Broker flinched as Jane peeled up the edge of the adhesive strips holding the bandage in place over his infected palm. Kit and Holly moved in to watch.
Jane said, “You’re an old-fashioned macho tough guy like Holly, right?” Before Broker could respond she yanked the tape off. Broker winced and gritted his teeth.
“Ex-macho tough guy,” Jane said.
“Yuk,” Kit said, screwing up her face but peering intently. The wound was going purple in the center and draining pus. An area the size of a silver dollar was bright red. “You want to know something?” Kit said. “In Africa they put maggots on infections to eat the bad germs.”
Broker remembered something Nina’s dad had said about his daughter. About how he knew he had his hands full when she was five and went out and poked her finger into some day-old roadkill.
A certain kind of curious.
“This is going to sting,” Jane said.
“That’s what the doctor says when it’s really going to hurt a lot,” Kit said.
“Thanks, honey,” Broker said.
Jane pointed to the injured hand. “Move your little finger.”
Broker did.
“Looks like you’ve got full function. How about numb?”
“Sore as hell, not numb.”
“Looks like your ulna nerve is all right,” Jane said.
“I been to the doctor,” Broker said.
Jane pressed some gauze into the wound, making Broker wince.
“He tell you to change the dressing every day and not go hitting people?” She swabbed the wound-which hurt-then poured on some Betadine and wiped it down. She reached in her bag and took out a brown tube. “This is Bag Balm. Topical antibiotic. Vets use it on distressed udders. Good for infection.” She daubed on the salve, then wrapped on a clean bandage, and taped it in place.
Then Jane turned to Kit and handed her the tape, three bandages, the disinfectant, and the veterinary salve. “Make sure he changes the bandage every day, got it?”
Kit accepted the medical supplies and nodded solemnly. “Got it.”
Jane turned on the tap and scrubbed her hands. “So how’d it go?”
“Can’t tell for sure. Maybe they buy it, maybe they don’t. You guys are flying by the seat of your pants, that’s how it went,” Broker said.
“We don’t need the executive summary. A simple Sit Rep will do,” Holly said.
Broker exhaled. “Jealous husband delivers suitcase, gives possessive ultimatum, gets pummeled by local rubes.” He removed the slip of paper Nina had given him from his pocket with his good hand. “Nina says check out this guy. Him and Ace have something going down.”
“Wonderful.” Holly seized the note. Scrutinized it. “Khari, that ain’t no white-bread wheat farmer.”
“Could be Syrian or Lebanese,” Jane said offhand.
“We’ll get right on it.” Holly pressed his open palms together. “Well, that’s it. Shake it up, Janey. We’re outta here.”
“You gonna leave her on her own?” Broker asked.
Holly narrowed his eyes. “She’s a one-sixty. They don’t come any better.”
Broker studied the older man’s blank eyes, then shook his head and looked away. Christ. This Holly was a case of early dementia, lost in his elite bullshit. One-sixty. Jesus! It was an in-group term that got thrown around in MACV-SOG during Vietnam. It referred to a Pentagon study on combat effectiveness compiled in the Second World War. According to the study, the average infantryman became ineffective after 155 days of combat.
“One-sixties” were people who adapted to the unadaptable and continued to function. Lots of people in SOG were logging two and three tours in the war zone.
People like Broker.
Broker scowled. “I’d watch the way you’re throwing terms around, considering you guys haven’t been in a war that lasted more than a month for the last twenty-five years.”
Holly sighed. “Okay. Go on. You’ve earned the right to sound off, I guess.”
“Guess is right! They call it undercover work for a reason. Cover being the operative word. A commodity there ain’t a lot of around here. Like, say, back in the city a lot of people buy dope, so it’s easy to slip a UC into the revolving door. Penetrating a tight organization is more problematic and takes a long time to build up street credentials. You can’t just fall off the turnip truck and do it over the weekend.” Broker was grim.
Holly nodded. “Sure. That’s the conventional wisdom. And if we come up empty we’ll go to the locals, the state, the feds. But then we lose the element of surprise. When those Washington goons gear up their egos and intramural politics it’s like a herd of touchy elephants getting organized.”
Jane’s face tightened up. “That’s why we’re here, not the people who are hung up on procedure and protocol, like the FBI.”
Holly was less sanguine. He held up a hand to calm Jane and said, “We know this is a serious reach. We talked it over and decided we gotta give it a try,” Holly said.
Then, in a spooky divot of speech, Holly and Jane both turned and looked at Kit and said, at exactly the same time, “Too much is at stake…”
Kit was perplexed. The three grown-ups in the room had abruptly stopped talking, and remained silent for almost half a minute.
Jane broke the silence, and her first words came out naked and vulnerable. It took her a full sentence to get back to the disciplined meter of her language: “And we figured having Kit on the scene would provide a touch of realism-plus make you show up. Now it’s up to her.” Jane rushed past the unprotected moment by furiously packing her go-bag.
Slam-bam. Efficient. Hu-ah.
“Aw,” Kit whined a little as Jane packed her fancy laptop.
“Sorry, honey. No more computer games. This has to go with me.” She picked a hefty book off the bureau and handed it to Broker.
“Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone?” Broker read the title slowly, wondering out loud.
“You got some catching up to do, muggle,” Jane said. Then she knelt and hugged Kit. “Okay, Little Bit. Uncle Holly and Auntie Jane have to go. And so do you and your dad. We talked about this with your mom, remember?”
Kit nodded and chewed the inside of her lower lip. Broker didn’t especially like the way she was handling it. The way she nodded, stoic, and said, “We’ll all get together on the other side.”
Seven was too young to have a game face.
Holly’s knees creaked when he kneeled down and said goodbye to Kit. When he got up, his pale ghost-eyes cut Broker fast. “We’ll be close, but not in the town.”
“How close?” Broker asked.
Again, the fast, cool eyes. Impatient with being challenged by a civilian, Holly said firmly, “We got it in hand, okay? Now, I advise you two to get out of here, pronto.”
Yeah, bullshit you got it in hand, Broker thought. But he nodded as Holly and Jane went into motion, lugging their go-bags out the door.
Special ops. The manner of their leaving made a New York minute seem like overtime.
Broker sat on the bed and held his daughter in his lap. Sensing his anxiety, she made an effort to reassure him. He listened, amazed as she flipped roles with him:
“In Italy, when the dads went away, the kids and the moms just sit and wait. Like now.”
Broker noticed she was chewing at the corner of her thumbnail as she spoke. He moved her fingers away from her mouth and saw that several fingers were worried almost raw.
Kit went on. “When a dad doesn’t come back, the mom gets a flag. And, um, the chaplain comes and talks.”
“Chaplain?”
Kit furrowed her brow. “You know. They talk about God. How when something bad happens, it’s his will.”
Broker cocked his head at his daughter as a thought occurred. “Did you and Mom ever go to church over there?”