Tanner gave him a wave, got one in return, then turned and began swimming back.
When he reached the pier, Oaken leaned down, cautiously offered a hand, then backpedaled as Tanner levered himself onto the planks. Oaken wiped his hands. “Wow — it’s cold.”
“Yes.”
“You’re an idiot, you know that, don’t you?”
“So I’ve been told.” Tanner dried his hair then tucked the towel into the collar of his wet suit so it formed a hood. He gestured to the other towel he’d laid on the planks. “Sit down.”
Oaken did so and handed him a cup of coffee. “How far did you go?”
“Couple miles; give or take.”
“I see your Rudbeckia Hirta is coming in well. I think Bev’s got some of them planted somewhere.”
Tanner smiled. Only Walt, a man who wouldn’t stick his hands in the soil on a bet, would be able to name black-eyed Susans by their scientific name. “I transplanted them in May; they were getting a little too much sun. How’s Charlie?”
“Hairy and loud.”
Charlie, a yellow labrador puppy, which had been rescued from the pound, had been Oaken’s Christmas gift to his daughters. The idea of Oaken, avid indoorsman that he was, dealing with a rambunctious puppy never failed to amuse Tanner. “Admit it: You love him.”
“I like him.”
“Uh-huh.” Tanner sipped his coffee. “So, what can I do for you?”
“Yeah, well …,” Oaken started. “Bev and the girls want to go camping.”
Tanner did his best to suppress his smile. “I see. With you?”
“Yes.”
“And Charlie.”
“Yes.”
“Camping.”
“Yes.”
“Can I come watch?”
“Very funny. What am I gonna do? Camping … Jesus, I’ll probably kill myself setting up the tent.”
“No problem,” Tanner said. “I’ll give you a list. Have you got a notebook?”
“Sure.” Excited at the idea of having something to pigeonhole, Oaken took out his notebook, uncapped his pen, and nodded. “Ready.”
“First — and this is crucial—”
“Okay …”
“You’re going to need a flannel shirt.”
Oaken started scribbling.
“Something checkered … red and black. And a hat — coonskin, preferably, with earflaps.”
Oaken stopped writing and glanced sideways at him. “That’s not funny.”
Tanner clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I have everything you need. A couple hours from now you’ll be a regular Danger Don.”
“You mean the guy on TV? The adventure nut with the death wish?”
“That’s him.” Tanner’s cell phone trilled and he answered. “Hello.”
“Briggs, it’s Gill.”
Gillman Vetsch was a friend from Tanner’s precivilian days. Once a month they got together for coffee or lunch. “Gill, how are you?”
“I need to see you.”
Something’s wrong, Tanner thought. Despite the tragic turns Vetsch’s life had taken, he was one of the most upbeat people Briggs had ever known. The tone in Gill’s voice was anything but upbeat now. “Sure, give me an hour. Can you give me a clue?”
“Not over the phone.”
The line went dead. Tanner disconnected.
Oaken said, “Bad news?”
“I don’t know,” Tanner replied. Yes, definitely bad.
Gill Vetsch and Tanner had been two of the original members of ISAG, or the Intelligence Support Activity Group, Vetsch having been recruited from the Secret Service, Tanner from the Naval Special Warfare community. Founded by the CIA, ISAG was an experimental program designed to address what was seen as a gap in the U.S. intelligence community — namely, special operators who could act not only as commandos, but also as hands-on intelligence gatherers.
Culled from all branches’ military and civilian elite units, ISAG operators were put through a grueling two-year course that turned them into what insiders called “warrior spies,” men and women as comfortable hunting terrorists through the jungles of South America as they were running agents in Bratislava. Disbanded due to Pentagon politics shortly after its conception, ISAG produced only sixty graduates — the only sixty to survive the program’s 90 percent attrition rate.
Shortly before the ax fell, Tanner was prepping for an overwatch job — ISAG’s term for a standoff bodyguarding assignment — when his late wife, Elle, fell ill and miscarried their baby. Vetsch stepped in, took over the job, and sent Tanner home to be with her.
Three days later in Bucharest, Vetsch was gunned down by a sniper on a street outside Cotroceni Palace. Left for dead, Vetsch watched helplessly as the kidnappers bundled his charge into a van and sped away. He survived, but barely, as the bullet missed his heart by inches and severed his spinal column at mid-lumbar. When he emerged from surgery he was paralyzed from the waist down.
Surprising no one, Gill rebounded with gusto and adjusted quickly to what he termed “a little bump in the road of life.” Tanner had visited him shortly after his release from the hospital. Gill immediately saw the guilt in Tanner’s eyes.
“Don’t even think it, Briggs,” Vetsch told him. “It was plain bad luck, nothing more. You had no business being in the field. Elle needed you, you needed her. Hell, you would’ve done the same for me. Don’t forget: I’m luckier than you are. Whoever was behind the trigger, he was aiming for the heart. A couple inches either way and goodbye. Big picture: I’m alive.”
“I know, Gill, but Christ—”
“If it makes you feel any better I’ll let you come over once a month and wash my wheelchair. Deal?”
Despite himself, Tanner smiled. “Deal.”
“Now I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Name it.”
Though he wasn’t going to let Bucharest ruin his life, Vetsch explained, it had set him thinking about his then fifteen-year-old daughter, Susanna. “Mary died before we had a chance to choose godparents for Susanna. I know it’d make Susanna happy; she loves you. What do you say?”
Tanner opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
“And no,” Gill continued, “I’m not asking because I think you owe me anything. I’m asking you because you’re the most loyal, trustworthy son of a bitch I know. If anything happens to me, or if Susanna needs you, you’ll be there. Am I wrong?”
“No.”
“You wanna think about it?”
“There’s nothing to think about, Gill.”
“Good! Now go get the hose — there’s some dirt on my wheels.”
And with a mutual laugh, it was done. In the space of five minutes, Tanner had not only gained a goddaughter, but had seen courage and forgiveness epitomized by a man who had every right to hate life.
Vetsch lived in Willowbrook, Virginia, in a two-story saltbox he and Mary had bought shortly before Susanna was born. Vetsch had always been a woodworker by hobby, and after the accident he’d had a wheelchair-accessible shop built behind the garage. Filled to the rafters with equipment that would have made Bob Vila envious, the shop was Vetsch’s haven.
An hour after leaving his home, Tanner pulled into Gill’s driveway, got out, and walked around to the shop door. “Over here,” Briggs heard. He turned.
Vetsch was sitting on his deck, staring into the distance. Tanner walked up the ramp. Vetsch didn’t turn. His eyes were unfocused and red-rimmed. His face was covered in stubble.
“Gill?” Tanner placed a hand on his shoulder. “Gill?”