“I know I don’t have to but I want to. That’s why I’m offering,” I say, following her out into the parking lot.
She clicks the lock on her car. I walk past her to open it. She looks up at me, those eyes wide and innocent now. Ah, man, I’m shook. I can’t even say anything.
She gets in, and as I’m closing her door, she says, “Thanks. See you tomorrow.”
“Yep.” It’s all I can manage to say as I watch her drive out of the parking lot.
Chapter Thirteen
Outer Banks, North Carolina
2005
One of the first things Mack learned in basic training was how to remain calm in the chaos of war. He had been in hundreds of full-out firefights over the years, and had always immediately felt calm when the bullets started flying. Apparently, that strategy didn’t apply to Parents’ Night at Millie’s grade school. He had never felt more stressed out in his life.
Because of his schedule, this was the first parent/teacher night he had been able to attend with Millie. She hadn’t let go of his hand since they got out of the car. Her face beamed with pride every time she introduced him to someone. Mack, on the other hand, was overwhelmed with the scene. There were kids running wildly everywhere, parents yelling at them to stop, and teachers trying desperately to be heard above the din.
“How you doing there, Mack?” Carol said. Mack turned around to find Millie’s friend’s mom standing behind them. Her eyebrows were raised and her lips pursed. She knew how loud noises triggered him.
“Is it always like this?” Mack asked as he tried to smile.
“It will calm down in a few minutes when the tours and teachers’ meetings start. The kids will all go down to the cafeteria for pizza,” Carol said, patting his arm.
Millie instinctively hugged Mack. She could sense when he was becoming tense. It rarely happened, but sometimes when a car backfired or a balloon popped, he jumped. She didn’t know why. She just guessed he didn’t like loud noises. And, she knew that fireworks with him on the Fourth of July were completely out of the question. It’s just something she had come to accept.
Thankfully for Mack, all the kids finally started filing out to the cafeteria. Millie gave him one more squeeze, and then skipped away with Chloe. Mack spent so much time alone with Millie when he visited. It was weird for him to see her as this confident, independent socialite. It made him proud and scared all at the same time.
Mack showed up fifteen minutes early for his scheduled appointment with Millie’s teacher, and ended up having to wait thirty minutes because she was running behind. On time is late. These people would never make it in the military, Mack thought as he stood impatiently against the lockers.
Finally, the teacher’s door opened, and a woman who looked like she was barely old enough to be out of school herself greeted him.
“Mr. Marsh? I’m Millie’s teacher, Miss Dunning,” she said, shaking his hand.
Mack followed her in, and took the chair by her desk. He didn’t know why he was so nervous.
“The first thing I’m going to tell you about Millie is that she’s one of my favorite students ever,” she started. “And, you might think that’s something I say to everyone, but I don’t. Millie is special, so whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”
Mack felt a surge of relief go through him like someone had just told him the results of a test for a life-threatening disease had come back negative.
“Thank you.” Mack couldn’t think of anything more to say. He felt oddly uncomfortable discussing Millie with someone. They had been in their own little cocoon for years, and now, he was just realizing she had an entire life outside of him.
“Specifically, I can tell you her language skills are off the charts,” Miss Dunning continued.
“Yeah, she’s quite the talker,” Mack said, laughing.
“Well, yes, she is that, too. I was going to bring that up later, but what I’m talking about right now is foreign language. We teach all the kids Spanish here, and she excels at it. She’s proficient way beyond her age group.”
“She must get that from her mother,” Mack said.
“Did her mom speak another language? Millie never talks about her.”
Mack didn’t know why he had mentioned her mom. He never mentioned her to anyone, including Millie.
“Yeah, she spoke several languages,” he said shortly, hoping to move on to another subject.
Miss Dunning seemed to get the hint. She told him about Millie’s impressive skills in math and writing, and that Millie needed to work a bit harder on science.
“Millie’s also really athletic. Do you ever think about signing her up for organized sports?”
Mack hadn’t really thought of that at all. She still seemed like a little kid to him. He knew she could swim and run faster than just about any kid he’d seen at this age, but he’d never thought about sports for her. He’d been so consumed with hiding her, he hadn’t considered that maybe it was time to let her start experiencing normal group activities.
“I’ve never talked to her about that. I’ll ask her,” Mack said, a little bit embarrassed for not thinking about this sooner.
“Well, again, Millie is amazing. She’s sweet, inclusive, smart, funny. Everyone loves her, so congratulations to you for raising such a lovely human,” Miss Dunning said. “We are required to tell you about any concerns, so I will tell you that some of her teachers think she’s not serious enough, but really I just think they mean she’s a chatterbox.”
Mack tried not to smile, but failed. “Yeah, she’s got a lot to say. All the time. Do you want me to talk to her about it?”
“No. Not at all. Unless you want to,” Miss Dunning said. “Millie has a carefree spirit that I see fade in so many kids around this age as their parents get more serious about college scholarships and athletic excellence. All of that is important, but I really feel like kids need to be kids as long as they possibly can.”
Mack understood why Millie liked Miss Dunning as much as she did. He wanted Millie to keep that spirit well beyond her childhood days.
Mack left the classroom and headed down to the cafeteria to meet Millie. He opened the door to find the chaos had returned. Kids were flying around everywhere. He couldn’t see Millie, but he saw Carol over in the corner of the room and joined her.
As they discussed the results of their respective parent-teacher conferences, Mack located Millie across the room talking to a few girls her age. He saw a boy trying to get her attention. She was ignoring him, but he was being pesky. Mack watched as the boy grabbed Millie’s ponytail and pulled her hard toward him. Mack leaped out of his chair, ready to grab the kid and throw him across the room. Carol raced after Mack and positioned herself in front of him. She put her hand lightly on his chest.
“Mack, Mack, no, no, no. She’s fine,” Carol said quietly. “They’re just playing, just roughhousing. Millie’s strong. She can take care of herself.”
Mack stopped just in time to watch Millie efficiently put an elbow in the boy’s gut and return to the group of girls without missing a beat.
Hell yeah, she can take care of herself, Mack thought proudly as he allowed Carol to gently herd him back to the adult side of the room.
“Sorry,” he said as he sat down next to Carol. “It’s just instinct.”
“I know. You’re all good,” Carol said. “Just remember, you’re at a grade school, not in Iraq. I know it’s hard to separate them sometimes.”
Mack tried to smile, but she had no idea how hard it was. No one did unless they had experienced war.
“Mack, you know, if anything ever happens to you, I love Millie. I know you have other friends, but I’d be happy to take care of her. At least I’d be better than Camille,” Carol said.
Mack managed a forced smile again. He hated thinking about how Millie would fair without him.
; “Thanks. I really do appreciate that. And, yeah, you’d definitely be better than Camille,” he said, patting Carol’s hand. “I’m going to get Millie. It’s about time to go home.”
Mack gave Carol’s hand a final squeeze as he walked over to Millie.
“Hey, Mills, are you ready? We should probably head home,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder while glaring at the ponytail puller who was still nursing his gut.
Millie grabbed Mack’s hand as they walked out of the building towards the parking lot.
“Daddy, do you love Miss Carol? Are you going to marry her?” Millie asked.
“What? No, Millie, I don’t love Miss Carol, and we’re not going to get married,” Mack said as he playfully pulled her toward him and gave her a bear hug. “Why do you say that?”
“You were holding her hand,” Millie said. “I saw you.”
“I wasn’t holding her hand. I was touching her hand. There’s a difference. She needed comforting, and that’s all I was doing.”
“You kiss me when I need comforting,” Millie said. “You should try that with Miss Carol.”
“Maybe it’s time for you to stop talking now, Millie,” Mack said, laughing as he squeezed her tighter.
Chapter Fourteen
Millie
Virginia Beach, Virginia
2019
Culver was right yesterday when he said my dad wouldn’t want me here. He wouldn’t want me in Virginia Beach, and he definitely wouldn’t want me on the base. He always told me to stay as far away from this life as possible. He had plans that after he retired, we would move out to San Diego where he had trained. He’d buy a little house near the beach. I could go to college. We’d go surfing on my downtime. I had a calendar in my bedroom counting down the days until that happened. We had only fifty-four more days when he died.
I’m thinking of this as I lay in the hotel bed wide awake at five in the morning. My briefing with the team isn’t until eight, but I can’t sleep, more than partially because I’m afraid of being late. I’m perpetually ten minutes late to everything. Not five. Not fifteen. Always ten. I’m not sure how it works out that way all the time, but it used to drive my dad crazy. He told me that in the teams, being on time was considered being late. He was always everywhere at least fifteen minutes early. I’m so pleased with myself when I pull into the base parking lot thirty minutes early. I walk into the briefing room, and everyone is already there. They all turn to look at me like I’m late. Seriously? I never would have made it in the military.
Culver motions to me to join him in the front of the room. As I walk over there, I see Mason staring at me. He smiles when I look over, and doesn’t look away. His laser-focused eyes follow me the entire way across the room. The way he looks at me is intoxicating and unsettling all at the same time.
Culver walks over to greet me, and then turns to the team. “Gentlemen, this is Agent Marsh. She has what could be an extended target package starting in Bosnia, extending to Afghanistan. We’ve been tasked with helping her through this process. Agent Marsh, if you’d like to brief us on your first target.”
“Good morning,” I say. “I sincerely hope you’re better operators than pool players.”
Mason laughs, and the rest of them narrow their eyes, looking at me like they’re trying to figure out a particularly hard word in a crossword puzzle.
Mouse’s face slowly breaks into a grin. “Wait. What? You’re my pool partner from the other night.”
“Yes, and you’re welcome for the money I won you,” I say.
There it is. I see the slow recognition finally make its way around the room. JJ doesn’t look amused, but in fairness, I’m not sure he ever does. Raine was right about him—straight-up intimidating. The rest of them kind of laugh and roll their eyes at me.
“If whatever this is, is done,” Culver says, gesturing curtly with his hands, “can we get on with it?”
“Of course, Captain. Thank you,” I say. “Our first target is Amar Petrovic—a Bosnian national who has been living in Spain for the past twenty years. He just recently moved his family back to Sarajevo where he grew up.”
“War criminal?” Bryce asks. “I thought we got most of those a decade ago.”
“He’s not a war criminal. We think he has ties to the Hadzic Network,” I say.
“Yusef Hadzic? Again? The CIA has been chasing him since before Brycie over there was even born,” Butch says.
“And Sayid Custovic before that,” Mason says, looking directly at me. There’s no way he can know Custovic is my ultimate target, but he’s looking at me smugly like he knows every thought I’ve ever had in my life.
“I’ve heard of Hadzic, but who is Custovic?” Bryce asks.
“Agent Marsh, why don’t you give us the entire background starting with Custovic,” Culver says. He’s looking at me the same way Mason is. They’re up to something.
I promised George I wouldn’t bring up Custovic, but I’m not seeing a smooth way to get out of this. And, technically, I didn’t bring him up, so fine, let’s do this.
“Okay, backing up a little bit,” I say. “Sayid Custovic was born in Sarajevo. If he’s still alive, he’s fifty-two.”
“If he’s still alive?” JJ asks.
“It’s the agency’s official stance that Custovic is dead. He hasn’t been seen in almost two decades.”
“Is that what you believe, too?” Mason is challenging me. It’s like he has a bug inside my head. I don’t like it at all.
“I work for the agency, so, yes, I uphold their official stance,” I say. The look on his face tells me he doesn’t believe me.
I continue. “Backing up again, both of Custovic’s parents were Bosnian Muslims killed by the Serbs right at the beginning of the war in 1992. Sayid survived, and from what we can tell, he stayed in Sarajevo until the end of the war. After that, he disappeared and eventually showed up in Pakistan where one of his cousins had relocated after the war. That’s where Custovic became radicalized.”
“So, he radicalized because of what happened to his parents?” Hawk asks.
“Yeah, I’m not sure we know the why,” I say. “We do know he formed a terrorist network with his childhood friend, Yusef Hadzic. They were essentially guns for hire at first to hunt down Serbian war criminals. They even worked with us for a brief moment. Then, they were deemed responsible for a failed hit on some Army Rangers in 2000. That’s when the agency broke ties, and Custovic and Hadzic ended up disappearing in the Hindu Kush. They’ve been hiding up there for decades. Hadzic is the accepted head of the network now, so much so that it’s basically referred to as the Hadzic Network. Still smaller, high-profile hits, but they are more visibly tied to the bigger organizations now—first Al-Qaeda, and now the Taliban.”
“Who funds them?” Mason asks.
“At first, it was believed to be bankrolled by Hadzic’s father, Haroun. He was a very successful doctor before the war. He was last seen in Peshawar around 2000. He would be up in his eighties if he’s still living. His family—daughters, grandkids—all still live in Sarajevo. His wife died about ten years ago in Bosnia of natural causes.”
“So, how does Amar Petrovic figure into this?” Mason asks.
“Petrovic is a childhood friend of Custovic and Hadzic. He disappeared around the same time they did. The agency always thought he was in the mountains with them. It turns out he was living in Spain. He just moved his family back to Sarajevo earlier this year. That’s where we picked up his trail again.”
“So, you think Petrovic has been working with them from Spain?” JJ asks.
“We did think so, but we’ve tracked his last two decades in Spain, and seemingly, he led a pretty normal life. He’s a dentist. Has a wife, three kids. Nothing suspicious.”
“So why are we targeting him?” Hawk asks.
I start flipping through a f
ew surveillance photos I have on the front screen. “This is Petrovic. We’ve been tracking him since he arrived back in Sarajevo. Every couple weeks, someone—never the same person—delivers a burner cell to him. It’s always a discreet drop. After the hand off, the phone rings almost immediately. He talks for a few minutes then throws the cell away. We’ve picked up most of the phones he’s discarded. All the calls are from different numbers, but the numbers all ping from around the Hindu Kush region around the Pakistan-Afghanistan border.”
“Yeah, so that’s all real suspicious, but how do you know he’s talking to Hadzic?” Mouse asks.
“We don’t. The agency has green-lighted this because of his past association with Custovic and Hadzic. We just want to pick him up to question him.”
“How long has Petrovic been back in Sarajevo? Why do you want to pick him up now?” JJ asks.
“As I said, our agents have been tailing him. We think one of them spooked Petrovic a couple of days ago. We have Petrovic under surveillance. He hasn’t moved yet, but just in case he’s getting suspicious, I want to go sooner than later.”
“Well, let’s go get him then,” Mason says, matter-of-factly.
“Just like that?” I seriously thought I’d be here most of the day briefing and convincing them.
“That’s why you’re here, right? Let’s get it done,” Mason says.
“Wheels up in an hour, gentlemen,” Culver says as the room springs to life. “Agent Marsh will brief you further on the plane.”
Raine sees the confusion on my face. “That’s how it happens here. They’re not much for talking a problem to death. When they have good intel, they’re ready to go.”
“I see that. I’m used to a little more bureaucracy and red tape,” I say.
“Not much of that here. Well, in this room anyway. When it’s up to the team, they’re all about action,” Raine says. “Hey. Are you sure you’re going to be okay without me?”
Eight Years: A Novel (Trident Trilogy: Book One) Page 7
