hauling them south to the Congo, where a U.S. ambassador and his family were being held for ransom by representatives of the wannabe government du jour.
From on top of an equipment crate, Garrett popped a sunflower seed in his mouth, snapping the shell open with his teeth. “Your daughter.”
“Stay out of it,” Deacon warned, his head still throbbing from his earlier activities at the bar. He had to cut back. Last thing he felt like doing was shouting above engine noise.
“No, seriously. You know what Tristan’s been through, missing his son. He tries hiding it with partying, but you don’t wanna end up hurting like him.” Garrett tucked the sunflower hull into his already bulging shirt pocket before grabbing another seed, then hopping down to join Deacon on one of the few rows of seats installed for their journey. “I never told you this, but I had a kid.”
One eye open, Deacon snorted. “You’re full of crap.”
“For real. Knocked up my high school sweetheart. Her dad shipped her off to some girls’ home, where she had my son, but he died.”
Deacon straightened. “Sorry, man. That’s awful.”
Shrugging, Garrett said, “It’s not anything I advertise.”
“Still…” Funny, how all of SEAL Team 12 had been through hell and back together, but there were still things Deacon didn’t know about his friends. With the remainder of their team either sleeping or off playing cards, he had the privacy to ask, “How did you work through something like that? Even a year later, losing Tom is damn near killing me. I can’t imagine losing a kid.”
“Compartmentalization, baby.” Tapping the side of his head, Garrett said, “Anything in me stings, I stick it in a box and shove it in the mental attic. Every so often—say, at Christmas—I take it out, toy with it a little—you know, wonder how different my life might be had our son lived. Would I have ended up with the girl? Ever joined the navy? Who knows?” He shrugged. “All I’m saying is that Pia is very much alive and cute as a bug. You should make getting to know her a priority.”
“Okay, whoa.” Deacon shook his head. “It’s hardly that simple. Ellie was Tom’s woman, not mine. The fact that she had my kid and not his is a crazy twist of fate. If guilt hadn’t been eating her alive over the fact that Pia needs a father and still has one, I don’t think she’d ever have told me I’m that guy. I know for a fact, now she did, that she wishes she hadn’t. She told me to my face she doesn’t want anyone—especially Tom’s folks—learning the truth.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Garrett popped another seed. “Way I see it, now that the cat’s out of the bag, you gotta feed it. Let’s say Tom was still alive when this came out. He knew you and Ellie had a fling.”
“He did?” Deacon sat up so abruptly he nearly choked on his spit.
“Everyone did. Thing is, he loved you like a brother, man. What happened with you and Ellie was in the past. He staked claim to her future. He never said anything, but given the short timing between their marriage and Pia’s birth, even he had to wonder. I know me and Tristan did.”
Deacon winced.
“Just think about it—becoming that little girl’s dad. She’s missing Tom, too. Maybe you could work through it together?”
* * *
AFTER TUMBLING FROM the plane’s belly in the dead of night, then floating silently to hostile ground, Deacon now stood, M-16 at the ready, just outside the U.S. ambassador’s home. The team stayed in the shadows—not easy, considering the obscene level of exterior lighting. They were used to trekking through desolate jungle or desert for miles to reach their targeted engagement arena, but this time had been different. Dropped on the outskirts of the capital city, they’d used lush tropical vegetation to their advantage.
The place was your typical British colonial, two-story mansion, complete with a glowing turquoise pool. The lower level featured plenty of open living space, which no doubt had contributed to the ease with which the bad guys had helped themselves to the ambassador and his family.
Aside from crickets, the only sound was tango music playing softly through hidden speakers. Above that rose an infant’s cries.
Once the team had surrounded the home, eliminating the remaining guards in the process, their leader gestured Deacon, Garrett and two other team members inside for a sweep. One by one, they searched the elegant rooms—now trashed—until on the second floor, they found a preteen male zip-tied to a desk chair, his mouth covered with duct tape. Given his wild eyes and dirty tearstained cheeks, Deacon wasn’t sure his immediate release was a great idea.
The spooked kid appeared capable of making a lot of noise.
On the other hand, he could also let them in on the secret of why the place felt voodoo deserted.
Deacon locked gazes with the kid, then put his finger to his mouth to urge him to silence.
Okay? Deacon hand-gestured to see if he understood.
The boy nodded.
The infant kept crying.
Deacon nodded to Garrett, who used his knife to eliminate the youth’s restraints.
Arms free, the kid removed the tape from his mouth. He whispered, “I don’t know where my parents are, but my baby sister’s still in her nursery.”
Deacon pointed to a closet, motioning for the kid to enter it. “We’ll come back for you. Until then, don’t move.”
Garrett led them out of the room, back to the wide, wood-floored hall. Someone had targeted a vase filled with fresh flowers on a marble-topped table and shot it to hell. A sick confetti of tropical greenery and blooms littered the water-slick planks.
Room after room they found ransacked and void
of life.
The infant’s ever-increasing wails grew harder to bear, but for fear they were walking into a trap, they couldn’t break the protocol of slowly securing the entire area.
Finally, Deacon and Garrett reached what must’ve once been a pretty nursery, only to now find “Die America” written in what appeared to be blood on yellow floral wallpaper.
Peering over the edge of a dark wood crib, Deacon found the source of the tears, only to recoil in horror. The infant wearing soiled pink pajamas couldn’t have been much over six months old. She also happened to sport a belt comprised of neat white strips of C-4 explosives attached to a blasting cap and timer. The glowing red digital display read :32, then clicked to :31, :30…
“Damn!” Deacon took what knowledge he had of the explosive to rationalize that without the blasting cap, the C-4 was stable. The problem was figuring which plastic-coated line was attached to what.
Outside, gunfire erupted.
The automatic rounds could be heard pinging off the house’s plaster exterior.
:20…
:19…
“Smile,” Garrett said, nodding toward a cheap video cam someone had thoughtfully set on a dresser.
