So today, instead of a suicidal drag race in the Porsche, Matt stared down 95-mph fastballs moving with enough velocity to kill him. No helmet. That was part of the risk, the game. This way, at least, his edginess was more predictable, like Russian roulette. Which bullet, which fastball, might hit him? He never knew when one tire might catch the stitches and spit at him a left-handed curve ball hard and fast directly at his temple. Just as bad as a bullet. Maybe worse. He would see it coming. Would he duck?
Or smile and stand there, ready to join his brother?
The first ball blew past him before he could even think about swinging. With each successive pitch, his cut migrated toward what it once was. He had been an above- .300 collegiate batsman. Soon he was hitting a few frozen ropes back at the machine, which was protected by a wire mesh fence. The calm evening rang resolutely with the distinct crack of the wooden 34 against the quiet hum of the pitching machine’s spinning tires.
Matt focused, and he tried to forget about Zachary’s death. The War on Terror had claimed many casualties. The fact that Zachary had survived, even thrived, during Operation Desert Storm, only to succumb to a small-scale action in the Philippines, would forever confound Matt.
As he rifled balls into the far netting, his mind drifted to a few men that he politely referred to as those bastards, the upper-echelon Rolling Stones groupies who conspired to start a war in the Philippines simply to avert another war in Iraq.
A fastball came whipping at him, and there was Bart Rathburn, killed by Abu Sayyaf rebels. Swing. Crack. Rathburn, who had been an assistant secretary of defense using the pseudonym Keith Richards, was gone into the back of the net.
The tires then spit him a slider, low and away: Taiku Takishi, a Japanese businessman turned rogue, also known as Charlie Watts. Smooth swing. Solid wood. Takishi, who led the Japanese invasion of the Philippines, was gone into right field.
Another pitch knuckled straight at him. He swung defensively and swatted away the face of Secretary of Defense Robert Stone. Stone, using the nom de guerre Mick Jagger, orchestrated the entire conspiracy. Following Stone’s knuckleball was a 98-mph fastball that blew past him.
Ronnie Wood.
Though not located in the year since his disappearance, CIA director Frank Lantini, Matt was convinced, played the ever elusive Ronnie Wood.
Every time I was close, he moved me.
But there were other possibilities, Matt knew. His mind briefly churned, visualizing these Beltway heroes who pulled the marionette strings of so many great Americans, using them as the fodder that they were. A bolt of anger shot through Matt when he realized that it was only those with whom you served that you could trust to be on your flank, to help you in a time of crisis. That notion brought his mind reeling back to Zachary.
Why couldn’t I save him?
Like the baseballs punching into the far end of the net, Matt’s angst over Zachary’s death was tightly confined in his thoughts by a web of guilt and remorse.
The injuries to his body — the gunshots to the abdomen and shoulder and the bayonet slice across the forearm that screamed with every swing — had mostly healed. And with each pitch and swing Matt focused his mind on the task at hand, hitting the baseball, the action removing just a bit of the pain, working out physical and emotional scars. Just keep swinging, he told himself. Stay in the game.
“Keep your elbow up.”
Matt turned toward the voice just enough to move his body into the path of one of those 95-mph fastballs — bb’s, aspirin tablets, rockets, as he used to call them — whipping in high and inside. It struck him squarely on the left shoulder.
“Son of a…” Matt took a quick knee and pressed the stop button.
A woman came running toward him. “I am so sorry.”
“Aw, man.” Another pitch rifled above his head punching with a demonic thud into the back of tarp. “Go get some ice out of the freezer. Back door’s open.” The machine spit a final ball that landed about halfway toward Matt, the rawhide rolling next to his knee.
Gotta go easy in there, Matt thought to himself. Adrenaline dumped, he shook his head. Truthfully, he had been pushing the envelope in his rehab in an attempt to get back into the fight.
Matt pulled up his shirt-sleeve and noticed a welt was already forming.
It took a minute to register that he had no idea who he had just sent into his house. An attractive woman returned with a towel filled with ice. She was wearing a blue pants suit with a white blouse. A string of lapis beads circling her neck made Matt think back to Afghanistan, where lapis was mined extensively.
“Who are you?” he asked through gritted teeth as she put the ice on his shoulder.
“Name’s Peyton O’Hara.” She showed him a badge. “The vice president of the United States requires your services, Mr. Garrett.”
“So he sent you?”
“It seems your phone is—”
“I shut the phone off.” Matt looked down at the welt on his shoulder.
“As I was saying, I work with the vice president. He needs your help.”
Matt grabbed the towel and took a step back, registering the concern on the young woman’s face. She was a natural redhead with hazel eyes and a nice figure. Setting the towel on the deck rail, he pulled off his shirt, catching her eyes glancing at his muscular frame. At six foot two, he was considerably taller than she. Though he had been recovering from wounds, he had also been lifting and running almost every day. Her quick glance confirmed in his mind that he was, perhaps, in the best physical condition of his life. He reapplied the ice to the bruise.
“What happened?” She pointed at his forearm.
“Hunting accident.”
“I see.” Peyton looked at him suspiciously. She took in his green eyes and light brown hair, strangely glad the vice president had asked her to come find this enigma. “And there?” She pointed at his stomach where a large scar that looked like a grotesque blossoming flower had healed, revealing minor lumps of skin that never reformed in exactly the right place.
“Appendectomy,” Matt said, stone-faced.
“Must have been one hell of a huge appendix,” she smiled.
“What are you? A hooker or something? Blake Sessoms send you here?” Matt asked. “Like those strippers dressed as cops?”
Blake was Matt’s closest childhood friend, save Zachary.
“Funny,” Peyton said.
Matt looked down at the welt on his shoulder.
“Another lump for the collection?” she quipped, following his eyes to the rising lump on Matt’s upper arm. “Adds some symmetry don’t you think?”
Ignoring her comment, he sat in a two-dollar lawn chair he had picked up from K-Mart a few weeks earlier. It was either that or five hundred dollars for deck furniture that was not as comfortable.
“So what’s Hellerman want?” Matt’s voice was flat.
“He wants you to come over to his Middleburg mansion. That’s where his alternate command post is now and where he’s set up a special task force on terrorism. He wants you to be a part of that. He’s talked to Houghton at CIA, who said you’re available. With the Iraq war going well, he is making sure we’re watching our six on other extremists.”