by Terry Irving
"I don’t think I want it. Last thing I want to be reminded of is you and the goddamn Seventh Cavalry. Anyway, I think I'm going to quit smoking. It's bad for my health."
"OK." Rick gestured with his hand. "Toss it over. I’ll give it to Eve."
"The hell you will," she said. "And would you please stop chatting and get off me? I think you broke a rib, Trooper."
Rick could see as Hector looked at her and his teeth flashed in a smile.
Then the smile froze and Hector’s eyes jerked wildly. A line appeared across his neck, and blood, black in the dim light, burst out. Rick and Eve were drenched in seconds. As they watched, Hector slowly fell to his knees and then toppled forward onto Rick.
Standing where Hector had been was Mrs Jin – razor in her hand and the glitter of tears on her face.
"I loved him." She gestured back to where the agent’s body lay. "He killed my father. For that, I loved him."
She bent down over Hector’s body with the razor held out in front, reaching for Rick.
"I loved him," she repeated softly.
The Cong machine gunner is right next to him, firing over the pile of bodies. Inches above him, Corporal Pickens’s dead eyes flicker in the light of the muzzle blast. He must be quiet.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t move.
Then he did move.
His right hand shot up and clutched the woman’s throat. His arm locked to keep her away. She flailed with the razor, but he pulled his face under Hector’s body, and the tough leather of his jacket protected his arm.
In all his dreams, he had been helpless, unable to change one instant of the inevitable progression of events in the blood-soaked mud under the tall grass.
But this was no dream. This was real, and he could fight.
He could win.
The pitiless determination that drove him to year after year of weights and endless days of squeezing that goddamn pink ball poured into his grip. The frantic fear of the past days of pursuit and his anger at his friends being hunted raised him from the deep well of years spent battling darkness and despair. Now, the woman lying at his side gave him a fragile hope that he could heal his invisible wounds. He had come too far and suffered too much to lose now.
Slowly, steadily, his fingers began to close. He could feel the muscles and cartilage of the woman’s neck being crushed in his grip. She pulled back, twisting violently.
An expert at survival in a last desperate effort to survive.
His hand never weakened. His fingers drove deep, stopping her breath, clamping off her blood, ripping the life from her body. He never closed his eyes, forcing himself to watch as she fought her final battle in a lifetime of struggle.
For an instant, Rick thought he could see her face soften in the dim light.
Like a child woken from nightmare by the loving touch of a parent.
Then she was gone.
He held her long after she stopped moving.
CHAPTER 36
New Year’s Day, 1973
The wind was brutally cold.
It swept across the flat land and the hard-packed snow. There were no clouds, but the sun looked weak and small in the immense blue sky.
Rick could see where the land rose to the mountains in the far distance. It would take some time to get used to this much sheer unbroken space.
He had time.
"Like what you see, Trooper?"
He felt her arms come around him where he stood in the door of the small cabin. Eve leaned into him, and he felt as if a bubble of joy had just enclosed them.
He wrapped his arms across hers.
"Starting a new year in a big new place. Works for me."
She looked around his shoulder. "It’s nice and quiet now. When it warms up, I’ll have to deal with relatives." She snuggled into him. "I can’t decide what’s worse – being chased by the CIA, the FBI, and the Bureau of Indian Affairs, or the tribal elders. I know that federal agents don’t come deep into the reservation these days, but they should have laws to keep my aunts away."
"It’s a good place to hide, and I’ll buy a bike so we can leave when it gets warmer." He thought for a moment. "But I do see one problem."
"What?"
"I’ll have to start obeying the speed limit." He reached back and pulled out his wallet, removing one of two driver’s licenses. "I’m afraid that Rick Putnam passed away back in DC – at least for a while."
She let him go and they went back into the cabin, where a fire was burning in a small iron woodstove.
"Can you get used to some guy named Jack?"
"Cheyenne men change their names several times as they go through life."
"What about women?"
"No, once we settle on something, we don’t ever change."
"You’re telling me," he said playfully.
She swung a fist at him, but he caught it, wrapped her up in his arms, and they fell onto the couch. After a short period of struggle, ending when both of them groaned from still-unhealed injuries, he asked, "What would my Cheyenne name be?"
"First of all, you don’t get to have a Cheyenne name. It’s not a joke."
"Fair enough."
"But if you did, it could be…" She paused. "It could be Hevovitastamiutsto."
He pronounced it carefully, trying to mimic all the tones and pauses. "What’s it mean?"
She slipped her hand inside his shirt and rested it on his chest. "Whirlwind. For the way you sleep."
"It’s a little better now. At least I’m not waking up alone."
"No, you’ve already woken me up by then." She grinned, then clearly thought of something. "Did you hear the radio?"
"Nope. Got sort of lost in the landscape."
"They’ve stopped the bombing of Hanoi. The peace talks are back on and all the remaining American troops are coming out." Eve gave him a squeeze. "Corey came through."
"Damn." He shook his head. "We paid a high price. Hope it was worth it."
"You don’t get to choose those who go into battle beside you," she said. "That’s something only they decide. Your duty is to make their sacrifice mean something."
Rick nodded. The two of them sat in each other’s arms and looked into the fire as the small cabin slowly filled with a comfortable silence.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Authors usually seem to have dozens of people to thank when they get a book published. The way this worked out, I didn’t have that many people working with me but that makes the efforts of those listed here all that more crucial to getting Courier finished.
Dean Krystek was the only agent who deigned to read the manuscript, he was also the primary editor, a relentless cheerleader, and a professional who was so dedicated to this project that he continued putting it in front of publishers for three years. The same day that I was going to give up and self-publish Courier, he emailed to say that this British publisher was “going to take it with him on vacation.”
Which brings me to the redoubtable Emlyn Rees of Exhibit A Books, who came back from vacation and sent me a note saying he “genuinely loved this novel.” There is no way to describe what that meant to me—but it’s framed and hanging on my office wall where I can see it while I write. Emlyn, and his successor, Bryon Quertermous, have been deft and subtle editors who have improved the book without making it theirs, not mine. I know there are wonderful artists and editors over in England somewhere who have made me look better than I have any right to expect but, sadly, I really don’t know who they are so they’ll just have to accept my generalized thanks—sort of like the rushed end of an Oscar acceptance speech.
I’d like to thank Donald Critchfield, John Herrick, John Rivello, and Ellen Clifford who read the various drafts and let me know when I was heading off a cliff. Finally, I have to acknowledge the dispatcher at Metropolitan Motorcycle Messengers who realized that I had no idea where I was going and sent me to ABC News in 1973 to carry their film around. I have to mention all the incredible producers, correspond
ents, and technicians at ABC News who gave me the best of professional and personal role models and a career that most people can only dream of.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Terry Irving is an American four-time Emmy award-winning writer and producer. He has also won three Peabody Awards, three DuPont Awards and has been a producer, editor or writer with ABC, CNN, Fox and MSNBC.
terryirving.com
twitter.com/terryirving
EXHIBIT A
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Copyright © Terry Irving 2014
Terry Irving asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
Angry Robot is a registered trademark, and Exhibit A, the Exhibit A icon and
the Angry Robot icon a trademark of Angry Robot Ltd.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and
incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or
localities is entirely coincidental.
Ebook ISBN: 978 1 909223 80 6
UK Paperback: ISBN: 978 1 909223 78 3
US Mass Market Paperback: ISBN: 978 1 909223 79 0