Taking Fire (22 page)

“Me, too.” He walked over to her and cupped her shoulders in his big hands.

She couldn't help it. Tears filled her eyes.

“Aw, God. Don't.” He pulled her into his arms and held her gently against him. “I'll figure this out. Just give me a little time.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then headed out the door.

39

“This is waaaay cool.”

Bobby grinned down at Meir and tried like hell to stay on his feet as they made their first circle around the rink at the Anacostia Roller Skating Pavilion. Pancaking in front of his son wouldn't take him far in the hero-worship department.

“Way cool, huh? You don't miss your mom?”

“Nah. Well, sort of. But sometimes it's cool to do just guy things. Mom likes girl stuff.”

“Yeah? What kind of girl stuff?”

“Oh, you know. Shoppin'. Huggin'. Cookin'. And she kisses me way too much.”

Bobby laughed and steered them clear of some teenage girls who were whooping it up to music only they could hear through their iPod earbuds.

“Someday, when you get a little older, you're going to realize that's not such a bad thing,” he said. “You're even going to like it when a girl kisses you.”

Meir wrinkled his nose. “A girl other than my mom or Gramma?”

“Yeah. Other than them.”

He seemed to think about that. “You like to kiss girls?”

“Sure,” Bobby said slowly, wondering if he'd just stepped in it.

“Do you like to kiss my mom?”

Yup. Stepped in it up to his ankles. “Your mom's a very nice woman,” he said, evading the question.

“I think she's pretty.”

“You're right. She's very pretty.”

“You know what would be way, way, waaaay cool? If you and my mom got married.”

Oh, boy.
“Look, they opened up the concession counter! And I bet they've got ice cream.”

“For real?”

Thank God Meir took the bait. “So are you a chocolate or vanilla guy?”

“How about a scoop of each?”

“You got it.”

*   *   *

Somehow Bobby managed to keep off the topic of Talia and kissing and marriage for the rest of the afternoon. Just like he somehow managed not to land on his ass, even when he lifted Meir onto his shoulders and they made a few passes before the rink manager blew the whistle and motioned for Bobby to put him down.

“Seems like you get in a lot of trouble,” Meir said, after they'd had their fill of the rink.

Bobby chuckled as they walked side-by-side to his truck. “I'm working on that. Most of the time, I try to play by the rules. That's always a good thing to do.”

“Yeah,” Meir agreed, and climbed up on the running board. “Unless it's a bad rule.”

Bobby got him settled in the backseat and buckled into his seat belt. “And what would you consider to be a bad rule?”

“A rule that says my dad has to stay away because of duty.”

The words stopped him cold. Sank a fist into his gut. And no amount of self-talk could make him feel like less of a heel.

He almost told him right then:
I'm your dad.
Then he thought about rules, about the agreement he and Talia had made to tell Meir together.

“I'll bet your mom is wondering what we've been up to,” he said, then walked around the truck and settled in behind the wheel. “You're not going to tell on me, are you?”

“About getting in trouble?”

Bobby glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Oh, he had a devil look in his eye. “Yeah, about that.” He couldn't stop a chuckle. “Remember, I bought you ice cream.”

“Okay. It'll be a secret. Just between us guys.”

Once upon a time, he'd have run a few red lights and broken a few speed limits when he was in a rush. And he was in a rush now, to get back to Talia and finally tell Meir that he was his father. But it was funny how priorities and attitudes changed when other lives were dependent on him doing the right thing. So he took his time driving, and they played “guess what animal I'm thinking about” all the way back to Georgetown.

*   *   *

“Let me guess,” Talia said, after Meir burst into the house. “Somebody had ice cream.”

“Aw, Mom. How'd you know?”

A smiling, sunburned Taggart closed the door behind them. He looked vital and happy and heartbreakingly handsome. He also had a smear of chocolate on his collar. “Yeah, how'd you know?”

“I'm a mind reader,” she said. “In the meantime, both of you might want to take a look in the mirror.”

Meir was already racing up the stairs.

“He's had to go for the last five blocks,” Taggart said. “Man, that kid can eat. And guzzle down soda. But he only had one; I know soda is limited.”

She smiled. “Did you think I was going to scold you?”

“Um, maybe.”

“And would you deserve it?”

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Maybe.”

She crossed her arms over her waist and leaned against the newel post. “Good day?”

His entire face lit up. “The best. He's so amazing, Talia. You've done such a great job with him.”

“There are genes involved, too. And he got some good ones from you.”

“I'd like to think so.” He looked expectant then. “I think it's safe to tell him tonight.”

She nodded. “Me, too.”

They moved into the living room, and a few minutes later, Meir came bounding down the stairs. “Can you stay for supper? Can he stay, Mom?”

“Sure. Bobby?”

“Who's cooking? You?” he asked, squinting at Meir.

“Heck no! That's woman's work.”

“Excuse me?” Talia feigned outrage. “Where did you hear that?”

Bobby held his hands in the air, pleading innocence. “Not from me. I think you'd better run for it, bud. You've got a mad woman on your hands.”

Before Meir could make his getaway, she grabbed him and started tickling him until he squealed. Bobby's phone rang. “Taggart,” he said, answering as he smiled at them. Then he sobered abruptly. “Roger that. Yeah.” He checked his watch. “Right. Give me fifteen.”

“What?” Talia looked up at him, her arms still wrapped around Meir.

“I'm really sorry, but I've got to go. Can we have that dinner and that, um, conversation another time?”

She knew he was subject to rapid deployments, but she'd hoped one wouldn't come up so soon. “Will you be gone long?”

“No clue. Sorry.”

Meir pulled out of her arms and walked over to Bobby. “You have to go?”

“I do,” he said, squatting down to Meir's level. “But I'll be back in a few days, okay?”

“Why do you have to go?”

“They need me at work, buddy.”

“But you can still stay for supper, right?” Meir moved in closer and wrapped his arms around Bobby's neck. The picture the two of them made together was both touching and heartbreaking.

“I'm sorry, buddy, but I can't. We'll make it another night. Soon as I get back, okay?”

“But I don't want you to go.” Meir threw himself against Bobby's chest.

Bobby held him tight, buried his face in the boy's neck. “I don't want to go, either. But remember, we talked about rules? When my boss says I've got to work, then I've got to work.”

“I don't like that rule.”

Bobby looked up at Talia, his eyes bleak. “Sometimes I don't like it, either.”

He gently pulled Meir away from him so he could look him in the eye. “You take care of your mom while I'm gone, okay? And I'll be back before you know it.”

He looked heartbroken and a little helpless when his eyes met hers. And the truth was, she felt like crying, too.

“Come on, sweetie. Bobby has to go, now.”

Meir hugged him hard, one last time, then whispered something in his ear. She couldn't hear it, but whatever it was, Taggart almost melted before kissing Meir's cheek and whispering something back.

Then he met her eyes with an intensity that shook her, before he hot-footed it out the door.

40

I love you.

Forty-eight hours later, Bobby rode shotgun in a gray 1993 Mazda, parked on a dark back street in Jobar, a suburb of Damascus, Syria. While a firefight raged four blocks away, Meir's whispered
I love you
stayed with him like a sweet breeze, calling him home.

I love you, too, buddy
.

The lump in his throat had been so huge he'd had trouble choking out the words. And when he'd looked over Meir's shoulder and seen the intense concern in Talia's eyes, something had inexplicably shifted inside him. The sensation or revelation had been so powerful it had staggered him. He hadn't immediately recognized it for what it was then. Couldn't deal with it because of what he thought it might be.

So he'd bailed. Run like hell and gotten out of there.

With little else to think about during the long transatlantic flight, he now had a handle on what had happened. And it gave him a damn good reason for wanting to get back home.

He squinted through the car's windshield, then looked left and right, searching. “Where's our guy?”

“Patience, Grasshopper.” Coop lowered his spyglasses, giving his eyes a break. “He'll show.”

“He'd better.” This from Brown in the backseat. “Or he's a dead man. And most likely, so are we.”

They were all armed to the teeth and hoping like hell they wouldn't need to fight their way out.

“He's got”—Coop lifted his arm and checked his watch—“fifty-four seconds before this ship sails.”

It was supposed to be a walk-in-the-park, in-and-out, two-day mission. Find the spy. Get the spy. Bring the spy to the States and out of harm's way.

But the trouble with war—especially another country's war—was that too often, things went FUBAR. This op had gone a little sideways from the get-go, and the signs weren't good.

First, they'd had trouble getting clearance at the airport. Then their contact hadn't shown up. When they'd finally located him, he'd lost touch with their target. After a lot of scrambling, swearing, and ass chewing, they'd eventually gotten a handle on the mission, tapped into a network sympathetic to their target, and made contact.

Now here they sat, a day late, an extraction window short. Waiting for him to show at the designated time and place. Two blocks east in the factory district, tanks lined the streets, and Syrian army regulars fought back the insurgent jihadists infiltrating the war-torn country by the thousands.

“What I want to know,” Coop said, lifting the glasses again, “is how we know he's one of the good guys.”

And therein lay the rest of the problem. In Syria, more than any other war zone on earth, it was almost impossible to tell the good guys from the bad guys. There was the moderate opposition, the radical opposition, the Al-Qaeda and ISIS insurgents posing as moderate opposition. Then there was the government itself, where corruption ran rampant. Even the top brass at the Pentagon argued over the effectiveness of their “good guy” vetting process, with estimates of up to seventy-five percent of the findings being inaccurate.

Supposedly, their spy, Betros Olikara, was a good guy. For the past eighteen months, he'd been passing information on to his CIA handler in Damascus. When the handler had turned up MIA, Olikara had gotten word to the U.S. embassy; he was certain his handler had been assassinated and was scared he'd be next.

That had been three weeks ago. It had taken this long for word to filter down to DOD that Olikara wanted to defect. Apparently, there'd been a lengthy dialogue when the CIA tried to persuade Olikara to stay on with a new handler, but Olikara wasn't budging. He didn't feel safe anymore.

So the team had been dispatched to get him out.

And maybe, just maybe, Bobby thought when he spotted a moving figure, that was about to happen.

An old man, in tattered jeans and a dingy gray hoodie pulled low over his face, appeared at the mouth of an alley half a block away. He limped heavily toward them.

“That's our guy.” Coop shifted into gear but planted his foot on the brake. “Dressed exactly like he's supposed to be. Anyone see anything out of place?”

“Negative,” Bobby answered, all his senses on red alert.

Brown keyed in his commo mike. “Bravo One? How's it looking back there?”

“All clear.”

A block behind them, Bravo team—Santos, Carlyle, and Johnny Reed, a veteran Black team member—waited in an older-model Lada Kalina. Charlie team—Jones, Rafe Mendoza, another Black team veteran, and Josh Waldrop with the ITAP team—idled in a boat of a 2006 Chrysler, a block ahead.

“Charlie?”

“Nothing but night,” Waldrop answered.

“It's tee time, boys,” Brown advised. “Let's get this guy outta here.”

Brown ended commo as the target approached the Mazda's rear door and rapped on the window. Brown rolled it down and asked the predetermined question, to which only Olikara knew the correct response. “Are you lost, traveler?”

The man glanced quickly behind him and then back. “Do you know the way to San Jose?”

Magic words.

Brown shoved open the door, and Olikara dived inside.

Without another word, Coop pulled out, the Alpha team moving out in front of them and Charlie coming up to guard their flank.

Just three old cars—with what Bobby hoped to hell had a lot of modified muscle under the hoods—­heading home after a night at the local bar or a long day of work.

“Thank you.” Olikara slipped the hood off his head and collapsed against the backseat.

Bobby glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Only the deep stress and fatigue lines surrounding his eyes suggested that he might be an old man. In truth, the limp was faked, and Olikara wasn't yet forty.

“We must hurry,” he said.

“Were you followed?” Brown wanted to know.

“I . . . I do not know for certain. But . . . I might have been.”

The sudden sucking sound of bullets hitting the rear panel of the Mazda—
thwup, thwup, thwup
—­answered the question in spades.

“Punch it, Martha!” Bobby yelled above the gunfire. Shouldering his AK, he aimed out the window, firing toward the muzzle flashes.

Steady fire pelted them now. Alpha team picked up speed ahead, and Charlie pulled up on their bumper, guarding their six from the rear.

“Sit rep!” Brown requested.

“Yeah, we're in deep shit,” Reed called back with his usual calm, over the sound of his AK firing multiple bursts. “Got four—whoa, nice work, Carlyle! Make that three tango vehicles moving up fast on our ass. Deadeye here took one of them out.”

“What's the plan, Stan?” Jones, in the forward car, wanted to know.

Brown said, “Hope we don't run out of gas.”

“Nice!” Reed laughed. “Care to build on that?”

“Keep shooting, and keep the pedal to the floor. If you see a way to ditch them, take it, but give us a heads-up.”

“Roger that!” Jones shouted over the sound of more gunfire as a Toyota HiLux pulled up beside the Mazda.

Bobby drilled the driver, and the HiLux swerved into them, bounced off their front bumper, then rolled over, skidding down the street on its roof before slamming into a building.

Another HiLux pulled up on the driver's side, and Bobby hiked himself up onto the frame of the open window, took aim on the shotgun rider over the car's roof, and took him out as Brown got the shooter in the backseat.

“Pull up past him if you can!” Bobby yelled, still hanging out of the window.

The moment Coop pulled ahead, Bobby fired into the driver's-side windshield. The HiLux spun around, then rear-ended the tango car behind them, putting an end to that threat as well.

Bobby dropped back inside the car and quickly replaced his empty mag with a full one.

“We've got to get off this street,” Brown said. “It's too wide. We're easy targets.”

“Working on it,” Jones said from the car ahead of them. “I think . . . yeah. Narrow side street two blocks ahead. Sharp right.” No sooner had he said it than Jones cranked the lead car into a hard right, gunned it, and disappeared between the buildings.

“Hoo-ah!” Coop braked and swung the wheel right. “Shit! No brakes!” he yelled, attempting to correct the suddenly out-of-control vehicle.

“Brace!” Bobby yelled, as the passenger side of the Mazda went airborne.

The little car zigzagged several yards on two wheels at a wobbly forty-five-degree angle, before the laws of physics kicked in. He hung on as they flipped over and over and over, the world upending to the sound of metal screeching against pavement and the scent of gasoline filling the air.

No!
he thought as he lay crumpled inside the wrecked Mazda
. I'm not dying here!

Flames erupted close by, and smoke rushed into his lungs. Slicing pain consumed his chest and shoulder.

As he felt his world fade, he saw Meir's face.

I love you.

And there was Talia, crying as he lay there bleeding, dying.

Oh, God. How am I going to tell them
I'm dead?