signs. Truthfully, I wanted to shoot them all. A bunch of damn clueless, clock-punching commoners. They were no different than the two women back there. Ted was dead because of them .
Ten blocks away, we finally reached clear streets, and I steered toward I-5. My mind went to what had happened. Two female shooters. Were they after the doctor? Had to be. How had they gotten weapons into the building? And more importantly, why? This would be an FBI profiler’s wet dream. Two young white females teaming up on an organized assassination.
***
Dr. Sebastian’s children came barreling out of the other SUV as we pulled into the lot of a Safeway grocery store off an exit twenty minutes north of Seattle.
“Daddy, daddy!” they said, running toward our SUV. Luan Sebastian and Dervitz were right behind them.
At that point, I decided to call the FBI and ask them to take over. The taxpayers would foot the bill now. Not our job anymore. The Sebastians would pay us for services rendered, and the contract would be terminated. Free of the deep ties Francesca and I shared with Ted, Dervitz hit the road, off to work his next gig. Bon voyage , dude. We don’t need you anyway.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
CHAPTER 12
“I’m sorry about your cousin,” I offered, as we got onto the highway headed back toward the Convention Center. I knew the lead detective wanted us back there immediately.
“He was your friend, too,” Francesca said. I could hear the pain in her voice.
“Yes, he was. More than that. I owe him way more than that.”
“You were the one who said it from the moment you showed up. We shouldn’t have let the doctor go in there.”
I nodded. “We shouldn’t have let him.”
“Probably. But we took the risk. Ted knew what he was signing up for. We all did. Casualties are always a possibility. I want to know what happened, though. I feel like we owe it to Ted to find out.”
I was half-listening, lost in my own thoughts, thinking about my friend. When you’re out on the battlefield, you’re there for a reason. Something leads you there. Some people fight for their country, their honor, or their pride. Some fight because they find happiness in chaos; they need war. That one probably fit me best. That’s why I’d signed up. Didn’t have anywhere else to turn. Some are in it for the money, or sometimes it’s just the only thing one knows. But once the weapons are firing and you’re watching people die in front of you, only one thought is on your mind.
Survival.
If you’re a good warrior, I believe it’s not just your survival, but that of your comrades, too. That’s all that matters. You and your team making it out alive. There’s a connection beyond family. It’s the comrades you’re sharing a foxhole with that remind you that you’re human, that you’re not alone going through the darkness, the nightmare. That’s a connection so much deeper than anyone else could ever know.
I remember times—countless times—when Ted and I worked reconnaissance missions in the desert, getting dropped behind enemy lines in the middle of the night and racing to dig hide sites seven-feet deep in the sand before the sun came up. The hide sites could barely hold two or three of us, and we’d build a canopy and let the wind cover it with sand, making us virtually undetectable, save the little air hole we’d cover up with a branch or whatever we could find. We’d spend three or four days together trapped in there in one hundred-plus heat, not showering, shitting into bags, collecting information on the enemy, and hoping they wouldn’t discover us. You learn a lot about people when you go through that kind of hardship. Bonds develop.
Yeah, when Francesca Daly was telling me that Ted meant a great deal to her, I did know exactly what she meant. I was going to have to face his mother and father and tell them for the second time in my life that their son was dead. So I wanted to know what happened to him, too.
Ten blocks away, we finally reached clear streets, and I steered toward I-5. My mind went to what had happened. Two female shooters. Were they after the doctor? Had to be. How had they gotten weapons into the building? And more importantly, why? This would be an FBI profiler’s wet dream. Two young white females teaming up on an organized assassination.
***
Dr. Sebastian’s children came barreling out of the other SUV as we pulled into the lot of a Safeway grocery store off an exit twenty minutes north of Seattle.
“Daddy, daddy!” they said, running toward our SUV. Luan Sebastian and Dervitz were right behind them.
At that point, I decided to call the FBI and ask them to take over. The taxpayers would foot the bill now. Not our job anymore. The Sebastians would pay us for services rendered, and the contract would be terminated. Free of the deep ties Francesca and I shared with Ted, Dervitz hit the road, off to work his next gig. Bon voyage , dude. We don’t need you anyway.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
CHAPTER 12
“I’m sorry about your cousin,” I offered, as we got onto the highway headed back toward the Convention Center. I knew the lead detective wanted us back there immediately.
“He was your friend, too,” Francesca said. I could hear the pain in her voice.
“Yes, he was. More than that. I owe him way more than that.”
“You were the one who said it from the moment you showed up. We shouldn’t have let the doctor go in there.”
I nodded. “We shouldn’t have let him.”
“Probably. But we took the risk. Ted knew what he was signing up for. We all did. Casualties are always a possibility. I want to know what happened, though. I feel like we owe it to Ted to find out.”
I was half-listening, lost in my own thoughts, thinking about my friend. When you’re out on the battlefield, you’re there for a reason. Something leads you there. Some people fight for their country, their honor, or their pride. Some fight because they find happiness in chaos; they need war. That one probably fit me best. That’s why I’d signed up. Didn’t have anywhere else to turn. Some are in it for the money, or sometimes it’s just the only thing one knows. But once the weapons are firing and you’re watching people die in front of you, only one thought is on your mind.
Survival.
If you’re a good warrior, I believe it’s not just your survival, but that of your comrades, too. That’s all that matters. You and your team making it out alive. There’s a connection beyond family. It’s the comrades you’re sharing a foxhole with that remind you that you’re human, that you’re not alone going through the darkness, the nightmare. That’s a connection so much deeper than anyone else could ever know.
I remember times—countless times—when Ted and I worked reconnaissance missions in the desert, getting dropped behind enemy lines in the middle of the night and racing to dig hide sites seven-feet deep in the sand before the sun came up. The hide sites could barely hold two or three of us, and we’d build a canopy and let the wind cover it with sand, making us virtually undetectable, save the little air hole we’d cover up with a branch or whatever we could find. We’d spend three or four days together trapped in there in one hundred-plus heat, not showering, shitting into bags, collecting information on the enemy, and hoping they wouldn’t discover us. You learn a lot about people when you go through that kind of hardship. Bonds develop.
Yeah, when Francesca Daly was telling me that Ted meant a great deal to her, I did know exactly what she meant. I was going to have to face his mother and father and tell them for the second time in my life that their son was dead. So I wanted to know what happened to him, too.
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