CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
OCTOBER
Sarah stood in the doorway of her empty apartment and drew in a deep breath. “Bye, Mom,” she whispered.
“Anything else?” Gavin asked, coming up the steps. Sweat dripped from his temples in spite of the cool October air.
She turned. “No. Thank you for helping.”
“Of course. Are you sure about this?”
“It’s time. Your sister was right when she said sometimes we need someone to step in and save us from ourselves. I had people who tried to do that. Dustin, Caden, Brooke . . . all of them. And you. And I suppose my father too, even though it’s harder to see it that way. But I need to deal with the past and Brooke is going to help me do that.” She shot him a small smile. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “I’m here for you.”
“I know. I’d be in a puddle on the floor if you weren’t.” She patted his cheek. “You’re a good man, Gavin Black.”
“I try.”
“So, how’d it go with Kaylynn’s professor?”
“He’s facing charges of sexual harassment and will lose his tenure at the university. Kaylynn didn’t want to tell our father about what was going on because she was afraid he’d do something he’d regret. But she’s told my parents, the school, and the police everything. She also said she plans to testify if he decides to plead not guilty and force a trial.”
“She’s a brave girl. One who’s very blessed to have you looking out for her.”
He straightened. “I see someone who wants to look out for you.”
She drew back and frowned at him. Then looked over her shoulder. “What’s he doing here?” Her father walked slowly, his hand pressed to his shoulder.
“General?”
“Sarah.”
He’d called her Sarah. Hope sprung. She sighed. “I just want you to know I’m glad you’re not dead.”
“I’m glad you’re not dead too.” His gruff voice held a lot of emotion that wasn’t reflected on his face.
“Mom lived here before she met you,” she blurted.
He blinked. Realization dawned in his eyes. “And that’s why you wanted to live here.”
“I told myself that, but I wonder if it was more that it made you mad. And I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for a lot of things.”
He cleared his throat. “So am I.”
Sarah nearly fell over.
Her father glanced at Gavin, then back at her. “I wish I’d done things different, but I can’t go back and redo them.”
“No one can,” she said. “I figured that out a while ago.”
He rubbed his chin, then stuffed his hand in his pocket. “But we can make changes going forward, can’t we? I’d like to try anyway.”
It was all Sarah could do not to let her jaw drop to her chest. “So would I. That’s why I’m giving up the apartment and moving in with Caden for now. As much as I love some of the residents, it’s time for me to leave.”
The general nodded and a smile glimmered in his eyes. “You just want to live with Caden because he keeps ice cream in his freezer.”
He knew she liked ice cream. And he’d made a joke. Tears gathered and she swallowed the lump that refused to completely go away. “Yeah, he does.”
“So do I.”
Surprise and joy grabbed her and she nodded. “I’ll have to come visit.”
“I’d like that. Sarah.”
“Me too. Dad.”
Her father cleared his throat again. “Right. Right. Uh . . . one more thing.” He reached into an inner pocket of his dress coat and pulled out an envelope. “I need to say something and it’s not easy, but I’m learning that the things worth fighting for don’t come easy. I never told you this, but my father basically paid me off to join the Army. I took the money and never looked back.” A pause. “Okay, I looked back in moments of weakness.” He let his gaze run over her. Sarah stood still, sensing he wasn’t done and not wanting to miss a minute of whatever else he had to say. He waved the envelope at her. “I realize I never really knew how to be a father. I knew how to be a general and a leader, but not a father. However, I promise, everything I ever did for you, I had your best interests in mind—not that it appeared that way to you. I get that.”
He looked away for a moment and cleared his throat. “Anyway, as hard as it is, I have to accept that you’re a grown woman who can make her own decisions.” He handed her the envelope. “I pulled some strings and got your psychiatric record saying you were suicidal discarded. Since the psychiatrist who made the diagnosis has been arrested and will spend a very long time in prison, it wasn’t that difficult to do. You’re now free to be reinstated to your old position should you desire to return to it.”
Tears dripped down her cheeks and she swiped them away. Gavin’s arm came around her and squeezed.
“Thank you, Dad,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
He nodded, hesitated. “I’m sorry, Sarah. For everything. I really am.”
Sarah slipped from Gavin’s arms into her father’s. “I’m sorry too. For everything.”
His hug healed so many wounds. She finally let him go and he stepped back. “I’m going to head home now. We’ll talk later.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
He left and Sarah leaned her forehead against Gavin’s chest. He rubbed her back while she gathered her emotions into something manageable.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he said.
She didn’t look up. “What?”
“He tried to save you.”
“I know he thought he was doing what was best for me. I didn’t like it then and I still don’t, but I’m coming to terms with it.”
“No, not that. When you were unconscious and on the floor at the lab. Your father dove for McClain trying to protect you and that’s how he got shot.”
She simply stared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought he might, and I didn’t want to take that away from him if he wanted to. But I guess he’s not going to say anything.”
More tears slipped down her cheeks. “I really didn’t think he cared. How could I have been so blind?”
“Well, give yourself some slack. He didn’t exactly make it easy for you to see.”
“You saw it.”
He shrugged. “I’m a guy.”
A sob slipped out. “Why am I so weepy? Are you sure you want to be stuck with me and my baggage?”
“Hey, you helped me with mine. I can jump out of planes again. I owe you.”
She jerked and glared. “You do not owe me anything.”
“Sarah, I was kidding. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m with you because I want to be with you. I thought we covered that ground already.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I guess I’m not going to stop being insecure overnight.”
He cupped her face and met her gaze. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. You’ve got this. And I’ve got you.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He kissed her, then pulled her close. “So . . .”
“Yeah,” she mumbled against his shirt.
“What are we going to do with ourselves? Reenlist or be civilians for the rest of our days?”
She stilled. “The rest of our days is a long time.”
“And thanks to Heather and her genius inspiration, we’re going to have that time.”
She nodded. “I have something else I need to tell you.”
“Do I need to be sitting down for this?”
A laugh slipped from her. “No, I don’t think so. Owen Grant and Jefferson Wyatt both offered me a job. Like in a very normal, professional way. Separately. Each one comes with a very nice package, so it’s just a matter of choosing which one I want.”
“Wow. Both of them? Are you interested?”
“Yes, actually.”
&
nbsp; “What about the Army?”
She frowned. “The Army was exactly what I needed at that time in my life. I loved what I did. I made a difference in a lot of people’s lives and I’d never want to change that. But now? Now I’m at a different place in my life. You’re here and . . .”
He tensed. “And?”
“And I don’t want to be over there if it means being away from you.”
He swallowed and looked away. The sheen of tears appeared, then faded. “I’m glad. If you ever change your mind, I won’t hold you back.”
“That goes both ways. If you ever decide you want to reenlist, I’ll support that.” She paused. “Since my father got everything reversed—and the doctor who incorrectly diagnosed me is now in prison—I’ll have to finish out my tour, but I only have four months left.”
He hugged her and kissed the top of her head. “I can do four months.” He paused. “Maybe.”
“We can make it. Once I get out, we can take things slow.”
“I think we’re going to make an awesome team.”
“It won’t be perfect every day. I’m still me. Stubborn, opinionated, sad that I can’t change the decisions I made in high school . . . and too insecure for my own good.”
“And I’m . . . well . . . I’m . . . I can’t think of anything.” He shot her a teasing grin and she punched him in the bicep. Then he sobered. “I’m not perfect either. I’m a lot of those things you listed. And more. Your high school days are gone. The decisions you made back then don’t have to define your future. I won’t let them define it.”
A tear slid down her cheek. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered, “but if you’re sure, we’ll make it work. Together.”
“Which brings us back to that whole rest-of-our-days thing.”
She smiled. “So it does.”
“Only if you want to.”
“Oh, I want to. I want to, Gavin. More than anything.”
“Thank God.” He lowered his head and kissed her.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and sent up a silent prayer of agreement.
CHAPTER
ONE
JULY
KABUL, AFGHANISTAN
The watcher sat in the noisy café, attention focused on the mother and two boys across the street. The father had stepped to the side to speak on his phone while the woman purchased two treats from the vendor. She gave them to the children, who eagerly dug in.
While the sun beat down and the asphalt shimmered, the watcher tuned into the eldest son. He was probably fifteen or sixteen, the youngest no older than nine. Two bodyguards stayed close by, their gazes roaming, hands on their weapons.
Fascinated by the protective way the older boy hovered over the younger, the watcher rose to discreetly follow the small family a short distance as an idea formed. An idea that had been germinating for the past two months even while the means to carry out the plan had been elusive. Now, the plan took root, shaping and growing by the minute.
The father led the way down the street calling to his sons. He didn’t speak to his wife, but he didn’t need to. She knew her place. The watcher’s attention returned to the man. He seemed so familiar. Why? Had their paths crossed somewhere?
A hand landed on the watcher’s shoulder. “Hey, where’re you going?” Tom Bright stopped her progress, coffee in hand. “I almost didn’t spot you.”
“I saw someone and wanted to get a better look.”
“Who? Here you go.” Tom handed over a cup of strong, black coffee. The perfect way to drink it.
“Thanks. Do you know that man?” The watcher gave a subtle tip of the head in the direction of the man who was back on the phone. “I feel like I’ve seen him before.”
“Yeah, that’s Musa Barakat. He’s the one on the news lately. The one who’s calling for the end of the country as the people know it and running for president. In 2018, over two million people turned out for the election—638,000 people in Kabul alone. This year promises to be a record turnout.”
“How do you even know that stuff?”
“I read. You should try it sometime.”
“Ha-ha. But yeah, I’ve heard all about him. He wants the country to be a democracy like the United States and he’s making a lot of enemies because of it, right?” You couldn’t turn around in the street without hearing about the radical who was causing such chaos every time he opened his mouth. “That’s him, huh?”
“Yeah. Hence the predictions of record-breaking voting.”
“Looks like he’s pretty tight with his family.”
“According to reports I’ve read, they mean everything to him. And you know how fathers feel about their sons in this culture.”
“I see.” The idea that had begun to form while observing Musa Barakat and his family continued to grow. “Do you think he’d be willing to answer some questions?”
“Like what?”
“About his politics. You know my dream is to be a journalist. I can’t pass this opportunity up. Let’s follow him and see if he’ll talk to us.”
“A journalist? Since when?”
The watcher shot Tom a narrow look. “Since forever, but I never thought I had what it takes to do that. After thse past few months, I’m going to try some new things.”
“Well, I have to say that’s a great attitude.”
“I’m working on it.” The watcher nodded. “Yeah. This might just be the catalyst I need to make that career change.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course.”
Tom shrugged. “All right then, why not?”
SEPTEMBER
KABUL, AFGHANISTAN
Dr. Heather Fontaine headed to the surgery recovery ward. The huge tents that made up the hospital might look rough and ancient on the outside, but the inside held state-of-the-art equipment for those needing it. And so many did. Afghani civilians and American soldiers, both.
She and one of the nurses, Gina Wicks, and two other friends from the hospital, had just returned from three days of sandboarding in the Bamyan Mountains and she felt like she’d been gone forever. She might not like to run or visit the gym, but she loved to sandboard in the hotter months and ski in the colder ones. There was nothing like the feel of the wind in her face and that peace-filled stretch of time from the top of the mountain to the bottom. It was a stress reliever like no other. With the Bamyan Mountains located about three hours from Kabul and considered a relatively safe adventure, it had been a no-brainer to head there when they’d had the time off.
She’d enjoyed being with her friends and knew she needed the mental break, but her patients weighed on her mind and in her heart the entire time she’d been away. Not that the other doctors weren’t perfectly capable of caring for them, but . . .
Instead of going to her quarters, she’d asked the others to allow her to stop at the hospital first to check on her patients. She could walk from there. Gina had simply fallen into step beside her, and Heather figured the woman was as concerned as she. Moments ago, Gina had disappeared into the recovery tent while Heather stopped to discuss a patient with a fellow physician.
“Glad you’re back, Heather,” he said. “It’s too quiet around here without you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure how to take that.”
He laughed. “Can I grab you a cup of coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“I’ll be right back.” He darted toward the cafeteria.
Movement in the distance stalled her. She stood between the tents—to her left was the operating suite, to her right the recovery area. She tried to get a better view of the approaching figure and noted he’d caught the attention of several others.
He trudged toward them, head down, T-shirt two sizes too big and flapping around his thin frame. He passed two of the Humvees, walked between two more tents, and headed for the recovery ward.
Certainty settled in her gut. “No,” she whispered. “No!” The closer he got, the more she knew. She ran toward him,
not thinking of herself. “Please! No!”
He stopped and locked eyes with her. She could see his desperation even at this distance. For a moment, he stayed frozen, half a football field between them. Then he ripped the shirt off and Heather saw the bomb strapped to his chest. “Help me!” He grabbed at the bomb, struggled with it, trying to rip it from his body while Heather stood frozen for a split second.
“No! Stop!” she yelled. “Don’t come any closer! Bomb!”
Heads popped out from the tents.
Heather’s focus remained on the teen. He’d managed to pull the explosive partway off, the duct tape loosening, some of it tearing. He held it out to the right side of his body, and for a moment she thought he might succeed, let go of it, and run.
But the explosion rocked him, lifted him, then dropped him onto his back on the hard-packed dirt. Heather screamed. She raced toward him, pulling gloves from her pocket, hearing others yelling at her to get back, that there might be a second bomb, but she couldn’t leave him like that. She dropped to her knees next to him. His right arm was gone, his right side a mangled mess. Blood pumped from the shoulder where his arm should be attached, and she clamped a hand over it.
“Hold on,” she yelled at him. “Hold on.” He was conscious, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’re going to be fine. What’s your name?”
“Abdul,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I—”
And closed his eyes.
Heather looked back over her shoulder. “Someone get over here and help me!”
Another doctor raced from the tent and time blurred as Heather went to work on the boy who couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen years old. “Please hold on.”
She was acutely aware of the others arriving to help transfer him to a portable stretcher and then to the OR. She raced alongside him, keeping her hands clamped around his open wound. And finally, they were in the operating room. Minutes turned into hours as they tried to put the boy back together. Another doctor worked to reattach his arm. Heather did her best with his torso. She pulled the last stitch and sucked in a breath.
“That’s it,” she said. “Now, we wait.”
Two hours later, in recovery, Heather dozed in the chair next to his bed.
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