Blue Warrior

by Mike Maden

  Pearce rubbed his shaved face. “I seem to be missing a beard.”

  “Came free with the haircut. Dr. Paolini said it was medically necessary.”

  “She always hated my beard.”

  “Can’t say I disagree with her.”

  Pearce glanced around the room. Mossa’s prized gift, the tagelmust, was nowhere to be found.

  “I’m sorry. It was bloody and one of the techs tossed it into a biohazard burn bag before anyone noticed.”

  Pearce shrugged. “Inshallah.”

  “Do you know what happened to you?”

  “The last thing I remember was picking up Early.”

  “You took a pretty good lick on that noggin of yours.”

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “Full recovery expected. But you might have to start parting your hair on the other side of your head once it all grows back in.”

  “You’re assuming I actually comb my hair.”

  Myers explained what had happened to him. How the bullet had only grazed his head but opened up his scalp, which bled furiously. The best guess was that the speeding bullet had hit him just hard enough to knock him down, but slamming his head on the tarmac had knocked him out cold.

  Myers described in great detail Judy’s masterful handling of the Aviocar and saving all of their lives. She didn’t tell him the ride in back was like sitting inside of a tumbling clothes dryer.

  She went on to describe how Cella stanched the bleeding with a pressure bandage and cradled Pearce’s head in her lap in the back of the plane as Judy fought to maintain control of the Aviocar. How Cella’s clothes were soaked in blood by the time they landed at Karem, and how Cella had pushed the base medic aside and sewed Pearce up herself, cleaning and dressing the wound with skill.

  The door knocked lightly and swung open. It was Cella. She saw Pearce was awake. She beamed. Approached the bed. She wore clean Air Force hospital scrubs. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Back from the dead, I see.”

  “Call me Lazarus.” He pointed at her scrubs. “You get drafted?”

  “The Versace store was closed when we got here.” Cella pinched Pearce’s wrist, feeling for his pulse, counting the seconds on her watch. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.”

  “Liar.”

  “Okay, I feel shitty, but not too shitty. Headache. Vision a little blurry.”

  “That’s to be expected. You have suffered a severe concussion, but fortunately no brain bleeding.”

  “We have to get you out of here. You need better medical attention than the base can provide,” Myers said.

  “Where am I going?”

  Cella grinned. “With me.”

  60

  Paolini estate

  Lake Como, Italy

  6 June

  Pearce stood by the floor-to-ceiling picture window, watching Ian and Dorotea play soccer. The Scotsman and the girl laughed and jostled like two old friends.

  “Both are artificial legs?” Cella asked.

  “Yes. Robotic legs, technically.” Pearce tapped his skull. “He has a wireless BMI implant that drives them.”

  “He moves quite well.”

  “The legs feature miniature gyroscopes and accelerometers embedded on semiconductor chips, rare earth magnets, brushless electric motors, advanced software, you name it. He’s the project manager for it, so it only seemed fair to let him have the first pair.”

  “Fantastico.”

  Ian bounced the soccer ball on his forehead like a trained seal, barking like one, too. Dorotea howled with laughter.

  Pearce squeezed Cella’s hand. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For the last month. You gave me back my health. And more.”

  After Pearce woke up in the clinic at Karem AFB, Myers and Holliday arranged for Cella’s father to charter another jet and secretly bring the two of them back to Italy, where Cella could tend to Pearce’s medical needs and her father could provide them both security.

  At first, Pearce continued to suffer blurred vision and nausea, along with frequent headaches. But a consulting neurologist prescribed medications, and over the course of the following weeks Pearce went from bed rest to walking and then finally light exercise.

  But the best part of his recovery had been learning how to play again. Under the watchful eye of Renzo Sforza and his security team, the three of them hiked and rode horses around the estate and, later, sailed and swam around the less populated areas of the lake. Pearce and Dorotea formed an instant bond, despite the fact the child spoke virtually no English and Pearce spoke neither Italian nor Tamasheq. Within days, the precocious little girl had taught herself a few phrases in English from an online language program. She also insisted on cooking for him, brushing aside the kitchen’s gourmet chef with a flurry of hands and florid Italian. Dorotea’s culinary repertoire was limited to scrambled eggs and butter pasta, which Pearce ate lustily in her presence to her squealing delight, and that made her love him all the more.

  She had Pearce’s eyes, no doubt. But Pearce hadn’t raised the issue of the girl’s paternity. Pearce didn’t think it was fair to the child, nor to Mossa’s son, nor Mossa, either, who had protected both Cella and Dorotea with his life. Dorotea was who she was no matter who the biological father might be, and Pearce loved her for that. If the girl wasn’t his, would she be any less beautiful or brilliant?

  Cella leaned against Pearce, happier than she’d ever been.

  Pearce whispered in her ear. “We need to talk.”

  Cella glanced at him. What was in his eyes? She couldn’t tell. She didn’t dare hope, but still. A future together. Maybe more.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m heading back home,” Pearce said.

  Cella paled. “For how long?”

  He shrugged. “Forever, I guess.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “I belong there. It’s who I am.”

  “I don’t understand. You belong with us.”

  “I know. Just not here. Come with me.”

  Cella’s eyes flared. “Why should we? Our home is here. My father is here.”

  “But this isn’t my country. These aren’t my people.”

  “Dorotea and I, we are your people.”

  “It’s not the same. You heard Mossa. I am what I am, an American and a soldier. My job is to defend my country.”

  “You know how I feel about war.”

  “I know. I hate it, too. So does every thinking person who has ever fought in one. I hope I never have to fight another one again.”

  “You’re a liar. You love it. Why else choose it over us?”

  “You know how I feel about you and Dorotea. That’s why I want you to come with me.”

  Cella’s face hardened. She turned away from him, arms crossed. She stared at her daughter outside, playing with Ian.

  “Her blue eyes are mine, not yours.”

  “Blue is blue.”

  “She is not your daughter.”

  “I don’t believe you. Not that it matters.”

  “She was born ten months after Lisbon. I can show you the birth certificate. She is Rassoul’s.”

  “You knew all along?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You wanted to believe it, so I let you.”

  “Why tell me now?”

  “I wanted you to know the truth. Now you are free.”

  “How does that make me free?”

  “I won’t go with you, not for war. But I can’t have you stay for a lie, either.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. “I don’t care that she isn’t mine.”

  She softened, turned around. “I know. You are a good man. But you are determined to leave. If yo
u left and thought she was yours, you would feel guilty for being away, perhaps come back. Now you can go with a clear conscience.”

  “I hate leaving without the two of you.”

  She touched his face. Searched his eyes. “And yet, you choose it.”

  “So do you.”

  “I am who I am as well.” She wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He held her close, whispered in her ear. “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  She nodded. “And you as well, you fool.”

  Pearce held her tightly. He smelled the summer in her hair. The last light of the sun was falling behind the jagged ridgeline, throwing shadows on the lake.

  It would be night soon.

  61

  Cayo Grande

  Los Roques Archipelago, Venezuela

  1 July

  Jasmine dug her toes into the blinding white sand, admiring the intense clarity of the blue Caribbean. The warm sun caressed her skin, darkening it nicely. Even the mint in her mojito was particularly sweet. The weekend trip to the idyllic Venezuelan island was a first little present to herself, the promise of still better things to come.

  She wished she could have seen Fiero’s face when the senator received the envelope. Fiero always knew the time would come, but foolishly assumed that Bath would telegraph her departure date. Events had spun out of control. Myers and her team had gotten too close and knew Bath was after them—otherwise, why would Myers have fled the cabin? That left too many loose ends. Loose ends that could be twisted into a noose to hang her with.

  CIOS had been the source of Jasmine’s strength, but on the run, it posed her greatest threat. The only way her enemies could ever find her is if they pointed it back in her direction. She’d been exceedingly careful to minimize her digital footprint while still at CIOS, and then obliterated what little there was of it when she bolted.

  The humans in her network posed the biggest risk. An automated kill switch wiped them away, too. Skeets was the last. Yesterday’s coded notice in El Nacional confirmed it. Jasmine’s last contract killer was dead.

  She’d gone completely off the grid, of course, and dove deep into the analogue weeds. Paid for everything in cash, living a modest, prearranged fictional life in Caracas, unnoticed in its large Afro-Latin population. Hid her marvelous hair in braids, and her stunning almond eyes behind a pair of Ray-Bans.

  Venezuela suited her perfectly. The anti-Yanqui Maduro government would never honor an American extradition request for her were one ever made. Frequent blackouts, street protests, and other social ills were a tolerable nuisance in the otherwise modern capital, but they were also a benefit, keeping the failing socialist government too busy to attempt finding someone like her, were they so inclined.

  It suddenly occurred to her that the greatest crimes ever committed were the ones never discovered. Jasmine wondered where her achievements would rank on that infamous, unknowable list. She smiled. Took another sip of her mojito. No one could touch her now.

  She was free.

  Aviation Mission Fellowship Station

  near Mwinilunga, Zambia

  Pearce tossed Whit Bissel the keys to the brand-new Cessna bush plane parked on the grassy apron in front of the hangar. The motor ticked, still hot from its recent flight. They stood next to it, admiring its lines.

  “I don’t know what to say.” The beefy blond missionary still wore his oily coveralls and the same wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Don’t say anything. It was easier to buy you this than telling you I’m sorry for the way I acted, which I am.”

  “That plane’s worth a lot more than the avgas you borrowed from me before.”

  “You mean stole from you, not borrowed,” Pearce said. “I bought the plane in Jo’Berg. There’s a Cessna dealer down there.”

  “I heard about your friend. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “His name was Mike Early,” Judy said. “He was my friend, too.” She was walking up from Whit’s house carrying a tray with glasses of tea. “How does she fly?”

  “Better than the pilot,” Pearce said.

  “But you’re the pilot. That’s not saying much.” Judy grinned. She’d taught him how to fly. He was actually pretty good at it, just not as good as she was. “What’s wrong with your hand?” She nodded at the bandage wrapped around his left hand.

  “This? Nothing. Just a little cut.”

  “Those are the worst,” Whit said, sipping his tea. “Especially paper cuts. They really sting.”

  Judy gave Pearce the stink eye. “You know lying’s a sin, right?”

  “I’m a sinner, all right. But I’m not lying.”

  He wasn’t. It really was a cut—from Guo’s combat knife. Pearce had used it to open up the Asian’s belly, then plunge it through his throat and pin him to a tree. Pearce could still hear the frenzied hyenas whining and yelping as they fed on the dying operator.

  Pearce reached for a glass of tea. “Thanks. Cheers.”

  Judy set the tray down on a workbench just inside the hangar. She walked back past the Cessna. Saw something in the tail’s vertical stabilizer.

  “Hey, there’s a bullet hole.”

  Pearce and Whit got closer.

  Whit nodded. “Sure looks like one.”

  Judy and Whit turned to Pearce. He shrugged. “Yes, it is.”

  “And?” Judy asked.

  “I’ll call Comair. They can fly someone up from Jo’Berg and fix it.”

  “No need. That’s an easy patch job,” Whit said. He headed back to the far end of the hangar to grab some tools.

  Judy leaned in close. Whispered. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “What you don’t need to worry about. Everything’s fine.”

  “You sure? You’re okay?”

  “Better than okay. I promise.”

  Pearce really was feeling pretty damn good. Ian’s intel, as usual, had been dead-on. He found Guo and his men in the DR Congo aiding a regional warlord in exchange for a diamond mine contract. Pearce took out Guo’s men with single shots to the head before turning Guo to dog food. A twofer, as far as Pearce was concerned.

  “How about you?”

  Judy smiled. “It’s good here.”

  “Any chance you coming back?”

  “Do you know why I left the first time?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “I lost faith in a lot of things, including humanity. People suck.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “But when I walked into that bar? I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there. I don’t regret doing it, because you’re my friend and Mike was in trouble. But after he died and you nearly got killed, I woke up.”

  “To what?”

  “I’ve been running for a long time. Especially when I was working for you. Don’t get me wrong, it was great, but it was still running. It’s time to stop running.”

  “The God stuff?”

  She smiled. “Something like that.”

  “Still friends, though. Right?”

  Judy threw her arms around his neck. “You’ll always be my friend. I just can’t do what you do anymore.”

  Pearce held on tight. “You ever need anything, you call, you hear?”

  A truck horn blasted in the distance.

  “’Bout dang time.” Pearce checked his watch.

  “Africa time.” Whit laughed, walking up. He tossed a toolbox in the grass.

  A big diesel fuel truck pulled onto the long grassy airstrip, followed by a flatbed truck carrying a big empty plastic storage tank.

  “Two thousand gallons ought to keep you for a while, Rev. Thought you could use a proper storage tank, too.”

  Whit shook his head. “You’re too generous, Troy.”

  “You did me a favor by not knocking me on my ass when I told
you I was taking your fuel.”

  “How could I resist? You were quoting scripture.”

  Judy laughed. “Yeah. What’s the story with that?”

  “Some other time.” Pearce turned to Whit. “And I’ve prepaid for another two thousand gallons. Just call the distributor when you need it.”

  “I’m embarrassed. How can I can ever thank you?”

  “First thing, take care of this woman. She’s the best.”

  The big towheaded missionary blushed. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Second, I need a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  The big diesel tanker rumbled to a stop near the hangar, its big hydraulic brakes blowing air. Whit jumped up on the running board and showed the driver where he wanted the storage tank placed. The driver nodded, released the brake, and pushed on. Whit jumped back down and returned to Pearce.

  “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I need a ride back to Jo’Berg in that brand-new Cessna of yours in the morning. Need to catch a flight home.”

  Whit laid a strong hand on Pearce’s shoulder. “Africa can use a good man like you. Plenty of honest work to do just around here.”

  You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what I’ve done, Pearce thought.

  “Thanks, but I’m done with Africa for now.”

  Judy threw her arms around Troy’s neck again. “You’ll always have a place here if you need it.”

  “Hey, Pearce. You can steal my gas, but not my girl.” Whit’s big toothy smile flashed just a hint of menace.

  Pearce shook the big missionary’s hand. “One more favor, Whit. Make damn sure I get an invitation to the wedding, okay?”

  62

  Sino-Sahara Oil Corporation Building

  Bamako, Mali

  7 July

  The Chinese had picked the location for the new Sino-Sahara Oil corporate high-rise to annoy the Americans. The newly completed forty-story building stood on the banks of the Niger River, but more important, towered over the lowly American embassy just a half mile away.

  To Zhao’s dismay, the building replicated the garish modernist designs he loathed. That was because Zhao’s uncle, the chairman of CNPC, hired an unimaginative Beijing architectural firm owned by Zhao’s cousin, who provided the chairman with the appropriate kickback.