Nomar
Lisette barely ate,so I wrap up a plate for her and set it in the small fridge. Being in her space—alone—feels wrong, but there’s no way in hell I’m leaving now.
After I do the dishes, I set up an infrared motion alarm over her front door. The sensor is a piece of shit. I cobbled it together from spare parts in Kandahar two years ago. But it’ll make enough noise to wake me if anyone tries to break in overnight.
My eyes feel hollow. If I sit down, I’ll be asleep in under a minute, so I stand at her patio door and stare out into the night though a part in the drapes. A dozen plants grace the small, outdoor area, along with a bistro table and chairs. In the glow from the street lights, pale pink, purple, and yellow flowers shudder in the light breeze.
My phone buzzes with a U.S. number, and I pop in an earbud before answering the call. “Only one person in the States has this number, and you’re not him.”
The pause is long enough, I’m about to hang up. “Nomar. This is Griff Hargrove. Austin Pritchard gave me your number.”
“Pritchard doesn’t have my number.” I’m being a dick. I know it, but I can’t stop myself.
“For fuck’s sake. Is it that hard to believehegot the number from Ford Lawton? It’s been a long damn day and I need some shuteye. The kids are leaving the hotel at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow to go onanotherwalking tour of the city.”
“Sorry. I’ve been up for the better part of thirty-six hours myself. Any sign of trouble there?”
There’s another long pause, and I stare at the screen. “Griff? Are you there?”
“Yeah. The cell service here is shit and my glasses are charging.”
I touch the earbud. “What the hell do your glasses have to do with anything?”
At this point, the pauses don’t bother me as much as the fear I’ve lost all my faculties—or that this man Ford trusted to protect Mateen is an idiot.
“Ford didn’t tell you anything about me, did he?”
“Just that you were CIA and somewhere close. Ireland?” Almost everything about the past two days is a goddamn blur. If I don’t get some sleep, I won’t be good for shit tomorrow.
“Pritchard and I worked together in Pakistan two years ago. We were escorting the U.S. Ambassador when our convoy was attacked. There was an explosion.” Griff’s voice roughens. “I lost my left arm, and I’m mostly deaf.”
I sink down onto the couch. I don’t know who to eviscerate first. Ford or Pritchard.
“Are you blind too? Otherwise, you still need to explain the glasses.”
Griff swears under his breath. “Fuck, no. Speech to text. The glasses have state-of-the-art speech-to-text software built into them. They ‘listen’ to what’s going on around me. Conversations, noises—like car horns, alarms, gunfire—and even texts from my phone appear on the lenses in almost real time. When I have to rely on my tablet’s shitty 5G to translate, it’s slower.”
“And the arm? Can you shoot? Fight? Because if anyone comes after Mateen—”
“Have you ever been punched by a piece of titanium?” he asks. After a beat, he adds, “If you had, you wouldn’t ask me that question. Yes, I can shoot, fight, and button my own damn shirt. My prosthetic is the most advanced in the world with full articulation of all five fingers. Now can we get back to what’s really important here?”
“Look, man. I don’t know you. Hell, I barely know Pritchard anymore. The asshole didn’t even bother to tell me he left JSOC. But Ford and I are going to have words.”
“Fuck you. I can do the job.”
My patience is slipping away, and I close my eyes. “I believe you. Ford’s on my shit list because he didn’t say a goddamn word aboutanyof this.”
This pause is the longest yet. “Oh.”
“Lisette’s on the phone with the kid now. It was quiet here today, and I’ll be staying with her until Mateen comes home. Any trouble following the kids?”
Griff chuckles. “Following? No. Keeping up with them? I’ve never felt so old. Or slow.”
A door opens upstairs, and I push to my feet. “I’ll check in tomorrow, Griff. Get some sleep.”
“You too.”
Lisette pads down the stairs, wearing a soft pair of dark blue shorts and a tank top. No bra. Fuck. It’s only a little after 10:00 p.m. Last night she was up until midnight. How much of an asshole would I be if I fell asleep on the couch mid-sentence?
