“Before I leave here today, A.J., you and your brother are going to level with me about what’s going on.”
“Don’t get lost.”
Jo left through the front entrance. The wind went right through her fleece jacket, and she almost reconsidered the pie, the book and the fire. Hunching her shoulders against the cold, she walked over to the edge of the road. The lodge trails were part of a network of recreational trails on state, federal and private land. Nora Asher could go for miles-days-if she wanted to. She’d started out a few hours ago. Who knew where she could be now?
Cameron Mountain rose up above the open fields across the quiet road. Jo hadn’t spent much time up here in recent years-and she’d repressed a lot of memories, since most of them involved Elijah.
She heard laughter behind her and turned, seeing Lauren, A.J.’s wife of five years, who was businesslike but not as flinty as her husband, and their four-year-old son and two-year-old daughter. The little ones were running in circles on the grass, the wind catching the ends of their blond hair, their cheeks rosy red as they squealed in delight.
They made an abrupt ninety-degree turn and bolted back toward the lodge. In an instant, Jo saw why, as A.J. walked out and scooped up his children.
She felt a tug of emotion she didn’t expect.
“I wake up on cold mornings and see the grandchildren you and Elijah should have had…”
Jo got out of there, quickly crossing the road, making her way onto a beaten-down grass path that would take her through the field and out to the falls trail. She wasn’t equipped for a full-fledged hike in the mountains, but she’d do her best to pick up Elijah’s trail.
Nine
Ryan “Grit” Taylor stood in front of the hotel where Alexander Bruni had met his end six hours ago. Cabs, limos, delivery trucks and regular cars packed the street now, but Grit knew the cops hadn’t all disappeared once they’d released the scene. He didn’t see them, but there was no question they were there. The D.C. police, the FBI, maybe even a Diplomatic Security Service or Secret Service agent or two.
An ambassador getting run down on a Washington street was a big deal.
Television reporters had set up a little ways past the revolving doors for live shots and were on the lookout for anyone who’d been there that morning.
Bruni had been run over on a bad spot on a bad street. Grit had been out there for ten minutes, and with the traffic, the distracted tourists, he decided it was not out of the realm of possibility for Bruni to have been hit by accident. A busy man with a lot on his mind crosses the street without looking, and-that’s it. He’s done.
Leaving the scene was another matter. That didn’t look good.
Moose Ferrerra, a fellow Navy SEAL, materialized next to Grit. “The Grim Reaper comes for you fast or slow. Either way, he always wins.”
“I know, Moose,” Grit said. “I know.”
Moose didn’t respond. He looked the same as he had thirteen years ago on his first day of SEAL training. Fresh, young, eager, cocky. Nothing like he had in April when the Grim Reaper had swooped down on their position in eastern Afghanistan.
A hellish mountain pass, newly opened after the harsh winter. A helicopter with mechanical trouble. Heavily armed, pissed-off bad guys.
Not a great combo.
Grit and Moose and the rest of their SEAL team had joined up with a Special Forces unit to take out a series of enemy weapons caches. Everything went fine until the SEAL exfiltration. The Green Berets stayed behind to protect friendly local villagers, who’d helped pinpoint the caches, from retaliation and continue their work.
The helicopter ran into problems almost immediately and was forced to make a hard landing in an enemy hot spot.
Moose was shot first. Then Grit. Then Elijah Cameron and his guys came to their aid.
Elijah was shot.
It had been a long night.
Grit was convinced that the Grim Reaper had come for him, not Moose, and he still didn’t know why things hadn’t worked out the way they’d been meant to. He only knew that he should have died that night. It wasn’t superstition or pessimism or depression-it was dead-on certainty.
He knew he should be dead.
And he wasn’t grateful he’d survived. Most days, he wished he hadn’t.
Which annoyed the hell out of Moose. “My friend, you need to get an attitude of gratitude.”
Moose’s voice. Clear as a bell. He was right, too. As always.
Grit watched Washington types go through the revolving doors into the hotel lobby. It was too early for happy hour, but he had learned, since Elijah’s call, that the hotel was a favorite for meetings, from multi-day conventions to an afternoon workshop on how to sell mortgages.
Bruni had likely been on his way to some sort of power breakfast in the hotel dining room. Or maybe breakfast by himself. Never mind that he was an ambassador, he had to eat.
Grit stepped out of the way for a brisk woman pushing a baby in a stroller the size of a VW Bug. She didn’t make eye contact with him. Neither did her cute, slobbering, baldheaded bambino.
They disappeared around the corner, and Grit sighed. His left foot hurt.
“You don’t have a left foot,” Moose said.
“I know I don’t.”
After seven months, Grit hadn’t forgotten that he’d lost his lower left leg, but his left foot did, in fact, hurt. Phantom pain, he’d learned, was a common and very real phenomenon. It had to do with how nerves in the residual limb communicated to the brain. His doctors and physical therapists at Bethesda had explained how it all worked in careful detail. Grit had learned more about the nerves, muscles and workings of legs than he’d ever imagined knowing. He’d made good progress; he wasn’t back to his preinjury mobility, but he had confidence, which he hadn’t had in the beginning, that he’d get there.
He was on his second prosthesis. He’d probably need another one or two in the coming months as his leg adapted and toughened and adjusted to the mechanics of prosthetic use.
Since he hadn’t died in that mountain pass, he figured he might as well get on with living. Not that he was grateful.
Moose was the one who’d urged the Special Forces medic to cut off Grit’s leg. “Don’t listen to Grit. Don’t let him die. Just do your duty.”
That transtibial-below-the-knee-field amputation had probably saved Grit’s life.
A short woman with ultrablack dyed hair emerged from a knot of reporters and walked up to Grit. She had bloodred nails and wore a denim jacket over a black dress and flat gold shoes that he figured cost more than he earned in a week. Maybe a month.
She took a lipstick out of a gigantic black handbag and looked sideways at him as she opened it up. She had big, lavender eyes. Grit put her at somewhere between fifty and a hundred. Whatever her age, she was still a knockout.
She dabbed her mouth with the lipstick. As far as he could see, it was the same color as her lips. What was the point?
“You’re not a reporter,” she said with a trace of a Southern accent, not unlike his own. “What are you doing hanging around out here?”
He figured he didn’t have to answer her question. “Who are you?”
“I’m a reporter. Myrtle Smith.”
Grit had never heard of her. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Smith.”
“Myrtle’s fine, but if you make fun of my name or tell me you have an aunt Myrtle-” she smiled “-I’ll cut off your balls.”
She weighed maybe a hundred pounds. But she could have a sharp little knife in that big handbag. Grit realized his foot wasn’t hurting anymore. “I do have an aunt Myrtle. She’s my great-aunt. My grandmother’s older sister.”
“What’s your grandmother’s name?”
“Vasselona.”
“I like that. Your name?”
He debated telling her. “Ryan Taylor.”
“Mind if I call you Ryan?”
“Most people call me Grit.”