Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(80)

A gossamer veil of clouds covered the stars. Only a soft yellow glow from the streetlamp held back the dark.

Clyde roused himself, shook, and hopped off the bed. He padded over and stood next to me at the window. He put his paws on a chair, and we stared through the glass for a time, until I released the curtain.

In the dark, Dougie gave a sharp, sudden cry and swung a fist. He muttered something and turned to his side.

How had he and I gotten to this place? How was it that even our love had been corrupted by war?

For three years I’d played out this impossible reunion in my mind. Now here it was, lost before I’d grasped it. Dougie and I didn’t belong together. We’d changed. Our lives had moved onto separate paths. Water had flowed not just under the bridge, but over it until the bridge was no longer even there.

Dougie yelled again. Beside me, Clyde let out an agitated whimper.

I rested my hand on his head.

“I know, boy,” I whispered. “I know.”

Clyde looked up at me, and I ruffled his ears.

“We’re not alone. Sarge will find the intel, and we’ll bring Mike home. I can’t think past that.”

I set aside my fear. I locked it in a box and threw away the key and dug out my combat face, the one I’d discovered in Iraq my first day out of the wire. Then I ate a couple of protein bars and crawled back into bed for a couple of hours.

Food, then sleep, then war.





CHAPTER 23

Everyone is the hero of their own story.

—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.

Paraphrased from John Barth.

It was still dark when I woke to the sound of water running in the next room. A television set murmured on low volume. A drawer slammed, and something thumped against the wall.

Sarge, getting ready to head out.

I sat up and checked my phone—4:00 a.m. and nothing more from the Alpha. My eyes were gritty with sand, my body a mass of pain. I swung my feet to the floor, dry swallowed more of Dougie’s over-the-counter pain pills, and reached for my jacket.

Clyde hopped down from the bed. Half the night with Dougie. Half with me.

Split down the middle.

At the door, I paused. Dougie still slept, his arm thrown over his eyes, the sheets tangled around his waist, his muscles bunched even in sleep. I watched him for a moment, then grabbed my laptop, and Clyde and I slipped outside.

The predawn air was cool and clean smelling, the highway an empty ribbon unfurled across the prairie. Sometime during the night, the motel owner had shut off the single lamp in the parking lot. The only light came from the hint of dawn in the east and a thin golden glow leaking around the curtains over Sarge’s window.

Clyde went sniffing for rabbits, his tail wagging and ears swiveling. He trotted past the rancher’s truck where it was still parked at the far end of the lot, dew beaded on the windows and glistening on the back bumper with its GOD AND COUNTRY decal.

Clyde headed toward a clump of cottonwood trees.

I stretched for a few minutes and jogged in place, testing my body, stirring the sluggish flow of blood in my veins. Then I sat at the nearby picnic table, powered on the laptop, and opened Google Maps. I pulled up the addresses of the people who’d been on the platform when Kane died.

Dougie had been right. My brain, finally allowed to rest, had focused on the clue that had been in front of me all along. I was now sure that Kane hadn’t let himself be distracted by a pretty woman. He was too much of a professional. The answer we sought was with one of the people who watched him die that day. One of them was the key. To the Alpha. To Cohen’s location. To our way out of this maze. One of them would provide the link Osborne had not.

I zoomed in on the first address.

A few minutes later, the light in Sarge’s room went out, and he came outside. He nodded at me and tossed his bag in the back of his truck.

“I’ll call as soon as I know anything,” he said, opening the driver’s door. “And you let me know when you two yokels nail down some details.”

I stood. Our eyes met over the hood of the truck. Sarge looked like he was thinking the same thing I was—that if everything went to shit, this might be the last time we saw each other alive.

I said, “For a man who tried to kill me, you’re not a complete asshole.”

“For a woman who kicked my ass twice, you aren’t too shabby yourself.”

I summoned up a smile.

If all went well, by the time Dougie and I were standing on Vigilant’s doorstep ready to move against Osborne, Sarge would be on his way back to Denver with the video. As soon as Sarge confirmed, Dougie and I would walk into Vigilant and explain to James Osborne how things were going to go down.

He’d give us Cohen. We’d give him the phone. Promises would be made on both sides. Dougie and Sarge and I would remain silent. Osborne would leave us alone. Malik would be allowed to grow up and grow old without ever looking over his shoulder.

Like any good Mexican standoff, each side would be bound to its promises by the threat of mutual annihilation.

It had worked in the Cold War.

But it was bullshit, and all of us knew it. The only people who survived a Mexican standoff were the ones who fired first. Plus, there was no way I could let this asshole walk away free.

We needed our finger on the trigger.

My smile faded. “Stay frosty, Sarge.”

“Eyes in the back of my head.” He grinned and reached over the hood. We clasped hands. “Take care of yourself, Parnell. Never thought I’d say this, but it hasn’t sucked being on the same side.”