by Bonnie Vanak
No longer his.
Jarrett mumbled good morning and turned his attention to the eggs to hide his raging emotions.
Lacey’s gaze met his when he finally looked up. She sat at the table sipping her coffee, and he noticed the smudges of fatigue shadowing her face. “Fleur’s classes start at 0800. School lets out at 1400.”
Two o’clock. She still used military time, a habit Lacey acquired while married to him. He set down his fork. “What are your plans for today?” he asked in English.
“Trying to salvage whatever’s left from the fire, paperwork and then setting our plan in motion that we talked about last night. I’ll drop hints at the packing house, gauge reactions. Those women are hard workers, but they adore good gossip. I have a meeting with Paul at 1300 here at the compound. He’s having a driver bring back my SUV. You’ll get to formally meet him.”
At her stern look, he flicked out his hands. “What?”
“You know what. No paint on his car or tinkering with his battery. Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.” To those who deserved it.
Fleur picked up her empty bowl and carried it to the sink. He lowered his voice. “Call your dad. If anyone can expedite the visa, he can. Get the old man to pull whatever strings he can.”
She nodded. Jarrett polished off his eggs and then stood. He dropped a hand on Lacey’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of her. Try not to worry. Worrying sucks out your energy.”
* * *
This vehicle sucked.
Lacey’s elderly pickup truck had a finicky clutch and rumbled like an old horse with colic. Used for transporting mangoes, it made a lousy passenger vehicle. As he navigated on the main road toward Fleur’s school, he asked Fleur about her classes, careful to mask questions about the “bad men” so he wouldn’t scare her.
The bad men hung outside the school. They were there each day before classes and remained through recess and lunch break. When she left, they were still there.
She had noticed them about four weeks ago.
Jarrett passed a small market, keeping his eyes open for threats. Vendors grilled corn on small charcoal stoves on the sidewalk. A woman clutched a little boy’s hand as she walked him to school, his blue backpack hanging against his back. A girl in a red-and-white-checked uniform like Fleur’s bit off the plastic to a bag of chips.
He reached the school, beeped the horn and the security guard opened the tall metal gate. Jarrett drove inside, noting the guard held a shotgun. Held it the right way, too, not like Lacey’s guy who’d missed the dead chicken at the gate.
He parked the SUV in the yard and they hopped out. Jarrett straightened her backpack and stared at her solemn face. “I’ll be right here when school lets out. Don’t leave the yard. Rose packed you a nice lunch, so you’re all set. If anyone or anything scares you, call me on this,” he told her in French. “Do you know how to use a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
Palming one of the local cell phones he’d bought in the city, he slipped it into her backpack. Fleur gave him a dubious look far too wise for a five-year-old. “We’re not supposed to have cell phones.”
“It’s our secret. Only for emergencies. You call your mom and I’ll be here before you can say ‘paghetti.’ Deal?”
The shy smile she gave him melted his heart. He reached down and hugged her. The child barely came to his thigh, and she felt all skin and bones.
“I’m going to keep you safe, Fleur. No one’s going to hurt you or your mom. They have to go through me first.”
“Promise?” she whispered.
He hugged her again, his throat closing tight. “Promise.”
She nodded and hitched up her backpack. “And jump rope after school.”
He laughed. “Deal.”
Jarrett watched as she trudged off to class.
He went outside the gate, scanned the area and saw two men hovering near the school’s front gate close to where men played dominoes. Both men had tell-tale bulges in their jeans he instantly recognized as sidearms. One was short and dark-skinned, but muscled like a bodybuilder. The other had dark blond hair, stood about six feet and was trim and athletic.
As Jarrett leaned against the wall, he pulled out his phone, pretending interest in checking his messages. A bystander watching the game had ten red plastic clothespins on his arm. So the man had lost. Bet he’d love to have the chance to make a little money.
Time to create a distraction.
He ambled up to the game and struck up a conversation with the clothespin man. Five minutes and two US twenties later, Clothespin Man began arguing in a loud voice with the players.
He knew from experience such arguments tended to be more boisterous than violent, for people in St. Marc loved to express themselves. But if these guys, Americans from the looks of them, didn’t know much about the island, they would check it out. At least one of them.
Jarrett walked back to the gate, passing the men, ignoring them.
Sure enough Blond Guy walked toward the game, leaving his pal behind. But the dark-skinned man turned his attention to the game, watching his buddy. Jarrett stole toward the dark-skinned man and snuck up behind him. He pressed his Sig into the back of the shorter man’s head.
“Talk to me. Who are you, why are you here? Talk fast unless you want a head full of lead,” he said in English.
The man didn’t budge. “What do you want?” he replied in the same language.
“Never question the man holding the gun. Why are you hanging out at a private school attended by ex-pats’ kids?”
No answer. Jarrett pressed the gun barrel deeper. The man stiffened. “I’m only here to watch over Fleur.”
Watch over her before hurting her? “What do you want with her?”
“Senator Stewart hired us to watch Fleur’s school in case there was trouble.”
“Hired you? Who are you?”
“Sam Pendleton. Her bodyguard. What do you want with Fleur?” To his credit the man didn’t even flinch.
“I’ll ask the questions. Why are you here? And why not tell her mother?”
“I’ll answer when you tell me who you are.”
“I’m her personal bodyguard. Why doesn’t Lacey know about you?”
His quarry seemed to relax a little. “Her father didn’t want her to know because she’d put up a fuss about him interfering.”
That sounded like Lace. “ID?”
“My wallet and ID are in my back pocket. There’s a white card with a phone number with the senator’s private cell phone. Call the number and tell him who I am.”
Training his weapon on the man, he fished out the wallet, flipped it open and saw the ID and the card. Sam Pendleton, Security. Flipping out his phone, he called the number.
His ex-father-in-law’s gruff voice answered on the first ring. “Stewart speaking.”
“Hello, Alex,” Jarrett drawled. “Remember me? Your ex-son-in-law.”
Sam turned his head and gave a slight guffaw. “Oh, shit.”
“Adler! How the hell did you get this number?” Senator Stewart bellowed.
“Nice to talk to you again, too,” he said. The man had never liked him, always resenting the fact that Jarrett, a kid from New England who’d joined the Navy as enlisted, had stolen away his only daughter. Nothing Jarrett had done was good enough. Not even the fact he’d gone to school and gotten his college degree and became an officer. Not the fact he was SEAL, certainly, because Stewart thought SEALs were “hot dogs.”
“Got it from the man who said you hired him. Who is he?”
“He and Gene work for me. I hired them a month ago when Fleur’s visa wasn’t coming through.”
“And you didn’t think it was a good idea to tell Lace that armed men were watching her daughter’s school?”
“That’s my business,” the man snapped. “Why are you there, Adler?”
“I’m here to take Lacey back to the States.”
Silence on the other line. Finally, the man sighed. “She won
’t budge without Fleur.”
“Then light a fire under the asses of those paper pushers. Use your clout and do something useful instead of hiring muscle and scaring her daughter and your daughter.”
“Leave those men alone, Adler. They’re employed directly by me.”
“I will if they check out with my references.” Jarrett flipped off the phone, tempted to give it a one-fingered salute.
He lowered his pistol but did not put it away as Blond Man jogged up to them. Blondie introduced himself as Gene Armstrong. He had a Southern drawl and cool green eyes. They gave their military creds and Jarrett made another phone call, this time to Ace.
“Ace. Need you check out two guys. Sam Pendleton. Company F, First Battalion, First Marine Division. And Gene Armstrong. He was with the 75th Ranger Regiment.”
“Give me a few.” Ace hung up.
Jarrett eyeballed the men, who stared back with equal hostility. He wasn’t leaving his position, or trusting his ex-father-in-law until he heard from Ace. Alexander Stewart might think he had hired bodyguards, but he could be fooled. And this was Lacey’s little girl.
His cell rang. “Yeah?”
“Both check out. Enlisted, both received honorable discharges. Armstrong was wounded in Ramadi. Took a bullet to the leg.”
He thanked Ace and thumbed off the phone. Jarrett tucked his Sig back into his holster. “My friend says you’re cleared. I’ll leave you to your job. I’m picking Fleur up at 1400 hours.”
Gene and Sam nodded.
He gave the dark-skinned Sam a scrutinizing look. “Were you hanging out, asking if a flower attended this school?”
Sam’s brow wrinkled. “No. We knew she was here all day.”
This was troubling. “Anyone else you’ve seen who has been asking questions about her?”
“Not me, but my French isn’t that great,” Sam admitted. “Gene’s is better. We’ve been keeping an eagle eye on the place with all the growing unrest. There’s a chance someone could have been here for a few minutes and we missed him.”
A few minutes around recess, when children came outside to buy snacks from the vendors. Jarrett rubbed the nape of his aching neck. “This ices my balls. Someone’s been asking about Fleur. Someone other than you two.”
Quickly he gave a description. “If you see this guy again, get hold of him. I’d like to question him. My way.”
“Would hate to go up against you in a fight, sir. You military?” Sam asked.
When Jarrett told them, Sam’s face lit up. “Knew you had to be a SEAL. Only a frogman could sneak up on me like that. Don’t feel so bad now that you got the drop on me, sir.”
“Where you boys from?” Jarrett asked.
“A little town near Houston, Texas,” Gene said. “Best damn state in the USA.”
“Don’t mind him,” Sam drawled. “He gets a little antsy when he’s not within shooting range of the Alamo. I’m a Yankee. From New York City. You?”
“We’re almost neighbors. I was born in New Hampshire. The old man was military so we moved a lot.”
Gene gave him a look filled with respect. “Lt. Jarrett Adler. You’re the Iceman. I heard about that op you did in Ramadi. You laid down enough fire in that neighborhood for our boys to beat it the hell out of there.”
Uncomfortable with the praise, Jarrett gave a brusque nod. He didn’t like talking about that op. Too many nightmarish images from that time, men who died with their legs blown off, screaming, the blood and the slick, coppery scent of it...
“You’re the Iceman?” Sam asked. “Hooyah, sir. Semper Fi.”
He relaxed a little and for a few minutes, talked with them about missions in Iraq and Afghanistan, the crummy food and American football. Gene had retired from the service only last year, and Sam had left six months ago.
“It was tough getting used to wearing civvies,” Gene said. “Tougher finding work after being a Ranger for years. We were happy the senator gave us a detail. I speak French, but ole Sam here barely knows any words.”
“I’m good at pointing and talking with my hands,” Sam said, grinning.
Jarrett gave a gruff nod, for Gene had voiced a fear he also felt. What life did he have upon leaving the teams? He was nearly thirty-five, and some days he didn’t think he’d live long enough to celebrate his fortieth. Thirty-five was approaching senior citizen age in the teams.
These young kids coming into the teams with their snappy attitudes and do-or-die zeal... Yeah, they had respect for all he’d done, and more than often there was a quiet sense of almost hero worship. He’d lived for the adrenaline thrill, the sense of a job well-done, knowing he kept his country safe.
Jarrett didn’t want to be pushed into retirement. He wished he could find something to replace the sense of purpose that had driven him all these years.
He could still serve. But how?
Gene handed him a white business card. “When you get back Stateside, look us up and we’ll buy you a beer. Be honored to share a brew with a frogman who watched our six.”
Jarrett thanked him, fished a card out of his wallet and scribbled down the number of his local cell phone. “Where are you two bunking?”
“Local hotel. It’s not bad.” Sam’s voice was neutral.
“The fleas aren’t as big as the sandfleas in Ramadi,” Gene added.
Jarrett grinned. “Yeah, I know it. While you’re here, keep an eye out for anything suspicious and call me at this number if you see anything.”
He told them what happened with the shed and Gene’s eyes narrowed. “This country’s getting too many hot spots. I heard last week that the favored candidate might not win because the current regime could be targeting him.”
He considered. These men, ex-military, might be good resources. “Let’s get together tonight at Lacey’s place, dinner and drinks.” He grinned at the hopeful look on Gene’s face. “Lace has a great cook. I bet she can whip up a mean Texas-style chili that will melt your socks.”
“Only Texans can do that, sir,” Gene said.
“Yeah, Lace has a stash of peppers that would do you proud. Trust me. I’ll scrounge up some cold brews, too.” He rubbed his chin. “I know the senator is paying your bill, but it would be a huge relief to my ex to know the men hanging outside her kid’s school are aboveboard.”
He gave them the address. “Be there at 1800 hours.”
“Be nice to hang with other Americans,” Gene said.
“Honored, sir.” Sam saluted him.
As he returned to Lacey’s truck, feeling a little more relieved that Fleur was being guarded by professionals with weapons, Jarrett couldn’t help but wonder if someday soon it might be him standing outside a school, keeping watch on someone else’s dime. He loved his career in the Navy, but what came next?
* * *
When he returned to the compound, he did a thorough check of the property, riding along the narrow pathway of the wall’s perimeter, looking for weaknesses in the wall or an easily penetrated spot.
At the field near the homes where the women lived, four men picked corn. He questioned them all, but none had seen or heard anything suspicious. The men worked in the compound during the day, but left before dusk fell. All four had worked for Lacey for two years and seemed loyal and grateful for the jobs she’d given them.
They promised to keep an eye out and report anything odd.
At the property’s northwest corner, beneath the shade of several mango trees, he saw a man leaning on a shovel near the garden. Dressed in dirt-stained jeans, a button-down shirt plastered to his sweating body, he appeared to be taking a break.
Except he wondered what the guy had been doing, for he didn’t see evidence of holes dug or dirt piled up. Jarrett parked the truck and climbed out.
“Who are you?” he asked in French.
The man gave him a long look before answering. “I’m Jean. I work here.”
He remembered him from last night. Pierre, the man Lacey had sent to fetch the hose from the gard
ening shed.
“For how long?” Jarrett asked.
“Miss Lacey hired me last week to take care of the garden.”
He swept a critical eye over the tomato garden. “By weeding with a shovel?”
“I’m planting seeds. Over there.” Jean waved at a spot closer to the compound’s wall. “The sun is better there. More tomatoes to grow.”
Jarrett wasn’t a gardener, but it made sense. Except he didn’t like the way he kept glancing nervously at the wooden shed near the garden.
“Do you live here?” he asked.
Jean pointed to the shed. “Miss Lacey lets me stay there. I live an hour away off the main road and visit my family on the weekend.”
“Did you see anything last night before the storage shed started burning?” he asked.
Jean shook his head.
Following his instincts, he walked around the shed, with Jean following him. Two walls sported new coats of bright red paint.
“Odd color to paint a shed,” he told Jean.
The gardener shrugged. “Miss Lacey had the paint donated. No choice.”
Jarrett went to the shed’s door and stepped inside. Jean followed him.
Inside he found nothing unusual. The shed was neatly organized, and in the back room with a narrow bed where Jean obviously slept, there was a small kerosene stove and a table with a few plates and pots.
The front room of the shed contained gardening tools, buckets, a few burlap bags that he opened, and found to contain chicken droppings. It could have been used to help start the fire, but it wasn’t as effective as regular fertilizer when making a bomb.
“Guano is a good fertilizer. Natural,” Jean said.
The man seemed eager to explain everything. Interesting.
Even more interesting were the two plastic buckets of paint and the still-damp paintbrushes. Jarrett picked one up and examined the bristles.
“The paint protects the wood when it rains,” Jean told him.
“Do you keep the shed locked? Or can anyone walk inside?”
“Why would we lock it? No one steals from Miss Lacey.”
Yeah, no one stole. They just set fire to her storehouse and left threats on the walls...in red paint. Jarrett didn’t like it. He dropped the brush. He went outside and touched the red wall and his fingers came away stained crimson.
