“Here.”He shoved the documents into Del’s hands.“Henderson’s climbing the walls.He’s got me running chatscans and everything.”
“Thanks.”Del stuffed it higgledy-piggledy into his kitbag.“Car?”
“Take the black one.”Yosh dangled the keys.His dark eyes were wide and anxious.“She hasn’t been herself lately.Too wound up.Bad case of combat jitters.”Del snatched the keys; Yoshi didn’t flinch.“There’s something you should know.”
“If it’s more of your goddamn Sun Tzu, can it.I’ve got a serious?—”
Yoshi grabbed Delgado’s arm.“Listen to me, Delgado.Justin.Listen.”
The demand was so utterly unlike Yoshi that it penetrated the fog of worry and rising anger.Delgado took a deep breath.When he opened his eyes, Yoshi’s hand fell away.
“I’m listening,” he muttered through clenched teeth.“Make it quick.”
“She loves you.”Yoshi’s mouth was a straight line.“Don’t hurt her.”
That anyone could eventhinkhe would harm her hit him like a fist to the gut.Christ, she was the only thing hecaredabout.
“Hurt her?I’m going to bring herback.”No matter what I have to do.Goddammit, I’m an idiot—I should have seen it, should have seen the warning signs.Compulsion is Carson’s goddamn motherfucking specialty.I should have known.
“Be gentle.”Yoshi now, amazingly, looked more worried, eyebrows drawing together, mouth turning down hard.
“Gentle as I can.But if they so much as touch her I’m going to—” Del’s pulse spiked again, he had difficulty bringing it under control.So much to do.So little time.
“Go.”Yoshi let go of him.“Think about it.She loves you.”
“Fine, thank you.”I don’t know if you’re right about that, kid.Someone like her isn’t going to love someone like me.It’s ridiculous.“Ammo?”
Yoshi handed over five mags; Del stashed them in his kitbag.
“Call in if you need directions to a cache.”the other operative said.“Keep in contact.We’ll send as many teams as we can?—”
“No, you’ll just get them killed.”Del slung the bag across his body, picked up his duffel, stepped past.“Tell Henderson not to worry.I’ll bring her back safe and sound.”
The other man didn’t reply.Del hoped he was praying.He barely saw the rest of Headquarters on his way down to the garage.He was too busy trying to breathe through the massive ball of panic in his chest.
Just stay alive, angel.Stay alive until I can get to you.
CHAPTER23
Four dayslater the green slopes of the Santiago City Veteran’s Cemetery lay drowsing under mist and the shadows of rain clouds.Dripping evergreens stood guard over the silence of the dead, fog collecting between slender boles of streetlamps and the thicker lines of cedar, juniper, yew.
Rowan, safe in the shadow of a huge cedar, scanned the cemetery again.She’d parked on the east side, in the warren of back streets she knew from growing up, and jumped the fence.Her head was stuffed with aching and the persistent wrapping of cotton-wool.She’d barely slept, impelled by the sudden, irrational, but undeniable desire to see her father’s grave for the first and maybe last time.
I couldn’t even go to his funeral.Someone else took the flag on his coffin.Someone else was here—probably his friends from the VA and the Moose Lodge.Maybe Marta from the bridge club.I think Dad really liked her.
She breathed in the familiar wet air of Saint City—green and damp, vegetation and the salt breath of the bay, growth exploding from rain-soaked ground, all held cupped in air full of humidity.Under saturated Nature lurked the other smells of cities: car exhaust, humanity, desperation, money, danger.
Tears lodged hard and unforgiving in her throat.Memory turned like a wheel.
Her father, grinning as he lifted a six-year-old Rowan.Teaching her how to change the oil filter in Tuna, Mom’s old silver Volvo.Celebrating with a bottle of Dom Perignon when Rowan graduated college, and celebrating again with a supper at La Tourelle’s in the University District when she graduated nursing school.Dad’s hands, veined and old, chopping garlic for chicken noodle soup, and his younger hands bandaging a scrape on Rowan’s knee.
Hands solid and firm on Rowan’s shoulders, as they watched her mother’s coffin lowered into the ground.Rowan had sobbed without restraint, numb with grief and wondering guiltily why her talent hadn’t warned her, while her father’s weeping was done privately.How much had it cost him to be strong for her sake?She had never thought about it until now.
They were so in love.Her mother laughing and affectionate, a counter to her father’s stalwart military rectitude.Dad hadn’t been distant or severe, just… well, too martial to engage in spontaneous hugs or celebrations.Despite that, Rowan had never felt a moment’s doubt of her parents’ love for her, or each other.It was the one thing saving her sanity in the face of her freakish abilities and her inability to control them.The unconditional acceptance of both parents had reassured her at every turn.
Her best friend Hilary was buried at Mount Hope.Much as she wanted to visit the grave, Rowan didn’t think she could stand seeing Hil’s name on a headstone.Although she’d probably never have another chance to come back and visit.
Fury rose again, rage and the weird, twist-burrowing headache, impelling her through the increasing haze of exhaustion.She decided it looked safe enough and slipped from the cedar’s shelter, brushing her hands together briskly.
