Silver Stars (Front Lines #2)(58)

“I’m Cisco Camporeale,” Cisco says, and the guard’s face goes blank in surprise.

“Camporeale?”

“Yeah. Si.” Cisco points at his chest. “Me-o am Francisco Camporeale, the don’s nephew from America. You know? New York.”

Something in that convinces the man, who lets them in and checks the street before shutting and locking the door behind them. They are in a cool, mildew-smelling entryway at the bottom of a flight of stairs. From up those stairs comes the sounds of clinking dishes and conversation, the sounds of a family at breakfast.

The guard apologizes with a shrug and pats Cisco down, looking for weapons. He looks disapproving when he finds none. He searches Rainy’s bag but does not go further. He calls up the stairs, and a moment later a man in his late twenties, a sort of sturdier version of Cisco, comes galloping down, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He wears a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow, dark slacks, and what appear to be very expensive leather shoes. He is tall, olive complected, with brown eyes and an amazing shock of black hair. Each strand seems weighed down somehow and yet bounces with each step, letting a long strand fall down to bisect one dark, amused eye.

In Italian he asks who they are.

Rainy answers in that same tongue. The young man glances at her, looks away, frowns, and comes back for a closer look. Then, having apparently seen all he needs to see for now, he claps Cisco on the shoulder and in heavily accented but comprehensible English says, “Welcome, I am your cousin, Tomaso.”

“Glad to meet you, Tom.”

“How was your trip?”

“Fugging awful, and she’s responsible.” He jerks his thumb at Rainy. “So as family, famiglia, right? As your cousin, and as a made man, I got one simple request: give me a gun so I can shoot this Jew bitch in her smart mouth.”





18

RIO RICHLIN—EAST OF NISCEMI, SICILY

“There’s a plane up-country, with survivors and wounded. With our usual good luck, we are closest. Pick three people to go with you,” Cole says. “Vanderpool’s giving you a radioman named Petersen.”

It’s a punch to the stomach for Rio. She does not want the responsibility. It is one thing to be chosen for a special patrol, that’s bad enough, but it was a very different thing to be left to decide who should go. It is much too similar to picking teams in sports or deciding who you’ll dance with: there is no way to avoid making someone feel left out, and no way to avoid being responsible for whatever follows.

It is a moment when Rio is suddenly called upon to offer an opinion on who is and who is not a reliable soldier. And whose life she will risk, and who she will leave in relative safety.

“Sarge, I . . . ,” Rio begins.

“What?” he snaps.

“Maybe . . .”

“This is not a debating society, Richlin. Got it?”

Rio just nods, and Cole leaves her alone with the decision. On top of everything else, it’s a test of her judgment with Cole watching and scoring. There are few things Rio wants less than to be found wanting by Sergeant Cole.

In any other circumstances it would be Stick leading the patrol. And if for some strange reason the choice had still somehow fallen to Rio, Stick would be her first choice to go along on that patrol. In her mind the hierarchy of who is and who is not a real soldier is clear: Stick, herself, Jack, Cat, and even the obnoxious Geer are soldiers now. Tilo means well despite his adolescent behavior, and he might make a soldier in time, but he’s not there yet. Pang she doesn’t trust, Magraff is worse than useless, Beebee is an unknown and green, and Jenou . . . She loves Jenou. Jenou is her lifelong friend. But in a fight?

It occurs to her to look at it from Stick’s point of view. Who would Stick choose? It’s a way out of feeling 100 percent directly, personally responsible.

What would Stick do?

Well, he’d pick Rio, of course. And obviously they were stuck with this Petersen fellow who she’d barely exchanged ten words with. And . . . and . . . Jack. Yes, Stick would pick Jack, because Jack is steady, reliable, not showy, and easy to get along with. But what would Jenou have to say about that choice? There would be many a wink and a knowing nod.

Another reason not to bring Jenou.

Jack, Jenou, Geer, Magraff, Pang, Cat, Tilo, and Beebee. Those were her possible choices. Magraff was a no. Tilo was annoying. Geer was a loudmouth jerk.

Pang? He’d done nothing wrong, said nothing wrong, and yet . . . And yet he looked like a Jap. That fact sort of squirmed around in Rio’s head, making her feel wrong and yet helpless. Japs had killed Rachel.

And farmed peaceably all around Gedwell Falls.

And bought their fertilizer from her father’s store.

And . . .

But not Pang. Not Pang. Despite . . . despite everything, not Pang.

Jack, yes, no matter what Jenou thought. And Cat. Cat was a rock.

Jenou, that was the essential problem. Jenou or someone else? Rio was not sure she could control Jenou, just as she worried about dealing with Geer. Geer was a jerk who wouldn’t take orders from a woman, and Jenou might not take orders from her best friend.

Beebee? No. Too green. Still. Just like the first time she’d thought about it.

So it came down again to Jenou versus Tilo Suarez.

And yet . . . and yet . . . some nagging instinct told her no. She was thinking of feelings again, not military necessities.