“Nothing new,” Hancock says.
“I get a glow of joy every time we piss them off.”
“Have there been further attacks?”
“No, but they’ll try again. It’s only a matter of time.”
The United States filed its embargo motion at the UN Security Council. The effect was predictable. Other parties to the Iran nuclear deal protested. Tabled a counter-resolution, promptly vetoed by the American ambassador. The US threatened secondary sanctions against any country trading arms with Iran. The Europeans grumbled, but complied. Russia announced it would sell arms to Iran regardless.
The camera cuts to a press conference held by Iranian officials. The man on the screen sits behind an ornate desk. He is in his forties, with a neatly trimmed black beard. A touch of gray. He is simply dressed, in an open-collared dress shirt and linen sport jacket.
The Iranian press secretary.
“The United States is isolated,” he says. “The international community no longer cowers before its bullying. The Islamic Republic of Iran has many friends. We will respond to America’s treachery in an appropriate manner, in our own time.”
The usual veiled threat.
Hancock’s voice drips venom. “Motherfucking Hajji-beard.”
“Bring them on,” I say. “We’ll kill them till they stop coming.”
We’re unhappy we missed the funerals. Lenson’s parents came to William Beaumont to visit Hancock. I was still delirious, fighting off infection. They live outside Dallas. I’ll stop by to see them on my way to Fayetteville.
I’ve killed more people than I can count. Only a few faces stand out. The Iraqi kid who ran at us with an IED in his arms. Cut in half with a machine gun. He sat up, clutching his stomach. I could see he was suffering, so I shot him in the face. The Afghan women dragging our flayed POWs through the streets. The heat I felt as I pulled the trigger.
We have lost many of our own. They all knew the score when they gunned up and went into battle. Each man a brother. You grow close, but not too close. When they are killed, you feel hollowed by the loss. But you do not feel grief.
It is like that with Lenson and Keller. Hancock and I are saddened by their loss. Now they are gone, there are holes in our lives. But we will not sob and rend our clothes. We killed Hamza and his Quds because our friends’ ghosts demanded justice.
Hancock shakes two pills out of a bottle and fires them down with a gulp of water.
“Go easy on that shit,” I tell him.
“Can’t seem to get enough.” Hancock sets his glass down on the bedside table. “What are you going to do?”
“Go back to Fayetteville. Private companies are hiring operators.”
Hancock grins. For a moment, he becomes the cocky young man I used to know. “You gonna grow a handlebar mustache? Walk around in a biker vest and carry a 1911 in your hip pocket?”
We laugh together.
“Maybe.” I get to my feet. “Listen, I’ll see you later.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have an errand to run.”
I park my rented Taurus off Montana Avenue. Evergreen East Cemetery. I get out of the car, walk to the office. The lady at the desk lays a map of the grounds on the counter. Draws an X. “Here it is,” she says. “Next to the Garden of the Cross.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you Breed?”
“Yes, I am.”
The woman takes an envelope from her desk and hands it to me. “I was asked to give you this.”
The envelope is plain white, letter size. I slip it into my back pocket.
I walk across the cemetery. The sky is blue, the breeze is fresh. The amount of greenery surprises me. There are gravel sections, and patches of brown grass. Sprinklers work overtime watering the lawns. Most of the grounds are green, and there are trees everywhere. A plot in this cemetery must be expensive. I wonder how Stein managed it.
The grave lies under the shade of a tree. The wind is kicking up, ruffling blades of grass. The headstone and plot are small. She was a small girl. There is a cross chiseled into the stone, and Mirasol’s name.
I take the envelope from my pocket. Open it. A note, addressed to me. The handwriting is careful, precise.
Breed.
I think Mirasol would like it here, don’t you?
Stein
Yes, Stein.
I think she would.
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Acknowledgements
This novel would not have been possible without the support, encouragement, and guidance of my agent, Ivan Mulcahy, of MMB Creative. I would also like to thank my publishers, Brian Lynch and Garret Ryan of Inkubator Books for seeing the novel's potential and taking a chance. Thanks also goes to Claire Milto of Inkubator Books for her support in the novel's launch.
Not the least, I wish to thank members of my writing group, beta readers, and listeners, who support my obsession with reading every word of a novel out loud in pursuit of that undefinable quality called voice.
If you could spend a moment to write an honest review, no matter how short, I would be extremely grateful. They really do help readers discover my books.
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Feel free to contact me at [email protected]. I’d love to hear from you.
Best wishes,
Cameron
Published by Inkubator Books
www.inkubatorbooks.com
Copyright © 2021 by Cameron Curtis
DANGER CLOSE is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 24
