“When I was younger—it is a very difficult balance. But you seem to get a lot of support from your husband.”
“He tries. He’s very busy.”
“You don’t have a nanny?” Reid asked.
“No.”
Breanna suddenly felt uncomfortable, not so much because of the content of the conversation, but because of whom she was having it with. While she and Reid had worked well together over the past few months, they’d never discussed personal matters—hers or his. She didn’t even know if he had any children.
“We’ve had various helpers,” Breanna said. “But we’ve always felt—we feel very strongly that, if we can, we’d prefer to raise Teri ourselves.”
“Don’t want her calling someone else ‘Mom.’ I completely agree,” said Reid. “Raising them yourself—there’s no substitute. As hard as it is, I’m sure she’ll be better off in the long run.”
“I hope so,” said Breanna.
BREANNA RETURNED TO A WHIRLWIND OF TASKS AT THE Pentagon. Most of them had nothing to do directly with Whiplash, but she interrupted her schedule when her secretary, Ms. Bennett, finally managed to get hold of the man she wanted to run the group’s support team: her father’s former right-hand man, Terence “Ax” Gibbs.
“I’m having a fantastic time down here,” Ax told her over the video phone. He looked it, too—he was on a porch on an island in the Florida Keys. “How are you all enjoying the snow?”
“It hasn’t snowed all winter up here,” said Breanna. “And now it’s almost spring.”
“Too bad.” Ax winked. The former Air Force chief master sergeant had retired when Dog was assigned out of Dreamland. Up until then, Ax wasn’t just the epitome of a chief master sergeant, he was a chief’s chief, a candidate for sainthood or the devil incarnate, depending on your perspective.
Most people would have said he was a little of both.
“I need your help, Ax,” said Breanna. “I have a new command. It’s a joint operation involving intelligence and the military. I need someone who can get things done, who can work with the military side lining up support for different missions, who’s not afraid of getting his hands dirty.”
“Sounds like it would be right up my alley,” said Ax. “If I were looking for a job.”
“Now before you say no—”
“You’re just like your father, you know that?”
“Ax—”
“Fortunately for you, my sources indicated that this call might be coming. And I was able to do a little research into the subject.”
“How—”
“Once a chief, always a chief.” Ax raised his glass of home-brewed ale as a toast. “There are some things I can’t tell, even when retired. Don’t worry, no state secrets have been betrayed. Who would be, well, not better than me, but nearly as good?”
“I—”
“Greasy Hands Parsons. And he has far too much time on his hands now that his grandson Robert has started school. Even better, he lives not ten miles from the Pentagon, so he wouldn’t have to relocate.”
“Greasy Hands? He has to be pushing eighty by now.”
Ax laughed. “Everyone at Dreamland thought he was about sixty when he was there, right?”
“Seventy.”
“Greasy Hands was younger than most of the sergeants he had working for him. You can’t fool another chief. Especially one with access to personnel records. I think if you called him up, he’d jump at the chance to get back to doing something useful.”
“Could he work at something where he wasn’t going to get his hands dirty?”
“Who says that’s not part of the job?”
Few nicknames had ever been as appropriate as “Greasy Hands.” Parsons not only had incredible mechanical skills; he couldn’t resist putting them to use. Breanne knew that his military background and association with Dreamland would be definite pluses. He got along with Ray Rubeo—not an easy task—and of course already knew Danny and would be respected by him. If she couldn’t have Ax, Greasy Hands would be an excellent choice.
“Maybe I will talk to him,” she said. “You wouldn’t happen to know what his phone number is these days, would you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER AL PARSONS FELT HIS CELL PHONE rattling his pocket, vibrating before it rang. He considered not answering it, since he was under his car examining a ball joint that had, in technical terms, gone all hell out of whack. But technically he wasn’t actually working on the car—the mechanic at the auto shop where he’d stopped was being paid to do that. And since the young man seemed to have a rough idea of the trouble now that Greasy Hands had pointed it out, he decided he’d step outside and take the call.
“Just clunk it with the fork one time and it’ll come right off,” he told the mechanic. “I gotta take this call.”
“Is this Al Parsons?” said a woman’s voice when he hit the Call button.
“Depends on who’s calling,” he answered.
“Please hold the line for Ms. Stockard.”
“Who?”
Breanna came on the line. “Chief Parsons?”
“Breanna, is that you? Holy God, girl—how are you?”
“I’m good, Greasy Hands, how are you?”
“Bored out of my mind. What can I do for you?”
Breanna described as much of the job as she could over the phone. Before she was done, Greasy Hands had all but volunteered to do it for free. They arranged for him to come in the following day for an interview and to meet some of the other key people in the organization, including Reid. Greasy Hands hung up practically singing—a skill Breanna hadn’t known he possessed.
The mechanic working on his car might have said he didn’t possess it. But he was a fairly discreet fellow and wouldn’t have said anything bad about his customer, especially since his customer’s good mood led to a twenty dollar tip.
BREANNA’S WORK, ALONG WITH UPDATES ON THE SUDAN and Iranian situation, kept her in her office until a few minutes after eight; in truth, she could have easily stayed several more hours and still not finished everything. By the time she finally reached home, not only was dinner done, but Teri had finished her homework and was getting ready for bed.
Breanna popped her head into the bathroom while Teri was brushing her teeth. She studied her daughter’s face. It was soft and relaxed, innocent.
She’d held that face close to hers forever, it seemed; at times it was impossible to even imagine not seeing it.
Teri glanced up and caught a glimpse of her mother behind her in the mirror. Instantly, her expression changed to a scowl. She put her head down, concentrating on her brush.
“How’s your leg, honey?” Breanna asked.
Teri didn’t say anything.
“Teri?”
The girl leaned forward to spit out the toothpaste. She was determined not to talk to her mother. She took a paper cup from the holder and rinsed.
“The doctor told me the X rays were negative,” said Breanna. “I called to check.”
Mouth rinsed, Teri dropped her toothbrush on the sink and spun around to leave. Breanna put her hand out and grabbed her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, though she knew exactly why Teri was angry.
“It’s time for bed.”
“Teri—”
Breanna looked into her daughter’s eyes. Anger, fear, and disappointment mingled in equal parts. Breanna wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure what. She couldn’t apologize for not going to the hospital—there was nothing to apologize for. Zen had been there, and there was no reason both of them always had to be by Teri’s side. And yet she felt as if she had let her daughter down.
Teri certainly thought so, even though, if asked, she would not have been able to put her feelings precisely into words.
“I’m fine,” said Teri.
Her angry tone annoyed Breanna, who snapped back. “Then put your toothbrush back where it belongs.”
Teri grabbed it, practically flinging it into the holder. Breanna closed her eyes as her daughter stomped to bed—she hadn’t meant to be a scold.