The Edge of Courage (Red Team) (4 page)

He looked behind him, back to the wide-open space of the ranch as a wave of impatience slammed into him. He was grateful for the job, for the place to crash. But holy hell, he didn’t want to be here, fixing a goddamned tractor. He needed to be back in Afghanistan searching for his son.

Chapter 4

Alan Buchanan nervously crossed and uncrossed his legs. He’d been in this café for fifty-five minutes. Only five minutes to go. What a wasted day. He’d made the four-hour drive down to Denver only to now turn around and make the long drive home again. As usual. Over the past two years, he’d been summoned here at random intervals, several times a year. Until last month, he’d never once met with anyone.

For their part, his associates had kept their word. They’d erased his past, given him a new identity—complete with a wife and a kid, set him up in a new town with the capital to start a business. He’d missed only one of these meetings. One, and yet the consequence had been severe: his wife had been murdered.

He looked at his watch. One minute left. He got up to throw away his coffee cup, but immediately sat back down as Amir Hadad walked in and joined him.

“Hello, Mr. Buchanan. How have you been?”

Alan’s mouth went dry. Amir looked like any other affluent white-collar executive out for a coffee break that afternoon. A pinstripe suit. A neatly pressed white shirt. A perfectly knotted silk tie. His soft chin was well defined by an immaculately trimmed beard. His black hair was short. His dark eyes were alert. His friendly smile was contemptuous.

“I’m here. As requested,” Alan answered, pleased that he didn’t stutter.

Amir leaned back in his seat. “So you are. So you are.” He waved a hand toward a waitress and ordered a double espresso. “You are aware of all that we have done for you? Yes?”

The memory of his wife’s car accident flashed through his mind. They said she’d been drinking. It was a lie. The woman had been a teetotaler. “Yes. Of course.”

Amir’s coffee arrived. He did not touch it. “What is the progress on the construction site?”

“As you requested, it has been problematic. The girl is having a hard time keeping workers. The construction is taking twice as long as it should because of all of the delays.”

“Very good. Very good, indeed. It’s time that there should be a fatal accident, no? We need to speed things along.”

“Kill someone? Who? How?”

“It matters not to me. If you can manage to do it without being caught, I will relocate you again when this assignment is finished.”

“You’re crazy,” Alan hissed. Sending a surreptitious look around the coffee shop, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “That’s insane. I’m not going to kill someone.”

“Will you not? Has our time together been so onerous? One day of service here or there? You knew there was a price when you accepted the deal.”

“I have already paid a terrible price. I lost my wife, thanks to you. I want out. Out for good. I will repay you what you have invested in me.”

“There is no out, Mr. Buchanan.” Amir took out a ten-dollar bill and set it on the table. “By the way, how is your daughter?”

“Don’t hold her over my head. She isn’t my kid. She was my wife’s.” He pretended indifference. “Do what you want to her, I don’t care.”

“Of course I was not threatening her. Do you think me a monster? But I do have your signed confession. I would not hesitate to turn it over to the FBI should you find yourself unable to complete your obligations to us.”

Alan shut his eyes as he weighed his options. He couldn’t cut and run, because he’d be right back where he was five years ago. He couldn’t go to the authorities: they wouldn’t believe him, and they’d throw him in jail for his past crimes. “I didn’t mean I wouldn’t do it, just that after I do it, then I’m out.”

Amir smiled. “Good day, Mr. Buchanan. Always a pleasure to chat with you.”

* * *

Fresh out of a shower, Rocco studied his duffel bag, trying to decide whether he should unpack it and stay awhile or keep living out of the bag and remain mobile. He’d waged this debate with himself for a quarter of an hour without any progress.

What the hell. He couldn’t even decide something so freaking simple. It wouldn’t take long to repack if he had to leave in a hurry. All he really needed was his shotgun.

He pulled his clothes out of the duffel and stacked them in the dresser. When he finished, he wished he hadn’t. Everything he owned fit in two drawers. Almost thirty fucking years old, and what did he have to show for three decades of life? An old beat-up Ford, a shotgun he’d had as a kid, and two drawers of clothes.

He quickly tamped down on that line of thinking—it was a dark road that led straight to hell. His life had been so much more than the sum of his things. He was a father and a husband. A trusted warrior. A linguistic freak of nature, coveted by spec ops groups for the ease with which he could learn languages and emulate dialects. He had a dark complexion that let him infiltrate any indigenous people in the Middle East and the skills to survive on the lam in foreign, hostile lands.

At least he still had the languages, though there wasn’t much use for a linguist in the wilds of Wyoming. Maybe that was a blessing.

He drew off his towel and stepped into briefs and a fresh pair of jeans. He laid out his toiletries in the bathroom, straightened the small bunkhouse, checked the locks on the doors and windows, and pulled the drapes. When everything was settled, he pushed an armchair into the far corner of the living room, facing the kitchen, moving it into the most defensible spot in the house. He set a box of shotgun shells next to it on the floor. With only the dim light from the bathroom, he settled into the chair for the night and reached for his shotgun. The hard, cold metal was all that passed for his backbone anymore.

It was after midnight. He’d spent the evening getting the toolshed straightened up. He’d found lumber in the old barn and made shelves for the boxes of household discards mixed in with the equipment. He set the implements that didn’t fit the tractor off to one side for Mandy to decide what she wanted to do with them. Tomorrow, he’d tackle repairing the tractor—after another quick tour around the ranch.

He blinked. His eyelids were heavy. The nightmares couldn’t take him if he didn’t sleep, so he fought to stay awake. He hated nights the most. The dark was the perfect backdrop for the images his mind kept playing, a continuous loop of a B-Rated horror flick, except what he saw was real, a memory, and far, far worse than any movie. He held the sides of his head, wishing the images that taunted him were less fragmented. The wisps that played in his mind, in his dreams, were only teasers. The flesh of the story remained hidden behind a shroud, too terrible to recall.

The shrinks at Walter Reed had said he wouldn’t recover until he faced what had happened that day in Kasheem Baba. He didn’t disagree, but the truth was locked away so deeply within him as to be impervious to drugs or nightmares, a secret that hid like a cancer, slowly killing him in its ravenous destruction.

* * *

Pale morning light eased through the windows. Rocco opened his eyes. Without moving, he looked around the quiet bunkhouse. He sighed and leaned his head back. He’d slept longer than he’d expected—longer than usual.

He changed into his running gear and jogged up the trails he’d seen yesterday, ending at the bluff overlooking the house. He counted the cigarettes. No new ones. He looked out over the vista. He’d catch the bastard who was watching Mandy. Sooner or later.

Rocco took the trail down from the bluff, through the construction site, and then down the long drive to the main road. Running when he was exhausted was a challenge, but going through the motions of being normal was all he had. The meds the shrinks gave him kept him too stoned to function, but without them, rage simmered just beneath the surface of his mind like a festering wound. He forced himself to rise with the sun, eat something—whatever little thing he could keep down—and breathe. None of it felt real. He could only hope that his brain would reengage, and he could own himself again.

And when he did, he was going back for Zaviyar.

He ran three miles down the road in front of Mandy’s spread. The return trip was all uphill. By the time he came back to the dirt turnaround in front of the residential portion of the ranch, he was drenched with sweat. The sun was up and the day promised to be one of blistering heat. Spring weather here was as changeable as it was in the highlands of Afghanistan. Wintry one day. Blistering hot the next.

He looked up. Mandy stood at the ridge overlooking the construction site. Wind plucked at the edges of her hair, fanning it over her shoulders. Involuntarily, he turned in her direction, silently crossing the distance in the packed dirt. He lifted his face to the breeze, seeking her scent. It was faint, but he found it. Sweet, heady. He squeezed his eyes shut as a memory slammed into him.

Kadisha wore a long necklace of tiny jasmine flowers, warmed by her body and the heat of the summer evening. She laughed as she lifted it over her head and draped it over his, crushing the flowers against his chest to infuse the night air with the blossoms’ sickly sweet fragrance.

Had she known, even then, what he was?

Rocco opened his eyes. Mandy watched him, frozen like a hunted animal, her coffee mug halfway to her mouth. Yet unlike prey, nothing about her was camouflaged. Her hair blazed like flames in the morning sun. Her green eyes matched her green fleece jacket, making her standout like a flower in the barren expanse of a desert.

He was breathing hard, and every draw of air brought him her scent. He wanted to touch her, wanted to feel the smoothness of her cheeks against the palms of his hands, wanted it as he hadn’t any human contact in a very long time. He couldn’t risk it. He knew what would happen.

His hands curled into fists. He nodded at her, then pivoted and made for the house, hoping a shower would settle him. He had one and only one mission today: fix the tractor so that he could mow the fields. He showered, ate a boiled egg, then headed for the toolshed.

* * *

The sun was high by the time he’d cleaned the tractor’s fuel filter and fuel supply hose, changed the battery, and flushed the radiator. He was rubbing the grease off his hands when Mandy came down to the shed with two glasses of something cold to drink. The tractor, which he’d moved to the dirt driveway, puttered next to them, releasing diesel fumes into the air.

“You did it! You got it running!” Mandy smiled at him as she handed him one of the glasses. He took it, careful not to touch her. It was against all reason that he was drawn to the sound of her voice. He looked at the tractor instead of at her, wishing she’d leave. He wasn’t going to be here long. It was best not to form a friendship with her. They had no need to talk to each other.

He dragged his gaze up to look at her face. It was a nice, open, American kind of face. She wore little makeup; nothing hid the freckles on her nose and cheeks. His gaze lowered to her chin and her long, thin neck, stopping at her collarbone. He forced himself to look lower, at the rest of her body. She wore a green tank top that clung to her body like a second skin. Rocco felt the heat of a blush warm his face as he looked at her body, a body she so carelessly exposed for his perusal.

He lifted his gaze to hers again. She gave him a tentative smile, her eyes wary. He glared at her. He didn’t want to talk to her. Didn’t want to talk to anyone. He wanted the silence to return. He needed to think. He stared at his glass, then took a sip. It was cold and sweet. Tea with big chunks of ice. Such an American drink, he thought, struck by another wave of homesickness.

He stared absently into the amber liquid, wondering what he missed, exactly? Living in a lean-to in the bombed-out skeleton of a building? A Bedouin tent? The beige, stucco walls and great arches that had been Kadisha’s home?

His son.

He missed his son. Kit and Blade had said Zaviyar was dead.
Dead
. He couldn’t fucking remember. And since he couldn’t, he had to believe his son lived. Surely, one of the villagers who’d survived the explosion had taken him in. Rocco still felt a connection to him. A father would know if his son was dead.

Wouldn’t he?

“When did you do all of this, Rocco?” Mandy’s soft voice brought him back to the present. She was looking around the shed with an awed expression.

“Last night. It was too cluttered to work in. I hope you don’t mind, but I took some lumber from a pile in the old barn for the shelves. The implements that don’t fit the tractor are over there. You can decide what you want to do with them. If you don’t want the furniture, I can take it down to the dump.”

“I was keeping the attachments until I knew if that tractor would ever be functional again. Neighbors and people from town have been donating bits and pieces of equipment, hoping to help out.”

“They’re supportive of what you’re doing here?”

Mandy frowned at him. “Why wouldn’t they be? Wolf Valley has the potential to be a successful business, a good addition to the town.”

“Just curious. Trying to make sense of what’s happening.”

Mandy looked at him with an assessing gaze. He doubted she liked what she saw. “Are you hungry? I can make a sandwich for you,” she offered, gesturing toward the main house.

He shook his head. “I want to get the mowing done before I take a break.”

“You are eating, aren’t you?”

Rocco leveled a hard glare at her. “Kit tell you to babysit me? ‘Cause I don’t need a woman to look after me.”

She took a step nearer to him. And another. The hairs rose on his arms, his neck. Was she as soft as she appeared? He ached to discover the feel of her. That very thought cooled his reaction. If he touched her, she would see, feel, wear the blight that infected him. He’ll have made a leper of her, all for the fleeting relief touching her would provide.

Mandy stood barely a hand’s breath away. Her voice, her scent, those were the only things he would ever know of her. Yet he couldn’t resist taunting her, himself. He leaned closer, sucked in more of her lush scent. He did not touch her with his hands or his body or his face, just held himself close to her warmth. She should know what danger she was in if she tried to break through to him with food, or kindness, or laughter.