“What do we do with a… man with his capabilities?” Deion asked. “We can’t let him go.”
“I agree,” Eric said. “But he’s served his country. We’ll have to find a place for him, Deion. Somewhere secure, but not Camp Seven.”
“Do you want me to take care of it?” Deion asked.
“I’m the director,” Eric said. “John is my responsibility.”
Eric watched the C-17 lumbering in over the mountains. Slowly, ever so slowly, the plane banked and descended until it touched down and taxied to the hangar where he waited.
When it came to a stop and powered down its engines, the rear door opened and a pair of Delta Operators greeted him. The first was a scrawny black man dressed in civilian clothes with a Remington M870 shotgun hanging from his neck. The man gave him a mocking salute. “Steeljaw. I shoulda known.”
Eric smiled. “I requested the best Operators at Mildenhall. I didn’t realize they’d send a dumbass.”
Terrance “Ironman” Jackson shrugged. “Gotta make a living, brother.” He pointed into the cargo hold. “You need help with this asshole?”
Eric climbed up into the cargo hold. John lay strapped to a gurney, and another Operator, Jimmy “Jiminy Cricket” Sanchez, stood over him.
John’s eyes were closed, and his chest slowly rose and fell.
Sanchez also carried a Remington M870 shotgun, which he kept casually pointed at John. “Steeljaw? You calling the shots here?”
“Jiminy Cricket,” Eric said. He hitched his thumb at Ironman. “How did you get stuck with the bozo?”
“If I don’t follow him around and tell him how to do the simple things, he’d just get himself killed, and then I’d have to take care of his wife, and man, you’ve seen her pictures.”
“What she lacks in looks, she makes up for in suction,” Ironman said.
Eric laughed, but then he turned to John and quickly sobered. “Wake him.”
“Shit,” Ironman said. “You’re not gonna show us around first, maybe introduce us to those aliens you got out here? Just straight to business?”
“There aren’t any aliens, I’m afraid.”
Ironman grinned. “I knew it! I knew all that alien stuff was horseshit!”
“Just wake him.”
“Yassah,” Ironman said. He pulled a device the size of a cell phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. “This shit is magic. I push the button, and this clown goes down. I push it again, and he comes back up. I gotta get me one of these for Jiminy Cricket, so I can finally catch some sleep.”
John gasped as his eyes snapped open. “Wh — where am I?”
“Home,” Eric said.
John swiveled his head from side to side, inspecting the two Operators. “Everyone knows?”
“They do.”
“I suppose you’re going to throw me in a hole…”
The Operators listened to their conversation but pretended to look everywhere else.
“You present a unique problem,” Eric said, “but I don’t think that’s necessary. Can I count on you to act right?”
“Do you have to ask?”
Eric sighed. “Unchain him.”
Ironman raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Yassah,” Ironman said. He unchained John’s hands while Jiminy Cricket unchained John’s feet.
John started to stand but collapsed back on the gurney. “Eric? I’m not sure if I can make it.”
Eric extended his hand and hauled John to his feet and then put his hand on John’s shoulder to steady him. “Gentlemen, thanks for your assistance. I might have something for you in a few months if you’re interested.”
“Hell yeah,” Ironman said.
“You always got us if you need us,” Jiminy Cricket said. “Hey, I saw Stratello a month ago. He says if you’re still interested in his sister, you better hurry. She’s about to shack up with a trucker in Waukesha.”
“You’ve seen his sister. The trucker can have her.”
“It’ll be my pleasure to pass that along.” Sanchez’s face grew serious. “Just send the signal, Steeljaw, and we’ll come running. We got you covered.”
“Thanks.” He meant it. Ironman and Jiminy Cricket had been with him on dozens of missions, and, except for Martin, Kelly, and Burton, there were few Operators he trusted more. He snapped off a salute, and they returned it with military precision.
He led John out of the cargo hold, but before he was out of earshot, he heard Ironman yell, “Watch your six, Steeljaw.”
Chapter Fifteen
John stepped out of the Humvee, caught his prosthetic foot on his pant leg, and stumbled forward. Taylor Martin caught him as he fell. “Thanks, TM.”
Martin gave him a sour look. “Don’t mention it, John.”
“It’s like that?”
Eric climbed out of the Humvee and followed them to the electric cart. “You don’t have to speak, John. In fact, it might be better if you didn’t.”
John took a seat at the back of the cart. “I’m sorry, TM. Bombing the Red Cross was a mistake—”
“A mistake,” Martin growled. “It wasn’t a mistake. It was murder.”
“I could tell you I’m not the same person,” John said. “I could say it was the brain damage. The truth is, it would have been better for everyone if I had just died in Iraq.”
Eric took the seat next to Martin. “We all wish you’d never done it, John, but you did. The StrikeForce project was all about giving you a second chance to make up for what you did.”
“What’s the use?” John asked. “Even if I stop a hundred terrorists, I’ll never make up for it.”
“I don’t have a lot of sympathy for you,” Martin said. “You murdered those kids, and then you lied to us about your memories.”
“That’s not exactly John’s fault,” Eric said, accelerating the cart down the tunnel and deeper into the base. “I told him not to say anything. You can’t put that on him.”
“True,” Martin said, “but you’re my CO. Him I can tell to go to hell.”
“I’d do anything for you, TM,” John said. “I’d give my life to save yours, and ask nothing in return. I know you don’t believe it, but I’m the same guy you’ve been fighting beside for the past two years. I just wish I could have done more—”
“You’ve done enough,” Martin said. “Just… don’t talk, John. I don’t want to hear it.”
They rode in silence until Eric slowed and allowed Martin to hop off. John watched him leave. “I guess I deserve that.”
“Let’s get you to medical,” Eric said, slamming his foot down and sending the cart rocketing off.
Kara Tulli was waiting for them at the medical entrance. She wore blue scrubs, and her face was full of concern. “How is he?”
“He’s okay,” Eric said.
John stepped off the cart and collapsed to the concrete floor. Kara bent and helped him to his feet. “He’s not okay,” Kara said. “Something is wrong.”
“I’m tired,” John said.
“Your color is all wrong,” Kara said. She turned to Eric. “What’s happened to him?”
“He was hit by an IED,” Eric said.
“An IED?”
John nodded. “There was an assassin in London—”
Kara grunted. “An assassin. What a surprise.” She helped him inside the medical bay and onto a table, where he started to undress.
“Can you help?” John asked.
Kara helped him remove his prosthetic foot. She placed it on the tray behind her and then helped him wiggle out of his pants and shirt. “It looks like they did a good job patching up your arm, but what are those?”
John glanced down at the small weeping sores nestled among the scars of his abdomen. “I don’t know. They popped up a few days before we left for Switzerland.”