by Liz Crowe
“Yeah.” He’d been typing emails to his staff as he waited to board the plane, hoping he’d trained them half as well as he thought he had. He had no idea how long he and their boss would be gone. He had his stupid cyborg blue tooth thing in his ear justifying the dorkiness with necessity. But he stopped typing, thinking they’d gotten cut off, touched the earpiece. “Emre? You there?”
“Yes. I…I need you to know. You are like a brother to me. No matter what happens. No matter what we find at the end of this. You are our family.” His voice broke at the end.
Caleb had been bound and determined not to lose it in the airport, but he had to swallow hard and bite the inside of his lip until it hurt like a bitch to distract himself at that moment.
“I know. I feel the same way. Let’s see if we can’t find…something. Something to give us all some closure.” He snapped the laptop shut. “I’m on it, my brother. I’ll see you in a couple of days. You sure about bringing the whole family? Kids and all?”
“Yes. My mother…my father, they need to know we are with them. All of us. It’s a–”
“Turkish thing.” Caleb spoke the words with him. Then hung up before he had a nervous breakdown in front of an entire terminal full of people.
Sighing, Caleb noted another missed call from Adem as the taxi bumped along the seemingly oldest roads in the world, which lead to some of the most expensive real estate on the planet. The Deniz family occupied the top of one the largest buildings in the Etiler neighborhood, overlooking the Bosporus. Funny—all that money, and all this tragedy. No, not funny. Shitty. Utterly shitty.
Tarkan.
His dark face appeared as if summoned, his mouth stretched into the impish grin he sported so often when he was up to some mischief or about to pull Caleb into a dark corner for a mind blowing kiss. Ah God! He pounded his knees.
His thoughts drifted to Adem. So like himself. High strung, quick tempered, organized to a fault, passionate. Caleb shut his eyes. Tarkan. His polar opposite. Calm, centered, quick to cool heated situations, a perfect negotiator. Tears pressed into the back of his eyes but he kept it together. He had work to do. Until Emre arrived, he was to meet with the military contingent who was spearheading the investigation, tracing the group that had grabbed Tarkan just prior to setting off the bombs. That had held him for nearly two years then had been completely decimated by him, single-handedly as he made his dramatic escape.
The phone buzzed again. A text. Adem. He stared at it, unable to register its simple collection of letters the first few times through.
“I heard. I’m on my way. I know someone high up in the military base there. I’ve already called him. Where are you staying?”
That tore it. He put his hands over his face and sobbed as the muezzins made the mid-day call to prayer for the faithful.
Chapter Eight
Emre couldn’t stop staring at the absurdly large man sitting at his kitchen table. The guy took up so much physical space; it was hard to imagine how anyone else could fit. The man who, apparently, was now engaged to his sister. Emre wiped a hand across his weary eyes and let Elle fill the empty space with conversation. They chattered away as if nothing had happened, while Elle moved around the kitchen preparing food, pouring them drinks. His eyes narrowed, taking in the other man’s gigantic hands—like fucking bear paws. His huge feet clad in cap toe dress shoes—like God damn skis. Emre slugged back another gulp of beer.
His shoulders seemed as wide as the bloody table. His wingspan had to be over seven feet. He didn’t have a thick neck or even a bulked-up look about him though. If anything, he was trim in his dark blue trousers and wrinkled white dress shirt. But he was a man used to dominating a room, and not just because he was absurdly tall or strong. It was his manner. Easygoing, calm in the eye of the shit storm he’d walked into today. Bringing something that Emre envied. A cool, in-control demeanor that he wished he could emulate. Emre shook his head at himself. Jesus. H. Christ. This behemoth had…with his sister…Oh hell.
He sprung up out his chair like a jack-in-the-box, interrupting the easy flow of conversation he had not even registered. Elle frowned at him and put down the knife she’d been using to cut tomatoes and cucumbers. Wiping her hands on a dishcloth, she came around the put her hands on his arms.
“Babe. You okay?”
Emre felt something snap. “Fuck, Elle. No. I am not okay. Jesus.” He sensed the huge man sitting behind him stir as if to move out of the room and leave them alone. He turned and motioned for Andreas the Greek to stay seated. “Stay. Sorry.” He leaned against the island and crossed his arms. His head pounded from lack of sleep and the emotional hairpin turns he’d endured for the past few hours. Just seeing his sister’s face had nearly made him lose it. But he kept control. He had to. People were depending on him.
She’d rushed into his arms as soon as the door opened, soaked his shirt with her tears as he stared at the man standing on the porch behind her. Elle had given him The Look, meaning “I’ll tell you later.” So he sat, held his sister, rocked her in his arms, crooned in Turkish, and kept his own emotions under tight control. When she’d been reduced to hiccups, he pushed her up, gave her a tissue, and motioned for Ayla to stop peeking around the corner at her beloved Auntie Tulip and come on out. She’d climbed into Lale’s lap, and the two had been ensconced in the rocking chair ever since, first just sitting, then singing, now reading a book.
He spent an hour or so securing flights for everyone, ignoring the hulking three-hundred-pound Greek Gorilla in his house as long as he could. When he’d emerged from his office, rubbing his eyes from exhaustion and stress, the man was camped out on his couch, sipping a beer, and reading The Times. When Emre had walked into the family room, he’d stood, stuck out that cartoonishly huge paw, and introduced himself. “Andreas Michos. From Las Vegas, before that Miami, before that Arizona, before that Athens.”
Emre had sighed and let his hand be enveloped. His grip was normal, thank God. Elle had stepped up, before Emre could get off any smart ass remarks about Greece. Good thing, too, since the guy could likely crush him with one hand while drinking a beer with the other.
Ayla had stared up at the man, one small hand stuck out. “Hello. Are you a giant?”
Lale and Elle had giggled, but the man simply bent at the knees and looked right at Emre’s daughter, took her hand, and said, “Why yes, Ayla, I am. That okay?”
She’d frowned and stared at him. “My auntie says you are a nice man. That she will marry you.” At that, Emre had to walk out. It was too much. Elle followed him, settled him at the table and put a beer in front of him.
“Drink. Then get a shower. Then eat. We can’t do anything more now but pack anyway, right?”
He grunted, sucked back half the beer in one pull, and refused to listen to the gargantuan Greek-defiler of his only sister charm his daughter into delighted giggles. Elle glared at him until he shut his eyes, ignoring her.
Andreas watched Lale’s brother watching him. He smiled, kept his face neutral, didn’t rise to the bait being offered. Nope. He had zero beef with this man. He obviously had a good life, was good-looking, for a Turk, and had a beautiful, charming and successful wife and two lovely children. But his life was falling apart in front of him over this strangeness with his missing brother, his dying father. He channeled his own brotherly inclinations, recalled how he’d felt meeting his own sister’s fiancé for the first time. It was hate at first sight and not because the asshole had been wearing a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt either. He still barely tolerated the jerk, who was a superb provider for his family and great guy by anyone’s standards—except his, as a brother.
So yeah, he got it. Let the guy stare at him all he wanted. Elle plunked a plate of sandwich ingredients on the island behind her husband, breaking up their little moment. Andreas took a deep breath and sip of beer, grateful it had passed. He sensed Lale come up behind him and his chest loosened a little. She put her hand on his shoulder. He took it, kissed and put it ba
ck, never taking his eyes from her brother’s stormy face.
“You haven’t congratulated me yet, Emre.” Lale grabbed Andreas’s beer and took a drink.
He cleared his throat, and she looked at him. He shook his head nearly imperceptibly but she got the message. She smiled, kissed his cheek, and moved around to help Elle finish getting food ready, dropping the potential confrontation with her brother. Emre watched her and then stared at Andreas. Andreas raised one eyebrow, ready to have any discussion his fiancé’s brother wanted to have with him. But Emre just rolled his eyes and stalked out. It was fine. Plenty of time for family bonding later no doubt.
A small tug at his arm made him look around and down. “Hey, I didn’t know there was a fairy princess in here. Lale, shame on you for not telling me. Look! Here she is now.” He grinned down at the admittedly beautiful little girl who’d gotten dressed up in her best pink ballet tutu, plastic crown, high tops, and sunglasses.
She used the wand trailing ribbons to tap his knee. “Pick me up.”
“Ayla.” Lale had warning in her voice. “Don’t be bossy to our guest.”
“He’s not a guest. He’s a giant, and he’s going to be Mr. Auntie Tulip, and I want a ride on his shoulders.” Andreas’s genuine laugh at the little girl’s arm-crossed attitude made the women smile, and for that he was grateful. He was pretty sure there would not be much smiling going on in the weeks to come.
***
Lale was sound asleep on one side of his lap, her niece curled up in his other arm, snoring away by the time he saw Emre again. He’d obviously showered, but not shaved, the dark growth on his face not hiding the gaunt, haunted look he wore. Andreas’s heart went out to him. What a cock up, truly. Emre dropped into a large chair opposite the blank television and stared at it as though it was broadcasting an Academy Award winning documentary on economics or whatever the fuck it was he was some kind of brainiac at, according to Lale.
Andreas let the silence spin out between them. What could he say that would matter at this point anyway? He wasn’t quite certain what the sleeping arrangements would be tonight and was about to reach for his phone and book a hotel when his future brother-in-law spoke.
“So, how does a first-generation Greek end up an NFL star anyway?”
“I was adopted from an Athens orphanage when I was seven by a second gen family living in Arizona. Both were college professors, classic languages and music. Neither played a lick of sports. But they were bound and determined for me to have the classic all-American boyhood. So I played it all. If there was a ball, I threw, caught, tossed, hit, dunked it until I grew to this height as a senior in high school and discovered my apparent talent for tackling.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. I loved it. And it paid the bills, up to a point. But I sort of liked my brain in the condition I started with and decided the NFL was just too dangerous after a few seasons.”
Ayla shifted and muttered in her sleep. He gently laid her down onto the pillow at the other end of the couch, putting his other arm on Lale’s hip. “Before you ask, I’ve been married. Divorced for nearly three years now. I’m AD at UNLV and, actually, need to get back there. I won’t be coming with you to Turkey.”
Emre shot him a look, as in “who invited you?” Andreas took it in stride. “I’ll give you and Elle my numbers though. If things go really badly, please let me know, and I’ll be on the first flight out.”
Lale pushed herself up off his thigh, her eyes sleepy but angry. “What? I thought you would….”
Emre interrupted her. “Lale, the man has a job. He said it himself.”
“Shut up, Emre.” Lale rubbed her eyes as she spoke. Andreas raised an eyebrow at her as she got to her bare feet. He crossed his legs ankle over knee and stretched his long arms out on top of the couch. She narrowed her eyes at him. He kept his gaze neutral. She turned and pulled her brother up from his chair. “I’m sorry.” Andreas smiled as she buried her face in his chest. Emre seemed shocked at first, kept his arms down before hugging her back, and kissing the top of her head.
“It’s okay.” Emre gave Andreas a searching look over the top of Lale’s head. She sniffled and extracted herself.
“Andreas.” Her voice was sweet but he heard what was underneath and braced himself.
“Yes, dear heart.”
“May I speak with you? In private?” She turned on her heel and walked down the hall. The slam of a door made both men jump and stare at each other. Andreas stood, put his hands in pockets.
“May I?” It was Emre’s house. If he didn’t want his sister alone in her bedroom with a man not yet her husband, well, that was his prerogative.
Emre laughed. “She’s all yours, my Greek brother. All yours.” He indicated with his hand the way down the hall to the source of the noise. “Something tells me you can handle it.”
Andreas stopped and gripped Emre’s shoulder. “Emre. I am here for you. For all of you. But I have a serious crisis brewing back at UNLV. I can’t say much more, but…. Well, let’s just say it’s a potential big time news mess and I need to nip it in the bud.”
Emre crossed his arms and gave him a genuine smile. “It’s fine. I’ll be sure and call you the minute we hear anything.”
“This thing…it’s horrible. But hopefully you can all get through it, as a family.”
Emre nodded and ran a hand down his face. He was carrying the weight of this entire family on his shoulders and Andreas knew it was only going to get worse. He wished like hell he could accompany them. Take some of it, for Lale’s sake. But he couldn’t. Not this week.
“Andreas!” The undertone was obvious. Get your ass in here or else. Andreas shrugged. She had every right to be upset. And he was proud of how she had handled herself so far. It hurt his heart to leave her now, but, as soon as he could, he’d fly to Istanbul and be by her side to face whatever there was left to face. Emre grinned at him again before he ambled down the wide hallway, knocked gently on the door and called out. “Precious Tulip? You called?”
Her hand reached out, grabbed his shirt, and yanked him inside before he could say another word.
Chapter Nine
The nightmare. Vivian couldn’t struggle out of it. No matter how many times she yelled herself awake, or splashed water on her face, or screamed in agony, it kept going. The sight of the tall handsome blond man at her door, his broad shoulders slumped, his eyes red with huge dark circles, strong jaw covered with the beginnings of a red tinged beard made her collapse into a chair by the door. Caleb was immediately by her side, dropping his briefcase and luggage in the hall. She gripped his hands.
“You’re freezing, Vivian.” His voice was hoarse. “C’mon, let’s get some tea.” She let him pull her to her feet, fold her into his side.
They sat together in the huge living room. Photos from Emre’s wedding, including the one of Caleb, Tarkan, and Lale, stared down at them. Neither of them spoke. There were no words. But she had to admit, simply having him there helped. The doorbell rang. It was about to get very real. She shut her eyes, then opened them, and watched Caleb stride to the door, let in the three uniformed men. Their low voices mingled in her brain. She was going to have to translate. She wasn’t quite sure she could do that, given that details of the translation concerned her son, his likely death, much later and more painful than they had first thought it to be over two years ago.
She stood as they entered, their dress uniform hats under their arms, dark eyes deadly serious. Vivian had a brief, wild inclination to curse, yell, rip the stupid ribbons from the fronts of their perfectly starched uniforms. God damn them. They’d left her son in the hands of those animals. Paid no attention to any hints that the terrorists had more than “mere” death and destruction in their game plan. She clenched her teeth, let Caleb put an arm around her and introduce her. Then they sat, ready for the worst.
The oldest one of them pulled a thick folder from his briefcase and opened it on the table in front of her. Caleb cleared his throa
t at the sight of an empty, filthy room, with a bit of straw in one corner covered by some kind of thin blanket. A half broken chair was the only other thing she could see. She looked closely and found that the brown dirt on the concrete was actually blood, lots and lots of blood. The younger officer snapped the folder shut and glared at his superior who sat back in his chair with his eyes hooded, his hands tented in front of his face.
From there she translated the family’s wishes. All possible means of search and rescue was to be undertaken for Lieutenant Tarkan Deniz. Immediately. She let Caleb say the words but her voice was firm and classroom perfect in translation.
Excuses, explanations, and other bullshit were slung around. The pictures hauled out again, the piles of bodies Tarkan had apparently left behind, including a young woman whose throat had been cut. When told she had been nearly six months pregnant, Vivian had to stand and excuse herself. Caleb followed her out.
“My Tarkan, he would not kill a woman like that. He could not.” She paced the hallway, jerking out of Caleb’s attempts to hold her. “You know this. Not our Tarkan.” Her skin was on fire, then freezing, then itchy all at once. She couldn’t suffer those military assholes in her house another minute, clutched Caleb’s arm. “Get them out of here. Please. I can’t stand it.”
“Shh, I know. I just need a few more pieces of information. You go, sit in the kitchen with Buyuk Anne.” Vivian nodded. Her poor mother-in-law was stone deaf and about eighty percent senile. She had no idea what was happening nor would anyone tell her. It would kill her. Let her think the family was converging as though by happy coincidence.
Caleb gnawed the inside of his ragged cheek again, watching Vivian’s wobbly route down the steps to the large kitchen. Once he heard her loudly greeting Buyuk Anne, he took a deep breath and went back to face an even harder reality than what Tarkan’s mother suspected.