger, and fueled by years and years of despair. Minute later, the son of a bitch slid down the kitchen wall, moaning, hands raised before his bloodied face in a gesture of surrender.
Zach had stood over him, panting. Then he’d gone to his mother, helped her to her feet.
“Mom,” he’d said.
She’d pushed him away, run to her husband, squatted beside him crooning his name as she took him in her arms.
Zach had watched for maybe half a minute. Then he’d stumbled to the bathroom, showered, put on clean jeans and a clean T, packed his clothes in a duffel bag, stuffed his wallet with the little money he’d saved from an assortment of odd jobs, and walked out. He’d hitchhiked north, washing dishes in grungy diners, sweeping out small town bars, hiring on to do whatever jobs he could find that required muscle, not brains.
He’d landed in a small city outside New York. People were friendly, but they didn’t intrude; he got a room in an old-fashioned boarding house, found a steady job as a stock boy at a supermarket. He was young enough to need working papers, but he looked old enough for nobody to ask for them.
At first, he’d been too busy getting through each day to do much thinking about the rest of his life, but gradually it dawned on him that unless he wanted to wind up a bum on the streets—because, logically, what kind of future was there in being a stock boy—he’d have to do something to turn his life around.
Zach took a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee.
Night school first, to get his high school equivalency diploma. Then more night school, to start on the long road toward a college degree. A better job, not by much but still better, loading boxes at a warehouse. Sixteen months after he’d left home, he moved to New York City, found a job as an assistant supervisor at a big warehouse, rented a room the size of a closet in a dingy flat in the part of the Bowery that had not yet felt the velvet touch of gentrification.
Then, on his way to work one morning, terrorists flew planes into the Twin Towers.
He saw it happen. Watched the beautiful buildings collapse. Stood helpless as those who’d done nothing except get up and go to their jobs that fateful day died. Ached for the cops and firemen and EMTs who epitomized the true meaning of heroic.
Zach went to a recruiting office the next morning. A Marine recruiting office, because not even his son of a bitch father had been able to dim his love and respect for the Corps.
He had a high school diploma, but he didn’t have a birth certificate.
“Let’s see what we can do about that,” his recruiter said.
Magic. Or something similar. A week later, he had a copy of the certificate. Not long after that, he was a Marine. And on those rare occasions somebody would frown, look at him and say, “Castelianos. You any relation to Georgios Castelianos?” Zach would look straight into his questioner’s eyes and say no.
By then, he’d had thirty-two college credits. Now, in the Corps, he’d worked hard. Studied hard. Excelled at every physical, mental and intellectual challenge. He had his eye on a goal. FORECON. Force Reconnaissance. The Corp’s Special Ops division. The best of the best, guys called it.
Being chosen for FORECON was tough. Zach got in, aced the weeks of intense training, and worked toward his next goal.
Black Ops.
Men in those elite units conducted clandestine operations. There was a lot of risk involved.
It sounded like what he’d been looking for all his life.
When he got word that he’d been chosen, Zach was elated. He did brilliantly, loved his work, couldn’t wait to get into the field. A week before the course was scheduled to end, he was told to report to his commanding officer, but the man waiting for him was a civilian. There was no hello, no offer to shake hands. Just a simple statement followed by a simple question.
“We’ve been watching you,” the man said. “Do you want to serve your country?”
That had been his introduction to The Agency.
It had a name, a long and complicated one. Nobody used it. It was The Agency, and it was a perfect match for Zach’s intellect and physical abilities. He’d loved the work, the danger, the knowledge that what he was doing was vital to his country…
Until it became to seem not quite so vital. Until he began to question it. Question not his country’s needs or motives but the needs and motives of the men running The Agency.
He wasn’t alone in that.
Caleb Wilde, an agent who’d become a trusted friend, had, also run out of illusions.
They’d both gotten out at about the same time.
Caleb had gone on to found a hotshot law firm. Zach had founded Shadows.
And, hell, Zach thought, what was he doing reliving all that stuff this morning?
His coffee was cold. Zach sighed and got to his feet. He’d brewed a full pot; it was keeping warm in a carafe in the kitchen. He’d get a refill, then work out for an hour, shower and get going.
He’d been doing a lot of “going” lately. He’d been dropped into a village outside
Peshawar where, of course, nobody from the US government was supposed to be. Not that he’d been working for the government.
Well, not exactly.
Zach opened the coffee carafe.
Then he’d done a job for Shadow, here in the States, nailing a Wall Street trader who turned out to have been selling inside trading info so he could keep his girlfriend in the Prada and Armani to which she’d become accustomed.
The insider-trading thing had been easy stuff. Normally, he’d have handed it off to somebody who worked for him at Shadow, but he needed to keep busy.
He’d been restless the last few weeks.
The last several weeks.
The truth was that he’d been restless since The Big Blackout. Since the night the blonde, Jaimie, had waltzed in and then waltzed straight out of his life, and why he should even still think about that night or the woman…
The carafe tilted. Hot coffee splashed on his bare toes.
“Dammit,” Zach snarled, and at the same instant, he heard the private elevator to his penthouse purr as it ascended
He swung toward the kitchen door, eyed the hall that led to the entry foyer. There was no possible way for anyone to get up here unannounced and without a key card for the elevator.
Zach put down the carafe. There was no time to get upstairs and retrieve the Heckler & Koch 9mm from the wall safe in his dressing room, but the kitchen was full of weapons. Heavy cast-iron skillets. Hand-forged Japanese chef’s knives. Even a can of soup, properly wielded, would do in a pinch.
His cell phone buzzed. He ignored it. It kept buzzing. Finally, he yanked the damn thing from his pocket.
“Yes,” he snarled.
“Forget the knives, Castelianos, or whatever else you figure on using to take care of me. I mean, dude, is that any way to greet an old friend?”
Zach stared at the phone. At the hallway. The elevator went silent, and he grinned.
“Caleb? Caleb Wilde?”
“In the flesh,” Caleb said. “But I’m not stepping out of this shoebox you call an elevator until you tell me you’re not going to try to take me apart—the operative word being try.”
Zach laughed. “Wanna bet?”
He went quickly down the hall, reached the entry foyer just as Caleb stepped from the car. The men grinned at each other, held out their hands, said, “To hell with that,” at almost the same instant and gave each other the kind of bear hugs men exchange when a handshake isn’t enough.
“Good to see—”
“How did you—”
They laughed. “You, first,” Caleb said.
“How did you get up here? The doorman. The concierge. Nobody stopped you?”
Caleb grinned. “Tricks of the trade, my man.”
“Meaning, I’m gonna go down to the lobby and find them sleeping off the effects of some new gas?”
“Meaning, you need to tell them that there’s no reason to fall for a sob story about finally locating a long-lost brother and wanting to surprise him.”
Zach’s eyebrows rose. “You’re kidding.”
“Hey, when I tell a sob story, nobody can doubt it. I’m good, dude. Remember?”
“Lying 101,” Zach said, and laughed. “Well, hell. Thank you, I think. Until now, I thought this building was secure.”
“Actually, it is. Well, more or less.”
Caleb pulled a photo from his suit jacket pocket and handed it over. In it, a younger Zach and Caleb stood in a field wearing camos, the two of them muddy, obviously exhausted, and grinning like hyenas.
“Man! That shot’s a hundred years old.”
“At least.” Caleb smiled. “So, how’ve you been?”
“Fine. Excellent.” Not really a lie, Zach told himself. He was fine. All he had to do was get the blonde out of his head. “You?”
“The same. Got a wife.” Pride roughened Caleb’s voice. “A kid, too.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s a different life, you know?”
Zach knew. No excitement. No risk. And going home to one woman, the same woman every night…
Caleb laughed. “Your face is like an open book, Castelianos. Trust me. It’s a good life. Actually, it’s a great life.”
“You never miss the old days?”
“Yes,” Caleb shrugged, his smile fading. “Once in a while, sure. But then I look at Sage and our baby and I know I made the right choice…and listen to me. Jesus, I sound like an Ann Landers retread.”
Both men laughed. Then Caleb cleared his throat.
“I probably should have called first.”
“But you just couldn’t resist scamming your way up here.”
“That, too, but basically, I was so intent on this—this problem we have that I didn’t even realize I hadn’t phoned until I was in the lobby.” He smiled. “At which point I thought, let me see if I can still talk my way into something you’re not supposed to be able to talk your way into.”
“Got it. But what’s this about a problem?”
“It’s the kind of thing that requires special skills.”
“Special…”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Caleb said quickly. “Investigative skills. Protective know-how. And, see, it’s personal.”
“Jesus, Caleb. You and your wife?”
“Sage? No, no. This doesn’t involve her.” Caleb ran his hands through his hair. “It’s a family thing, I guess you’d call it.”
Zach nodded. “OK. Tell you what. Let me shower, put on some clothes, we’ll have some breakfast and you can fill me in on what’s happening.”
“Not if you’re the one making the breakfast.”
Zach grinned. “You always were one smart dude, Wilde. Worry not. There’s a place a ten-minute walk from here. Good coffee. Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. Or that ever-elegant New York staple, bagels, lox and cream cheese.”
“You talked me into it.”
Zach clapped Caleb on the shoulder. “There’s coffee in the kitchen. Yeah, I made it, but coffee’s one of the few kitchen things I do well. Ten minutes, and I’ll be down.”
* * * *
It was more like eight minutes.
Zach moved fast. He was increasingly curious about the reason for Caleb’s visit. A problem. Something that required investigative and protective skills. Caleb excelled at both. Why would he ask Zach for help?
Half an hour later, the men were seated across from each other in a red leatherette booth in the rear of a busy diner. Both had polished off big breakfasts. They’d avoided serious conversation until now, when each was on his third mug of coffee.
Zach sat back.
“So,” he said, “why don’t you clue me in on what’s going on?”
Caleb hesitated. “I don’t know if you remember…I have sisters.”
“Well, I know you have brothers. The one who breeds horses and manages that small country you guys call a ranch.”
“El Sueño. Yeah. That’s Jacob.”
“And of course I know Travis.” Zach smiled. “The magician who invests my money.” He raised his mug in tribute. “Long may Travis Wilde and my investments prosper.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Caleb said. They touched mugs. Then Caleb’s expression grew serious. “We have sisters. Well, half-sisters, but none of us think about it like that. I mean, we’re one family…” He paused. “The problem involves our middle sister.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Some guy has taken an interest in her.”
“An interest.”
“It’s the wrong word. He’s fixated on her.”
“Define fixated.”
Caleb sighed. “I can’t. Not completely. I mean, I don’t know the full dimensions of the situation. See, she didn’t tell me about it. Lissa—my oldest sister—did. And from what she said…” His face darkened. “It isn’t good, man, it isn’t good at all. The bastard follows her. He broke into her apartment, went through her things.”
A muscle knotted in Zach’s jaw. “Ha
s she called the cops?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She has no proof.”
“What do you mean, she has no proof? He follows her, he broke into her place—”
Caleb nodded. “The thing is, she didn’t catch him doing it. Breaking in. Or following her.”
Zach sat back in the booth. “If she didn’t catch him doing these things, how does she know he did them?”
“She knows. Look, she isn’t the sort of woman who imagines things. She’s levelheaded. Down-to-earth. Hell, she’s so logical there are times it can drive you up the wall. You want proof?” He laughed. “She’s a CPA. She has a master’s in accounting. What could be more logical than that?”
“And what would you want me to do? Check with her, check the guy out? I’m fine with doing it, but I don’t see why you need me when you could take care of it yourself.”
“Because she didn’t tell me about it,” Caleb said with exaggerated patience. “She told Lissa. I don’t think she wants me or any of her brothers to know what’s happening. She doesn’t want to come running to us for help.”
Zach nodded. It made sense. At least, he supposed that it did. Family things rarely made sense to an outsider.
“OK. You want me to talk to her—”
“No.”
“No?”
“You talk to her, you’d have to tell her that I clued you in, and then she’ll know that Lissa clued me in, and then it’ll be exactly the same as if the Wilde family sat down and discussed the problem. James would be furious.”
“Your sister’s name is James?”
“It’s an old family joke. See, when she was a kid, like I said, she was always so logical…”
“Yeah, fine,” Zach said impatiently. “So, you want me to protect her? And get enough on this guy to take it to the cops?”
“Exactly.”
“Without letting her know I’m doing it?”
“I knew you weren’t as dumb as you look, Castelianos.”
“Very funny. Look, Caleb, getting the goods on this man is one thing. Protecting a woman without letting her know I’m protecting her is another.”
Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters) Page 12