“No problem,” Hunt said with a shrug. “I can carry you.”
She bristled, as he’d known she would, and her chin rose up another notch. “Don’t be silly. I’m way too big to carry. I’m eight years old. I’m not a baby.”
Yancy automatically murmured, “Laila...”
Hunt spoke over her. “You’re right—you’re not. So, we’d better get a move on, okay? It’s not much farther. Sooner we get going, the sooner we’ll be there.”
“My mom said we were going to have ice cream. Do you have ice cream?”
He glanced at Yancy, who shrugged and looked away, hiding her expression behind a swath of scarf. He gave the kid—his kid—a sideways look. “I imagine that could be arranged.”
“Pistachio?”
Pistachio? He and Yancy exchanged another look. His said, What the hell?
Hers, along with another shrug, said, Don’t look at me. She’s got your DNA.
He snorted and gave Laila his best glare. “How ’bout we save the negotiations for later? Right now, we’re gonna play Follow The Leader, and I’m the leader—you got that?”
After a moment, she nodded, though he could tell from the gleam in her eyes she wasn’t all that impressed with his claim to authority. Growling under his breath, he turned and led the way down the curving alley, trusting Yancy to bring the girl and keep up with him.
Mommy. My mom said...
It played over and over in his head. He was having trouble wrapping his head around that. Not the fact of it—he’d known about the adoption, of course. Maybe hearing her say the words... No—it was the way he felt when he heard her say the words. That was what he couldn’t reconcile himself with.
Hunt Grainger—the Hunt Grainger he’d made himself into—couldn’t afford the luxury of feeling. For so many years—he’d lost track of how many—he’d put away any feelings that threatened to get in his way, put them in a safe he’d long since lost the combination to. He’d had a job to do, a job with lives at stake. Sometimes more than just lives. Sometimes the future of nations depended on his staying focused, going into impossible situations and getting the job done. Not only would feelings get in the way of him getting the job done, but they could be downright dangerous.
* * *
“No apologies. I do what I have to do.”
I remember saying those words the night I finally went to her Quonset.
To tell you the truth, I don’t know what drove me to knock on her door. It was a couple of weeks after my team pulled hers out of a firefight, the day she’d invited me to drop by and tell my story. Like the last time, we’d come in off a mission, only this one hadn’t gone the way we’d planned. We hadn’t lost anyone on the team, but there’d been civilian casualties. Children. Women. I had no intention of telling anybody about any of that, but I was carrying pictures in my head that weren’t going to be erased by a sub sandwich, even if it was accompanied by a cold beer. Or several. Maybe I thought the company of a beautiful redheaded woman would do something to make me forget the image of a little girl clinging to her dead mother and crying, “Ammi, Ammi...” over and over.
But that wasn’t the first time I’d had to deal with such things, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. So maybe what I was really looking for was an excuse to do what I’d been wanting to do all along.
* * *
Watching Hunt Grainger face off with his own daughter did a lot to restore Yancy’s spirits. Oh, she was still half in shock, still angry, for so many reasons, and she still had more questions than she could put in coherent form, even though asking questions was how she made her living. But he was right—those were for another time. At the moment she was finding a certain measure of satisfaction in the look of utter helplessness she’d seen on Hunt’s face when he was haggling with Laila. Who would have guessed the man she still thought of as more superhero than man, more machine than human, could be brought to earth by an eight-year-old girl?
But she’d seen that look of utter bewilderment on his face before. Only once. And it was probably what had made her sleep with him. At least the first time...
* * *
It’s still sharp and clear in my memory, even after so long. I’m in my quarters, working on the copy for next day’s report. I’ve always written my own. It’s one of my trademarks as a correspondent. I don’t know if he knocked; if he did I was deep into the work and didn’t hear it. Then he is simply there, standing inside the door, standing straight and tall, almost at attention.
“Well, hello, soldier,” I say as I hit Save on my laptop and close it.
He says, “My name’s Hunt.” My heart begins to beat faster, and I fight to maintain my poise.
“Does this mean you’ve decided to talk to me?” I ask with professional calm, holding on to a smile as he saunters toward me. He frowns and shakes his head. “Then why,” I say, “are you here?”
“Damned if I know,” he replies, and the look on his face makes me catch my breath. For the first and the only time, I see pain there, and sadness, and confusion. I don’t know what to make of it.
Later I thought I’d mistaken the look completely; it seemed so out of character for him and never came again.
“Can...I help you?” I ask him, my smile faltering as he comes closer...so close. Though I’m not afraid, and I don’t know why.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe.”
He touches me then, one hand on the side of my face...my neck. His eyes are like fire. I feel them burning me as he lowers his face closer to mine, and I hold my breath but don’t move away.
Closer...closer, his mouth comes to mine, almost but not quite touching, hovering there, giving me time to stop what’s coming. My held breath fills my chest and throat, almost choking me. My heartbeat rocks me. His breath on my lips is like a powerful drug, clouding my brain. I put my hand up to his where it lies against my cheek, but not to pull it away.
When his lips touch mine at last, it’s as if a torch has been laid to dry tinder. There is no stopping it. And no going back.
* * *
The alley they were following opened onto a wider dirt street, this one crowded and noisy with pedestrians, mostly men, some pushing handcarts or leading donkeys. There were bicycles maneuvering through the crowd, and several cars were parked alongside the street, huddling as close as they could to the mud-brick buildings.
Hunt motioned for Yancy and Laila to stay back while he stepped into the street. Yancy watched as he surveyed it for several minutes in both directions, eyes touching on every pedestrian, every vehicle, every detail with the intensity of a trained sniper. Apparently satisfied nothing there represented any immediate danger to them, he gestured for Yancy and Laila to join him.
As she followed Hunt through the throngs of people, Yancy kept her head bowed, clutched her scarf beneath her chin and held tightly to her daughter’s hand. She couldn’t help but think how they must appear: Afghan man with his wife and child meekly following behind. The thought made her vaguely queasy.
They hadn’t gone far—Laila hadn’t begun complaining again about her tired feet—when Hunt paused beside a dusty Mercedes of indeterminate color and vintage. He produced a set of keys from the folds of his tunic, unlocked the car and opened the back door.
“Get in and keep down,” he said tersely. “Don’t get up until I tell you.”
Yancy had never been good at taking orders, but because she was mindful of Laila’s own contrary nature, and in the interests of leading by example, she chose to do as Hunt told her. She stayed down, hunched over Laila to keep her