Then, the building was intact. The school bus gone. Just his Ryder truck, full of ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel, parked in front. He tried to gasp for air.
I’m going to relive it. Again.
Always the same dream.
The school bus was rounding the corner, approaching the front of the Red Cross building, when he felt something new. A pressure on his arm.
He jerked awake and saw Taylor Martin standing over him. It all came rushing back. He had been hit. An RPG.
He remembered the docs working on his arm and leg, cleaning and stitching the wound, then a shot to help him sleep.
He was on a gurney in the hangar, thirty feet from the Gulfstream, and he was naked, IV’s in both arms, a flimsy white sheet covering him in the heat. A breeze blew through the hangar, rustling the corner of the sheet, and he shivered.
Taylor grinned. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
He groaned. “I was dreaming. I was dreaming I was in hell, then I woke up, saw your face, and realized it wasn’t a dream.”
Taylor laughed. “Come on. No rest for the wicked.”
“How long was I out?”
“About four hours. How do you feel?”
He thought about it for a moment. “I’m sore.”
“You can thank one of those,” Taylor said, pointing to an IV bag.
He recognized the bag, a standard piece of kit, thanks to Doctors Elliot and Oshensker. They carried plastic cases full of them in the Gulfstream, along with the rest of their gear. It was the same sea-snail based painkiller that he carried in his Implant. It was a thousand times more powerful than morphine, but with none of the side effects.
He pulled the sheet back. Thin gel-strips ran the length of the wound on his arm, another gift from the docs. He knew from previous experience the drugs in the gel acted as an antibiotic, keeping the wound clean, and other compounds in the gel would speed the healing process and minimize scar tissue. He pulled back the blanket even farther and saw the same gel-strip on his leg.
The wounds were ugly shades of purple and yellow, but were days ahead in the healing process. He flexed his arm, and while it ached, he almost had full range of motion.
He squinted at Taylor. “What did the medics say?”
“They were thrilled about shooting you up with experimental drugs,” Taylor said, “until Nancy threatened them. They backed off real quick.”
He shivered again. Nancy had a command authority presence like none he’d ever seen, and her dead eyes turned that up a notch to completely terrifying. “How’s the suit?”
“The VISOR is good, but the suit is damaged. Good thing we brought along your spare, because we’re deploying soon.”
“Deploying to where?”
“They think the package was delivered to a pirate village in Somalia. A place called Ely.”
He rolled his eyes. “A pirate village? Good lord, what next?”
“It gets better. They think the ship that delivered it might have another. We’re going in hot while a SEAL team hits the ship.”
“Eric hates big missions,” he said. “Too much exposure.”
“Yep, but that doesn’t seem to change anything. We’ll be flying out soon. You think you can make it?”
He laughed before he could stop himself. “Do I have a choice?”
“Nope,” Taylor said, then grabbed his good arm and helped him up.
A worried looking medic approached. “He can’t be moved yet.”
Taylor stopped her with a stare. “This soldier has work to do.”
The medic shook her head. “This is against protocol. I’m going to report this,” she said, but removed the IV’s and covered the skin with gauze and tape where blood welled up.
He caught her attention. “Please don’t,” he said softly. “It would be best if you just forgot we were here.”
The medic frowned, hazel eyes full of concern, then she bit her lip and left, glancing over her shoulder as she went.
Taylor opened one of the black cases next to the Gulfstream and handed him underwear. “Hey, Mark said that hottie nurse back home asked about you.”
“Kara? She’s just doing her job,” he said.
“Sure,” Taylor said. “She’s got no other motives, huh? Have you and her…?”
“Not yet.” He struggled to pull his underwear up without disturbing the gel strip on his leg. Taylor handed him a skintight suit, a one-piece cotton-like material, a new creation of Elliot’s. It wicked away moisture and kept him cool and dry, but also contained a fine wire mesh that provided electrical stimulation to his body, triggering the body’s healing response.
Taylor coughed. “Look, it ain’t my business, but the job we have? Take your opportunities when you get them. We’re the walking wounded and every mission could be our last. Don’t miss out. Seize the day.”
He considered Taylor’s advice. If only he could tell him that his memory was back, that he remembered doing terrible things, that Kara Tulli had hated him, that his life was complicated and death might be the only release from his memories. “TM?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Taylor laughed. “Suit up, cowboy. Time to get back in the saddle.”
Smith waited patiently for his breakfast companion in the old-world splendor of the private dining room under the Golden Oak Hotel. The oak tables were stained a deep mahogany, the chairs trimmed in burgundy leather. Only one of the five tables was set, but the plates were the finest china, the flatware genuine silver, the same coffee cups he had sipped from since the fifties.
He buttered a perfectly toasted slice of whole-wheat bread and covered it with an orange marmalade they kept on hand, just for him.
In his head, he replayed the terse conversation with Eric. His young replacement was concerned. He gently reassured Eric that it wasn’t the first time they found themselves under siege, that there were always enemies at the gates.
The massive oak door swung open and a heavy-set man stepped through, his balding head deeply tanned, his brown suit rumpled and twenty years out of date.
“Vasilii,” Smith said, raising his slice of toast. “You’re late.”
Vasilii Melamid smiled, a smile that never made it to his eyes. “It’s been months. I thought you had forgotten your old friend.”
Vasilii was the head of Group 27, a Russian think-tank that performed the same function as the OTM. “Remember when we used to eat white bread? Before they started pushing fiber?”
Vasilii grunted. “To hell with fiber. I miss good steak, charred on outside, bloody red in middle.” He took a seat and glanced across the table. “Growing old is not for the weak. Is terrible that youth is wasted on the young.” He poured coffee from the glass carafe between them, then added cold cream. “What worries you, my friend?”
Smith picked at his toast, took a bite, then washed it down with coffee. “The North Koreans have sold a device to an Islamic group.”
Vasilii’s eyes narrowed, the wrinkles deepening around the corner of his eyes, and he placed his coffee cup back on the table. “Bah. North Koreans are imbeciles. What do they think would come of this?”
“They play each side against the other. The pressure against them is great, but somehow they always manage to convince someone to hand them a lifeline.”