Ellie closed her eyes and rested her cheek on the baby’s head. Her mind swam with all the events Kate and Lee would never experience with their children: first dates, first dances, graduations, weddings, grandchildren. The images overwhelmed her. She opened her eyes, just as Nan let herself into the house. Ellie couldn’t fall apart. The children needed her to function.
She passed the baby to her grandmother, then did her best to answer the officer’s questions about the family. “Kate has no family close by. Lee has a brother who lives locally, plus a sister who is usually traveling and a brother deployed to Afghanistan.” Ellie gave the policeman their names. “I’m sorry. I don’t know their numbers. I could look in Lee’s office. I haven’t seen any of them in a while.”
“We’ll take care of it, ma’am,” he said. “Child services will try to locate the local relative.”
More cops showed up at the house. The noise woke Carson, who came downstairs crying. Ellie rocked him on her lap. She didn’t want to tell him what happened. That kind of news was best left to family.
An hour later, a middle-aged woman bustled through the door. She took the kitchen chair opposite Ellie. “Miss Ross? I’m Dee Willis from child services. I haven’t been able to reach anyone on the list you gave us. We need to talk about the children.”
Ellie wrapped her arms around Carson tighter. “They can stay with me.”
“I’m sorry, that’s against policy,” the social worker said. “You can complete a form to become an emergency foster. It’ll only take a few days.”
But to Carson, a few days would be forever. The little boy’s silent tears soaked Ellie’s shirt. Helplessness flooded her.
“Julia, please take Carson.” Ellie shifted the little boy to her daughter’s lap and went into the living room for privacy. Whipping out her phone, she dialed her boss. Working for an attorney had a few benefits. But Roger didn’t answer his phone. Damn it. She left a message and returned to the kitchen. She gave Julia a pointed look and nodded toward the doorway. Julia carried Carson out of the room.
Ellie waited until she heard the stair treads creak before addressing the social worker. “The children know us. Can’t you make an exception?”
“No, I’m sorry.” Mrs. Willis’s calm and businesslike voice grated on Ellie’s raw nerves. “As soon as the background checks go through, you can ask the judge, but tonight, I have to take them with me.”
Ellie knew the woman must see situations like this all the time, but how could she be so matter-of-fact about taking two small children from their home? Anger rolled over Ellie’s grief. Pain and helplessness compounded in her chest until her ribs ached.
My God, it was Friday. She doubted anything would be done over the weekend.
The social worker started collecting the baby’s gear. “It might make things easier on Carson if you help him pack a bag.”
Ellie didn’t want to make things easier. She wanted to snatch the children and hide them at her house. She glanced around and counted three uniformed policemen and another in a suit who seemed to be in charge. He’d introduced himself, but she’d already forgotten his name. Detective McSomething.
There was nothing she could do.
She went upstairs to Carson’s room. He sat on the bed with Julia and cried while Ellie packed enough clothes for a week into his backpack. She knelt on the floor in front of him and took his little hands in hers. “Just hang on, OK? I’m going to do everything I can to bring you to my house.”
He sniffed, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. “The lady said Mommy and Daddy died.”
Ellie’s heart broke. Did he even know what that meant? She sat next to him and hugged him tight. “I know. I’m sorry.”
She was even sorrier to carry him out to the social worker’s car and put him inside. Sadness choked her as she watched them drive away.
Chapter Two
Afghanistan, Saturday 5:30 a.m.
March dawned cold in the Hindu Kush. Just before daybreak, cool gray light peered over the mountains on the horizon. In the back of a mine-resistant all-terrain vehicle, or M-ATV, Grant tucked his hands in his armpits and scanned the ridge that ran parallel to the road. The supply convoy was giving him a lift back to the forward operating base near the Pakistani border where he was stationed. Grant’s vehicle was at the middle of the column. A platoon of infantrymen escorted the column of supply trucks. For additional support, a unit of the ANA, Afghan National Army, brought up the rear.
The steady rock and rumble of the vehicle could have lulled him to sleep if he’d let it, but the Taliban liked to attack in the gray hours. A soldier couldn’t relax in Afghanistan. An attack could come from anywhere: a civilian with a backpack, an IED detonated by the roadside, or a traitor in their midst. The options were endless. Grant’s gaze swept along the ridge as the convoy entered yet another wadi. The valley was the twentieth prime ambush spot of their journey.
He’d been in zero direct engagements since his promotion to major just before this last deployment. On his last two tours, he’d been out on frequent patrols and skirmishes. In an odd way, he missed the intimacy of being part of every mission, the daily grind of patrolling the hills and wadis, the brotherhood instilled by combat. The diplomacy and paperwork required by his new position as operations officer isolated him from the men. He worked hard to establish a relationship with them, but sometimes he felt like all he did was go to meetings, like the one he’d attended yesterday at battalion command. Discussing the political ramifications of military policy gave him a headache.
The low ridge to the east shadowed the valley. A hint of pale yellow edged over the jagged horizon, silhouetting the skyline. A half klick ahead, the passage narrowed. In minutes, the convoy rumbled into a dry streambed barely twenty meters wide. On the right, a steep slope led to a ridge thirty feet above the road. A sheer cliff face comprised the left wall. Conversation halted as all eyes searched the rocks on either side for any sign of enemy activity.
The road exploded in front of the supply convoy, shaking the ground under the trucks. Grant’s heart kicked into gear. Men jolted into action. The heavy vehicle rocked again as another explosive hit the dirt. More rockets whistled and boomed ahead. The passageway was too narrow to turn around, and since the enemy had planned this ambush, no doubt they were waiting in case the convoy found a way to double back.
They were trapped in a kill zone.
Grant scanned the surroundings. They needed men on high ground, and there was only one way to get the advantage. They would have to take it from the enemy.
He dismounted and ran two vehicles ahead to join the lieutenant in charge of the platoon. They ducked behind Lieutenant Wise’s armored door. The perpetually sunburned redhead wiped a coating of Afghan dust from his freckled brow. Though his actual age was likely around twenty-four, the blue eyes studying the ridge were battle-aged.
Another rocket sailed over the ridgeline and exploded in the rocks on their flank. The ground rocked and dirt burst through the air. A shard pinged past Grant’s head and stung his face. Machine-gun fire laced the vehicle. Bullets strafed the ground at his feet. A tug on his pant leg signaled a close call. He squinted at the ridge to the east. Muzzle flashes flared in the dim. In unison with the soldiers around him, Grant lifted his M-4 and returned fire.
The ground trembled under his boots as more rockets exploded. Warm liquid dribbled into his eye, obscuring his vision. He swiped at the cut on his forehead, took aim, and fired again.
He might miss the camaraderie of being part of a combat platoon, but he did not miss having rockets fired at his ass.
Ambushes like these were more common than they should be, so First Platoon was ready for this one. Lieutenant Wise was on the radio, calling the base for air support. An Apache was being dispatched, ETA fifteen minutes. The platoon sergeant shouted orders to the men.
“Lieutenant, we need to take
that ridge.” Grant pointed above them. A bullet ripped through his sleeve.
“Yes, sir. I’m already on it.” Wise and his sergeant had the situation in hand. Grant stood down. He would not be that dickhead officer who interrupted the smooth flow of platoon operations. He was just a passenger on this convoy.
The soldiers returned fire on the rockets with heavy machine guns and lobbed grenades over the crest. Wise ordered a squad through a gap in the rocks. ANA forces guarded the convoy’s back.
Using the vehicle as a shield, Grant hunkered down with the remaining men and provided cover fire for the soldiers heading up the hill.
The Taliban had known they were coming. The insurgents had eyes everywhere. US forces were fighting in a land where they couldn’t trust anyone. Not the local interpreters who worked for them. Not the villagers they supplied with food and medicine. Not even the Afghan soldiers they fought with side by side. No one.
Two dozen Taliban soldiers in man jams and AK-47s poured over the ridge. The eight-inch knives dangling from their waists reminded Grant that beheading some Americans on Al Jazeera would cap off the Taliban’s evening like a party. The enemy had the high ground advantage, but Grant’s heart sang as his men surged up the incline in the direct line of fire. The enemy fell back, scrambling up the ridge with Grant’s men in pursuit.
The ambush should have been over, averted without a single American casualty.
Gunfire sounded at his back. Grant whirled. Next to him, Wise went down, blood pouring from a wound in his thigh. Shots whizzed past his head. Where the fuck were those bullets coming from? Behind them?
He scanned the area for the shooters. Five Afghan soldiers had broken rank, turning and firing on the US forces they were supposed to be supporting. Wise was on the ground, shouting into the radio. The traitors’ muzzles flared. Two Afghan soldiers dropped. Most of the platoon was ahead of Grant, and the lieutenant was focused on not bleeding out.
Grant lifted his M-4. Chaos erupted in the ANA. Who was on which side?
An Afghan soldier took aim at Wise, no doubt trying to cut off his communication. Shouting to the soldiers on the other side of the vehicle, Grant leveled his weapon and shot the obvious traitor. His face exploded in a red mist. There was no point in aiming at a body’s center mass when Grant knew the enemy was wearing body armor supplied by the US government. Four men broke out from the Afghan ranks and took aim at the vehicle in front of Grant, where the gunner in the turret was firing heavy machine gun rounds onto the ridge.
The sergeant was shouting orders. Grant dropped to a knee and fired on the turncoats. The soldiers in the vehicle ahead turned and finished the job. The traitors went down under a massive wave of machine-gun fire.
Was that all of them? Could there be more Taliban spies among their ranks? How the hell would they ever know?
Explosions and artillery fire slowed. The unit medic stopped the bleeding in Wise’s leg and turned to Grant.
“Major?” The young corporal pointed at Grant’s face. “Let me get that, sir.”
Vaguely aware of blood dripping in his eye, Grant let the medic swipe some antiseptic and slap a butterfly bandage over the cut on his temple. Wise was loaded into the vehicle. He was still working the radio.
The squad that had gone over the ridge was called back. Steady whumping signaled the arrival of air support. The Apache swept over the ridge, blowing the shit out of anything on the other side.
Grant scanned the platoon. It appeared Lieutenant Wise had the most serious injury. But despite the win, damage was done. The Taliban had infiltrated the ANA. How could these American soldiers ever trust them as allies again?
When the bombs ceased, Wise sent a squad over the ridge to check for survivors, but they found none. The convoy moved on and reached the base a few hours later. Grant didn’t breathe easy until the trucks rolled through the gates and were behind the concertina wire. But lately, even being in the compound wasn’t a guarantee of safety, not with the Taliban determined to infiltrate the ANA at every opportunity.
His army combat uniform was shredded from bullets and stained with blood and Afghan dust, but Grant headed directly to the command center and reported to Lieutenant Colonel Tucker.
Tucker was in his office. Under a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, he turned a piercing green gaze on Grant. “Have a seat, Major.”
But Grant was too keyed up to sit. Exhaustion and tension competed for control. He closed the door, paced the dusty room, and relayed the details of the ambush.
“Major,” Tucker interrupted with a raised palm, “I’ll get a report from Lieutenant Wise.”
Grant stopped. Something was up. He’d been Tucker’s second-in-command for ten months. The colonel squinted at him, his weathered skin creasing around his eyes. “Sit down, Grant.”
Wary, Grant eased into a chair. When Tucker used his first name, the news was personal.
The colonel eyed Grant’s forehead. “Is that serious?”
“No, sir. Just a scratch.” His adrenaline flow ebbed. Deep in his limbs, Grant felt every ounce of fatigue from two nights with no sleep.
Tucker opened his desk drawer. He poured two tumblers of scotch from his stash. He handed one across the desk to Grant and waited until Grant had tossed his back before speaking. “I got a call from the States.”
Grant stiffened, bracing himself. Had his father finally succumbed to his physical and mental afflictions? The retired army colonel had held out far longer than anyone would have predicted. Grant had been expecting a call about his death since he’d been deployed ten months ago. “What happened? Is it my father?”
“No. I’m sorry, Grant. It isn’t your father.” Tucker’s eyes went hard, and his words were the last thing Grant expected to hear. “Your brother and his wife were killed.”
Grant’s ears were still ringing from the battle. He couldn’t have heard that right. He only had one married brother. Grant usually spent part of his leave with Lee’s family. Lee was the family touchstone. There was nothing remotely dangerous about his life. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Your brother Lee and his wife, Kate, were killed last night.”
Liquor and grief numbed a path through Grant’s gut. This was impossible. “How? Car accident?”
Tucker shook his head. Sympathy softened his voice. “It seems as if they were robbed.”
Once Grant digested the initial shock, his next thought was of the children. Carson and Faith were alone. Orphans.
He stared at the floor. “I have to go home.”
“Pack your bag. Emergency leave paperwork is already being processed. Sergeant Stevens is arranging transport.” Tucker returned to his desk. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, sir.” Grant stood, willing the wobble from his legs. He faced loss of life on a daily basis. But the death of his quiet suburban lawyer brother was different. Grant wasn’t prepared for the emotional hit to his flank. He’d been ambushed all over again.
He checked in with Sergeant Stevens. He’d gotten Grant a spot on an outbound troop transport helicopter. Grant had a few hours to prepare. He packed, showered, and donned fresh ACUs on automatic pilot. It wasn’t until he was seated in the Chinook, watching the dirt cloud churned up by the tandem rotors, that it sank all the way in. Pain bored through Grant’s soul like a bullet.
Lee and Kate were dead.
Chapter Three
Monday night
Grant wiped a layer of mist from his face. The temperature in his hometown of Scarlet Falls, New York, was similar to the aching cold he’d left behind, but he appreciated both the moisture in the air and the absence of moon dust, the dirt powder that coated everything, including lungs, in Afghanistan.
Taking a deep, pine-scented breath, he followed Detective Brody McNamara up the concrete steps and into the side door of the municipal building. From the outside, the Colonial-style
structure blended into the quaint small-town image, with blue clapboards and barn-red shutters. Inside, it was all tired office building. But since the detective had agreed to meet Grant at twenty-two hundred hours, he wasn’t complaining about the lack of interior design.
The police station shared the two-story structure with township administration. Just inside the doorway, a freestanding sign directed visitors upstairs to the tax collector, zoning office, and township clerk on the second floor. The cops had the ground level all to themselves.
He followed the cop through a gray tiled lobby. They passed the elevator and a reception counter, then walked down a short hall into a dark, open room. Detective McNamara flipped a switch on the wall. Overhead fluorescents illuminated a cluster of cubicles and a row of metal filing cabinets. A few closed doors banked the far wall.
“Sorry, we’re a small force. Night staff is skeletal, just patrol and dispatch.” The detective skirted the cubicles and unlocked the center door. McNamara was a year or two older than Grant’s thirty-five, with the ruddy, windburned complexion of a skier. Jeans and a navy-blue jacket with an SFPD patch on the sleeve hung on a rangy body. He led the way into a cramped but neat office. Two plastic guest chairs fronted an old metal desk. McNamara rounded the desk and dropped into his chair.
Restless, Grant stood. “I appreciate you meeting me here this late.” He’d called the cop from I-87 an hour before he hit town.
“Glad to help, Major. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Grant’s throat constricted. He’d been shot once and nearly blown up twice by IEDs. He had enough shrapnel buried under the skin of his leg to set off a metal detector. Keeping people like Lee and Kate safe was the reason he fought. How could his little brother, secure back here in the States, be dead?
Suddenly exhausted, Grant eased into a hard-backed chair. “Where are the children?”
The cop reached behind him. A mini fridge sat on top of a credenza. He pulled out a bottle of water and offered it to Grant. “As I said on the phone, we were unable to reach any family members the night your brother and his wife were killed. Child services placed them in a foster home.”
Hour of Need (Scarlet Falls) Page 2