smiled. “I should expect that.”
“Then why are we here?” Mike leaned his forearms on the table. “What do you want that I can actually tell you?” His status was classified, need to know, and these people didn’t need to know shit.
She fuddled with papers. “Your rank isn’t listed, why is that?”
Figaroa put a hand on her arm and shook his head in warning. Durry was new to dealing with Spec Ops personnel, but even with a class-A clearance, all Figaroa knew about him was his service record; most of it was blacked out. The only smudge on his record was disobeying his senior command orders to watch an al-Qaeda training camp. He went in and blew it to hell. When his commanding officer questioned why he didn’t remain outside as ordered, Mike had replied, “Because the enemy was inside, sir.”
“You think you’re special that you don’t have to undergo the same requirements as anyone else,” the woman said. “There are thousands like you doing the same thing.”
He gave her a deadpan stare. “Pretty slim ratio considering there are nearly three hundred million American citizens, huh?”
She flushed pink. “What did you feel when you shot those men?” she asked, reading off a checklist that was as impersonal as her questions.
“Nothing. They’d killed innocent Americans. I’m an expert at an ugly job. I wish I weren’t necessary and there was world peace, Miss America, but there isn’t. I’d rather not kill anyone.”
“Any new women in your life?” Figaroa asked.
Mike hated people asking personal questions. His life was his own, and while his services belonged to the Marines, who occupied his bed didn’t. “No.”
Next they’d be asking him why he didn’t kill the child.
“Look, Figaroa, we all defend America’s safety in some form.” He glanced at the woman, and she seemed to flinch in her chair. “I go out and find the threats. If there were a reason beyond my countrymen’s safety that matters more, I’m all ears. But you lose your freedom once and you’ll understand.” Mike pushed the memories down and looked between the two.
“This is exactly as you said last time, Gannon.”
He looked at Figaroa. “That’s because I’m still the same.” Eggheads, they just didn’t get it. It proved to Mike that military rank didn’t mean they understood anything outside their playground. He pushed the chair back. “I’m outta here.”
“You can’t be listed as ready for active status till physical therapy signs off,” the ensign said.
Mike raised his arm above his head, rotated it, then did the same at his side.
“Excellent, but strength training is necessary.”
Mike grabbed the extra chair beside him and lifted it above his head. Then he threw. She flinched at the crash. Figaroa chuckled, shaking his head.
“Well, that was helpful,” Durry said, indignant. “An amazing recovery.”
“For a rat maybe.” Mike was a fast healer. Always had been. Probably because he hated sitting still. He’d been working out in his room at night when all the on-duty corpsmen were watching Law and Order reruns.
Mike looked pointedly at Dr. Figaroa and inclined his head to the ensign, his look as if to say, “Clue her in, will you?” Figaroa tapped the file and the ensign read. Mike knew what it said. In the last six months he’d won two decathlons. He liked to run and wanted to get the hell out of here and do some of it. The door suddenly flew open and Mike jumped to his feet as his commander entered.
“We aren’t finished.” Figaroa stood.
“Yes, you are,” the colonel said.
Mike didn’t let his expression show his amusement.
“At ease, Gannon, and follow me.”
Good. He really didn’t want to piss off the people that doctored him up. They might leave a sponge inside him next time.
“If he leaves, it’s against orders.”
The colonel looked at the ensign and she shrank in the chair. She won’t last, Mike thought.
“Then I guess it is.” The colonel quit the room and Mike was right beside him. “Hold your questions.”
Mike followed his commander through the hospital, an unmarked building on the outskirts of Manassas, Virginia. Outside, a uniformed Marine held open the car door. Mike ducked in, glad to be out of that antiseptic petri dish. If one more person took his blood pressure, or asked him “how are we feeling?” he was going to smash something.
The colonel was in and the car was under way. “Are you ready?”
“Hell yes…sir.”
“Good.” The colonel opened a briefcase on the seat beside him, and handed Mike a dark-printed paper. Satellite photos.
“Ecuador–Peru border?”
Hank Jansen was always impressed that the man could read topography so well, but then he’d spent two years searching the mountains for an American charged with selling weapons to terrorists. It was always the little nuts that caused the big problems, in that case, treason. “Look at the Peru, north Andes.”
Mike tipped the pages toward the light.
“Central intel believes those are missile launchers sitting in the mountains.”
Tactical ballistic missiles? Mike wanted to contradict, but waited to hear the whole report. “The U.S. is on good terms on both sides of the border. What do they say?”
“Peru says not ours, and Ecuador is neutral, guarding her borders from the Colombian drug smugglers. They say it’s not in their territory and won’t go in to find out. For fear of a conflict they can’t handle. The Peruvian Army dispatched a squad, but it’s rough country.”
“DEA in the loop?”
“Yes.”
“CIA is wrong. They’re too small to be Scuds.”
“I would agree. But Shining Path is making a resurgence and DEA thinks they are involved with drugs. We sent a UAV to get closer and if confirmed, take it out. Except that the UAV surveying the area was shot out of the sky.”
Mike arched a brow. “We know where it came from. Mark the target and take it out.”
“Before marking the target with a laser, we had to recover the armed UAV first, so we sent in a team.”
“My guys?” Why else would Jansen be here? He had other teams on standby and none of them recently injured.
“Yes, Krane led, with one other, Corporal J.J. Palmer.”
Mike’s expression tightened. He’d kicked Palmer off his team because the kid was a hothead. Not a hard charger, but a loose cannon. He’d jeopardized two missions, even after a reprimand.
