by David Hosp
Cianna opened the passenger side door and dove out of the car, careful to keep her knees and elbows bent in a classic paratrooper’s landing position. Even at under twenty miles an hour, the ground came rushing up at her, and her limbs readied for impact. As soon as felt herself hit, she allowed her body to roll with its momentum, not trying to stop it, but letting the energy of the fall spend itself as she tumbled toward the trees. As soon as she felt the momentum abating, she dug her knees in to stop the roll.
She looked around and spotted Saunders just a few feet off. He still had the box under his arm, and had managed to protect it through his fall. ‘Quick!’ he called to her.
They both scrambled toward the trees and threw themselves under the surrounding shrubs. Just at that moment, Sirus’s car roared by, directly in Akhtar’s tire tracks. The right fender passed within a few feet of Cianna’s face concealed under the bushes, and for a moment she had a terrible feeling that they had not moved fast enough. If anyone in the car had seen them dive from the car, they would surely stop and the final battle would be waged here by the highway. She looked around and considered their defensive options if that were to come to pass. It was unnecessary, however. Sirus’s car kept moving, and picked up speed as it came out of its turn.
Cianna waited for a few seconds before getting to her feet. She looked around the trees and saw the chase continuing, and even from her distance it was clear that it wouldn’t last long.
‘He’s not going to make it,’ she said quietly.
‘No, he’s not,’ Saunders agreed.
‘They’ll kill him.’
The cars disappeared around the curve of the road. A moment later the sound of metal tearing on concrete ripped through the air. There was yelling and gunfire, and an explosion rocked the waterfront. Just over the trees, they could see the orange-yellow fireball rise into the sky. There was more shouting and gunfire.
Cianna took a step toward the mayhem. ‘We need to help him.’
Saunders shook his head. ‘No one can help him now.’
‘You’re just going to let him die?’
Saunders had no response. ‘We need to find someplace safe.’
Now it was her turn to say nothing.
‘Cianna!’ he said. She looked at him. ‘Unless we want his sacrifice to be in vain, we need to get off the street. Is there anyplace we can go? Anyplace they wouldn’t know about or wouldn’t think of?’
She thought about it for a moment. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘There is one person left in the world I can call. He’ll help me.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The James J. Curley Community Center stood like a gargantuan balustrade along the shoreline on Day Boulevard. Built by Boston’s legendary four-term mayor during the height of the depression, at a cost of over $400,000, it was a monument to the power of persistence. Curley was first elected to public office as an alderman while he was serving a prison term for fraud, and spent over a year of his final term in prison for influence-peddling, before President Truman issued a full presidential pardon and returned him to office. The community center that bears his name and shelters the beach along the Old Harbor in Southie now offers yoga, Pilates, and classes on first-time home ownership.
That night, it also offered brief shelter for Cianna and Saunders. They stood in the shadows of its broad columns as Cianna made a phone call. She knew the number by heart, and she knew what emotional buttons to push to achieve the desired result. Appeals for assistance were particularly persuasive to some people, and none more than Milo Pratt. She might even have felt guilty about her manipulation if it hadn’t been for the fact that she did, in fact, need help. Desperately.
Seven minutes after she clicked off her cell phone, the dented Nissan Sentra pulled up in front of the community center. Cianna and Saunders hurried from their cover and slid into the car, Cianna in front and Saunders in back once again. She turned as soon as she was in the car and gave the driver a tense smile. ‘Thanks, Milo,’ she said. ‘You’re a lifesaver. Literally.’
His concern showed on his face. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘It’s not.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I can’t tell you. I know that’s a shitty thing to say when you came out to help us, but believe me, you don’t want to know anyway, okay? Can you trust me on this?’
He looked skeptical, but he didn’t argue. ‘What do you need?’ he asked simply. That was why she had called him. She knew that, when pushed, he would ask no questions. That was his strength and his weakness. Milo Pratt believed implicitly in the goodness of others, particularly those for whom he felt some responsibility. Notwithstanding the deceit he witnessed every day, he remained trusting. She supposed it was the one thing that kept him going in his work.
‘We need a place to stay.’ As she said the word we, she could see Milo glance in his rear-view mirror at Saunders. ‘This is—’
Saunders cut her off. ‘Just call me John,’ he said. She turned to look at him. ‘It’s easier that way,’ he said simply.
‘Okay, this is John,’ she said to Milo. ‘We need to get out of sight for a little while. Can we use your apartment?’
‘Of course,’ he said. He paused a beat, and said, ‘Just let me just get this straight: you need a place to take your John for the night? Do I have that right?’ She shot him a look, and he gave her an impish smile that almost made it look as though he had a chin. ‘Are you moonlighting? If you need cash, I could have loaned you money.’
‘Shut up, and drive,’ she said.
‘I’m just saying . . .’
She rolled her eyes and looked out the window as the shoreline ran past them. Inside, though, she was grateful to him. It was the closest to a smile she’d managed in two days.
Milo drove them to his apartment on H Street, up the hill, away from the water, toward Boston. The houses were packed tight on narrow streets in this section of town, and that made Saunders nervous. He would have preferred to be away from people. And yet he knew that hiding in plain sight was often the best strategy at times like this.
Milo’s apartment was a second-story one-bedroom with an efficiency kitchen. He kept it neat, and it was comfortable for its size. Saunders catalogued six other units in the house, taking note of where their entrances were.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Milo asked them, playing the perfect host. ‘I have water and OJ. Or I can whip up some tea?’
‘You have any Scotch?’ Saunders asked as he parted the shades on the bow window that hung over the street. It was quiet out there, and he pulled the shades.
‘Milo doesn’t drink,’ Cianna replied for the host, a little defensively.
‘No, Milo doesn’t,’ Milo said. ‘But Milo has friends who sometimes forget that.’ He dug into a cabinet under the sink and produced a liter bottle of Jack Daniel’s Sour Mash. ‘A gift from one such forgetful friend,’ Milo said and he showed off the bottle. ‘I meant to get rid of it, but haven’t gotten around to it.’
Saunders crossed to the kitchenette and opened the cabinet above the sink to get a glass.
‘Right on the first guess,’ Milo commented.
‘Not too many places to keep glasses,’ Saunders said. He pulled out two and put them on the table. The seal wasn’t cracked on the bottle, and he opened it and poured some into both glasses.
‘Does it bother you to have booze in the house?’ Cianna asked Milo. She knew more about his past than she let on.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It bothers me to have useless clutter in the apartment. By all means, have at it. Just get rid of the bottle when you’re done, okay?’
‘No problem.’ She looked at Milo, and Saunders could tell she was waiting for him to leave. Saunders took his gun out of his pocket and laid it on the table next to the glass, picked up the glass and took a sip. He could see Milo’s eyes go wide at the gun.
‘Do you have someplace you can go?’ Cianna asked.
Milo gave a dismissive wave. �
��Of course,’ he said. ‘I’m a resourceful guy.’
‘It’s better for you if you’re not here,’ Cianna explained.
‘So I can see,’ he said. ‘Someday you’ll have to tell me what this is all about.’
‘Probably not.’
‘Right. Let me just get my things.’ He disappeared into the bedroom for a moment, came out with a jacket. ‘It’s supposed to be cold tomorrow,’ he said. He walked to the door and turned back to them. She went over and gave him a hug.
‘Thanks so much,’ she said.
‘Like I said, no problem. Will you be back at work tomorrow?’
She looked at Saunders and he took another sip of the Jack. ‘Not likely,’ she said.
‘Ever?’ Milo asked. His voice sounded small.
‘Keep a good thought,’ was all she would say.
He hugged her again, more tightly this time. ‘I need you around to help with the kids,’ he said to her. ‘You know that, right?’
‘You did what you do before I started working with you,’ she replied, touching his face.
He shook his head. ‘Not very well. Now we’re actually making a difference. I need you to come back. The kids need you.’
She nodded and leaned in and kissed his cheek. ‘We’ll see. But you’ll be fine either way. You have more strength than you know.’
‘And less than you think.’ Saunders thought Milo was going to cry, but he didn’t. He sucked it up and turned the doorknob. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘John, it was nothing but a pleasure meeting you. Take care of her, okay?’
Then he was gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
‘He likes you,’ Saunders said.
‘He does,’ she agreed. ‘Not in that way, though,’ she added. She was walking around the apartment, looking at the pictures on the walls. They were all generic prints of boats and seascapes. ‘He’s gay.’
‘Is he?’
‘Do you have a problem with gays?’ she asked. There was the hint of an accusation in her tone.
He shook his head. ‘Gays serve in the military. I have no problem with anyone who serves in the military.’ He slid the second glass of Jack over to her, tipped his own up in toast. ‘Hooah,’ he said.
She picked up the glass and raised it. ‘Hooah,’ she replied. She picked the glass up and took a long pull. It felt good, and for the first time that day she felt the exhaustion creep up on her. ‘What’s the plan now?’
‘We wait,’ Saunders said. ‘My boss has my cell number. He’s been helping Akhtar all along, so he must have had a plan to get the Cloak out of the country from the start. He’ll get things organized and contact us soon.’
‘How will he feel about Akhtar’s death?’ she asked. ‘About the fact that we didn’t do more to save him?’
Saunders shook his head slowly, took another sip, and poured some more. ‘He was an asset. Nothing more.’
‘An asset . . . nothing more,’ she repeated quietly.
He shrugged. ‘It’s one of the first things you learn on the job. Never get attached to an asset. Eventually they all get burned. That’s the nature of the business.’
‘And me?’ she said. He looked up sharply at her. ‘I’m just an asset, too, right? You used me to find my brother. To find the Cloak. I’m an asset . . . nothing more.’
He looked at her silently as he took another sip of the bourbon. ‘You’re an asset,’ he agreed. She was glad he didn’t lie to her. She would have lost respect for him if he’d done that. ‘But you have skills. You’d make a good agent.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’
Neither of them said anything for a little while. They both just sat there at the table, waiting. ‘Where will he go?’ Saunders asked finally. She looked at him, an eyebrow raised. ‘Milo,’ he explained his question. ‘Where will he go?’
She understood. ‘He has another apartment,’ she said.
‘Another apartment?’
She nodded. ‘He doesn’t know I know about it. It’s over in the South End in Boston. Nice place. I followed him when I’d just started working with him. I wanted to know a little bit about him, figure out who I was dealing with. There seemed something off about him; like there was something he was hiding. Turned out he’s been hiding something for most of his life. I’m not sure he’s come to grips with it yet, so he keeps that part of his life separate. I think that’s why he’s so dedicated to the kids he helps. It’s like it’s some kind of penance for what he still, deep down, thinks of as his sins.’ She took another drink. ‘He’s a good person.’
Saunders gave a skeptical smile. ‘There’s no such thing,’ he said.
She looked at him. ‘You believe that?’
The smile faded. ‘Maybe not. Maybe I just don’t know what it means. A good person. If you do bad things, but you have a good motive for doing them, where do you fall?’
‘Is that how you see yourself?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t see myself.’
‘Must be nice.’
‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘It makes things easier. How about you?’
‘How about me?’
‘Who is the real Cianna Phelan? Soldier . . .? War hero . . .? Guardian of wayward children . . .?’ he paused, watching her. ‘Murderer . . .?’
She could feel her face fall with his last pronouncement. She poured some more bourbon, picked up her glass and stepped away from the table. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. ‘You read my record,’ she said. ‘Of course. You were looking for Charlie, you would have. So you think you know me.’
‘I know your file. I also know that files contain only the information others put into them.’ He walked over to her. The apartment was small enough that it was difficult not to stand close. ‘I’ve read about the medals and the missions, and the remarkable things you’ve done in the service of your country. I’ve read the accounts of you killing a man in cold blood. I know what it is that you do now, and I’ve seen what you’re capable of when the shit hits the fan. None of it fits. None of it makes sense. So, no, I don’t think for a second that I have any idea who the hell you really are. You remain a mystery, if it’s any consolation.’
‘Very little,’ she said. ‘What would solve the mystery for you?’
‘I want to hear it from you. In your words.’
‘What happened over there? You want me to tell you?’
‘If you want to.’
‘And you think that will matter?’
‘I don’t think anything really matters.’
She turned and looked up at him. She hadn’t been this close to anyone without a fight in two years. ‘Yes, you do. You know that some things do matter.’
In early August the heat in Kandahar was at its peak. Outside the madrasa the temperature was pushing 110 degrees, and it wasn’t noon yet. Sergeant Cianna Phelan squinted up into the punishing Asian sun and wondered how hot it might get. One-twenty at least was her guess. Under the full uniform – including the Kevlar vest and helmet – a body could be overcome in this kind of heat without any warning.
She was there with an elite Delta Force unit that specialized in anti-terrorism tactics. Radicals were recruiting more and more women to carry out terror attacks, and in order to combat this phenomenon, the Army recognized that Delta Force needed women in anti-terror roles. Afghan society was still so segregated that men alone could not adequately investigate, search and identify those women who might be preparing an attack.
Few were surprised when Cianna was one of three women chosen for the training. She was the most decorated woman serving in Afghanistan, with a silver star, two bronze stars, and two purple hearts; she’d already seen more active combat than most of her male counterparts. Even for all that, there was some concern that those within the Delta Force unit would only see the tits under the medals. She’d found acceptance, though, and the training was beyond anything that any women had undergone in the US military to date.
On August 11, her unit had been
called up to support the local military police to make sure that a series of demonstrations and counter-demonstrations did not get out of control. ‘Control’ was a difficult concept to define in a place like Kandahar, where most men carried weapons, and the area just outside the city was rife with poppy fields fought over by the Taliban, the territorial militias and the Federal Government forces. Often the best the US military could do was limit chaos, rather than exert control.
The demonstrations that day were likely to get ugly. Five days before, a young Shia woman had refused her husband’s sexual demands in violation of a Federal Law. The woman, who was pregnant and sick when she’d dared to rebuff her husband, was dragged to the center of the local square in her village outside the city. There she had been tied to a boulder and whipped mercilessly as a warning to other women in the village. When she was finally released, she had to be taken to the hospital, where it was discovered that she had miscarried. That news had driven her husband to beat her again, right in the hospital. It was no longer clear that she would survive.
News of the attack had spread throughout the nation. The Karzai government was under intense pressure from the UN and its allies to take the law off the books, but he needed the support of the Shia Mullahs in the upcoming election, so he was walking a middle line, promising to review the law without making any commitments about taking it off the books. Others within the country, though, were not being as passive.
The demonstration in Kandahar that day had been organized by the Revolutionary Association of the Women of Afghanistan – RAWA – an independent group that had been struggling for women’s rights for more than three decades. Many of the organization’s leaders had been executed in front of the crowds at local football stadiums during the Taliban rule, but the organization was gaining strength again. There were expected to be as many as seventy young women joining the protest that day, walking three blocks, from the madrasa run by an influential Shia cleric to the city center. It would be the first protest for women’s rights in the city of Kandahar since 1973.
