They slid into a booth close to the door.
Well, that’s a new twist.
She hoped it didn’t mean trouble. The high-school-aged boys at a table near the girls had straightened their backs and taken on a cocky posture, as though declaring the young women belonged to them.
Oh, no. Not in her place. She wouldn’t put up with bullying. If these young men were anything like the children she’d helped in Afghanistan and Iraq during her down time while stationed there, they’d come from a special hell.
Children born and raised in the USA had no concept of life in a war-torn country. Sure, they had to look out for gangs there in Dallas, but in the desert, they could be snatched by the Islamic State for training as child soldiers, tortured to make their parents do whatever IS wanted or sold into the sex trade to raise money for guns. Even the smallest of children worked land that had the nutrients sucked dry three thousand years ago, trying to grow enough food to feed their family. In the cities, stray bullets, forgotten IEDs, or starvation could take their life in a heartbeat.
Gwen stripped off her apron and headed to the dining room to stave off any confrontation. At the last second, as a means of covering her intent, she grabbed her laptop on the way to the counter. She positioned herself so she could see all the teens in the corner mirror or through her peripheral vision. Glancing straight up to the pass-through window, Luis had moved into the prep area with a perfect line of sight to possible trouble. When their eyes met, he gave her the slightest of nods.
They were on the same page. Thank goodness.
With a practiced smile, the waitress took the newcomers’ order, helping them as they struggled, only a little, with English. She gave Gwen a long sideways glance as she went behind the counter to post the order and get their sodas. On the way back to the table, balancing a tray of full glasses, the server gave her an appreciative smile. Everyone had felt the tension rise.
Gwen wasn’t surprised when the boys spoke quietly in Arabic, commenting on the restaurant with approval, the typical complaints about their new school and neighborhood.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee or a soda, Gwen?” Her server interrupted her concentration on translating. A cold drink sounded perfect. After ordering her favorite, she refocused on the table at her back.
“We’ll get them.” The Arabic words jolted through Gwen. She clamped down the automatic reaction to turn toward the young men in the booth behind her. Instead, without moving her head, she looked into the mirror.
Her Arabic was rusty, and their dialect wasn’t familiar, but she got the meaning of the conversation.
“These Americans think they’re so great,” red shirt said with contempt.
“They’ll see.” The boy in the royal blue grinned.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she typed in the recognizable words and basics of their discussion.
Their older brothers, at least one uncle, and several men in their newly established community, were planning something big “to put the Americans in their place”. They often referred to the grand day when their people had brought the United States to its knees. It took Gwen a few minutes to figure out they were talking about 9/11.
There’d been a great deal of discussion about American planes, how they’d hit their mark in New York City but failed in Washington, D.C. Their voices carried an angry tone when they talked about the jet that had gone down in Pennsylvania.
“Al-Qaeda failed because they were not blessed by the true caliphate. This is why the Islamic State will succeed.”
Gwen understood those Arabic words completely as she typed them into her computer. Seemingly ignoring the boys behind her, she’d been tuned into every word.
Gwen pretended her phone rang and covertly used it to take pictures of the five boys, who had quickly devoured the hamburgers and fries they’d ordered. They were sipping the last of their soft drinks when the uniformed girls passed by on their way to pay their bills.
“Eahira.” The Arabic word for whore and the sight of the innocent-looking Catholic girls clashed in Gwen’s brain.
“I get mine in six weeks, on my fifteenth birthday.”
Gwen made a note of red shirt’s comment.
Mine? His what? Had she missed something?
“I shot off the moment I got inside mine the first time.”
That was a new voice, she thought as she glanced up to see it was the boy with a three-inch scar from cheek to jaw.
He shrugged and added, “The uncles laughed, but later my father told me he’d done the same thing and most boys do their first time.”
Sex. These boys were having sex at fifteen. Before her first tour to the Middle East, Gwen had been privy to reports of how deplorably many factions of IS treated women. This sounded like some kind of rite of passage.
“Was she naked?”
Gwen missed which eager boy asked that question.
“Of course,” scarred kid answered.
“Did they tie her to the bed or did she take you willingly?” That was blue shirt talking. Gwen recognized his voice. “My brother told me his first time was our uncle’s whore and she took him to her bed while our father and the council told him what to do.”
Or was it showed him what to do? Gwen wasn’t sure.
“No,” the scar-faced boy said. “She was tied up, but she didn’t fight me. All I have is one uncle here and only two members of the council were there to verify that I am now a man.”
“Was yours an American girl, or from our homeland?” blue shirt asked. “I think I’d like to fuck one of them.”
Gwen caught the leer in the boy’s eyes as he stared at the huddle of plaid. Would they dare kidnap one of those girls? Hurt them? A shudder ran through her at the very thought.
“All American girls are whores.” The boy next to the window said it as though it were a fact. All five watched in silence as the girls left the restaurant and walked passed the big windows.
“Mine was from Al Hasakah.”
Gwen typed in the Syrian city half way between the Turkish and Iraqi northern borders, on the fringe of IS occupation.
He continued, “On the plane here, she sat next to one of my sisters. They let me have her again, several times that day. It was—”
Gwen didn’t get the word. She was too repulsed at the sentences staring back at her. She’d heard about such things in certain spin off cells, but the firsthand account made the slice of meatloaf she’d had for lunch flip over in her stomach. She took slow deep breaths as she fought the urge to throw up.
The diner phone rang and one of her college-student waitress grabbed it, greeting the caller in her cheerful voice while slipping the order pad from her apron. Gwen glanced at the clock. It was the time when supper takeout orders started. Their little restaurant prepared dozens of meals for wives who were too tired from working all day to come home and cook, and for single men who loved the taste of a home-style supper.
When she heard her name, Gwen knew it wasn’t someone’s order.
“I’m sorry, Miss Gwen. There’s a problem with a shipment scheduled for tomorrow.”
Resigned, she took the phone and headed to the office as the food service company rattled off items that hadn’t made it onto the truck. A few steps away, she turned, closed her laptop and slipped it under the counter. She’d take a look at her notes later.
Chapter 4
Jonathan needed to get away from the Guardian Security Center and the small hotel room he currently called home. Fresh air, and a meal prepared by someone other than the company cook, sounded somewhere between perfect and heaven. He wasn’t sure where that man learned his culinary skills, but if it didn’t come from a deep fat fryer, it was burned. He’d have to talk with Quin about finding a replacement when they moved into the new offices.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, the tall buildings cast long shadows, filling the street with the pretense of night. This was Jonathan’s fourth graveyard shift in a row. As the newest of the three assistant man
agers, he’d been assigned the twelve hours from ten at night to ten in the morning. He’d awakened several hours ago and hit the local gym since this Guardian office didn’t offer one yet. After showering and changing into his uniform, he’d headed out to find food.
A man-sized breakfast is what he needed. Steak and eggs, maybe. He remembered Up In Smoke served the meal all day and turned in that direction.
He couldn’t wait to move into the new building where he’d have his own quiet apartment rather than the outdated hotel with thin walls where he and Quin currently lived. He was sure the room above him had been rented to a knuckle-dragging gorilla who had bounced on a hooker for hours last night. She had to have been a purchased lay because no woman he’d ever fucked sounded so fake.
Thoughts of sex shot to the unsuccessful pub crawl with Quin. They’d started at a strip club where the women were too skinny but all of them had nice racks. Fake, but huge. Next, they moved on to a hopping nightclub. A pretty little brunette had sidled up to him, but she was more interested in the gun he was required by Guardian to carry at all times, even off duty since he could be unexpectedly called to an emergency, than she was in him.
Quin had danced with several drop-dead gorgeous women before he found a model-perfect blonde. When they had returned to the bar, Roxie had introduced Jonathan to her friend, Babs. He’d thought of her as Big Boobed Babs when they first met, but after an hour of strained conversation, he had designated her Brainless Babbling Babs. He’d considered it a bullet dodged when she’d seen several other friends and joined them on the dance floor. He’d taken advantage of the opportunity and quietly slipped out.
Jonathan heard his boss return to the room next door around three in the morning, sure he’d scored given the satisfied look on his face the next day in the office. He hadn’t been envious of Quin, simply resolved. None of the beautiful women he’d seen and talked with gave him a flicker of interest.
As Jonathan walked toward the little diner, he realized why he’d slept alone that night. He’d compared every woman to the sassy, take-charge Gwen. Rich brown eyes, a no-nonsense haircut and very little, if any, makeup was more beautiful to him than any of the scantily dressed women with overly-dramatic eyes he’d seen replicated in every bar he had visited. He quickened his steps, hoping she was there.
Gwen sat at the counter typing on a laptop as he entered. Jonathan let out a long breath, pleased at the site of ass-hugging jeans and a tight t-shirt.
Yeah. This was the image he’d jerked off to the night he’d gone out with Quin as he showered away the stench of beer, clashing perfumes, and raging pheromones.
Without asking, he slid onto the stool beside her. “Please tell me I can get steak and eggs this time of day, Gwen.”
Her initial look of surprise softened into a genuine smile that made the gold strands in her brown eyes sparkle. He wondered if they came to life or disappeared completely when she was aroused.
“You most certainly can.” She cocked her head. “You have an advantage over me. You know my name but I don’t know yours.” As she scraped her gaze over him, the corner of her mouth twitched up before she controlled it. “Calling you Guardian guy, or Quin’s friend just doesn’t seem right. I like to know who I’m talking to.”
“Jonathan O’Neil.” He held out his hand. “And I am Quin’s friend, but I’m also his employee. I’m the newest assistant manager at this center.”
She took the proffered hand and gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Jonathan O’Neil. How would you like that steak cooked? And the eggs?”
She reached down to her waist and confusion was chased by realization that she wasn’t wearing an apron. With a self-deprecating smile, she stood and slid around the corner of the counter. Grabbing an order pad and pen, she looked at him expectantly.
“I like my steak rare and my eggs sunny side up.”
“Home fries, French fries, baked potato, or any of those.” She pointed to list of sides on the board above the kitchen window where a Latino man watched them carefully.
Jonathan didn’t bother looking. This was breakfast for him. “Home fries.”
“Coffee?” Gwen’s raised eyebrow was one of the sexiest things he’d seen.
“Definitely.” He looked around for a coffee cup but they sat ready only on the set tables. She reached under the counter and pulled out a mug.
Leaning back, she reached out to the machine behind her, then turned around to him. “Leaded or unleaded?”
“Fully leaded, please.” He smiled when she grabbed the black-bottomed pot and filled his mug. “Sweetheart, you have just earned my undying gratitude.”
Just as she slid the order under the clip and spun it toward the kitchen, the restaurant phone rang. She snatched the portable handset from beside her computer. Frowning at the display, she said, “Excuse me.” She disappeared into the back, leaving him alone to enjoy his surprisingly delicious coffee.
Jonathan glanced around the nearly empty diner. A middle-aged couple sat in a booth along the back wall, hardly talking, concentrating on their pie. They’d probably been married for years, catching a late supper together after a long day at work, if he had to guess given the man’s suit jacket lying on the seat next to him and her dress pants, flattering blouse, and short heels. He’d been taught to sum people, and situations, quickly. They were no threat.
As he swept his gaze over the restaurant, his eyes fell on Gwen’s computer. Three words jumped out at him. Big like 9/11.
What the fuck?
Put Ams in their place.
Holy shit. What was she into?
The lid suddenly closed and very feminine fingers splayed over the blue case.
“Your order should be up soon.” At Gwen’s terse words, his eyes met hers. Yeah. He’d been snooping, and he needed to dig further.
He hoped his smile put her at ease. “Writing a book?” It was a plausible explanation.
She slid the laptop off the counter, placed it underneath and drew out a mug. She turned her back him and poured a cup of decaf. “I’m no author.” She came around to his side and, once again, took her seat. “I hated writing papers in college.”
“Where did you go to school?”
Any information she was willing to give him would help. She just stared at him for the longest time, as though trying to read his mind or decide if she could trust him.
To start the give and take necessary to build a solid foundation for a friendship, he offered, “I graduated from the University of Florida.”
“You’re a gator.” She smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.” He sipped his coffee. “I wanted to get out of Miami but not too far from my folks.” He shrugged. “Besides, the school had Navy ROTC and I had a scholarship.”
“You were in the Navy?” There was more than a spark of interest in her question.
“Marines.” He was used to women gushing at this point and mentally prepared for the onslaught of military questions.
“I was Army.”
She couldn’t have shocked him more if she’d said she was an alien. He set the cup down and looked at her. Really looked at her, as though seeing her for the first time. It was there. That hard edge that said I’ve seen too much.
Jonathan wanted to take her in his arms and protect her. He’d hold her until all the sharp angles melted into smooth, round curves, erasing the bad things she’d seen, replacing those memories with the sweet life she deserved.
And, maybe she’d do the same for him.
“When did you get out?” He managed to ask.
“Six mon—” Her gaze flew to the door as a bearded man all but fell through. “Kane.” Concern saturated the single word.
She jumped up and grabbed the man around the waist and one hand under a bent elbow. Half-carrying, guiding him to the back, the two spoke so low Jonathan couldn’t hear.
But he could smell, and the stench was revolting. Jonathan’s Spec Ops team had spent two weeks without a shower in the Afghani desert hunt
ing an al Qaida leader and he was sure none of them smelled that bad when they returned to Camp Leatherneck. He pegged the man close to his age, maybe older. It was hard to tell with most of his face covered in hair and lined eyes that had been exposed to too much sun and heat.
Through the open window to the kitchen, he watched Gwen and…Kane, that’s what she’d called him. Most of their movements took place out of Jonathan’s sight but when she’d checked Kane’s eyes, the scowl on her face said everything.
Her friend was a junkie in need of a fix.
She retrieved a very small bottle from the frig door and the man pulled up the plaid shirt that hung loosely over broad shoulders. He could see a neat row of injection sites approximately one inch apart. Unusual for a junkie to be so precise.
Jonathan sat frozen on the round stool as Gwen tipped the bottle upside down and filled a syringe. She pushed the plunger until a drop ran down the needle. Kane had already opened an alcohol packet enough for her to extract the soaked square.
The rest was hidden by the four-foot wall between the dining area and the kitchen, but Jonathan knew what was happening by their facial expressions. Almost instantly, the pain that had creased the vagrant’s face eased as he inhaled slowly through his nose and exhaled through lips shaped like an O.
“Go sit at the counter.” Gwen’s order was reinforced by the stern look on her pretty face. She glanced at the cook.
“Already on it,” he replied.
Jonathan heard something hit the grill and sizzle.
“Your order is up, Gwen.” The cook gave her a friendly smile.
“Oh, thanks.” In seconds she appeared on the service side of the counter and slid the dish in front of Jonathan.
The huge steak was flawlessly cooked with red juices pooling on the bottom of the plate. Half-inch slices of green pepper and browned onions dotted the pile of golden cubes of potatoes. Jonathan scooped up the egg, it’s bright yellow center jiggling as he laid it on top of the home fries.
Justice for Gwen (Police and Fire: Operation Alpha): Guardian Elite series novella #2 Page 3
