The Edge of Trust: Team Edge (32 page)

Reaching the entrance, he flicked the beam of light over Sara.  “There’s a pool of clean water about twenty feet back if you want to wash off and change.”

And the thought of her naked, just a few yards away, made him clamp his lips shut, pivot
on his heel and stalk back outside into the rain to gather wood for a fire.

Spotting an overhang, he stomped over and gathered up as many dry branches as he could hold, then made a mad dash back to the cave before the wood got soaked.  Just as he ducked inside, he heard a startled shriek and a splash.  Dropping the wood in a pile, he sprinted back toward the pool and stopped short. 

There Sara was, bobbing around like she had no cares in the world, naked as a blue jay, looking like a friggin’ sea nymph.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. 

Think noble.  Good intentions.  Mind out of the gutter.  Don’t even look. 

“I, uh, found some dry wood, so at least we’ll be able to have some light and a hot meal.” 

“Thanks,” she said, and started rinsing out her pants.

“You can lay your clothes and boots on the big rock near the entrance.  With the fire going, they should be somewhat dry by morning.” 
Eyes on the ground.  No peeking.

“Okay.  Good,” she said, and started rinsing out her shirt. 

“Dinner shouldn’t take long.” 
Keep your hands in your pockets.  Dick in your pants.

“Um, hmm,” she said, and started wringing out her clothes.  She gave him a pointed look.

“Okay, well, I’ll just go start dinner then.”  Dillon left her to it, and went to build a fire.  And hoped she hadn’t noticed the fact that he had a raging case of hard-on going.

As he bent down to make a pyramid out of the wood, the pain in his leg reminded him he’d taken a small fragment to the thigh.  Once the fire was going, he searched through his duffel bag for the med kit he always carried.  After sterilizing his knife and a pair of tweezers, he cut the hole in his fatigues open and propped his foot on a rock.  With a deep breath, he locked his jaw, dug the tweezers straight into his leg and grabbed the jagged piece of steel.  He yanked it out, and with a low growl of pain, said, “
Fuck
.”

Sara was fully dressed, digging in her duffel bag and apparently oblivious.  At his exclamation she stiffened like a rod and whirled around.  “What?  What’s wrong?”

“Not...a...single...damn...thing.”  He threw the offending piece of metal into the fire.

Anger flashed in her eyes when she saw the amount of blood coming from the wound in his leg.  “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

“Not a big deal.”

“Of all the macho, pig-headed, stupid things to say--”  Spotting the open first-aid kit, she quit sputtering and grabbed the antibiotic ointment and bandages.  “Put the knife away before you accidentally jab me and hold still.”  With a piece of gauze, she cleaned the blood away, smeared some ointment on a dressing, and quickly bandaged the wound.

“Okay, Sara, that’s good.”  He wanted her away from him or all his good intentions were going to go to hell in a proverbial hand-basket.

She put the ointment back in the kit, closed it, and looked at him.  A multitude of emotions glittered in her dark brown eyes.  Just for an instant, before she tried to hide them, he saw.  Anger.  Fear.  Confusion.  Longing.  The same desire he felt every time he looked at her.

Then she blinked, and poof, the blank stare was back as if those emotions never existed. 

Before he had a chance to make a move, or even comment, she turned, grabbed up her wet clothes and stalked away to lay them on a rock.

Good, he thought, keep your distance.  Better for both of us.
 

Annoyed, he walked over to the duffel and pulled out the necessary ingredients for dinner.  Thought about using the ration heater, then decided he’d rather cook dinner the old fashioned way.  Over a fire.  Flames suited his mood.

Several minutes later, Sara returned sans wet clothes and sniffed appreciatively.  “That smells great.  But,” she sniffed again, “it smells an awful lot like beef stew.  You find a grocery store close by?”

“Not exactly.”

She shrugged, ignoring his mood, and asked, “Is there anything you want me to do?”

Dillon stifled a groan.  Almost laughed.  Wasn’t
that
a loaded question.  He wanted to tell her
exactly
what she could do.  He wanted to tell her that his memories were driving him insane, wanted to beg her to lie beside him, and he most definitely wanted to remind her that he was still her husband and very much a man.

Instead, he stuck a tablet into a small camp coffeepot and handed it over.  “You can fill this with water.”

“What are those?”  She pointed to several empty pouches scattered at his feet.

“That’s the stew you’re smelling.  MRE’s.  Complete with coffee and dessert.” 

His gaze wandered from the stew to the brown-colored pouches so familiar to soldiers
everywhere, then immediately collided with long, endless legs just inches from his face.  That was about all he could take and he snapped, “Sara, for God’s sake, go already.”

Startled by his irritable tone, she took a hasty step backward and bristled.  “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing.”  He sighed.  “Sorry.  Just hungry.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded.  “I’ll be right back with the water.”

Moments later, they were dining by firelight and drinking strong, dark coffee.  Cupping her metal coffee mug in both hands, Sara surprised him by saying, “So.  Let’s hear it.  The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m a reporter, Dillon.  That means I generally know when people are holding out on me.”  She peered at him over the rim of her cup.  “What did I miss during the last year?”

Dillon leaned back against the wall, made himself relax.  “You won’t like it.  And neither will I.”

“Fair enough.  Start with Sanchez.”  Sara set her cup down and waited.

“Sanchez prefers Louis XIV over Macallen, lamb over steak, and small brunettes with lots of cleavage.  He writes with a Monte Blanc pen, black ink only.  Black leather, never brown.  Luxury cars over flash and speed.”

“Good to know,” she said with a nod.  “Now, let me tell you what I know.”  Hitching her legs up Indian style, she turned toward him.  “Four years ago you went undercover in the SBC.  You stayed under for three years, coming home as often as said cover would allow.  Then, one year ago, last year almost to the day, you’re all of a sudden sorry you married me, and coincidentally, I get a shit ton of pictures of you and another woman.  More coincidentally, I just happened to get blown off a dock and disappear for a year.”  When he started to speak, she raised her hand to cut him off.  “I’ll get to the disappearance in a minute.  I’ll even take the heat for that.  But let’s go back.  Let’s go to the part where you said, and I quote, ‘I’m sorry I ever married you.’”

“My God, Sara, that was just a fight!  If I’d said I was going to throw you in the attic for the rats to eat you, would you have believed me?”

“We don’t have an attic.  Or rats.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is, that some things which are said can never be
un
said.”

“If that’s true, then I’m screwed no matter what I say.”

“Hmm,” she said, nodding in between sips, not giving a damn thing away, “that’s a possibility.  So, what about the pictures?”

“Adoña.”  He stretched his legs out and shoved his metal plate to the side with his foot.  “You were wrong, pictures
can
lie.  And if you’d taken the time to really look at them, you’d have seen that not one single picture was intimate, because
we
were never intimate.  Those were taken simply to make me look guilty about something I never did.  I don’t know who took them and I also don’t know who sent them.  Maybe Marco, but I can’t very well ask him.”

“Why’s that?”

“I killed him.  Six months ago.”

“Xavier?”

“Dead too.  Not by me.  He wouldn’t have sent the pictures.”

“Who would?”

“Absolutely no idea.”  He shrugged.  “Sanchez?  Vega?  Neither one makes sense.”

Sara shifted her weight, moved her legs, stretched.  “Who blew your cover?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Meaning you don’t want to tell me.”

“Meaning I’m still not sure how, but after three years of damn near living under the same roof, someone leaked my real identity to Sanchez.  It was Adoña’s birthday.  Sanchez was buying her a new car.  I’d just sent in the last of my intel.  Every picture, recording, contact, you name it, and I’d sent it.  The U.S. and Mexico had enough evidence to not only sink the SBC but damn near everyone they’d ever dealt with.  

“Anyway, we were at a car lot.  All of us, the whole family.  Adoña had picked a white metallic Mercedes.  Convertible.   It was a beautiful day out, sunny but not too hot, nice.  Adoña and Dreena were already in the car.  I told Marco to give me the keys, but he’d already given them to Adoña.  I felt sucker punched.  ‘Let them drive with the top down, shake their hair free.  There’s nothing to worry about, you pussy,’ Marco’d said.  I was used to that kind of crap from him and I let it pass.  Still, I needed to check the car first.  That was my job, security.  Keeping everyone safe.  But Marco had given Adoña the keys and both girls were already in the car, smiling, waving, ready to show off their new toy.  I turned, started walking toward them.  I had to check.  No one had checked.  So then I ran.

“I was too late.  Adoña had already pulled into traffic and was gone.  Seconds later the car blew.  It was my job to check for those kinds of things.  Warring cartels, rivals, enemies.  And I should have, I was going to, I never did.  And I, well, in the end I killed them.  Dreena had just turned seven a few weeks prior.”  That day, that beautiful sunny day had become an obscenity.

Sara looked pensive, sad, and said, “I’m sorry.”

Dillon nodded.

“None of that was your fault.  Maybe Marco’s, but--”  She laid a hand on his arm.  “I’m so sorry.  I had no idea.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

The day he’d lost Dreena and Adoña would stay with him for the rest of his life.  He’d always look back and wonder what he could have done differently, if he could have changed something, anything, if there was any way in God’s grace he could have possibly saved them.

“Because,” he said, “I failed.  I didn’t do my job.”  And then I got made that same day and had to run for my life.  After that, there wasn’t time for sad stories, long explanations, self-pity.  Too many people were dying and I was covering my ass trying to stay sane and decide what to do next.”

“Marco sounds like a prick.  Maybe he sent the pictures.”

“He probably took them.  He was a jerk that way.  But I don’t think he would’ve sent them.  Had no reason to.  I’d been made.  I was history
. 
Besides, he didn’t have the intel.  Only three people could have known where to send them.  Sanchez himself.  Vega.  And whoever leaked my cover.”

“Sanchez because by then he hated you, and the leak would’ve known about me, given him our address, all that.  The leak maybe, for reasons of his own.  But how’s Vega fit in?”

“He set up the meet last year on the dock.  Set
me
up.  Maybe the pictures were just another way to get at me, through you.”  He shrugged.  “I don’t know.”

After seeing what was on the decoded flash drive, Dillon was fairly sure who else had been involved.  In everything.  How else would Sanchez have known where to find him, his sister, his parents, Sara, the safe houses...they were all classified.  Every single person, every house, had been protected.

Only they weren’t.

No one, not a single one of them, had ever stood a chance.

The very idea touched something primitive and merciless inside him, and mentally he went to a dark, dangerous place.  A place where cruel, corrupted men died in brutal, vicious ways.  

With a deep breath, Dillon brought his mind back. 

“What happened next?”

He gave Sara a measured look.  “Sanchez blew Lisa, and my parents, to kingdom come.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Journal Entry

Today is Adoña’s birthday and Sanchez is buying her a new car.  Another Mercedes.  I asked her why she didn’t want something else, say a different make or model, or even jewelry instead, and she said, “Why change what you want if what you have is already perfect?”  I had to agree.  She has her car, I have my wife.

Everyone’s taken the day off and we’ll be headed into town in about an hour.  This should be it for me—my last trip into town and anywhere else with Sanchez.  Yesterday I sent in the last of my intel.  Every picture, recording, contact, you name it, and it’s gone.  The feds have enough evidence to not only sink the SBC but everyone they’ve dealt with on seven continents.  Tomorrow the hands of the Americans and Federales will grab Sanchez in his own home.  Two years undercover is a long time, three has felt like a life sentence. 

I know I’ll miss Dreena more than I’d like, but I finally get to say, get your shovel and pails ready ‘cause, baby, I am coming home. 

Race you to the beach!  ~~ D.C.

<><><>

Sara jerked backward as though he’d actually slapped her.  Which, verbally at least, he supposed he had.

“They’re…dead?  But, Matt and Lisa…your parents--”  She stared at him, wouldn’t look away, and when her lips started to tremble he felt very small.

“Car bomb.”  He felt his jaw muscles tighten and wanted this to be over already.  Except, well, dammit, he owed her.  They were her family too.

Just when he thought she was going to scream and accuse, she turned to him, his wife, and looked past his anger, his hate and vengeance, and just as he thought she was going to hate him even more and unleash the anguish of the last year against him, just at that moment, she sobbed. 

Instead of rage there were tears.  Grief.  Deep, sorrowful, heartbreaking grief.

He held her, comforted with small, quiet words, and a gentle touch.  Rocked her like a child until the sobs subsided and there was only silence.