Hard Beat(72)

The thought flickers in my mind again how she is this little piece of Heaven in this land full of Hell.

“Remember the rules,” I tell her, which earns me an even bigger smile.

“Yes, Mr. I’m-in-control,” she teases, adding a little bit of lightheartedness to this oppressive atmosphere. “I won’t leave your side. I’ll listen to you. I won’t leave your side, and I won’t leave your side. Satisfied?” She shrugs, her smile turning into a lopsided smirk as she raises the camera again.

“Smart-ass,” I murmur, although I feel a tad bit better hearing that she knows how important it is not to wander off.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me if I was any different,” she fires back, causing me to just shake my head.

When I move to adjust my backpack, the weight of all of my reporting gear heavy enough to cause discomfort, I can’t help but think how Pauly’s going to kick my ass for once again getting the story first. I’m sure the other news agencies will be here inside of sixty minutes of my first report due to travel time. No doubt some are already en route, sniffing their way here after hearing the Hornets overhead and subsequent explosions.

But we got here first, and I can’t wait to get set up and go live. I have Rafe on standby waiting to patch me in.

My mind wanders to Omid and how his intel was wrong. I wonder whether he was protecting me or playing me for the opposition, except I can’t give it much more thought once the edge of the bomb zone comes into view. Beaux and her camera are back in action as we step into the scene of destruction, the steady sound of the shutter click a reassurance because when I hear it, I know she’s okay.

Piles of concrete rubble with trickles of smoke ascending from them lie before me. American soldiers comb through the piles, putting items I can’t quite make out into sacks to bring back to base and turn over to the CIA. Black bags are laid out here and there to signify deceased victims who appear to be high-value targets waiting to be DNA tested and identified. Such a mechanical set of procedures for the manmade loss of life.

And no matter how many years I’ve been on the job, how many scenes like this I’ve come to report on, I’ve never gotten used to the sight or the scent of lost lives. Quickly, I turn to look toward Beaux, to make sure that she’s okay; she doesn’t have many situations like this under her belt, and I know how tough it can be to process it all. She stands a few feet beside me, camera up to her cheek as her shield to make the reality seem far away even though, in all irony, it brings her closer to the destruction.

She seems as fine as one can be under these circumstances, so I turn my focus back on Sarge’s communications, all the while getting more perspective on the enormity of the operation. I begin to work out the wording of my report in my head, ears tuned in to Sarge’s voice and Beaux’s shutter, and eyes darting at the debris field stretched out in front of me.

I collect as much information as possible – the destruction of buildings, the emotional devastation on civilians, gauge the hostility versus the willingness to help the soldiers, anything and everything to add to my report and allow the viewer to understand the magnitude and importance of this campaign. I take it all in, filter through the things I have to be vague on now and details to clear with Sarge later before I can give an in-depth report. All that matters is I find a place to set up right now, get the feed up live, and file a story before anyone else gets here.

So you’re the one.

I chuckle to myself, my mind flashing back to the first night I met Beaux and the comment she made that’s never been more true than right now. Yep, I’m the one that every reporter hates and wants to be all at the same time. I find a setup that I think will work to report from just as loud shouts break out across the square. Soldiers are physically coercing three men from a house who are not cooperating. The soldiers have their guns drawn on the locals as shouting escalates from both sides, hands gesticulating wildly to try and bridge the language barrier in an attempt to mediate an already volatile situation.

“Thomas?”

I look up to find Rosco bearing down on me. “Yeah?”

“We know it’s not your first rodeo, but Sarge wants to make sure you’re vague. No location. No confirmed hits on high-value targets. No —”

“I know the routine, Rosco. I’ll play by the rules,” I confirm, irritated he’s even saying anything as I look back down to my computer to finish setting up my connections.

It’s a split second that lasts a lifetime for me. So many things happen simultaneously, but at the same time feel like they are their own individual moments: I swear I hear “BJ” called somewhere behind me at the same moment I realize the constant comforting click of Beaux’s shutter is gone. I snap my head up just as Rosco’s eyes widen at something over my shoulder.

And I know in an instant that it’s something to do with Beaux. That gut instinct I’ve spent my career honing picks up on something, and my heart plummets to my feet.

“Beaux!”

We both call her name as I whirl around to make out what he’s seeing. She doesn’t hear us, too damn preoccupied with her camera in one hand and that big heart of hers that she wears on her sleeve. She’s walking toward a dog lamed by something wrapped around his hind quarters. He whimpers, tries to walk, and stumbles.

Everything clicks into place at once for me. Snapshots that play together to show what’s about to happen minus the sound of her shutter.