The Solitude of Passion (5 page)

I force myself to keep my eyes open and take in the scenery. When I replay the scene for Colt, I want him to realize this wasn’t the romantic getaway he sold himself on. It’s panning out to be a tinderbox of heartache with too much suffering I don’t have the cure for and not enough Lee.

The women look beat and tired. Everyone’s so hungry to hear what the man with the plan has to offer. As much as their muscles crave protein, their hearts crave hope. It’s a miracle they believe in anything—that they even care to after the desolate living conditions I’ve witnessed. It’s heartbreaking on a whole new level.

Lee. God I miss her. She wafts over me like a cool breeze.

Three more days until I see her. Everything here is in Lee time. Hours until Lee, sunsets until Lee, dreams until Lee. I see her everywhere, her beautiful face in the hills, the clouds take her shape—I watch her in the sky as she laughs and holds her hands over our unborn child. Even the stars converge to spell out her name. Lee is her own consolation, her own divine universe.

I’m so sick without her, I think I could actually die if I wanted. There’s not another good deed in the world that would make me leave her again. I’d break my own damn leg if it came down to it.

I glance around at the room full of somber expressions. You could hear the wind blow, the crickets layered beneath the silence. Not even the sound of human breathing exists within these four cloistered walls, just some underground cleric reciting red-letter promises. He strings them out like a lullaby until the world vanishes, and Lee meets me in my dreams with a smile.

A hard thump jolts me out of my slumber.

“Shit,” I hiss, waking with a start.

A loud crash detonates to my left, and my eardrums vibrate from the assault.

I give several hard blinks and startle to a jumble of confusion—legs snake their way around the vicinity in a panic, a blur of bodies switch back and forth until the room begins to drain. Total disorientation sets in, and for a second I forget where the hell I am and what the fuck I’m doing here.

A gunshot goes off.

I hit the floor in time to see a pair of brown leather shoes stomp in this direction and one of them crushes my knuckles.

I snatch back my hand as I try to digest what the hell is happening.

A voice shouts something loud and aggressive in a dialect I’ve never heard, sounds like a rubber band warbling in and out of tune.

It all comes back, China, God—the man in the potato sack.

Shit.

The brief training we received in the “event things went south” jags through my mind. And here I thought the team captain of this junior expedition was offering comic relief as we disembarked from a twelve-hour flight.

Bodies fly over chairs and dart out every exit at once, nothing but limbs scrambling, women screaming.

A small army of men suited up in black fatigues fill the room, each armed with his own personal assault rifle. They kick and shout at the elderly that were unable to make a quick escape and herd them toward the exit, pushing and yelling as if they were lining them up for the firing squad.

I glance around for a weapon, but the place is so damn bare there’s nothing shy of a rug on the floor. I pat my jeans for my hunting knife before remembering it’s in my backpack which I stupidly left it in the trunk of the car. It houses my passport and a picture of Lee, and suddenly I want nothing more than to get to that picture because clearly logic isn’t invited into the equation.

“Please God, let me see Lee again,” I whisper below a breath. “Just let me hold her one more time.”

I bolt up and run out the back as a barrage of gunfire explodes from behind.

Outside, clouds lay in strips over a sodden sky. The sun melts over the horizon, still affording enough light to amplify the landscape. I dart up through the bushes until I hit the main road, and my heart lurches when I spot the car I arrived in sputtering down the street without me. It’s teeming with bodies, struggling in low gear as it tries to barrel up the hillside.

“Shit,” I grunt as I try to flag it down.

A barrage of uniformed officers pour into the street, corroding the landscape like wolves on the prowl. They fire an errant round of shots, inspiring me to take cover in an overgrown bush.

It all happens so fast. An entire band of men come in, clad in black, shouting and screaming like human megaphones. I peer out at them as they collect themselves in a group. The one with the thick neck and short arms appears to be in charge. He carries the appeal of a death ninja as he barks out commands, and the men break out into groups of two and three in an attempt to fulfill their mission.

The guy in charge levels his weapon to his eye and manages to blow out the windows of the tiny car as it hits the crest of the road.

Oh God, no. The faces of the outreach team flash through my mind. They’re good people. They don’t deserve this.

All hellfire opens up on the car as the small sedan slows to a crawl, curving until it gently butts into a tree.

Three of his apostles take off for the wreckage. Not a window survived the ambush, a shower of red sprays what remains of the shattered glass.

One of the officers tosses in a softball-sized flame through the windshield, and the entire cab ignites like a bonfire.

Not one body moves inside, just slumped figures igniting like torches.

“
Shit
,” I stare out in disbelief.

The bastard in charge gives a victorious shout as the unmistakable sound of glee swims from his voice. He fires a celebratory round into the air. This was his party, his deadly rules in play. The innocent beings that lost their lives were simply his prey.

The fire in the car dulls down to embers. Those people had families, wives, children waiting for them at home, and now they were gone in the most horrific way possible.

I get up and stagger backward as the stench of smoke sears itself in my nostrils. This is all too surreal, one minute I’m dreaming of Lee, and the next I’ve entered a nightmare. This is the stuff you read about—watch on the news, for sure not something I ever imagined myself caught up in.

A stream of officers jog into the street. They shout into the night as they circle the area. They smell blood, and they want it all. Still thirsty, unsatisfied from the mass slaughter they just pulled.

My heart tries to stomp its way out of my chest. I’d bet good money I’m about to have a cardiac episode—reenact my father’s death in the least romantic way possible.

Something solid cracks over my skull, and a blast of agony splits through my body.

My face plants itself in the soil as the world fades in and out of existence.

A boot introduces itself to my thigh by way of a solid kick, and for a moment I’m thankful my balls were nowhere in the vicinity.

The angry boot rains down an assault of both the verbal and physical variety until pain ricochets through my skull like a boomerang on fire.

Two men with loose smiles stare down at me. They look happy to have me, a toy of their very own to torment.

Lee flashes through my mind, and I can’t think straight.

He shakes his weapon at me, and I get on my knees—hold up my hands for good measure. The shorter one kicks my legs apart until the seam in my jeans threatens to burst.

“You spy?” He squawks it out so quick it sounds like the whoop of a police car, and for a moment I’m hopeful. “Say, you spy.” He glances back at the amassing crowd of his comrades in arms. They share a laugh while settling in for the show. “You say spy, you live.”

Doesn’t sound like a bad alternative, so I nod into the idea.

“I’m a spy,” I volunteer a little too eager.

Another round of barking laughter lights up the night. One of them helps me up, pats my back like we’re old friends. A long scar decorates his face from his ear to his lip and I wonder if that’s what waits for me on the other side of this incarceration.

A shorter man steps forward and butts his weapon into my ribs, forcing me onto the road and into a balloon-shaped patrol car that looks straight out of a cartoon.

They motion for my hands behind my back and throw on a pair of zip-tie handcuffs before shoving me in. Two of the guys hop up front, and we take off into the country, past the car still glowing with bodies, past the potato sack wearing cleric lying prone in the street with a bullet through his forehead, past a small child watching dazed from the side of the road. Hovels float by, then nothing but stretches of dry, flat fields.

The sun finally sets, and I wonder if all my hope of ever seeing Lee again has set right along with it.

Two weeks later

Max

I’ve prayed on a few occasions. Although, I’m pretty sure this is the only one that’s ever been answered—and I was joking at that.

Mitch’s funeral.

Memorial. Whatever. Here we are with the weeping, the gnashing of teeth commencing, and I can’t take another damn minute. All the glory of pulling down his curtain is gut wrenching. Any moment now I’m about to show all of Mono that Max Fucking Shepherd has a heart—once the waterworks start.

I glance at his oversized picture, framed and mounted, and I fight hard to stop the tears. Mitch gleams a brilliant smile. He looks like he’s advertising dental floss, not his untimely demise. Instead, the black and white pictorial adorns the altar as a final reminder of his effigy. Another picture sits to its right—one of him and Lee. Wedding picture. It was the best day of his life, marrying Lee, I’m sure of it—would have been mine if that were me.

You never know when you’re smiling for the camera, which shot might make the pamphlet at your funeral. Maybe we should all pose for a funeral pic. Leave the guesswork out of every other picture we ever take. No more macabre thoughts running through your mind as the photographer counts to three.

I glance over at Lee. I’ve got a clear shot of her huddled between Janice and Colton. She’s beyond miserable, zombie-like with a steady river of tears tracking over her cheeks. I glance down at the neat, glossy brochure folded in my hands with Mitch’s countenance on the front like a slap in the face. I skim the timeline of events planned for the service. She’s not in the lineup. I can’t imagine she’d want to speak today. It’s standing room only in the back. It’s quite a turnout with everyone in tears—nothing but heartbreak city.

Colton steps up to the microphone and gives a loud warbling sigh. “I never imagined I would have to do this.” He reevaluates the crumpled paper in his hand before stuffing it in his pocket. It’s eerie to look at him. He’s all but a double for his brother. I bet it kills Lee to see him. “Mitch was a great guy. If you knew him for five minutes you figured out pretty easy how genuine he was. He’d give you the shirt off his back if you asked. Well maybe not his favorite Townsend T-shirt riddled with holes, but I’m sure if you asked real nice he’d give you that one, too.”

A low rumble of laughter circles the room.

This is good—break up the atmosphere a little—take the edge off all the heart wrenching sorrow everyone’s drinking down to the dregs.

“Once, when we were kids, Mitch and I thought it’d be a great idea to take our dad’s golf clubs and hit a few balls in the backyard. Since he was younger and less likely to get in trouble, I made Mitch promise he would say it was all his idea if we got busted. We tried hitting some balls but discovered it was much more fun to pitch the clubs into the next field—see how far we could fling ‘em. About halfway through the irons, Mitch launched a big Bertha like it was a missile, only this time it didn’t go into the next field, it went over the roof of the garage and planted itself in a windshield. Turns out Dad came home a little early for dinner.” Another round of titters. “Mitch took the blame.” Colton looks remorseful. “He always kept his word.” His eyes meet up with Lee before she dips her nose back into a wad of tissue. “Fast forward about five years. We’re both sitting on the beach, and a beautiful blonde struts by. Mitch took one look at her and said ‘That’s the girl I’m going to marry.’” He nods toward her. “That was Lee. Again, Mitch kept his word. Whether he made a promise to someone else or to himself, Mitch was a man of his word. It was an honor to be his brother.” He pushes his palm into his eye. “Mitch, I’m gonna miss you,” he chokes out the words before heading to his seat.

Impressive. Colton actually managed to string whole thoughts together to create a cohesive eulogy.

I glance over at Hudson. I wonder what Hud would say about me if it were my memorial service? He’d probably accuse me of being too damn uptight. He reminds me of this at least twice a week—thinks I’m digging an early grave by diving into the books everyday, keeping tabs on input and output. What he fails to realize is that if I didn’t run the ship with both hands on the wheel, we would have capsized long ago. My father may have dreamed of this empire, but I built it, just like Mitch deconstructed his father’s good intentions with a few select boneheaded moves.

Mitch could have listened to me. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t reach out to the guy. My door was always open. I even offered to take him to lunch and go over marketing strategies a couple of years ago, but he couldn’t see past his pride. The fact he had a dead weight brother, one that rivals my own, didn’t add to the situation.