“Hey, Park, do you remember that kid from Montreal? The one who went missing?”
When I say Montreal, the kid’s eyes snap to mine.
“Sure. I remember him. Henri something-or-other.”
“Gauthier. Well, I think we’ve got him. How’s your French coming along?”
“Nothing to write home about, butça va faire.”
Henri Gauthier sits up, staring at the console as Park’s clear voice cuts through the space.
“Henri?Est-ce que ça va?Ont-ils besoin de vous emmener à l'hôpital?”
I think I gothow are youand something about going to a hospital?
Letting out a choked sob, the slender young man starts speaking rapidly. I know a smattering of French, so I follow along, more or less, as Park explains in her sweet way that we are special people, secret people, who’ve come to take him back to his mom and dad.
Abigail straightens as Park’s beautiful French filters through the line. I think she might enjoy the way romance languages sound on Park’s tongue. While they’re working out the details, I text Hedy to see if we can quietly get his parents down here.
The team drops off Anders, Henri, and me in Wimberley before they continue on to take care of the older girl and the bodies. Hedy meets us at the landing strip and surprises me by also speaking to Henri in French. We quickly find out that he does know English but has been pretending not to. Smart kid. We’re unable to take him into the main areas, obviously, but the guard office is a repurposed house with a den and a TV, so we hang out there with him.
Arye, one of the deadliest operators in U.S. history, joins us and has the kid rolling with jokes and simple magic tricks. Henri keeps staring at Anders and me, seemingly unable to get over how much we look alike, even with our different hairstyles. Miss Odeal sends over some pizza from the mess, and after he eats, Henri falls asleep against my arm.
While we wait, his parents drive across the border into the U.S. and meet a friend of Hedy’s in Vermont, who flies them down on a private plane. It’s now close to midnight, and I’m standing at the landing strip with Henri and Anders as the plane lands. Witnessing the kid’s parents fall to their knees and surround him with hugs and kisses brings a tear, or several, to my eyes.
I check out Anders. Even though he’s usually the first to find humor or a joke in any situation, tears are streaking down his cheeks as well.
Hedy steps between the two of us and wraps an arm around each of our waists. We in turn wrap our arms around her shoulders and share a three-way hug.
“You know, this is the first Guardians op y’all have had in a long time that didn’t go to complete shit in the middle of everything. And you had two bonus saves. Y’all deserve this win.”
She’s right. This time we weren’t dealing with incorrect information. We knew exactly where to go and exactly what to do. Hopefully, we can continue to have successful ops.
8
DeShaun
Something’s off here. Something’s not right. “Stop the vehicle!”
Porter jerks the armored-up Humvee to a halt, turning to me. “What? Did you see something?”
We’re passing a small town that we’ve driven by many times before, and everything looks like it always does, but it feels off.
“No, not sure, but…this isn’t right.”
Porter rolls his eyes, accustomed to my overanxious mind. “I drive this way every week, and it looks exactly like it always does, dude. You need to get more sleep.”
Still, he knows that I have excellent Spidey sense, so he carefully lets his foot off the brake, allowing the Humvee to roll forward. After a few yards, I’m more or less satisfied that I’m just being antsy, so I gesture at him to get a move on.
Grinning, he hits the gas, throwing us into a higher gear. Just as he hits cruising speed, the large vehicle rattles over a bump in the road. He turns to me, eyes wide. A second later, I’m consumed by a wall of light. Then flashes of memory, of barely waking moments, blinding pain. Porter blown apart, eyes still wide with fright.
I wake up with a start, my knee throbbing and my skin feeling stretched and uncomfortable from knee to waist. After taking a few moments to orient myself, I realize why it all hurts so much. I’m twisted up in my sheets and duvet, my bad leg dangling off the bed, the weight pulling mercilessly against my skin, twisting my knee. I fumble for the lamp on my side table, finally finding the switch, breathing easier in the dim light. Slowly I untangle myself and stuff pillows under my knee to support it. My fitted sheet is coming up on one corner, but it’ll have to stay that way for a bit.
Checking the time, I grab the pain pills from my side table and do a quick calculation. It should be okay to take one this many hours after the sleeping pill. Fingers crossed.
I take a pill with the last swallow of water I have and hope I won’t need to take a second. I’d be better off with some ice packs, but it hurts too much to walk right now, so I just let my knee throb, waiting for the pill to do its job.
In addition to the pulsing pain, my heart is racing, creating a horrible feedback loop I get stuck in from time to time. I mentally tick through my trauma response “toolkit”—honestly, I wish therapists would stop using those fucking hokey terms for everything—and figure out which ones I can use while laid up in bed.
