by Anthony Tata
Cleaning up, Mansur took the full million dollars and improvised a new plan.
CHAPTER 31
Northwest Frontier Province, Pakistan
Sunday
Zachary Garrett looked up at his captor’s thin, evil grin baring rotten teeth. In the dim light of the adobe hut, Zachary could see the man’s long beard and traditional head dressing. He was pushing a bottle of water toward him.
“Drink.” The word came out, “dink.”
Zach lifted a heavy arm and took the water, twisted the cap with a bruised hand, and gladly poured the entire contents down his throat. He could feel the liquid burning cold throughout his upper torso. He was dehydrated.
“More?”
The man laughed. Though Zach thought it was doubtful if the terrorist understood English, he believed that the man understood his gesture. Regardless, the captor pulled a pair of flexible handcuffs from his robe and quickly zipped Zach’s hands together behind his back. Zach tugged at his hands, straining his shoulders. He silently wished that the Al Qaeda operative had known that the front position for the zip cuffs was preferred because men could relieve themselves without assistance, among other things.
“Stay.” The man pushed a large olive hand toward Zach’s face as if he were a cop indicating for traffic to stop.
Zach watched him disappear beyond a small opening, and then began to survey his surroundings. He was lying on a dirt floor in an enclosed room, save the opening through which his captor had just departed. He determined that the structure was typical of the Afghan and Pakistani people, caked mud walls that had hardened over centuries of sun and rain and constant repair. Through his time in Afghanistan, he had learned that the adobe structure was as strong as any rebar-reinforced concrete building.
He faintly recalled the tunnel complex as he tried to familiarize himself with his new surroundings. There was a man that called himself the Scientist who had been forcing him to kneel in front of . . . bin Laden? He had heard distant explosions and then lost consciousness. How long he had been unconscious he didn’t know. A day, maybe two? Then he awoke in this place.
He was still wearing his army combat uniform. Thankfully, he had two layers of polypro underwear. He was surprised his captors had not stripped him. It was the only thing keeping him from freezing to death. May in the Hindu Kush Mountains could sometimes bring forth a beautiful spring that would pull forth the grapes in the vineyards and the apples from the orchards scattered through the valleys. More often than not, though, the long reach of a reluctantly departing winter would sweep its frigid hand through the higher altitudes. The temperature was probably close to thirty degrees. Inside the adobe home, it was more like forty, maybe. At least he was out of the wind.
He laid his head against the hard floor, trying his best to find a position that wasn’t supremely uncomfortable. Finally, he decided that the best thing he could do was to lie flat on his stomach, removing the weight from his shoulders. As he nestled into the floor, he felt the searing pain of the knife cut to his neck and the two bullet wounds to his legs that he had suffered when he was rescuing Jergens.
Jergens. The rest of his men. What had happened to them? On the landing zone the last thing he remembered was a wild-eyed man leaping over him onto the ramp of the MH-47. Then everything had gone blank.
He felt his face grow cold against the bare floor as he shifted. He wanted to pray. He wanted to be able to place his hands together and pray to God for his men, that they were okay, that they had made it back to the base safely. He also thought of his brother, Matt, and Riley, his soul mate. Were they aware that he was alive? Were they suffering believing he was dead? Was anyone looking for him or was he presumed dead?
He did the best he could do and laced his fingers behind his back. He went deep into that place in his mind he had carved out long ago, before this or the Ballantine mission or any of the tight spots he had encountered. His silent prayer floated from his mind like a leaf blowing in the autumn wind.
Then, landing like a feather atop a gentle stream, the prayer carried on.
CHAPTER 32
Charlotte, NORTH CAROLINA
Sunday Evening
Riley Dwyer looked at herself with a mixture of despair and amusement in the mirror of the master bathroom of her Dilworth home. The house was just off Tryon Street in a swank row, maybe about a mile from her Charlotte office. The location was ideal, especially for a single woman. Tryon Estates was near all the trendy eateries, and Southpark Mall was twenty minutes away.
“You’re getting old, Dwyer.” She ran two slender hands along smooth cheeks, noticed her freckles, as prominent as ever, and sighed. She was being dramatic. She knew deep inside that she was pretty by even modest standards; most men considered her beautiful. Her mid-thirties were agreeing with her from a health standpoint, but these last few days were impossibly difficult.
She grabbed a scrunchie, knotted her thick hair into a ponytail, and then leaned over to tighten up her running shoes. Though it was getting dark, she really needed to burn some energy to clear her mind. There was still no word on Zach’s funeral. No one seemed to know where Matt was, so she had called Karen, his sister. She was equally unaware of Matt’s location or when Zach’s remains would be ready for the family. She hated that word “remains.” It begged the question, how much of him was really left?
She shuddered as she visualized the helicopter exploding and burning, imagining the fear and terror he must have felt along with that of his men. Where do we find such heroes, she wondered? So many men lost, so many families torn apart, so few who truly understand the sacrifice. She didn’t pretend to know the trials of a soldier, though she understood full well the anxiety of loving one.
Riley walked into her foyer, where she paused in front of her small print replica of Thomas Cole’s Voyage of Life. She had all four paintings, arrayed from childhood to youth to adulthood to old age. She pondered her own life, visualizing herself in the boat with the broken till about to tip nose first into the rapids spiked with knife-edged rocks.
She sat down on the padded hall bench beneath the painting, wondering if she had the energy. Beneath the Cole print was a photo of her and Zach hiking in the low mountains near Lake Jocassee, South Carolina. She was wearing a funny gray Clemson sweatshirt that said, “Athletic Department—Yeah, right!” He was wearing his signature blue-and-orange University of Virginia hooded pullover.
She remembered that Zach had placed the camera on a rock, set the timer, and run toward her. The flash caught them laughing as he nearly knocked them both over the ledge. Behind them the world fell away to the east, toward Charlotte, and what she saw in the photo was two people as happy as they had ever been.
That was their first weekend together. Zach had rented a small, Spartan cabin in Jocassee after nervously asking her out. They had been on many dates for dinner and a movie, concerts in Charlotte, and any variety of other entertaining venues. Some of these dates were squeezed in after he had made an attempt to visit Amanda. That weekend had served, now that she really thought about it, as the turning point for Zach, where he decided to give Amanda her space; not to let go, but to maintain a respectful distance with a watchful eye.
Once they had returned from the hike, Zach and she had prepared a meal together in the kitchenette of the small cottage. He’d opened a bottle of dry white wine and they drank while they broke hard spaghetti and tossed it into the boiling pot.
“Hard to screw this up,” she’d said.
“Watch me.” Zach smiled.
“Oh, I can do that all day long.” She winked at him.
“That’s about how long this spaghetti needs to cook, right?”
“Uh, yeah, right, mister chef.”
She leaned into him and smelled the fresh outdoor air on his sweatshirt. Holding her wineglass in one hand, she slipped her arm around him as he wrapped her up with his arms. Nuzzling into his neck, feeling the wine giving her a bit of courage, she lightly kissed behind his ear and whis
pered, “We can burn a little bit of energy first, if you’d like.”
He reached over and placed his wineglass on the countertop and pulled her face to his, both of his hands framing her cheeks. Pressing his lips to hers, he ran his hands through her knotted, flowing hair all the way down to her back. He gently pulled her closer. Moving away briefly, he looked into her eyes so deeply that she wondered how they could have waited so long for this to happen. However, she knew that their relationship needed to develop at its own pace, and this moment was the perfect one.
Looking into his eyes, she registered that there was a purity mixed into those green irises that would not betray her . . . or anyone. Her thin hands pulled at his sweatshirt, lifting it over his head, revealing a white T-shirt that was a bit damp with the cool remnants of sweat. She had that off in record time as well.
Somehow they had managed to find the bed as they walked, kissed, groped, and discarded clothing, leaving a trail the same way a novice skier attempting a double diamond run marks his fall with a hundred-meter-long yard sale.
“I only want to do this if you’re ready, Riley,” Zach said, pulling away for a moment.
She looked at him with a fixed stare. “Ready? Zach, I’ve been ready for you for the last year. The question is, are you ready?”
Without answering, he began kissing her softly on the lips, moving to her neck, then to her shoulder, and back to her neck. He whispered, “What do you think?”
She looked into his eyes and then down below his waist and smiled. “Can’t be any more ready than that.”
Two hours later, the spaghetti was a dried heap at the bottom of the pot.
“Told you I’d destroy the chow.”
“Well, I’m letting you cook all the time,” she chuckled. She wrapped her bare leg across his and pulled herself on top of him about three quarters of the way. She smiled at the confirmation of his tenderness. While strong and powerful, he was loving and gentle. She propped her chin on his chest and looked into his face.
“Thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking we fit together pretty good there, Riles.”
“No question about that.”
“I’m also thinking that you’re the smartest woman I know. You’ve given me time and space to deal with Amanda while at the same time loving me and supporting me. I mean, wow, it just dawned on me how much I love you.”
“You’re totally worth it. Every bit of it,” she whispered.
“Hey, come here.” He pulled her on top of him completely. “I know another way we fit together.”
“Oh, my, so you do.”
Riley totally gave herself to him, handed him her heart as they softly loved each other that night.
“Promise you won’t break my heart,” she whispered.
“Never.”
Riley snapped out of her flashback with a jolt.
“Never,” she whispered to herself.
Yes, she needed to go for a good, long run. Moving the endorphins through the human circulatory system was a proven technique for stimulating brain activity, releasing stress, and reducing lactic acid buildup. She tucked her house key into the Velcro pouch on her running shorts and leaned against her front door to stretch each of her calf muscles. Then, swinging the door open, Riley found herself staring into the distorted face of Amanda Garrett.
For a moment she could not find any words that would move from her brain to her mouth and make sense. To transition from the beautiful memory of her first lovemaking moment with Zach to the outstretched hand of his daughter was discomfiting, to make an understatement.
“Amanda, what are you doing here?” Not great, but the best she could do.
After a pregnant pause, Amanda looked up at Riley.
“I’m sorry about what I said to you.”
An apology? This would be a classic breakthrough if it was sincere.
“How did you find my house? How did you get here?”
“Can I come in?” Amanda’s voice was solemn. “I’d rather talk to you in the house.”
Though she had never had a client in her home, she figured it would be harmless.
“Sure, come on in. Where are my manners?” Riley was still trying to find her footing here. She led Amanda through the foyer, past her study, and into the family room with its vaulted ceiling and stone fireplace. “Please, sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m fine. I need to ask you a few questions,” Amanda said emphatically. Riley thought she could hear the whisper of the words, “. . . while I still have the courage.”
“Okay, sport, it’s your dime,” Riley said, more to herself now. Riley’s radar had reengaged. Something seemed out of place.
“I went to Sanford Friday. I went to see my dad’s house. You know, how this will thing tells me to, just like I have to see you. That was one of the requirements.”
“Go on.”
“Jake drove me, and he used the key you gave him. We were in there for about an hour, maybe, and then I guess my mom called the NCBI or something because some people showed up and arrested Jake for kidnapping.”
“What!” Riley’s hand came to her mouth. “Where is he now?”
“They released him, but made me fly back here because he’s eighteen and I’m seventeen. They couldn’t let him drive me back. I kind of freaked, so I’ve been hanging at Brianna’s house all weekend. My best friend. Mom, everybody’s kind of freaked out, you know?”
Riley shifted in her chair and leaned forward. “So where is Jake now?”
“I haven’t seen him since he got back. I even texted him that I was coming over here and it would be cool if he met us so we could, you know, talk. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about though.”
“Let me ask you, what made the NCBI release him so quickly?”
“That’s part of what I need to talk to you about. I’m afraid I’m seeing how screwed up in the head I am. I need to talk to you.”
“We’re talking, Amanda. It’s going to be okay. And you’re not screwed up.”
“I . . . I don’t remember things . . . about my dad. Well, sometimes I do, like today.” Her words were coming out fast now. “When we were driving up the hill to his house I thought I was traveling back in time. I saw myself wrecking my bike, and I had absolutely no memory of that. Then . . . then we got into the house, and all these memories came rushing back like someone was playing a DVD in my head, you know?”
Riley watched Amanda speak, tears sneaking their way down her face.
“The images were so real. I was reading on the chair. I was listening to a bedtime story. I was asking him not to go to work. What’s wrong with me?” she demanded, reaching out with her hands in frustration.
Riley grabbed Amanda’s hands and held them. “Let me show you something, Amanda.”
Riley guided her up the stairs and into what was obviously a guest bedroom. On the bed were several scrapbooks.
“Just for the record, Amanda, it’s important for you to know that your father met me at the courthouse as he was leaving the hearing for the divorce. The marriage was over by the time we began our relationship.”
Amanda didn’t respond initially. Then she said, “No one wants to think of their parents apart, you know. But I’ve never thought of my parents even together. I just couldn’t figure out why he was never there.”
“But you have to know, he was there. Look here. Your dad and I put these photo albums together. Several are of him and me, but you’re probably not interested in that,” she said, opening one of the albums. There were several pictures of Amanda swimming, as if taken from the corner of the gymnasium. She flipped a few pages, and Amanda saw photos of the senior class production of Gone With the Wind, in which she’d played Scarlett O’Hara. “Your dad was with you, but the conflict was so damaging to you that he pulled away. He couldn’t let you go. He had no intention of ever doing that. He just wanted you to have your space, to let you figure things out on your own. If that was possible.”
“Why wouldn’t it be possible?” Amanda asked, flipping through the photos.
“I mentioned to you the last time we were together a thing called parental alienation syndrome, do you remember?”
“I dunno, maybe, I guess.”
“It’s where one parent, usually the parent the child lives with most of the time, uses a child to hurt the other parent. It’s also called malicious mother syndrome.”
Riley eyed Amanda closely, watching for a defensive reaction regarding her mother. To her surprise, Amanda continued flipping through the book and looked up at her. “I’m listening.”
“The incident, for example, that you describe about being locked in the back of a car while your mother demanded money from your father is classic manipulation of the child and the noncustodial parent, who was your father, in this case. It could be argued,” she continued gingerly, “that your mother used you as a prop to compel your father to pay money to see you.”
“What if he really owed her that money?”
“Doesn’t make it right, honey,” Riley quickly said. “Putting a child in that kind of situation is, in my mind, criminal.”
“That’s pretty strong, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t, actually.”
Amanda put down the photo album, walked over to the window, and stared into the darkness. Riley saw her look down and notice a book on the end table.
“What’s this? This is you?” Amanda asked, distracted.
“Yes, that’s me. My book, rather. The courts have a lot to learn about this sort of thing.”
Riley walked over and took it from her.
“It’s great that you’re published.”
“I think I’m one million five hundred thousand on the Amazon bestsellers list. Awesome.” She smiled. Riley was being exceptionally modest. Her book had done well and had been chosen as a text at several universities. She wished to move past the book quickly, though. This was about Amanda, not her.
