The Big Kahuna (Fox and O'Hare #6)(67)
Fierro squeezed some dish soap into his hands and turned the tap on. With a glance over his shoulder, he said, “Tell me you weren’t just sitting here talking to her about books or some shit. Tell me you fucked her.”
I walked past him to the bedroom, where I unlocked the safe and took out my gun. When I turned around, Fierro was standing in the doorway. He grabbed on to the doorframe bar and did a set of five pull-ups, just for the hell of it. Then he dropped down, fixed his eyes on me, and broke into a wide smile. “You fucked her, didn’t you? Good for you, dude.” He thumped me on the arm. “Now let’s go shoot some guns.”
* * *
—
A lot of people wanted to take advantage of the Tuesday night special, it turned out; the range was so packed and we had to wait our turn. The fluorescent lights cast a yellow glare on the vinyl flooring and the smell of men and guns and synthetic gear hung in the air. From the loudspeaker came an announcement that a lane was available for Casey. Fierro cracked his knuckles while we waited, and I leaned back in my seat and thought about how readily Nora had offered to leave when she found out I was supposed to go to the gun range. The truth was, I couldn’t picture her in a place like this, either.
“Did I tell you Johnnie got caught masturbating in the towel section last weekend?” Fierro said suddenly. “He got fired. Which means Dexter gets to be supervisor. Which means I get to be department manager.”
“You got a promotion?”
“It just kinda happened. They could’ve picked Frank for the job, but they picked me. I don’t really know why.”
“Doesn’t matter. When something good happens to you, go for it. Don’t ask why. Just enjoy it. Congrats.”
“Thanks, dude. ’Preciate it.”
“See? That support group is helping you.”
He made a little whistling sound, a strange mannerism he’d picked up from Fletcher. After a minute, he turned to me again. “Hey, did I tell you I heard from Sarge? He started a beekeeping business.”
“Beekeeping?” I said, more out of surprise than interest.
“Yup. He’s got a place near Waynesboro. Seems he’s doing well.”
Fierro really looked up to Sergeant Fletcher. I did, too, in the beginning. The first time I saw him, he was standing in the brightness of a January morning with his hands on his hips, waiting for us to get in formation. He had very delicate features—brown eyes, a small nose, perfect teeth—which seemed oddly out of place in a barracks full of men who did their best to look tough. At all times, he remained calm. He never got worked up, never even raised his voice. He was from Fairfax County, Virginia. The kind of place where kids grow up with fencing lessons, math tutors, trips to the botanical gardens. Doctor dad, lawyer mom. How someone like him had ended up in the Marines, no one knew. Something about a brawl at a country club when he was a senior in high school, but that sounded to me like nothing more than barracks gossip. He’d already served in Afghanistan and now here he was in Iraq, with three stripes on his right sleeve. In the beginning he seemed aloof, whether because of his upbringing or his experience, I wasn’t sure. And it got worse when there was a reshuffling from the higher-ups and Lieutenant Carter was assigned to the platoon. The lieutenant was everything Fletcher wasn’t: average-looking, funny, approachable, always willing to play Halo or Call of Duty with the men after they got back to base. And he never minded when he lost a game to a grunt.
One day the lieutenant announced we had to check on a safe house outside Ramadi. It turned out to be a farm, the land around it nearly barren, the only animals three thin goats obstinately grazing on a small patch of yellow grass. Sergeant Fletcher had a lot more experience, so when he suggested going in with the terp and two others to talk to the owner, the lieutenant agreed. The air was still and heavy with heat. The men waited, drinking from their CamelBaks now and then. After idling for thirty minutes, the Humvees grew so hot that it seemed a relief when the lieutenant gave the order to dismount and start the search. I found myself with Perez and Sanger, rounding the farmhouse toward the well. An old tractor sat on its side, wheels in the air, gathering dust. Here and there lay all manner of farm tools.
From a eucalyptus tree nearby came the sudden fluttering of bird wings. Out of instinct, I looked up. Then I felt my foot give in and the next thing I knew I was sliding down a dark hole, dragging dirt and tarp and branches down with me and landing over a body, the weight of my ballistic plate pinning it to the ground. But it wasn’t a body, it was a man, alive and awake. I locked eyes with him, surprised to find my own fear reflected back at me. The smell of our sweat filled my nostrils. Even with Sanger and Perez shouting from above the hole, I heard the distinct click of the man’s gun under me, followed, after a second that stretched into eternity, by the merciful sound of an empty barrel.
Everything else after that happened quickly—Sanger jumped into the hole, helped me put the suspect in cuffs, Perez called for Doc Jones—but all I could think of was that I could have died right then, before I’d turned twenty, before I’d had a chance to hike in the Grand Canyon or see the Empire State Building or ride in one of those glass elevators I’d always wanted to try. I had been in Iraq nineteen days. The thought that this would be my life for the foreseeable future had the brutal force of a revelation. Later, while Doc Jones checked my knee, I watched Sergeant Fletcher pull the lieutenant to the side. “Sir, there was no need to send the men in like that. The farmer was cooperating, he told us about the hideout.”