“Not half bad,” Mancini answered, “but the people staying here before us left a goddamn mess.”
From the closet Akil said, “You should have called us.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“No time. Everything happened so fast.”
“Davis told us. Heard you kicked some butt.”
Mention of the SEAL’s name jarred Crocker’s memory. “How is he?”
“Davis? Got his bell rung good. Minor concussion. Damage to one of his eardrums. Doctor says he’ll be fine.”
“Where is he?”
“In the back bedroom jerking off.”
Ritchie walked in carrying a box of groceries. “Hey, boss. Welcome back. Cal needs to talk to you when you get a chance.”
“What’s wrong with Cal?”
“Mommy issues.”
“What?”
“I can never quite make out what he’s saying. He mumbled something under his breath about his mother.”
Crocker found Cal sitting in the living room next to a bag filled with weapons. The components of an MP5 lay on loose newspaper on the floor-the carrier, bolt head rollers, blast bore, and chamber. As Crocker watched, Cal spread some Tetra Gun Action Blaster on the chamber and scrubbed it with a wire brush.
Without looking up he said, “Big mash-up last night, huh, boss?”
“Turned out that way, yeah.”
“Sorry I missed the fireworks.”
The SEAL sniper, who was never very communicative, looked lost in his own thoughts as he wiped down the bore, barrel, and trigger pack.
Crocker said, “Ritchie said you want to speak to me. You okay?”
Cal raised his head and looked toward the window, which was covered with dusty yellow curtains. Crocker noticed puffiness around his eyes.
Cal spoke in a whisper. “I think so.”
“That scorpion bite still bothering you? Sometimes the effects of the venom can linger for weeks.”
“It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
“My mom.”
“Your mother?”
“Weird, huh? I dreamt about her the other night. Today I find out she’s in a hospice, dying.”
Crocker was so tired he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Your mother’s dying, and you just found out?”
“Yeah. Stage three lung cancer.”
Crocker knew there was almost zero chance of recovering from that. “Cal, I’m so sorry.”
“Doctor says she only has a few days left.”
Crocker flashed back to his own mom, suffering from cancer and hooked to a respirator. “You speak to her?” he asked.
“Weird how things change. She’s always been the most energetic woman, running businesses, doing all kinds of things, always in a hurry. Never stopped, until now.”
Crocker had left his mom one afternoon when she wanted him to stay. She died the next day.
“Where’s your mother now?” he asked, feeling the guilt wanting to punish him again.
“San Mateo.”
“You’ve got to visit her, Cal. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
Cal looked down at the tile floor and nodded. “I guess I will. Soon as this mission is over.”
“We’re likely to be here a week at least. That might be too late. I don’t think you should risk it.”
“Yeah.”
Cal put a drop of oil on the locking piece, then reassembled the bolt head and carrier. The emotional side of him that was never much in evidence seemed completely shut down.
“Cal?” Crocker asked.
“Yeah.”
“Soon as I get my hands on a laptop that’s working, I’ll e-mail our CO. Tell him you’re taking emergency medical leave effective immediately. You should get ready to leave first thing in the morning. When you’re done in San Mateo, report back to Virginia Beach.”
Cal pointed at the weapons on the floor. “I’ll check and clean the rest of them tonight before I go.”
“We can do that, Cal.”
“Not as good as I can.”
“Okay, Cal. Then pack your gear.”
“Yes, sir.”
An important part of Crocker’s job was to look out for the emotional welfare of his men. As highly trained and disciplined as they were, they were human beings, not machines. They needed to be able to focus and think clearly.
He had learned from personal experience that family roots run deeper than some people realize. Early in his career Crocker had missed both his sisters’ weddings and his uncle’s funeral because he was working 24/7 with ST-6. He deeply regretted that now.
As Cal checked the reassembled mechanism, Crocker saw him stop to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. He placed a hand on Cal’s shoulder, then left him in peace.
Minutes later Crocker found Davis in the back bedroom, sitting on the edge of a double bed, flipping through the channels with the TV remote. The left side of his head and his left ear were covered with a white bandage.
“Akil said that you were back here beating off.”
Davis said, “Thirty-some channels, and all but one of them is in Arabic. The only one in English is BBC World News.”
“No Criminal Minds or CSI, huh?”
“No, nothing.”
“We’ll survive.”
“I’d rather read anyway.”
“How’s your head?”
“Hurts, but it seems to be working.”
Crocker held up the fingers of his right hand. “How many digits?”
“Seventeen.”
“You’re fine. Any mention of the Sheraton bombing on the news?”
“Some still pictures. Nothing about casualties.”
“That’s because the war is over, so reporters are busy elsewhere. What’d the doc say about your head?”
“I should expect headaches the next couple of days. Probably lost a shitload of brain cells. Otherwise, I’m fine.”
“Maybe you should take some emergency medical leave, spend some time with your family.” Davis and his wife had an infant son and another baby due in six months.
He asked, “What’s going on with Cal?”
“He’s leaving in the morning to spend some time with his mom.”
“Then you need me.”
Sometimes team spirit and loyalty got in the way. “Think about it,” Crocker said.
“As long as I’ve got plenty of eight-hundred-milligram Motrin, I’ll be fine.”
They ate at a long table in the kitchen. Mancini had whipped up a big bowl of pasta with tomatoes, capers, peppers, and canned tuna. Pretty damn good, under the circumstances. They were talking, eating, and listening to Raj Music on the radio when they heard someone banging on the gate.
It was John Lasher, carrying several shopping bags that contained DVDs, paperbacks for Davis, peanut butter, crackers, bars of chocolate, boxes of energy bars, and bottles of Italian wine. The back of his SUV was loaded with hazmat suits, digital Geiger counters, a bolt cutter, a couple of acetylene torches, maps and charts.
As Crocker helped him carry the gear in, Lasher turned to him and asked, “How do you know Farag Shakir?”
Because his mind was clouded with exhaustion, it took him a moment to remember. “Farag? Yeah, Farag. He’s the brave kid who fought beside me at the Sheraton last night.”
“He asked me to thank you for helping save his cousin’s life.”
“I didn’t know the injured boy was his cousin. How is he?”
“Hanging on, apparently.”
“Tough kid, that Farag. What’s his background?”
“He’s from one of the tribes west of here, near the Tunisian border, called Zintani. Ended up in Tripoli during the war for one reason or another. He wants to be helpful, so we’ve used him for a couple of things, mainly for backup security. That’s why he was at the Sheraton last night.”
After they finished eating, Lasher spread out a map of Libya on the table with several locations circled in red. He explained that he was a former marine major and UN weapons inspector in Iraq, then said, “Remington wants us to do this quickly and low profile, so we’ll focus on the three most important sites.”
“I was in Iraq, too,” Crocker said. “March 2003, right after it fell. Minutes after I landed, I ran into the chief of CIA Operations at the airport. He said, ‘Crocker, if you came here looking for WMDs, you’re not gonna find any.’ ”