Blue Warrior

by Mike Maden

  Pearce tried to imagine the splashes of color. He’d seen pictures of this place but never imagined he’d ever visit. He glanced past Cella’s shoulder and caught the eye of one of her bodyguards trying to remain inconspicuous in the distance. In the summer it would be easy to hide in the crowd, but now the village was nearly empty. Even some of the shops had closed for the winter.

  At sunset she took him to her favorite restaurant. She was greeted by the owner with a kiss on each cheek and offered a private balcony overlooking the lake. They feasted on lake mussels bathed in butter and garlic, peppered beef filets, and risotto. They took dessert, cognac, and coffee, too, and waved away Sforza’s silver Levante for the long walk back to the villa.

  The evening ended the way the day had begun, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms again, wordlessly.

  —

  Cella took Troy out on her private boat the next day and they visited a few of the other lake villages, as picturesque as Bellagio, though smaller and less well known. The day after, Sforza arranged a ski trip at Madesimo, near the Swiss border. Cella and Troy insisted, however, that the bodyguards join them on the slopes. What was the point of trying to remain hidden on a downhill run? The snow was powdery and wet, and neither gave ground to the other as they carved their way down the long runs. When the sun finally fell, they drank buttered rum in the lodge by a roaring fire. After a long, hard day of skiing, Troy and Cella were both exhausted, but hot showers and mulled wine revived them and they wrestled the night away again.

  “Do you have religion?” Cella asked, standing in the Duomo di Milano, Milan’s famous soaring Gothic cathedral. They stood at the left of the altar beneath the feet of San Bartolomeo, towering over them.

  “You mean, like this guy?” Pearce pointed at the Renaissance statue, perfect in its rendition of a man flayed alive, his skin hung about his shoulders like a shawl. The forlorn saint looked like an illustration for musculature in Gray’s Anatomy.

  “He is the patron saint of tanners. Men with knives. He would be a good saint for you. He is a martyr.”

  “No, but thanks. I’ve seen what martyrs can do.” He admired the artistry of the work, but grimaced at the horror of it.

  “San Bartolomeo was a man turned inside out by the world that hated him. You could use an intercessor like that.”

  He glanced at his feet. The red, white, and black marble was cut and shaped in the form of flowers. The soaring columns were forests of stone that climbed high into the arched vault above. Brilliant stained glass filled the long window frames. Pearce had never been in a church this large or ancient before. It was overwhelming. He felt small in there. He supposed that was the point.

  “Let’s go.”

  —

  Cella showed Troy the best of Milano, her hometown. She was proud of it, the way Italians are, especially Milanese. She showed him Leonardo’s famous Last Supper fresco at the convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie, and took him shopping at the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, which with its beautiful glass dome and carved marble floors seemed to Pearce to be another kind of cathedral. She made him spin on the testicles of the Torino bull for luck, and bought them both formal evening wear on her account at Biffi, then took him to the magnificent Teatro degli Arcimboldi to see Otello, apologizing profusely that she couldn’t take him to La Scala because it was closed for renovations, as if she and Milano had somehow sinned against him. Pearce loved the opera, his first, and the evening they spent together at the Grand Hotel. She slept in his arms as he stared at the ceiling with images of the flayed Christian martyr standing in the center of Daud’s ruined village, beckoning him with skinless fingers and a lipless smile. Or maybe it was Daud.

  —

  Why?” Cella asked. She was confused. They had spent a perfect week together. Heaven.

  Pearce folded his favorite shirt and tucked it neatly into his pack. He wouldn’t need the others, or the suitcases.

  “Orders. I don’t have a choice.”

  She sat on the bed. “That’s a lie you tell yourself. You choose to obey orders. You can also choose to disobey them.”

  “If I disobey them, they might shoot me.”

  “If you obey them, someone else might shoot you.”

  “That’s the life I chose.”

  “Then choose another.”

  “I would if I could. But I’m a soldier. I have a duty to my country.”

  She took his hand. “Let me be your country.”

  Pearce smiled. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “I will tempt you.” She kissed his hand, then pointed at the magnificent view of the lake. “All of this will be yours. And more. This is nothing, believe me. My father has houses all over the world. Stay with me, and we’ll see them all.”

  Pearce sat on the bed next to her and took her hand in his.

  “Tell me, why did you leave all of this? My whole house growing up would fit inside just this bedroom, with room to spare.”

  “These are just things. People are what matter most, don’t you think?”

  “And that’s why you came to the same place I did.”

  “We weren’t in the same place, you and I. Not really. I went to heal. You went to kill.”

  “And if I stay here with you? How many more operas will you take me to before you’re bored? Before you decide you have to go back to Afghanistan?”

  “I will never go back to that place.”

  “At least we have that in common.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Pearce stood. “I just got the call. I’m heading somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “I can’t say. It’s classified.”

  “It’s Iraq, isn’t it?”

  Pearce tried not to convey his surprise. How did she know?

  “What? You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t read the papers?”

  “I don’t make the call. I just answer it.”

  Cella stood. “What call? To topple Hussein? Why him? Why now? Because he supports al-Qaeda? But most of the 9/11 assholes on the planes were from Saudi Arabia. Bin Laden is from Saudi Arabia. Why aren’t you invading them?”

  “Hussein’s a war criminal. He used chemical weapons against his own people.”

  “Do you mean the chemical weapons you Americans gave him? The ones you helped him use against the Iranians?”

  “I’m a soldier, not a politician.” Pearce zipped up the pack. “I want to stay here with you, I really do. But I have a job to do first. When I’m done, I’ll come back.”

  Her eyes raged, wet with tears.

  “To hell with your war, and to hell with you. If you leave, don’t call, don’t write, don’t ever come back.”

  Cella ran out of the room. Everything in him wanted to chase her.

  But he didn’t.

  Duty called.

  25

  The village of Anou

  Kidal Region, Northeastern Mali

  7 May

  The Tuareg driver flashed the lights of his Toyota Hilux pickup three times. The sun had risen ten minutes earlier and the sky was pinking, but the great silver disk was still hidden behind the hills five kilometers to the east.

  “Again.” Mossa scanned the sky for a speck coming from the southwest, binoculars held to his turbaned face.

  The driver flashed his lights three more times.

  “There.” The plane was ten miles out. Mossa recognized the make. He’d seen Aviocars all over the Middle East, one of the workhorses of the skies. At its current speed it would be landing in about two minutes.

  “One more time, Moctar.”

  Three more flashes.

  Mossa brought the glasses back up. The plane’s wings waggled three times. “They see us,” he said.

  —

  Judy finished the last waggle and leveled the plane again.<
br />
  “Two minutes, boss.”

  Pearce pulled out the small duffel he’d snatched from AFB Karem and unzipped it. He removed an Air Force M4 carbine with an HK M320 grenade launcher slung underneath. He checked the magazine and safety.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Won it in a card game.”

  “I’ve seen you play cards, remember?”

  “Let’s just say there’s an Air Force Security Forces sergeant who’s gonna be embarrassed as hell when they do weapons inventory this morning.”

  “I thought you weren’t expecting any trouble.”

  “You heard Ian.”

  “You stole that before Ian gave us the heads-up.”

  “Can’t be too careful.”

  “That’s great. You’re pissing in everybody’s soup today, aren’t you?”

  “Just so long as you and I are okay,” Pearce said.

  “Jury’s still out on that one. Keep your belt on. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

  —

  Mossa watched the pilot flare the wings as the plane approached. Sand and rock kicked up behind the aircraft but the wheels landed softly, without a bounce. Impressive.

  He tapped his driver on the shoulder and the Hilux jumped.

  Time to get the American.

  —

  Judy feathered the rumbling engines and the props slowed enough that she could release the foot brakes. She unbuckled her safety harness in the pilot seat and joined Pearce in the back.

  Pearce stood at the open cargo door. He’d already secured the emergency stretcher to the deck in case Mike had to lie prone. Otherwise, he’d put Early in the more comfortable copilot’s seat and he’d take one of the folding jump seats back in the cargo area.

  Pearce had his rifle slung over his back. He didn’t want to appear threatening to whoever was driving up, but he wanted the gun handy in case trouble pulled up instead. Both the rifle and the grenade launcher were racked. Safeties off.

  The Hilux raced up to the cargo door. Three men. All wore desert camouflage fatigues and indigo blue turbans that hid everything but their eyes. The Blue Men, Pearce reminded himself. He half expected robes and camels. One manned the machine gun mounted in back, one drove, and now one stood in the passenger seat. All Pearce could see of the standing man’s face were his dark eyes, sharp and suspicious. The other two stared daggers at him.

  “You are Pearce?” the standing one said.

  Pearce nodded. “Where’s Early?”

  The man motioned with his hand. “Come. We don’t have much time.”

  Pearce didn’t like the way this was setting up. “Who are you?”

  “I am Mossa Ag Alla.”

  “Chief of all the Imohar!” the gunner shouted, careful not to point the weapon at Pearce.

  Mossa waved a hand to silence the younger man.

  “You were supposed to bring Early,” Pearce said.

  “Yes, Early. Hurry. There isn’t much time.”

  “You know about the Army convoy heading your way?”

  “Of course.”

  If Early was badly wounded, it might make sense that they wouldn’t have brought him out here, just in case Pearce didn’t arrive.

  Or it was a trap.

  Pearce said to Judy, “Mind the fort. I’ll be back.”

  “And miss the chance to meet the missus? No way.”

  Pearce’s icy gaze said otherwise. He yanked a comms link out of his vest pocket and put it in his ear.

  “Fine,” Judy said. “At least snap a photo for me.”

  “I’ll stay in touch.”

  “Be careful,” Judy said, and headed back for the cockpit.

  Pearce grabbed the small aluminum attaché case, then jumped down into the rocky sand. He scrambled into the back of the Toyota, and Mossa gave the order to drive with a wave of his hand. The driver mashed the gas pedal and the Toyota leaned hard into a steep 180-degree turn, then sprung upright as it rocketed for the village.

  —

  The pickup skidded to a halt in front of the well. Mossa stepped out of the Toyota and motioned for Pearce to follow. The other two stayed behind on alert. Pearce kept his weapon slung over his shoulder and gripped the aluminum attaché case in one hand.

  Mossa marched to a nearby house and stopped. Bullet holes scarred the mud-brick walls. He motioned to the doorway illuminated in early-morning light. It was already warming up.

  “Your friend is in here.”

  Pearce nodded and marched past Mossa into the little house. This close he could see the lines around the older man’s eyes. The Tuareg fighter was five feet ten and powerfully built, but still four inches shorter than Pearce.

  Mike Early sat at a small table drinking hot tea. The kettle still steamed where it sat on the hot coals in the fireplace. His left arm was in a sling, and an olive-drab shemagh was draped around his neck, the U.S. Army’s version of a keffiyeh.

  “Troy? What are you doing here?” He stood. A wide, toothy grin spread across his bearded face.

  “Came to get you out of here.” Pearce crossed to Early and bear-hugged his old friend. “Heard you were wounded and needed an evac.”

  Early held up his slinged arm. “This? I’ve had cases of clap worse than this. It’s just a sprain.”

  “That’s not what we were told.”

  “Don’t blame him. I made the call.” The woman’s heavy Italian accent gave her away.

  Pearce turned around. Cella stood in the doorway. He’d steeled himself for the moment but still nearly lost it. It had been years since he’d seen her. She was clearly exhausted and undernourished, but even in her faded camouflage she was stunning.

  “Why?” Pearce asked. His voice was even. “And why me?”

  She wore her hair pulled into a ponytail, revealing the proud cheekbones and angular jaw he remembered so vividly. Her blue eyes bored into his. “I knew you would come for your friend.” She stepped closer. At six feet even, she was nearly as tall as he was. A ray of golden sunlight struck her face, softening it. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Pearce said. He had a million questions, but now was not the time.

  “You two know each other?” Early asked.

  One of the corners of Cella’s mouth tugged slightly. Almost a smile. “Yes, we know each other.”

  “I’ll be damned. It’s a small world.”

  “And getting smaller. There’s a convoy on the way.” Pearce motioned to Early. “We need to haul ass.”

  “Me? I’m not going anywhere,” Mike said. “I’ve got a job to do.”

  “What job?”

  Early nodded at Cella. “Her. I’m her security.”

  Cella rolled her eyes. “My father’s watchdog.”

  “It’s complicated. Like an arranged marriage,” Early said.

  “So what am I doing here?” Pearce asked. He glanced at Cella. “I take it you want a lift?”

  “Not for me.”

  Pearce nodded at Mossa. “Him?”

  “No,” he said. “My place is here, with my people.”

  Cella brushed past Pearce, close enough that he could smell the sweat in her hair. A memory flooded him. He pushed it away. She stooped a little as she entered a low doorway toward another room. Pearce followed.

  Cella pointed toward a bed. A young girl lay on it. Motionless. Eyes closed.

  “I need you to take her.”

  “A body?”

  “Asleep. I gave her a sedative for the journey.”

  “Who is she?” Pearce asked.

  “My granddaughter,” Mossa said. His fierce black eyes softened beneath the indigo veil.

  “My father in Milan is expecting her,” Cella said.

  “I’m not running a taxi service. Call somebody else.”

/>   “We can’t. Everybody else would use her to get to Mossa. The only person I trust to help us is you.”

  “And you knew about this?” Pearce asked Early.

  “First I’m hearing about it. But it makes sense. We’re in the shit out here.”

  “You trust me,” Pearce said to Cella. “But you lied to me.”

  “You were my last hope. My only hope,” Cella said.

  “I don’t understand. What is the girl to you?” Pearce asked.

  Cella searched Pearce’s blue eyes, a question weighing heavily in her own. A moment passed. She found her answer.

  “She’s my daughter.”

  26

  Pearce’s cabin

  Near the Snake River, Wyoming

  7 May

  Myers buried her nose in Pearce’s shirt and breathed it in again. It smelled just like him. A combination of sweat and testosterone, mingled with wood smoke and bacon. It brought back fond memories. She hadn’t seen him in over a year, but the olfactory sense was the most powerful of them all and, when triggered, elicited strong emotions, too. Something stirred inside of her, but she felt guilty as hell, sitting in Pearce’s cabin, wearing his shirt while her clothes were in the wash. She was invading his privacy in the worst way, though technically she’d been invited to do so.

  She had never depended upon anyone since she was a young girl putting herself through college. But she was afraid and alone, and without sufficient resources for the job at hand. She ran a software company, not a security firm, and was persona non grata with the Greyhill administration, so she turned to Pearce, the only man she truly trusted for help. First for Mike Early, then herself.

  There was something indescribably male about Pearce. She’d thought about him often since her resignation. She called on him to take out the Mexican cartel killers who had murdered those poor teenagers, along with her only son. Pearce did as he was asked, and more. She owed him everything. So did the nation. They had all let him down, it seemed. She hoped he had found Mike Early in time and gotten him out of Mali in one piece. Mike was a good guy. So was Pearce. She trusted him completely. He didn’t let her down when she needed him. And now she needed him again.