The sight of half-naked women would have paralyzed any teenage boy. Bree had moved beyond the point of caring what state of dress a woman was in. Working his way through the pandemonium, he made his way to the area where his company’s models dressed. A young Hispanic man wearing makeup threw his arms in the air.
“Finally, Mr. Bree. Finally. Miss Fussy Pants here won’t put on the dress.”
“I have a name.” The woman was close to six feet tall and carried slightly more weight per vertical foot than the other models. Bree liked that. She looked like a real woman. Her olive skin was smooth and even colored. Moisture rimmed her dark eyes. Bree could see she was close to tears.
“Jasmine.” Bree spoke just above a whisper and flashed a wide smile. “Every time I see you, I begin to think there is hope for this crazy business.”
“Thank you, Bree, I . . . I . . .” She raised a finger to her eye and lightly touched the tear perched on her lower eyelash.
“Now, now, Jasmine. No tears. There’s nothing we can’t work out.”
“I told her you wanted her to wear the abaya, but she got in a tizzy.”
“Jesse?”
“Yes.”
“Shut up. I know you’re trying to do your job, but I don’t need or want any attitude. Understood?”
“Yes, Mr. Bree.” He stepped to the side.
Bree turned to face Jasmine. “So what’s troubling my favorite model?”
“I can’t wear the abaya. It would be wrong.”
“Wrong? You know it’s not a real abaya. It’s nothing like what Islamic women wear.”
“I know, but it’s close enough. It will offend people.”
“In Paris?” Bree laughed. “Two things I know for certain: a man cannot fly on his own; and one cannot offend a Parisian with clothing—or lack of it.” He paused for a moment. “Is that it? You think it’s too revealing?”
“Bree, I’m standing in front of you in my underwear. I don’t embarrass easily.”
“Then what?”
DiAnna spoke up. “Is it your grandmother?”
Jasmine nodded.
“Grandmother?” Bree raised an eyebrow.
Jasmine looked at DiAnna. She took the hint. “Jasmine’s grandmother is a practicing Muslim. Wearing Muslim dress—especially the way you’ve reinterpreted it—might be offensive to her.”
“It’s supposed to be a political statement as well as fashion . . .” He pulled Jasmine close and kissed her on the forehead. “Okay, I understand. Jesse!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put Jasmine in something else—have her trade outfits with Ava. Ava won’t mind.”
A squeaking behind him drew Bree’s attention. A woman in her twenties, with skin a shade darker than Jasmine’s, pushed a large gray bin to the center of the room. Bree had seen such bins in every hotel he had ever stayed in. Maids collected dirty sheets and towels in them and wheeled them to the laundry. What Bree had never seen before was such a bin in the staging area of a fashion show.
The woman stopped and looked around. She wore a maid’s uniform. From the apron pocket at the front of her outfit she removed a small electronic device and held it in front of her. “Western whores!”
Bree had just enough time to realize something was wrong when he felt the heat and the blast.
“YOU’RE KIDDING OL’ RICH, aren’t you?” Rich Harbison raised the beer to his lips.
J. J. shook his head. “Nope, that’s her.” J. J. couldn’t bring himself to look the big man in the eyes. Instead, he focused on the plastic tumbler that held his Dr. Pepper.
“I don’t buy it.” Pete Rasor took another slice of pizza then spoke with his mouth full. “What are the odds? He’s working us, guys. I can see it in his beady little eyes.”
The team had gathered at a small pizzeria a mile from the base. It was a tradition. If a mission allowed them the time, they would meet, share a fast food meal for an hour, then go home to spend the remaining free time with family. Too many missions demanded they leave on a moment’s notice. On a covert excursion into Venezuela a few months before, Moyer hadn’t had time to go home and hug his wife and kids. It was the thing he most hated about his work. It was also the only thing he hated.
“Did you just get married, Pete? Why can’t you believe I want the same thing?”
Pete’s eyes widened. “How do I put this? I’m a far better catch than you. Besides Tess Run is, well, beautiful, and you are, well, you.”
“Her name is Rand. Tess Rand.”
“I sit corrected.”
Jose, a thick-across-the-chest man with black hair, leaned J. J.’s direction. “Don’t let these cretins get under your skin. They can’t help themselves. After all, she is too good for you. Why, if I weren’t married—”
“And didn’t have a house full of kids . . .”
“I was getting to that, Boss.”
Moyer smiled. The team medic was old-school Catholic. At the rate he and his wife were going, he would need to move his family into a warehouse.
“Okay, gentlemen, it’s time to leave poor J. J. to his dreams.”
“It’s not a dream, Boss. We’re gonna get married.”
“Answer me this, pal,” Rich said. “Did you know she was going to be briefing us today?”
J. J. shook his head. “Not a clue. I was surprised.”
“Judging by the look on her face, she was surprised to see you too.”
“You know how it is, Boss. We can’t tell our family and friends what we do and where we go. I guess she can’t tell me everything she does.”
“But you knew she worked in some form of intelligence.”
“Yeah. I knew she graduated from the War College and served as a civilian consultant to the DOD. She also told me she specialized in overseas conflicts. Since I have to keep secrets, it’s only fair I let her have hers.”
“No need to explain that to us.” Rich pulled a slice from the flat pan. “Here, eat so you can grow up and be big and strong like me.” He pushed the pizza pan J. J.’s way.
Moyer looked to the end of the table. Zinsser sat quietly, removed from the others. “You want another beer, Zinsser?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
J. J. glanced at Moyer to check his response. J. J. was getting the feeling that Moyer had questions about the man.
“Tell us about yourself, Zinsser,” Rich said. “I like to know who I’m entrusting my life to.”
“Not much to tell. I’m an Army brat. Dad put in thirty years. Artillery. Did several tours in Nam, picked up a Purple Heart, but lost a leg in the process. He finished his career teaching recruits.”
“Another hero, eh?” Rich said. “You got family?”
“Nope.”
“A cat?”
“Hate cats.”
Rich looked at Moyer, who shrugged. No words were spoken, but the team heard the same message.
“You up to talking about Kismayo?” Moyer asked.
“I think it’s all in my service jacket.”
Moyer nodded. “I read it before coming over here. It’s impressive, but notes in a man’s file are not the same thing as hearing from the man himself.”
Zinsser lowered his head. J. J. had seen soldiers do this before. The work they did as soldiers extracted a high price. Ugly memories were branded on the brain and the wound never heals. While at church one Sunday, the pastor honored an elderly man in the congregation. He had served in the Navy during World War II and had three ships shot out from beneath him. The pastor joked that that was the reason no one would go fishing with the man. The honoree and congregation laughed, but J. J. could see the pain on the man’s face, just below the surface.
The pastor told of the man’s efforts to save a dozen men in a burning engine room before the destroyer went beneath the waves twenty miles off the Philippines. He entered and reentered the burning space below decks to pull wounded men from the smoke-choked room. He saved twelve lives, throwing the men overboard before making the jump himself.
In the water he found two of the most severely wounded and helped them stay afloat until rescue arrived.
The pastor held up a simple frame that held a typewritten accommodation from Admiral Nimitz. The congregation stood and applauded. The hero couldn’t face the people. Later J. J. joined several other men who pressed for details to the story. The elderly man tried, but broke down two minutes in. Over sixty years later the sailor couldn’t face what he had seen and done.
J. J. saw the same look on Zinsser’s face. Apparently Moyer did too. “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other later,” Moyer said. He raised his glass of beer. “To the new guy.”
The others raised their glasses in a toast.
Zinsser took a deep breath. “Thanks guys, I won’t let you down.”
“Our hour is up, men. Time for you to beat it. Go home. Enjoy the evening. I want everyone on base, on time, and ready to rock. Clear?”
“Hooah!”
CHAPTER 4
JERRY ZINSSER DIDN’T GO home. His bare apartment held no appeal. He had another destination in mind. He sat in his 2005 Chevrolet Silverado and starred at the lobby doors of Moncrief Army Community Hospital, Fort Jackson’s medical facility. He closed his eyes, but the image of the doors and what lay behind them continued to play in his mind. He had never been a patient here. His wounds were first treated at a field hospital in Nariobi, Kenya, then in Landsthuhul, Germany.
Brian Taylor hadn’t been so lucky. The doctors in Germany had been able to keep him alive, but they couldn’t save his legs, his arm, or most of his colon. Despite his injuries, Brian “Echo” Taylor was more man than any person Zinsser had met.
Zinsser wiped his eyes, pulled a facial tissue from a box on the passenger seat, and blew his nose. Deep breath. Deep, cleansing, invigorating breath. He drew in air until his lungs hurt then released it in a slow jet from his lips. He looked at his hands. They shook. He flexed his fingers twenty-five times as he had done a thousand times in the last week. The tremors settled.
In a monumental battle of mind over body, Zinsser forced his jaw to unclench. His stomach still roiled with acid, but he could deal with that. He removed a small roll of Rolaids and ate half of them.
Five minutes later Zinsser convinced himself that he was still a brave man, exited the truck, and walked into the hospital.
Room 253 held only one occupant: Brian Taylor. The room was dark. Brian liked it that way. Zinsser took one step over the threshold then stopped. Brian’s form lay on the bed, a clean white sheet covered him from his shoulders to just twenty-four inches below his hips. Where legs should have been there was just flat, white sheet. The portion of the sheet over his left shoulder covered the stump of his arm.
Zinsser’s eyes began to burn. Careful not to wake his friend, Zinsser slipped across the floor and lowered himself into a yellow Naugahyde-covered chair. It squeaked lightly as he moved his frame across the chair’s surface. Brian didn’t move. Zinsser looked at the plastic bags hanging from the IV pole. He didn’t have to rise and read the labels to know what they contained. Antibiotics and morphine. The latter kept Brian asleep most of the time.
The dim room provided Zinsser with a small sense of comfort. Like Brian, he’d come to appreciate the darkness. For Brian, it meant others would have trouble seeing him; for Zinsser darkness felt more familiar than light.
The IV pump kept track of each drop of fluid it moved through the plastic tubing, tabulating important information on a small, digital screen. Outside the door, nurses, doctors, and other visitors moved along the corridors. Although open, the door provided the demarcation between the normal world of healthy, active people, and the universe of the broken and busted. Those on the other side of the door pitied those on this side. Zinsser knew. He had spent two months in rehab and two months seeing a military psychologist before being returned to duty.
He was the lucky one.
Zinsser forced his eyes to trace the form of his friend, then corrected himself. Chief, Boss, and two others left their life’s blood in Kismayo. They lost their lives and, despite the shame it brought him, Zinsser acknowledged the truth.
He envied them the most.
THE ACRID, BITING SMELL of spent gunpowder filled the still air of the room. From outside the window, the barrel of an AK-47 appeared. A moment later the head of its owner followed. Zinsser put a round in the man’s forehead. What he wanted to do was yank the trigger back and never let go. At seven hundred rounds a minute, his clip would be empty in less than two seconds. Conservation was the ticket. Don’t waste a shot; don’t waste an opportunity.
“Can you watch the window?”
“Yeah.” Brian pressed the words through clenched teeth. “But not for long.”
Zinsser moved to Brian’s right side. “I’m gonna make a tourniquet out of my belt. Don’t let me get shot while I do it.”
“It’s no use, Data, I’m bleeding out. I can feel it. I’m bleeding inside. I’m busted up bad.”
“Shut up.” Zinsser removed his belt and slipped it around Brian’s right thigh and positioned it between the man’s wound and hip. “This might pinch just a little.”
He yanked the belt hard. Brian screamed. Zinsser cinched the belt tight. A moment later he saw another bullet wound in Brian’s left leg. It wasn’t bleeding and Zinsser assumed it missed the artery. He also assumed the bullet had shattered the upper leg bone.
“Watch it!” Brian raised the 9mm and began firing. Hot casings spewed from the chamber, hitting Zinsser in the face. He recoiled and raised his M4. A Somali with a grenade launcher pointed through the window stood unmoving for a moment as if taking aim, but Brian’s shot had put an end to that. No one could aim with half his head missing. The standing corpse dropped.
“How long before they rush us?” Brian asked.
Zinsser returned to his spot by the side wall. “I don’t know why they haven’t yet. They have enough bodies. I saw at least twenty-five men.”
As if taking their cue from the discussion, the doorknob began to turn. Zinsser aimed his weapon at a head-high spot above the doorknob. He pressed the trigger and three rounds pierced the wood. “I hate people who don’t knock.”
Brian chuckled. “Only you would crack-wise at a time like this.”
“Can’t help it, buddy. I’m getting bored—”
The door exploded open, and several men poured into the room. Brian emptied his 9mm at them. Zinsser flipped the switch on his weapon back to automatic and released a burst of fire.
Men fell.
Several more followed. Movement to the side caught his attention. “Window!”
Something hot hit his shoulder. Fire raced into his chest. He had no time to cry out; no time to complain. Since his arm still moved he assumed the round had passed through his arm. He fingered the trigger again. Five shots spewed from the barrel.
He heard Brian drop the handgun and pick up the one Zinsser had given him before. The familiar sounds of handguns shredded the air.
The next time Zinsser pulled his trigger nothing happened. “Reloading.”
The thirty-round clip fell from the belly of the weapon as Zinsser reached for another in his vest. Something punched him twice, driving his body armor into his chest. The air in his lungs fled. He stumbled back into the wall but didn’t fall.
A thin man stepped his way, a large revolver in his hand. Zinsser could see down the barrel. The attacker grimaced as he stepped closer. Apparently he didn’t want to hit body armor with his next shot.
Zinsser sprang forward, seized the gun and the man’s hand, and twisted. The pain in his shoulder peaked. He could feel blood run from the wound, but it didn’t matter—he and Brian were moments from death. Zinsser would not wait for it.
Snapping the man’s arm behind him, Zinsser continued to twist his wrist until he felt the attacker’s tendons give way. The man screamed, and Zinsser pulled the gun free. Using the man as a shield, Zinsser raised the revolver and fired at two other men coming through the door.<
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The men outside scattered for a moment. Zinsser pushed his captive forward. He ran for the door. Zinsser shot him in the spine.
The room seemed to tilt. His ears, pummeled by gunfire in a confined space, roared. A second later the roaring was joined with a distant pounding. He swayed. The room stopped tilting and began to spin. Seconds slowed to hours.
His weapon.
His M4.
He reached for it then rammed in his spare clip. “Come on! I’m ready for you! BRING IT.” Vomit tried to rise in his throat.
Three Somali pirates appeared at the door.
Zinsser raised his weapon.
Brian pulled the trigger of his sidearm, but it only clicked.
The roaring in his ears lessened, but the pounding increased. Not pounding. Thumping.
The Somalis looked up and fled. A half-second later, bullets rained from the sky.
“Hey, pal, you all right?”
Zinsser turned to Brian, but he wasn’t talking to anyone. Where had the voice come from?
“Open your eyes, Zinsser.”
Zinsser looked up. A voice from heaven?
“WHAT?”
“Open your eyes, man. You’re freaking me out.”
Zinsser blinked several times. He was back in the hospital room. The voice wasn’t from heaven; it was from the man on the hospital bed. Zinsser looked at his hands; they shook like leaves on a tree. He squeezed them into fists and took a ragged breath.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yeah. Screaming, ‘Bring it’ kinda got my attention.” Brian smiled.
“Sorry. I must have been having a nightmare.”
Brian chuckled. “Nightmares, is that what they call it? Night-terrors is a better description.”
“It was just a dream.”
Brian swore. “Sure, that’s all they are: dreams. Just little dreams that make us wet ourselves and soak the sheets with sweat.” He paused and studied Zinsser. “You told me you were over the dreams; that the doc made them go away.”
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