Blitzed(154)
Jordan considered my words for a second, then nodded. “I believe you, but just know that you aren’t forgiven. That’s going to take more from you.”
I nodded, tears falling from my eyes. “Jordan, I know that it might be impossible for me to ever redeem myself in your eyes. But if there is even a chance, I’ll do whatever it takes. I love you.”
Jordan blinked, then looked up at the ceiling, taking a shuddering breath. Finally, she looked at me, her own eyes shimmering with tears. “I love you too. I can't help it, which is why this hurts so damn much right now.”
She wiped at her face, then took a deep breath before standing up. “Enough of that, though. I wanted you to know that your bed is waiting, and you should get to it. You need your rest if you are going to devote your energy in the direction it should be.”
“And you?” I asked, desperate hope in my heart. Jordan saw what I was asking, and she shook her head. “I should have guessed.”
“I will sleep on the couch tonight,” she said. “But when we get to Albania, I’m going to need a bed.”
“Albania? Why there?” I asked.
Jordan cocked her head as if it was a dumb question. “It’s where your tribe is. They’re angry with you, but in talking with Syeira and Charani, they volunteered to help. If we’re to rescue Felix, then we need backup.”
Chapter 38
Jordan
I couldn’t help but think that, considering the situation I was in, I should have been angrier, or at least less impressed by the situation I found myself in. Instead, I was blown away on an almost daily basis by the beauty of the farm outside Durres, Albania that was the seat of the Hardy family. Situated with a breathtaking view over the Adriatic sea, I woke up every morning to find myself in a Mediterranean paradise. White, rustic walls enclosed an old home that within it held a sense of nobility and refined charm that I had never experienced before. Dark gray flagstones lined the floor of the kitchen, where a real brick oven let Syeira and Charani cook to their heart's content. The seven bedrooms were Spartan in nature, most of them except for the master suites having a simple twin sized mattress, but were amazingly comfortable with breezy linens that let every whisper of the ocean air caress your body.
With only two days before we started our infiltration of the Ukraine, I was down to my last day of training before taking a final day to mentally prepare myself. If I didn’t want to be completely useless, I had to get in better shape. It was a Tuesday, and if things went right, Felix would be back in my arms by that Saturday at the latest.
Getting out of my narrow, single bed, I pulled on the dark fatigue pants and vest that I had come to know like a second skin. Overall, it wasn't all that different than some of the stuff I'd put on from time to time, although the rock scene tended to depend on clothing that was more skin-tight. Still, after the weeks of training from sunup to past sundown, I was as comfortable in these as I was in anything else.
The day started out with a thick oatmeal from Charani and Syeira, who’d appointed themselves the caretakers of our little band of rescuers. The tribe had delivered a dozen men, all young and in their primes, with Francois ostensibly to lead — though he was watched closely. Francois’s plan was bold, it was dramatic, and it was exactly from the Hardy playbook.
Finishing my breakfast, I met the other members of the team near the barn, where the men were sleeping. With there not being enough bedrooms for all of them to have one, they'd shunned them completely, politely informing me that the house would be for the ladies only. Francois had also given up his bedroom in the main house to sleep with them, at least until the men had deemed him unworthy and had thrown him out on the second night. For the entire two and a half weeks since, he'd slept in a small tent outside in the yard, without any complaints.
I didn't know if Francois was accepting the difficulties because he was trying to gain the men's respect, or if he was trying to atone for his mistakes. I just knew that when I stepped out of the house that morning, the sun was just thinking of breaking the horizon, and he was already up, cleaning his Kalashnikov rifle in the pink morning light.
“Good morning, Jordan,” he said softly, not wanting to make too much sound. I could understand why, too. Not only was the rest of the team still sleeping, but there was something about the way the morning was in Durres as spring bloomed. The Adriatic was close enough that you could see it out on the horizon, and the high cliffs that separated the land from the sea let just a hint of the waves pounding away reach your ears. Life in Albania seemed to operate at a slightly slower pace too, as if the night wasn't ready to let go and the people were aware of it. It wasn't the languid start of Mexico, but instead had a hint of older, more primal fears. The power of darkness reigned, even on the Adriatic Riviera.
“Good morning,” I answered him, coming over and squatting down. “How was your sleep?”
“Reasonable,” he said, adding no details. I knew from staying up one night that in fact Francois slept terribly, often tossing and turning through most of the night, tortured by nightmares and a hard, unforgiving ground that didn't let his body recover from the rigors of training properly. Still, he never let on, and my heart went out to him. I still hadn't forgiven him, and had not let him have any moments of tenderness from me, regardless of if the foolish side of me wanted it or not. “Are you ready for today?”