The Guardian (5 page)

‘A
non-profit
? What the fuck is that?’ he asked. ‘A company that tries to lose money?’

‘It’s like a charity,’ she said. ‘It’s a good thing to do.’

‘What’s it called?’

She hesitated. ‘Guardians for Youth.’ She knew what was coming.

‘You’re shittin’ me?’ Her brother let out a loud sarcastic laugh. ‘You’re workin’ for a charity called
Guardians for Youth
? That’s
rich.’

She threw the towel with his blood on it at him. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ she said with a smile. ‘It’s a decent place. We work with the parole board to try to keep young kids
just out of juvie or prison out of trouble. We’re like the first line of defense. People start to slide, we step in and try to get them back in line before they get to the point where
they’re gonna get sent back in. It’s rewarding.’

‘Rewarding, huh?’ Charlie said. ‘Does that mean it pays well?’

Cianna waved her arm at the apartment. ‘Oh, sure, can’t you tell? I’m makin’ a mint.’

Charlie looked around. ‘It’s not big, but at least it’s a shithole.’

Cianna shrugged. ‘You know what they say: location, location, location,’ she said sarcastically.

‘Right. Three more strikes. I thought you wanted to be a cop?’

Her expression went flat. ‘That dream died the minute I put on my prison fatigues.’ She took a deep breath and struggled to pull herself out of a brief slide into self-pity. She
didn’t want her brother to see her that way. ‘It’s okay, though. I really like what I’m doing, even if it is a kinda shitty job. Milo, the guy who started the place, is an
okay guy. You’d like him.’

‘Would I?’

‘Well, maybe not right off. I get the feeling that he grew up rich and he’s a little weird, but he’s trying to do the right thing, and he’s got his good
points.’

‘Can’t wait to meet him.’

‘What are you going to do now that you’re back?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘Not a great time to be out of work.’

‘I’ve got something lined up,’ he said. ‘It should set me up for a while.’ He looked serious for a moment. ‘Maybe longer than a while.’

She tried to smile and failed. ‘You were always the dreamer, Charlie.’

‘It’s not a dream this time,’ he said.

She just nodded. ‘I’m tired, Charlie,’ she said without turning around. ‘I’m gonna go get ready to sleep. You can take the bed, I’ll pull a blanket on the
couch.’

‘No,’ Charlie protested, but she would have none of it.

‘It’s the least I can do after beating you up.’ She walked over to the tiny bathroom and closed the door.

She was lying on the couch twenty minutes later when Charlie stuck his head out of the bedroom door. He had on a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and silhouetted against the streetlight through the
window he looked so much the way she remembered him as a child. She’d spent a lifetime trying to protect him from the world. She’d been okay at it, too, when they were younger and
things were simpler. No more. She was no longer sure she had the wherewithal to be of any use to him, and it frightened her.

‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked. ‘I feel really bad about putting you out of your own bed.’

‘I’m sure, Charlie. Go to sleep.’

He hesitated for a second. ‘If you ever want to talk about it, you know I’m here, right?’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’ He went back into the cubby of a bedroom, closed the door.

Bur Cianna knew she would not sleep well. She hadn’t slept well in two years. Dreams of the past haunted her. As she rolled on her side and closed her eyes, she hoped that when the dreams
came for her that night they would be of the good, not the bad.

It was still dark when Cianna Phelan opened her eyes. The electric fan strapped into the window whirred pitifully, pushing the warm early morning air into her corrugated
living quarters. By noon it would be over one hundred and ten degrees. Kandahar in July made Washington DC in August seem temperate.

At least it’s a dry heat.

That was the running joke. It was so dry it felt like God had shoved the whole barren wasteland into an oven. As she took a breath she could feel the dust collect in her nostrils. It was
better here at the airbase, though, than on the humps the combat units took through the arid mountains, where the dehydration became bad enough that hallucinations set in and muscles cramped so
tight men sometimes preferred open combat to walking.

She felt Haley Jones stir next to her in the cot as she looked up at the window. The sun would be up within the hour. She was crazy to have him here with her.

‘You need to leave,’ she whispered.

He grunted softly, like a bear in hibernation.

She rolled over and looked at him. How old was he? Maybe twenty. Maybe not yet. At least five years younger than she.

She was definitely crazy.

Looking at him she was drawn again to his youth. A fragment of a poem she’d read back in high school flashed through her mind; something about the beauty of an athlete dying young. It
had seemed so absurd back then, so divorced from any reality she could imagine at the time. Now, though, the notion resonated. She resolved to find the poem and give it another chance.

Jones still wasn’t moving.

She sat up on the cot, straddled him. She was wearing only an OD green T-shirt. ‘Private!’ Her voice was quiet, but her tone was Army.

His eyes shot open, and she recognized the fear in them. The disorientation of being startled awake heightened the terror that lived in every soldier. It was not a fear of death, but of being
surprised – of being unprepared. It took a moment for him to gain his bearings, and then the fear dissipated. He looked up at her and smirked. ‘Sarge,’ he said.

‘You need to get back to your barracks.’

He turned his head and looked out the window. ‘It’s still dark.’

‘Not for long. B Company is doing a clear and hold today. You need to be sharp.’

‘I’m always sharp,’ he said, stretching. ‘You running support?’

She nodded. ‘We’ll mop up whatever you pry loose.’

‘Fuckin’ Kandahar,’ he said.

‘Fuckin’ Kandahar,’ she repeated.

‘Could be a shitshow.’

She agreed. ‘Could be.’

‘That’s why they’re sending in the big dogs,’ he said with a 20-year-old’s bravado. He flexed his biceps like a bodybuilder and winked.

‘Don’t get cocky,’ she said.

‘Me?’ he asked. ‘How about you?’

‘I don’t get cocky,’ she said.

He reached over to the table by the side of the bed, and grabbed the small leather case sitting on top.

‘Give me that!’ she said, lunging for it.

He held it away from her, though, as he flipped it open and read the citation. ‘
For gallantry in action against an enemy of the United States.’
She watched him admire the
contents. ‘Silver Star,’ he marveled. He looked back at her. ‘And you say you don’t get cocky?’

‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ she said.

‘It means everything,’ he replied. ‘What do I have to do to get one?’

She sighed. ‘Something stupid enough to get yourself killed, probably. Trust me, it’s not worth it.’

‘You going soft, Sarge?’ He laughed at the notion.

‘No, Jonesie,’ she said. ‘But the Army’s invested more than 50,000 in your training. Be a shame to leave that kind of investment bleeding out on the street in a
shithole like this.’

‘Aw, that’s sweet.’ He laughed again.

‘Get back to your barracks,’ she ordered.

‘Okay.’ He nodded, but his hand slid up the inside of her leg.

‘Jones!’ She tried to put a warning in her voice, but her chest was tight, and it came out flat and breathless. His fingers moved back and forth lightly between her legs. She
looked down at his face, wondering why she’d given in to him; wondering what she felt for him. It wasn’t love, she knew. She would feel love more deeply if it ever came. But it
wasn’t mere lust, either. There was something about him – something about his eyes, about his close-cropped dark hair, and his lithe muscular build – that made him beautiful. In
many ways, they were physical counterparts, tight, fit, and strong.
Army Strong
. For a moment, looking at him, she could see all of the men with whom she had served, all those who had been
lost. The men and boys she had fought with.

She thought back to the times growing up in the grit of South Boston on the edge of the genteel New England city. It seemed as though she’d been fighting for her entire life. She was
attractive, and that made her a target on the street, so she’d learned to defend herself early. She’d been taught to be dangerous, and she’d been in and out of trouble through
high school. One of her court-appointed counselors suggested the Army out of desperation, and it had been a perfect fit. She’d trained hard and honed her skills and her instincts. Here she
could fight for something other than herself without worrying about watching her back. Her men trusted her, and she trusted them. And every once in a while, as long as she was discreet, she could
teach one of them some of the other things she’d learned on the street.

She closed her eyes as he continued touching her. ‘I told you to leave.’

‘You want me to stop?’ he asked. The pace of his fingers quickened.

‘If you get caught in here, it’s my career,’ she said. She’d already surrendered, though, and they both knew it. Her hips moved involuntarily, and she could feel her
nipples harden as they brushed the inside of her shirt. ‘If anyone finds out – if you tell anyone . . .!’

‘Who am I gonna tell, the Lieutenant?’ Her face darkened at the notion, and he retreated quickly. ‘Don’t worry, Sergeant Phelan,’ he said with a tilted smile,
‘I take orders better than anyone.’

‘ Yeah, right,’ she said.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Does anyone outside your squad come to attention as reliably as me?’

She slid her hand between his legs. He wasn’t lying. ‘When we’re done, you leave immediately, you understand?’ she said.

‘Hooah.’ He was breathing almost as hard as she was now, and his free hand snaked under her shirt, over her breasts and around her back, pulling her down on him.

‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘That’s an order.’ She guided him to her with her hand as she lowered herself onto him, taking control even as her body began to
shiver.

Lawrence Ainsworth’s office was on the fourth floor at Langley. It was necessarily opulent, fit to receive powerful politicians and heads of government departments and
convey a sense of omnipotence and control. The anteroom where his secretary sat had thick deep-blue carpeting and textured cream wallpaper. Several polished wooden chairs lined one wall, where
those anticipating an audience with the Assistant Director could wait in stiff comfort.

Ainsworth’s secretary, Agnes Shoals, had been with the Agency for longer than anyone could remember, and she had an aristocratic air to her. She sat behind a Queen Anne desk wearing a
high-necked white blouse under a cashmere sweater, and her hair was perfectly styled. She was probably in her sixties, but could pass for decades younger in a pinch. There was a rumor that she kept
a loaded pistol strapped to the underside of the desk in case of an emergency.

Saunders walked through her door and nodded to her. ‘Agnes,’ he said. ‘He’s in, I take it?’

She smiled at him as though he were a favorite, wayward nephew. ‘Jack, you can’t go in,’ she said.

He was still moving toward the door to Ainsworth’s inner office. ‘I can’t?’ he said. ‘That can’t be right.’ He reached the door and grasped the handle.
‘Let me try.’

‘Jack!’ Her voice was sharp, and her smile had disappeared. ‘I will not allow it! He gave explicit directions that he didn’t want to see you.’

‘You must have misunderstood,’ Saunders said, turning the handle.

‘Jack, don’t!’ she barked. Her hand disappeared under the desk.

He smiled at her. ‘I’ve always wanted to know,’ he said. ‘Is it standard issue, or something more personal? I envision a silver-plated revolver. Something understated
that would go nicely with the pearls.’

Her face softened. ‘I should shoot you.’

He nodded. ‘You should, but you won’t. That’s why we’ve always gotten along so well.’ He pushed the door open and walked into Ainsworth’s office.

Ainsworth looked up from his desk with the pained expression of exhausted patience. ‘So much for Agnes’s resolve,’ he said.

‘She threatened to shoot me, if that makes you feel better.’

‘I specifically authorized deadly force, so it doesn’t.’ He sighed. ‘She was a fine field agent when she was younger. She’s lost her nerve.’

Saunders walked over and sat down in one of the chairs across from Ainsworth’s desk.

‘Please, have a seat,’ Ainsworth said.

‘What’s going on, Lawrence?’ Saunders said. ‘It doesn’t take a full day to analyze a 12-megabyte memory stick. Why haven’t I heard anything?’

‘Because it doesn’t concern you.’

‘You want to tell me what the hell that means?’

‘It’s not your case, Jack.’

‘Why not?’ Saunders demanded.

‘Because you’re about to be officially on suspension.’

Saunders had no idea what to say. It was like he’d been hit with a baseball bat. ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Lawrence?’ he demanded.

‘I’m talking about a dead FBI agent, and a raid that went wrong with everyone watching, that’s what I’m talking about.’ He shook his head. ‘You just
don’t get it, do you? I wasn’t given a choice in this. Toney wanted you executed.’

‘Toney’s an asshole,’ Saunders said.

‘Toney’s the Director of the NSA. That puts him above me on the governmental org chart. He was also the head of Military Intelligence in Afghanistan for three years, so he does add
value on this front. And you’re the asshole, my boy. This was just the excuse they were looking for. You’ve been on the chopping block since you were called back from
Afghanistan.’