

I. M. Donne's

Agent Jack Knight:

The Beginning

AJK Series Book One

L. M. Reed

Smashwords Edition

Copyright L. M. Reed 2010

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Check out Book 2 in the Agent Jack Knight Series:

Agent Jack Knight: China

Coming soon:

Agent Jack Knight: Russia

Dedication

To all the men and women, civilian and military, who daily commit their lives to keeping America safe for all of us.

Thank you for your service.

Acknowledgements

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the three people who have helped me through the entire process of writing and publishing my book: My oldest daughter Autumn for putting together my cover and proofreading my novel over and over, my youngest daughter Michelle whose cute turn of phrase has inspired many of my best scenes and funniest lines, and my spouse Cary whose technical expertise kept my laptop running, and kept me from pulling out every last hair on my head.

This novel was definitely a group effort.

Thank you.

Prologue

1968

"What a mess."

"Inside of the car smelled like a brewery."

"Friday night partiers...?"

"Yep, and all looked to be under the legal drinking age."

"Hey, we've got two live ones in the back."

"You're kiddin' me."

"No I'm not...see...there..."

There was a moment of silence as faces peered through the crunched glass and twisted metal.

"Hey! Hurry up with the Jaws of Life we got two live ones here!" a voice yelled urgently. "Hang on kids, we'll get you out."

"They must have been riding in the very back of the station wagon, otherwise there's no way they could have survived," the voices were becoming fainter.

"Poor kids, orphans now, hope they have other family," another voice said sympathetically. "They're gonna need..." the voice trailed off into blackness.

The Early Years

1970

"Come on," the redheaded, freckle faced boy named Tommy urged. "Hurry up!"

"I'm working as fast as I can," I replied calmly. "If you think you can do better..." I released the lock and stepped back.

"You know I can't," he whined, pacing back and forth behind me. I wouldn't have been surprised to see him wringing his chubby little hands. "Just hurry it up," he said nervously.

"Go check on Nicky," I ordered coldly as I started on the lock again. "You're bothering me."

Of course, he didn't leave. I hadn't expected him to. He had his directive and it was to stick to me like glue, besides the fact that Nicky was the perfect lookout and seldom needed any help. One glance at Nicky's dimples, curly black hair, full pink cheeks, and dark puppy dog eyes and even the most hardened heart melted.

Although I had the same surface features, minus the dimples, I was more likely to scare than entice with my tall, thin, angular frame while Nicky was a cherub. Once he began his little lost boy act, teachers were more than willing to help him find his classroom or the bathroom or the water fountain whichever ruse Nicky decided would work best at that moment.

"There," I said moving out of the way and leaning against the neighboring locker door, not caring what happened once my part was done, "have at it."

Tommy opened his backpack eagerly and began greedily emptying the locker's contents into it.

"Wow!" he exclaimed. "Rich kids sure've got it made. Cool sneakers. If they fit, maybe Dad'll let me keep 'em."

He stopped for a moment to examine the waterproof watch he had discovered, pushing buttons gleefully.

"Just finish so we can go," I said irritably, the avarice on his face sickening me.

I couldn't have cared less what was in the locker; my only concern was that Nicky would be safe for one more day because I had followed orders. Sweet, innocent Nicky who was naïve enough to believe there was still good in the world despite all of the bad things that had happened to him in his short life; he was the only thing that mattered.

"Done," Tommy announced triumphantly. "You can close it up now."

Turning back to the locker, I froze at the sound of an unfamiliar voice behind me.

"You're done alright," the voice agreed. "Drop the backpack and both of you up against the lockers."

"I'm sorry, Jack," I heard Nicky's tearful voice behind me.

"Not your fault, Nicky," I muttered risking a glance at him, noting Principal Adams' death grip on his upper arm. "Nothing is your fault."

"I said up against the lockers," the police officer grabbed the back of my collar and slammed me into the lockers next to an already whimpering Tommy.

I stayed perfectly still, feeling a strange kind of relief at finally getting caught. Now maybe Nicky will be safe, I thought in satisfaction. I didn't care what they did with me as long as someone got Nicky out of the Shaw's house. I would make sure that happened. I had to.

After frisking us—Tommy's face was ashen and I expected him to upchuck at any moment—the cop followed the principal, with Nicky in tow, to the office keeping a firm grip on both Tommy's and my jacket collars to keep us from escaping. Mine was unbuttoned and I felt like Frankenstein's monster with my arms lifted in an unnatural position, left there to flop uncontrollably in the air because of the way the officer's hold was yanking my jacket up.

A vague idea of how to turn the situation to my advantage began slowly evolving in my mind.

I had to bide my time, watching carefully for an opening, because I might only get one shot. I couldn't risk Tommy overhearing, the little weasel would take great delight in snitching to his parents, his dislike of me obvious from the first day, and if my hastily conceived plan didn't work the Shaws would continue to hurt Nicky in order to punish me and keep me in line.

As the policeman pushed Tommy through the doorway of the outer office, I saw my chance. Slipping out of my jacket, almost dislocating my shoulders in the process, I managed to escape the man's grasp and head down the hallway at full speed, the officer in pursuit, yelling at me to stop. I planned to stop, but not until I had rounded the corner of an adjoining passageway.

I was standing there waiting for him as he made the turn and sped past me, unable to slow down in time.

"I'm here," I called softly as he slid to a stop just a few feet from me. "Please...I need to talk to you alone before you call my foster parents," I pleaded as he advanced on me determinedly.

"Got a sob story?" he asked wearily. "I've heard 'em all before," he assured me grabbing the back of my t-shirt. I wondered irrelevantly whether cops underwent some sort of training for that, maybe there was even a whole class devoted to it: Collar Grabbing 101. "Let's go."

"They'll hurt my brother," I said desperately planting my feet and trying to stop him from making the corner. I wasn't sure whether Tommy was safely installed in the principal's office and I couldn't risk him seeing me deep in conversation with a cop. "I don't care what you do to me, but you have to help my brother."

The officer halted abruptly and turned me to face him.

"Who's your brother?" he asked the beginnings of interest showing on his face.

"The little one the principal was holding," I said in relief. At least he was listening. "We live with foster parents and they make us steal for them. I wouldn't do it at first, but then they started hurting Nicky every time I told them no. Please just get Nicky out of their house. Please."

Although I felt the familiar lump in my throat I refused to cry, hadn't cried since the first month after the accident. We weren't given any choice, the Shaws were the only foster parents who would take both of us after the accident that had claimed our parents and the Shaws didn't allow tears; the cigarette burns on my back were a testimony to that fact.

The officer looked into my eyes and something he saw must have at least slightly convinced him. He nodded and said, "I'll look into it."

"You can't tell Tommy, he's their real kid," I said suddenly fearful. "And he likes stealing."

"You talkin' about the red-head?" the officer asked as he ushered me back towards the office.

"Yes sir, he's not smart enough to be any good at the things they trained me to do like pick pocketing and locks and things, but his parents don't trust me to...anyway he goes with me to clean everything out," I informed him quietly.

We were fast approaching the office and I was afraid Tommy would overhear.

The officer nodded again.

Opening the door and shoving me in he said, breathing heavily, "Get in there you punk, make me run after you..." he muttered. "We'll need to interview each one separately," he said to the principal. "Do you have enough rooms available and someone who can keep them under surveillance?"

"Of course Officer Ramirez," the principal said agreeably. "You can interview them in my office. We'll leave Nicky in here with the secretary and put Shaw with the vice principal while you interview Knight."

"I'd like to interview Shaw first," Officer Ramirez said eyeing Tommy thoughtfully. "Then his parents can come pick him up."

"What about Jack and Nicky...?" Tommy asked in a panic, "They live with us, too."

"Since they're wards of the state," the principal pointed out, "We'll have to involve Social Services. They'll have to stay here until we get things straightened out."

"My parents aren't going to like that," Tommy warned.

"You're parents are going to have their hands full with you," Ramirez remarked mildly. "I think that's enough for them to deal with right now."

Vice Principal Stewart motioned for me to follow him to his office and I went willingly, winking reassuringly at Nicky as I left. I could tell he was scared stiff, but I felt sure someone would listen to us; he would be safe soon.

I sat in the chair in front of Vice Principal Stewart's desk staring at his nameplate, trying to breathe evenly and stay calm even though I was feeling far from it. Everything hinged on whether or not they believed us. If they sent us back to the Shaws, I was desperate enough to take Nicky and run away again.

The previous year, not too long after we'd been placed with the Shaws, I'd tried to get Nicky out of there. I hadn't planned anything out in advance, just made a desperate attempt to get away from them once I realized what type of place we had been sent to, but I was determined not to make the same mistake twice.

I was older and smarter. If we had to run again, I would make good and sure they wouldn't ever be able to find us. I couldn't let them hurt him anymore.

Time passed slowly, but eventually Principal Adams came to get me. He wasn't much taller than I was but was more solidly built and balding on top. His habitual smile in abeyance, he was wearing what Mr. Shaw called a poker face—something Shaw had been training me to be able to do taking great delight in punishing Nicky to test me—so I had no idea what he was thinking.

He led me through the outer office, deserted except for Mrs. Sullivan the secretary, and motioned me into his office.

"Jack," Nicky threw himself into my arms sobbing. "You're okay."

"I'm fine," I said shortly, emotion choking me as I helplessly held him, allowing him to cry for the first time in a year. "Where's Tommy?" I asked abruptly.

Tommy sadistically taunted Nicky constantly and then tattled to the Shaws whenever Nicky cried just to watch them punish him.

"The Shaws took him home," I noticed Mrs. Phelps, our Social Worker, for the first time, "Jack, I visit that house on a regular basis. Why didn't you tell me what the Shaws were making you do?"

Silently I pulled up Nicky's shirt, allowing them to see the scars from old cigarette burns as well as the welts still healing from as recent as the previous week when I had adamantly refused to break into an old woman's house and Mr. Shaw had whipped him.

Ashamed, Nicky tried to force his shirt back down in order to hide his injuries. I let him. I saw no reason to show them mine; at that point, they weren't relevant. Nicky's were the only ones that mattered.

"Lord have mercy," Mrs. Phelps exclaimed in horror.

"They said they would kill him if I ever told anyone," I shrugged dully. "I believed them."

"What about the other two boys I placed with them?" Mrs. Phelps asked in trepidation. "They used to be in trouble all the time, but now they seem to have straightened up."

"The Shaws taught them how to avoid getting caught," I said in disgust. "They don't have to threaten them to do what they want. They enjoy it."

"Officer Ramirez we need to have the Shaws arrested immediately," Mrs. Phelps said firmly. "We have plenty of evidence of abuse."

"We have evidence that someone has abused Nicky, but they could very well blame the other boys in the home," Officer Ramirez pointed out. "Heck, they'd probably even try to pin it on his brother."

"I doubt they would get away with that," I said quietly turning my back on them and lifting my shirt.

Unlike Nicky's mine were all old. Once they realized that I couldn't be controlled by inflicting pain on me, they had turned their full attention to Nicky.

At first, I had attempted to ignore Nicky and act like he was nothing more than an annoyance for his own sake instinctively knowing that was the only way to save him from abuse, but my resolve had crumbled at the first sign of tears in Nicky's confused eyes. I couldn't allow him to think I didn't care about him; he could handle a lot of things, but not that. The Shaws were too cunning not to immediately pick up on my weakness and use it against me.

"They could still blame the others boys and we don't have any proof linking the Shaws to any thefts," Officer Ramirez reminded us. "I'm sure they'll deny any knowledge of the crimes."

"I'm more concerned with the safety of my foster children," Mrs. Phelps replied sternly.

"As am I," Ramirez agreed, "but we need to look at the big picture here. I'd like to get them for abuse and be able to prove they're running a theft ring. Right now all we have is the word of two kids who would most likely be portrayed as juvenile delinquents."

"You are not suggesting we send these two children back into the house of those...those...monsters?" Mrs. Phelps asked incredulously.

"Not two children," I corrected, "Just one. Me. Nicky stays out of it."

"No!" she protested vehemently. "I will not allow it."

"We could wire him for sound," Officer Ramirez offered. "If we could get a recording of them admitting their involvement it would be a slam dunk in court."

"I'll do it," I said immediately. "But Nicky has to be somewhere safe."

"Nicky will be safe," Ramirez promised softly, "They won't ever be able to hurt him again. You have my word."

Mrs. Phelps continued to protest, but realizing the futility of arguing finally gave up and decided to do what she could to help. She wanted to put the Shaws behind bars for as long as possible and Officer Ramirez convinced her it was the best chance they had to do so.

The hours that followed passed in a blur.

Mrs. Phelps allowed a couple of plain clothes detectives to take Nicky to what they called a safe house.

Although Nicky clung to me, crying harder than before—the dam had burst and he couldn't seem to control his tears—I patted him reassuringly on the shoulder, practicing my deadpan expression careful to show no fear while I convinced him I would see him again soon. Reluctantly, he left with them, waving at me forlornly as the detectives guided him out the door.

I resolutely turned my attention to the electronics expert explaining about the stuff they were taping to me. Not for the first time, I was extremely grateful for the section of my brain that seemed to remember whatever I saw or heard without much effort on my part. No one knew anything about the strange quirk of nature that had blessed or cursed me with that odd ability, not even Nicky, and I had no plans to tell anyone.

Once I'd been thoroughly taped up, a couple of plain-clothes detectives took over explaining that both of the Shaws had to admit their involvement in the thefts and the abuse or one of them might walk. I nodded, too nervous to reply.

The plan was for Mrs. Phelps to drop me off at the house in order to talk to the Shaws. I wasn't sure she would be able to control herself, she was so angry with them, but once we were in her car she took a few deep breaths and turned to me smiling.

"Are you ready for this?"

"I think so."

"You don't have to go through with it you know," she said in concern. "No one would think worse of you."

"I would think worse of me," I said firmly, wondering what the listening detectives thought about her last attempt to protect me. "I don't care what happens to me, but you have to promise you won't put Nicky in a bad place again. You have to promise me," I insisted urgently.

"I'll take good care of you both," Mrs. Phelps promised. "I'm sorry I allowed this to happen."

"Thanks."

"And here we go," she sighed in resignation, starting the car.

We drove in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Mine consisted mainly of desperately trying to relax and breathe.

Once we arrived at the house, Mr. and Mrs. Shaw met us on the sidewalk, obviously anticipating our arrival. Seeing them side by side would have been humorous if the situation had been different, Mrs. Shaw must have outweighed her husband by at least 60 pounds and topped him by a good four inches.

Nicky, quite the artist for a kid his age, had once drawn caricatures of them as a hippo and a weasel. The pictures were startling likenesses and I'd felt a stirring of amusement, the first I'd experienced in over a year, but I had forced him to rip up the cartoons and we'd destroyed them with matches that I'd swiped from the kitchen. The Shaw's didn't need another excuse to use Nicky as an ashtray.

"Oh Mrs. Phelps, we were so worried about Jack and Nicky," Mrs. Shaw gushed, putting her arm around my shoulder. I looked down, pretending shame when in reality I was hiding my anger. "Thank you for..."

"Where's Nicky," Mr. Shaw interrupted abruptly.

"He spiked a fever and started vomiting," Mrs. Phelps lied smoothly. "We're having the physician take a look at him. Depending on what the doctor says, I may be able to drop him by tonight before bedtime."

"Where is he? I'll go get him," Mr. Shaw was nothing if not persistent and he knew he would have a tough time with me minus his leverage.

"I can assure you he is in safe hands, Mr. Shaw," Mrs. Phelps said stiffly.

"Of course he is," Mrs. Shaw fawned. "You take such good care of the children. We'll miss him and pray for his quick recovery so he can come back home where he belongs."

I had a hard time controlling my snort of disgust.

"I will do my best," Mrs. Phelps promised her. Obviously, she had missed her true calling; she should have been an actress. "Jack," she turned to me and continued in a stern voice "I hope this was a one-time incident. I would hate to see your life ruined this way."

"Yes ma'am," I mumbled, still looking down.

Mrs. Phelps stood for a moment and I could sense her indecision even though I wasn't looking at her.

Go...I urged silently.

The Shaws were apparently thinking the same thing.

"Well, thanks again for your help," Mrs. Shaw said jovially. "I'm sure Jack will think twice before doing anything so stupid again."

I looked up and our eyes met, hers asking 'are you sure?' and mine replying 'remember your promise'.

Abruptly nodding to the Shaws, Mrs. Phelps turned and walked briskly to her car while Mrs. Shaw guided me gently into the house. Once inside, Mr. Shaw headed straight to the living room window, watching until he was sure Mrs. Phelps was gone, and then turned to let loose at me.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Mr. Shaw yelled as he slapped me. "You could have ruined everything."

I should have known Tommy would find a way to blame me for everything in order to avoid any punishment himself—there was no telling what type of story he had concocted to save his own skin—so I remained silent.

"Not the face, Gerald," Mrs. Shaw warned. "Mrs. Phelps may be back tonight."

For a moment I was frozen in shock, panicking at the thought that he might start slugging me in the stomach, he had done it before and since Nicky, thankfully, wasn't there to take the brunt of the abuse I was sure by the angry look in his eyes that I was in for it. If he broke the wire, the police would never get what they needed.

Mind racing furiously, I realized I had to protect my whole body...but how? Even if he decided not to punch me, there was always the whipping option and I couldn't let them take off my shirt and discover what was hidden there. Angry with my self for my shortsightedness in not planning ahead, I suddenly had an inspiration.

My idea was risky and dangerous but I knew it was a risk I had to take. Instead of talking, Shaw was in the mood for physical punishment. I needed a way to halt the abuse long enough to get the confessions I was after.

Spinning away from them, I ran into the kitchen, counting on them to be right behind me. I grabbed a couple of knives sticking out of the wooden holder and grasping one in each hand, I pointed them at the Shaws effectively stopping them in their tracks.

"Put the knives down you damned idiot," Mr. Shaw said angrily.

"You have to listen to me," I said desperately. "It wasn't my fault, there'd been so many thefts lately they set us up; they were waiting for us. I tried to tell you we should wait a while before stealing anything else at school, but you wouldn't listen."

"You tried to tell me," he repeated contemptuously. "Who do you think you are? Nothing, do you hear me, nothing! I run this operation and your job is to do what I tell you and not get caught like you did today, you little moron. Do you understand? Now put those knives down."

"I don't want you to hit me again."

"It's okay Jack," Mrs. Shaw said soothingly. "Put the knives down and we'll talk about it."

"You can't let him hit me again."

Mr. Shaw was the swaggering, blowhard, big mouth and had already made his confession, but Mrs. Shaw always seemed to me to be the cool head, the one really in charge. I had to find a way to show the police that.

"Gerald, you need to go back into the living room," Mrs. Shaw said gently.

"Verna," he protested.

"Do it," she hissed out of the side of her mouth.

Grumbling to himself, Mr. Shaw left the kitchen.

"Now, Jack," Mrs. Shaw said kindly. "Put the knives down and I promise that he won't hit you again."

"Will you let me take a break from stealing for a while?"

"We have to pay the bills, you know," she reminded me. "But I do believe you're right about the school. I should have been smarter than that."

"So you'll let me rest for a while?"

"We'll go back to doing the mall thing," she said thoughtfully. "It's been long enough, I'm sure they've forgotten the one incident you were involved in. You have light fingers and you're better trained now; I think we could make a killing. We can use Nicky as a distraction while you pick pockets."

"No!" I yelled then said in a petulant voice. "Leave him out of it. I can do it alone."

"Nicky will come home eventually you know," she said mildly. "Be a shame if he had an accident when he was already feeling so poorly."

"Accident," I snorted in disgust. "Like the welts on his back and the cigarette burns."

"Those were your fault you know," she accused calmly. "Stop fighting us and we'll stop punishing Nicky. You know you can't win."

Mr. Shaw reentered the kitchen carrying a gun.

"Put the knives down now," Mr. Shaw said menacingly, pointing the gun at me.

"You're gonna shoot me?" I asked in disbelief. "I'm your biggest money maker and you're gonna shoot me? Besides, how are you going to explain a gunshot wound to Mrs. Phelps?"

"Oh, put the gun down you damned idiot," Mrs. Shaw said irritably. "Look Jack, I don't want to stand here all night. Set the knives on the counter and I promise I won't let Gerald hurt you or the boy when Mrs. Phelps brings him back. You know I've never lied to you."

"That's true," I said laying the knives carefully on the counter. "Ok, you win."

"I always do," Mrs. Shaw said smugly, as she punched me in the stomach.

1971

"Perro...pero...perro...pero," I recited in frustration, glaring at the Spanish book in my hands. "I'll never get the R's right!"

I had no problem reading Spanish and I was getting much better at understanding the language—there were many Spanish speaking kids in my class and I shamelessly eavesdropped on their conversations in order to practice—but speaking it...I couldn't seem to get my tongue to cooperate.

Although there was no formal Spanish class—the school rule allowed only English on school grounds—our teacher the previous year, unbeknownst to the administration, had taught us just enough of the language to get me hooked.

Determined to learn more, I began checking out books from the public library in an attempt to teach myself the language. The librarian who usually helped me was Hispanic and frequently encouraged me to try my new skills out on her. The resulting embarrassment at my poor pronunciation was directly responsible for my determination to distinguish between perro and pero.

Constantly searching for new topics of conversation with Mrs. Garcia in order to try out new words, I noticed a picture of a couple children on her desk, presumably hers, holding the smallest dog I had ever seen. I attempted to communicate that to her, but instead of saying 'Su perro es pequito' I had inadvertently used pero instead of perro and ended up saying 'Su pero es pequito'.

She had laughingly explained that the literal translation of what I had just said to her was 'your but is small'. My face was deep crimson as I muttered "Perdon" and practically ran out of the library.

I had returned the next day, offering a very subdued apology, which Mrs. Garcia solemnly accepted assuring me that it would take more than that to offend her adding that she was very impressed with my resolve to become bilingual. Relieved, but determined to succeed, I studied doggedly.

No one bothered me during recess, although a few tried when Nicky and I had shown up at the new school in the middle of the school year, but it hadn't taken them long to discover that Nicky was the social butterfly while I was just plain downright strange...and rude.

The rest of the student body, like the plague, avoided my 'spot', where the corner of the brick school building met the fence, since I had taken up residence and so my mutterings in Spanish were safe from unintended ears.

"Jack! You have to come...now!"

"What is it, Nicky?" I asked absently, searching the book for anything that might help me with my pronunciation. Books could only teach you so much and I was frustrated.

"It's Benjamin, he's in trouble," he began yanking on my arm. "You have to help him."

I didn't know a Benjamin, but Nicky had lots of friends and I never bothered to keep up with all of them.

"Go get one of the teachers," I frowned at the hand that was still jerking my sleeve and then glanced up and over my book noticing Nicky's face. "What happened to you?" I asked in sudden concern, as I watched the blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth.

"I tried to help Benjamin and one of them hit me," he pulled harder on my sleeve. "Please, you have to come."

"The teachers..."

"I tried to find them, but they're gone," he interrupted impatiently. "Now...!"

Shoot! I thought to myself in frustration.

I'd noticed earlier that the two teachers on duty were the ones who always vanished in the middle of recess only to return right before the bell rang, but I'd forgotten. After one of their disappearing acts, I'd managed to move close enough to them as we all reentered the building to confirm my suspicions; they had been taking a smoke break...they reeked of it.

I bent over and set my book on my backpack, sure no one would disturb it; no one ever bothered my things.

"Okay, where is he?" I asked in resignation.

"Over there on the blacktop," he pointed. "They're using him as a ball."

Nicky took off running towards the court while I easily kept up with him, my longer legs taking in much more ground with each stride, and by the time we'd made it to the blacktop the situation was obvious to me. The kid named Benjamin was in the middle of four older kids, well...older than Nicky but a year behind me, and was 'the ball' in a game of foursquare.

"Oh come on retard," one of them jeered as he shoved Benjamin towards another kid "bounce."

Benjamin stumbled and fell, and I could see his hands and face were bloody messes.

"Nicky, go find an adult," I ordered.

"But..."

"Go in the building if you have to," I firmly shoved him in the direction of the school.

"We're not supposed to..."

"Go...now!"

As I strode in to the middle of the game, I noticed Benjamin was still on the ground and one of them, a fat redheaded kid who unfortunately for him reminded me of Tommy, was kicking him yelling "Get up!"

I could feel the anger in me building.

"Yeah idiot, we're not through with our game."

"Oh look, he's crying...crybaby...gonna run home and tell mommy."

"Game's over," I informed them, shoving the redheaded abuser out of the way with such force that he fell on his butt.

"Hey!" he yelled as he toppled over.

"This ain't none of your business," another kid chimed in.

I stood over the groaning kid on the ground swiveling my head as I attempted to watch all four of them. The redheaded kid was back on his feet and heading straight for me. He tried to push me out of the way, but I grabbed his arms and threw him into one of the other bullies.

"Can you get up Benjamin?" I asked urgently.

His only answer was a moan sandwiched between sobs. Glancing down at him, I could see he was in a bad way.

I shouldn't have looked.

A split second later, I was on the ground next to him taking a pounding from all four of his tormentors. I managed to push one off me and with great satisfaction kicked the redhead in the gut, but they kept coming, piling on top of me, throwing punches to my head and stomach area. My face felt like it was on fire and I knew I was in danger of losing my lunch as I struggled to fend off my attackers.

Then, suddenly, there was nothing.

Opening my eyes cautiously, well one eye, the other wasn't functioning so well, I saw Mr. Claussen, the principal, holding two of the hoodlums by their hair, Mr. Fischel, the assistant principal, had one by the arm, and a female teacher I didn't recognize was struggling with the redheaded kid.

"Be still, Wiley," Mr. Claussen commanded sternly "You're in enough trouble as it is. Don't make it any worse."

"Benjamin," Nicky was there, bending over his friend "can you hear me?"

More moans were his only reply. I could relate. I felt like moaning myself as I moved to get up.

"Benjamin...Benji..." the panic in Nicky's voice was clear to everyone as the kid on the ground fell silent.

"Where's that nurse," Mr. Claussen asked impatiently as the two recalcitrant teachers returned from their unauthorized break, eyes wide as they took in the scene.

"Here, take these two," he shoved the two he had by the hair at the tardy teachers and knelt down next to Nicky as the bell rang and the oblivious students ran towards the building. "I'll deal with you two later."

Picking the limp boy up carefully, the principal carried him purposefully towards the entrance by the parking lot, off limits to students during school hours, the assistant principal and three teachers quickly following him, dragging their wards behind them.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Nicky asked me tearfully.

"I hope so," I answered heavily.

Nicky slipped his hand in mine and I squeezed it, unable to mouth the platitudes most people expected. Thankfully, he knew me well and understood.

"Thanks, Jack," he managed to smile at me.

"Anytime, kid," I replied gruffly.

Nicky and I waited until the grounds were empty and then made our way slowly into the building; I couldn't have moved any faster if I'd wanted to, I was sore all over. I took Nicky to the bathroom and cleaned up the blood on his face, checking his swollen lip, assuring myself there wasn't any real damage done and then sent him onto class.

Staring at myself in the mirror, I grimaced and then regretted it. Facial movement of any kind was painful.

Just as well I don't smile, I noted in amusement which quickly dissipated as I attempted to mop up my own bloody face.

I wasn't sure what to do. I could return to class but my shirt was torn and dirty and my face a mess. I could head to the principal's office and anticipate the call that would be coming shortly. The rules regarding fighting were clear, all participants received disciplinary action no matter who started it and it was only the concern over Benjamin that had postponed my punishment. However, I had no desire to speed up the process since it could result in corporal punishment. I was physically in poor enough shape already.

Making up my mind, I chose a third option.

"Can I help you?" the nurse asked politely, glancing up from her paperwork. "Oh my, let me take a look at those cuts," she hopped up quickly and came around the desk.

Carefully pulling myself up onto the table, I submitted to my face being scrubbed and having ointment smeared all over it, not wanting to alienate her, hoping to get Nicky some information about Benjamin, but objected at the bandages she wanted to plaster all over my face.

"Not a problem," she said briskly. "You'll heal better without anything covering them as long as you don't mind people seeing them." As if anyone could possibly think I looked any worse than usual. "How did you get these injuries?" she asked suspiciously, no doubt conjuring up visions of criminal activity in her mind.

"A couple of bullies," I admitted, hoping to soften her up. "How's Benjamin?"

I could see the connection registering.

"You must be Nicky's brother," she noted smiling and at my nod, she continued, "he's told me all about you." I didn't think that was a good thing but I remained silent. "Benjamin's parents picked him up a few minutes ago to take him to the emergency room."

I wasn't sure how to ask the obvious question but she, seeing my dilemma offered "He was still unconscious when he left here," she sighed. "It was nice of you to stick up for him."

I shrugged and slid off the table.

"Most kids are...well...rather uncomfortable around him," she shook her head sadly "Poor kid."

"Why?"

"Because of the MD," she responded in surprise. "Couldn't you tell he wasn't quite...normal?"

"He was already in bad shape by the time I got there. What's MD?"

"Muscular Dystrophy...he has Duchenne's," she said as if that explained it all.

I nodded, glancing at the clock on the wall and noting the time. Class was almost over and I knew the principal would be looking for me, if he wasn't already.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," she smiled. "I would say 'anytime' but I hope that won't be the case."

"So do I," I replied fervently as I opened the door and let myself out.

As I entered the principal's outer office the secretary was on the phone and distractedly waved me to a chair.

"Okay, keep me informed," she hung up and turned to me. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Jack Knight," I stated tonelessly.

She frowned and asked, "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

I shrugged, unsure what she wanted me to say.

Getting up, she moved to the door marked 'Principal' in large block letters and poked her head into the room. I heard low murmuring and then Mr. Claussen appeared looking harassed.

"You're Nicky's brother, right?" he asked distractedly. "Sorry about your injuries," he began uncomfortably. "You should see the nurse."

"Already have," I confirmed, confused at the direction the conversation was taking.

"Would you like to go home for the day...is that why you're here?"

"I was in a fight," I reminded him.

"Oh yes, about that," he cleared his throat "I think you've been punished enough. Would you like us to call your parents to pick you up...?"

"Could I stay in the library until school lets out?"

"That would be fine, Miss Vaughn will write you a pass," he paused about to say something but thought better of it, turning abruptly and shutting himself back in his office.

~ * * ~

"I hear there was trouble at your school today," Tony mentioned casually from the doorway of the bedroom Nicky and I shared as he took in the cuts and bruises on my face.

I shrugged.

"Jack was great!" Nicky enthused. "He let those bullies beat up on him just to protect Benjamin."

"That was mighty generous of you," Tony noted, attempting to hide his amusement.

"Tony, this is serious," Mrs. Ramirez remonstrated from the hallway. "Jack could have been seriously hurt."

If it hadn't been for Officer Ramirez and his wife taking us in after the Shaw fiasco Nicky and I would have been separated, Nicky going to new foster parents and me to a boys' home. I had pleaded with Mrs. Phelps to keep us together, even though it went against the grain to beg, but to no avail. There just wasn't anyone willing to take someone like me. Eventually I resorted to attempting to 'guilt' her into doing something reminding her she had been partially responsible for, however unwittingly, allowing what had happened to us.

Tony Ramirez and his wife had been married for five years and even though they had been to special doctors and tried 'everything'—I didn't want to know what 'everything' entailed—they were still childless and had decided to offer to become foster parents in order to take Nicky and me.

I knew it was Mrs. Phelps' original idea, although both Tony and Mrs. Ramirez seemed happy to do it, and she hurried them through the process. It wasn't long before Nicky and I were installed in the Ramirez house and, even though it meant changing schools, I considered that a good thing since it allowed both of us a fresh start.

Mrs. Ramirez had loved Nicky on sight, everyone did, but I could see her eyeing me doubtfully for the first few months whenever she thought I wasn't looking.

At first, Mrs. Ramirez was scared of me, I was tall for my age and as hard as I tried, I couldn't force a smile on my deadpan face. Even when I managed to force my lips to move out of my perpetual expressionlessness, which wasn't often, it always looked more like I was in pain than anything else. I tried practicing in front of the mirror, but gave it up as a lost cause; it had been too many years of disuse and my smile muscles had atrophied beyond all hope.

Because the Ramirez family was our only chance of staying together, I decided I would work harder than I had ever worked in my life to make things easier for Mrs. Ramirez. I insisted on taking out the trash, mowed their small lawn, kept our room tidy, and even helped out with whatever housework I could like dishes and laundry, even though I hated housework.

Once she discovered I was a passable cook—the Shaws were lazy but liked to eat well so I had to learn in order to avoid more punishment for Nicky—she would sometimes let me help her out in the kitchen.

Eventually we reached a type of understanding, which over time developed into a mutual liking and respect. My obvious attachment to Nicky was what finally won her over, and once she was able to relax around me, I found it easier to be more natural around her. We even discovered a similar sense of humor, which helped a lot. I still called her Mrs. Ramirez but, since I had trouble thinking of her any other way, I doubted that would ever change.

"You're right, Claudia, and I'm sorry," Tony turned to give her a peck on the cheek. "It is serious and the school is in a lot of hot water because of it."

"How come?" I asked interestedly.

"The two teachers who should have been on duty were apparently taking an unapproved smoking break when Nicky's friend was being...got hurt," he substituted "and so the principal is dealing with a liability issue. If you hadn't been there, Jack, he could have easily been killed. It was touch and go for a while, but it looks like he'll be fine...or as fine as he can be with his medical issues."

"Can I go see him in the hospital?" Nicky asked anxiously.

"I think he'd like that," Tony smiled at him tenderly. "Would you like to come along, Jack?"

"Maybe," I shrugged noncommittally.

"Come with us, Jack," Nicky begged. "Please."

"I'll think about it."

"Supper's ready," Mrs. Ramirez called from the kitchen. "Get washed up."

"Why don't you start washing up, Nicky," Tony suggested kindly. "And we can go visit your friend..."

"Benjamin," Nicky chimed in.

"...Benjamin as soon as we're all through eating."

"Cool," he hopped off the bed and sped past Tony on his way to the bathroom.

"Something's on your mind," Tony commented as he moved into the room to sit on Nicky's bed.

"He has Duchenne's," I said glumly.

"And...?"

"I spent the afternoon in the school library looking it up."

"Yeah, I got the feeling the principal was so grateful to you for intervening he would have given you the moon on a silver platter if you'd asked," Tony shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe the one time there were no teachers..."

"It wasn't," I contradicted him in disgust. "Those two teachers always leave when they're stuck with recess duty."

"You don't miss much," Tony said ruefully. "I'm sure those bullies realized it, too. So what did you find out about what Nicky's friend has?"

"Sometime soon, probably in the next two years, he's gonna end up in a wheelchair and after that he...." I couldn't finish.

"Ah..." Tony nodded in understanding. "You're thinking he might be better off if you hadn't intervened."

"I don't know. I'm just not sure I did him a favor."

"He has parents who love him and good friends like Nicky...and now you...I'd say he's pretty lucky."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Look, Jack, you and I both know nothing about life is fair, but Benjamin has people who care about him and from what his parents told me, he's a happy kid most of the time."

"You talked to his parents?"

"Yes, and they'd very much like to meet you and Nicky so it would be nice if you came with us. Okay?"

"I suppose," I capitulated reluctantly.

"Good...now let's go eat, I'm starving."

1972

"I want to go," I said stubbornly.

"That's understandable," Mrs. Ramirez replied reasonably, "but I don't want you missing school."

"My grades are good enough and I'll make up anything I miss," I promised, "Please, I need to go."

"Alright," she gave in smiling. "You're a good big brother."

"He's all I have left," I said fiercely.

"I know," Mrs. Ramirez acknowledged sadly. "Tell you what, be ready at the end of fourth period and we'll pick up a burger and fries on the way to the appointment."

"You don't like us eating junk food," I said suspiciously, wondering what she wasn't telling me.

"One time won't hurt," she grinned and added, "We won't tell Tony, it'll be our little secret."

"Okay," I responded gratefully, adding thoughtfully. "He is a cop, so we'll have to destroy all the evidence."

"You and Nicky take care of demolishing the food and I'll dispose of the trash."

"Agreed," I replied, solemnly offering my hand for her to shake which she did with equal solemnity.

I hurried out of the house to catch the bus. The conversation had made me later than usual, but I was able to make the corner just as the other kids were getting on. Taking my place at the end of the line my heart sank as I realized that Daphne was looking back at me trying to get my attention. I deliberately avoided her eyes.

When would I learn to butt out of other people's problems? I wondered in exasperation.

Probably never, I conceded.

I tried to mind my own business, but whenever I caught someone acting the bully, I had trouble ignoring it.

Ever since the Benjamin incident, I'd lived with perpetual black eyes. Finally, Tony decided that since I continually insisted on being the champion of the underdog, putting myself between the bullies and their victims, it would be a good idea to teach me how to defend myself as the bullies had no problem whatsoever switching their attention from their original target to me.

He'd boxed since before he was my age and began taking me to the gym with him in the evenings.

At first, I only sparred with Tony, but as I began to show improvement, he let me try out other partners, eventually allowing me to compete, and it wasn't long before I was at the top of my weight class.

Tony said I was a natural. I was just glad not to have any more black eyes.

As I headed down the aisle looking for a place to sit, Daphne smiled at me and patted the empty seat beside her. I pretended not to see and walked past to an unoccupied one, preferring solitude, hoping if I ignored her, she would finally take the hint and realize that I didn't want a girlfriend. I just hadn't been able to stand by and watch a couple of guys trying to force their obviously unwelcome kisses on her. I would have done the same for anybody, but she didn't see it that way. She seemed to think I had a secret crush on her or something.

Girls, I snorted in disgust.

As I settled into my seat, my thoughts turned to Nicky. I was scared. Nicky had been sick for months, the numerous doctor visits hadn't yielded any positive results, and I was worried that it might be serious. Instead of getting better, his cough seemed to worsen every few days. He'd lost weight and seemed much weaker than he had just a month earlier.

At each appointment, the pediatrician would write him a new prescription for a different antibiotic, but nothing seemed to help. However, after finding unexplained bruises during the last visit he had immediately sent Nicky over to the hospital to get blood drawn.

Nicky had practically giggled, which was good to see, as he'd explained that 'drawing blood' was a simple blood test and not as fun as it sounded.

He'd shown me a cartoon he'd penciled while waiting for the technician to call his name. The picture was of two cowboys standing twenty paces apart and as they approach each other, they counted off ten paces. Reaching the middle, they 'grabbed leather' and pulling syringes out of their holsters each attempted to stick the other in order to suck out their blood.

That was as close to laughing as I'd come in a long time, but my humor had been short-lived as I took in the dark circles under Nicky's tired eyes.

The doctor's office had finally called saying that the results from the blood test had come in and asking Mrs. Ramirez to bring Nicky in later that afternoon. Although it had taken me quite a while to persuade her to let me go with them, I persisted. I had a bad feeling in my gut and knew I needed to be there.

The year had been hard on Nicky and me. Because I was in seventh grade, I had to go to a different school than Nicky for the first time ever. The separation made me almost physically sick with anxiety every day wondering if some bully was picking on him, not able to be there to take care of him as I had for the past four years since our parents' death. He was small for his age and too sweet and trusting, even after our horrible experience with the Shaws, and I was scared for him even while I envied him.

How he could smile every day, be so stinking happy about life in general, was beyond me. Life sucked, there was no getting around it, but he didn't seem to realize that. I wished I could be so oblivious.

Again, I was grateful for whatever part of my brain stored information with very little effort from me. Nervous about Nicky's appointment later that afternoon, I barely paid attention in any of my morning classes, too worried to concentrate. Thankfully, all I had to do was study the board and the pages assigned and the information was safely stored in my head. I just had to make it through four classes.

I always sat in the back of the classroom and slid down in my chair avoiding eye contact so the teacher very seldom called upon me in class to answer anything. My grades were nothing to write home about, but they were passing.

When I first started school everything I did was always perfect—I already knew how to read, write and do simple arithmetic by the time I was four years old—but it hadn't taken long for me to realize that good grades simply made me a target for every stupid bully in school.

After a couple of years, I found myself deliberately putting the wrong answers, and by the time I hit junior high I had perfected the art of 'just getting by'. No one had a clue.

School was deadly boring, and I spent a lot of time checking out books in the library and reading them during classes. My parents had both been teachers before their deaths—my father taught high school science my mother junior high English—and encouraged my interest in reading. The subject of the books never matter to me, although I enjoyed learning about other countries the most, and I devoured whatever I could find desperately needing something to keep my brain occupied.

Of course, Mom and Dad had been disappointed when it became apparent that I was going to be a mediocre student, but they managed to hide it fairly well. I felt guilty about my deception and had always planned sometime in the future to tell them, but because of the accident never got the opportunity.

Mrs. Ramirez and Nicky were waiting for me in the parking lot when the bell rang for lunch, she having already called the school to let them know I would be absent for half of the day, and I forced myself to walk calmly to the car, nerves stretched to the breaking point.

Nicky's smile, in between coughs, was just a ghost of what it used to be. I could see he was scared so even though he had considerately left me the front seat I climbed into the back with him, reaching over and squeezing his hand reassuringly.

Searching my face, Nicky visibly relaxed. Practicing my smile in front of the mirror had been for naught, but I was glad for Nicky's sake that I had been able to perfect my poker face during our time with the Shaws. Nicky had no idea that I was even more nervous and scared than he was.

The trip to the doctor's office was all too short. I wanted to know what was wrong with Nicky, but at the same time wanted to deny that there was anything wrong. My nature was such that I usually preferred to face problems head on and deal with them, but not when it involved my little brother.

Nicky was the best part of me, the only part of me that was worth squat, and I couldn't bear the thought of something happening to him.

Sitting in the waiting room, Mrs. Ramirez kept up a lively stream of chatter, asking about my day and giving me encouraging looks obviously expecting me to produce more than my normal monosyllabic answers. She was apparently as on edge as I was and seemed determined to keep Nicky's mind occupied.

Grateful to her for her sensitivity, I obligingly made up a story about some of the bullies at school getting their comeuppance from Jackknife, Nicky's superhero name for me.

I was good at making up stories. During our time at the Shaws, whenever Nicky couldn't get to sleep, usually because of the pain inflicted on him by those two monsters, I would make up wild stories to take his mind off of his injuries. The worse the damage the more improbable my tales became, so I had Jackknife doing everything from jumping off tall buildings to swimming whole oceans. Fortunately for Nicky, he was easily distracted.

He was the one who decided after the Benjamin incident that I needed a secret identity and had dubbed me Jackknife for two reasons: firstly because it sounded so much like my real name, Jack Knight, and secondly because a jackknife was my only possession that meant anything to me.

When our parents died, they had very little money and so everything had to be sold in order to pay their debts. The only thing I managed to salvage was the small jackknife my father had inherited from his grandfather and had given to me on my eighth birthday.

I wasn't sure how far back the knife went, but it was at least a couple of generations. The jackknife represented the only tie that Nicky and I had with our parents as well as our heritage and I was careful to protect it, hiding it in my shoe for safekeeping.

Although it squished my toes together, I alternated which shoe I put it in every other day so my feet wouldn't get deformed and be any uglier than they already were, unwilling to allow it out of my care for any length of time.

"Nicky Knight," a professional female voice called from an opened door.

"That's us," Mrs. Ramirez said briskly, standing and leading the way towards the nurse.

"Hello Nicky," the nurse smiled sweetly at him as we passed and entered the private office area, dropping the impersonal tone she'd used for the benefit of the other people in the waiting room and adopting a much more casual attitude.

"Hi Teresa," Nicky returned, showing his dimples, and asked, "How's Tito?"

"Funny you should ask," Teresa replied mischievously. "Just this morning he decided that I simply didn't need my comfortable work shoes and took a huge bite out of a vital part of my footwear." As she ushered us into a room she leaned on the doorway and picked up her right foot to reveal a partially chewed heel. "They are...were...my favorite shoes," she amended mournfully.

Nicky laughed delightedly and Teresa winked at him. Because of Nicky's frequent visits, everyone in the office had gotten to know him well, but Nurse Teresa was his favorite, always regaling him with stories about her Jack Russell terrier's many misadventures.

I'd thought she was making up all of the stories just to entertain Nicky like I usually did, but apparently her dog was a menace to society as well as Nurse Teresa's footwear.

"And you must be Jack," Teresa turned to shake my hand. "Nicky talks about you all the time."

"Much like you talk about Tito no doubt," I returned gravely, winking at Nicky.

Nurse Teresa laughed and said, "You're right, Nicky, he is funny." With her hand on the doorknob, she sobered for a moment as she spoke to Mrs. Ramirez. "Doctor Saunders will be in shortly," she informed her and then asked doubtfully. "Are you sure you don't want to speak to him alone first?"

Mrs. Ramirez quickly glanced at me and then firmly shook her head. "We're fine."

Teresa nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.

~ * * ~

Leukemia...leukemia...leukemia...The word reverberated through my head. He can't have leukemia, I thought desperately, he can't die. Why him? He's the good one. Why not me? No one would miss me. I can't lose him...I need him. I have no one else.

I didn't know how much Nicky knew about leukemia, but I could see by the terrified look on his face that he understood enough. I tried to look reassuring but knew I failed miserably. Searching my memory, I located and retrieved the little I had read on leukemia. It was not encouraging. The death rate for ten year olds was very high.

Trying to refocus on the doctor, I caught the tail end of the conversation he and Mrs. Ramirez were having.

"...check in tomorrow," he was saying. "I've already called the hospital and they will be putting him on the fifth floor. You will need to stop in at the registration desk to fill out some paperwork and then someone there will take you to where Nicky will be staying. Dr. Thompson will drop by as soon as you're settled in. He's one of the top oncologists in the state."

"Thank you, Doctor Sanders," Mrs. Ramirez was valiantly fighting tears, unwilling to let Nicky see how upset she was. "Let's go boys," she said with forced cheerfulness.

I hated to tell her she was putting on as poor a show as I was.

Nicky didn't say a word all the way out to the parking lot. After Mrs. Ramirez started the car, Nicky leaned over towards me and whispered, "Am I going to die?"

"NO!" the word exploded out of me before I could stop it.

"Jack?" I could see the worried look on Mrs. Ramirez's face as she glanced at me in the rear view mirror.

"We're fine," I muttered.

She nodded silently and backed out of the parking space.

"Don't even think that," I hissed furiously. "We're going to get you to a doctor who can fix you."

"Really...?" Nicky asked doubtfully.

"Really," I said with more confidence than I felt.

"I'm scared," he ventured in a shaky voice.

I am too, I admitted silently. Out loud I simply said "You'll be fine."

"I love you, Jack," Nicky said as he reached for my hand.

"I'm not going anywhere."

I had trouble voicing my emotions, but Nicky knew me better than anyone and understood.

"I know," he sighed, leaning back against the seat in exhaustion and closing his eyes.

A moment later, he was asleep.

1973

Standing in the rain, ignoring the huge drops that fell on my head and ran down inside the ill-fitting, borrowed suit I was wearing, I stared at the casket as the man closed it for the final time, unable to move, eyes glued to Nicky's face until he was totally obscured from view.

Everyone else had headed for shelter the moment the service concluded, but I had nowhere to go, no place to be, no one to care, no one waiting for me to come home. My only family lay cold and still in the closed casket and it was more than I could bear.

As my eyes glazed over, in my mind it was 1968 again. Nicky was grasping my hand tightly as we stood under the tent, rain pouring down, listening to the preacher praying over the two caskets containing the gristly remains of our parents that had been so mutilated by the accident a closed casket funeral was the only alternative besides cremation. Nicky's hysterical reaction to the bodies of his parents reduced to ashes by fire had been enough to nix that idea. To Nicky, fire and hell were equivalent.

Then, too, people had run for cover as soon as politely possible, but the difference was that Nicky and I had still had each other.

...and then there was one.

Nicky, I anguished silently.

I had failed him once again—failed to protect him from the evil that had conspired against him ever since the accident; from the Shaws, from the bullies, from the horrid insidious cancer that had in the end killed him—failed him miserably.

Nicky, accepting his fate with the same smiling face he had worn his whole life, attempted to comfort me in the end, worried about me, and determined to make sure I would be fine.

"Be happy, Jack," his whisper was practically inaudible as I sat by his hospital bed, holding his hand.

"We'll be happy," I had returned vehemently, squeezing his fingers gently.

"Do you remember when Daddy used to take us to the park to teach us how to play baseball?" his eyes had taken on a faraway look.

"I remember."

"You always pretended that I hit a home run," he reminded me "and that the ball was too hot for you to catch."

I nodded, unable to speak.

"And I would run around the bases while you and Daddy kept throwing the ball to each other and missing it just to make me feel better because I wasn't as good as you."

"You were great."

"Jack, you don't have to try to make me feel better any more. I know I'm dying...and it's okay," he smiled weakly.

"No!" I jumped up, practically yelling at him. "You're not going to die," I denied in a choked voice, as I turned towards the window, unwilling to let him see the tears in my eyes. "The doctors are fixing you."

I heard him mumble something and swiping at my eyes with the back of my hand I slowly returned to my seat and picked up his hand again.

"Sorry," I muttered, "I couldn't hear you."

"Mrs. Ramirez told me Mommy and Daddy will be waiting for me," he said with a sigh. "I miss them, Jack, I miss them a lot."

"So do I," I managed to get out around the enormous lump in my throat.

"I'll tell them when I see them."

I didn't reply, afraid I wouldn't be able to keep my gut-wrenching emotions out of my voice.

"I need you to do something for me," he whispered a bit more forcefully, lifting his head towards me.

I nodded.

"I need you to be okay," his head, devoid of hair from the chemo he had suffered through without success, fell back weakly against the pillows. "You have to swear to me that you'll be okay, otherwise I'll feel bad about leaving you."

"You aren't gonna die," I denied violently, unable to control my knee jerk reaction. "I won't let you."

"Superheroes can do a lot of things, but not even Jackknife can stop cancer," Nicky shook his head sadly.

I looked into his tired, wise eyes and knew I had to accept it, for his sake. He deserved to be happy and I knew it was wrong of me to burden him with guilt for leaving me, but suddenly it was all too much for me.

"What will I do without you?" I anguished, laying my head on the bed in defeat giving into the tears I had tried so hard to suppress.

"You've always been the strong one, Jack," Nicky gently removed his hand from mine and placed it on my head. "You have to look out for people like Benjamin who can't do it themselves."

"I'm not a superhero, Nicky," I mumbled against the blankets.

"To me you are," he contradicted softly. "You have special super powers."

"The only thing special about me is you," I lifted my head and gazed hopelessly into his dark, sweet, loving eyes so like our mother's had been.

"Then do it for me, Jackknife, be a superhero for me," he murmured as he drifted off.

"For you," I whispered in resignation "I'd do anything for you."

That was our last conversation.

He had been my reason for existing, the only thing that had made life bearable, and he was gone.

In a way I was relieved, he would no longer have to experience any more pain, and that was worth a lot. The last days of his life had been so incredibly agonizing for him that the doctors had pumped him full of morphine in order to ease his suffering and, while I could barely stand to see him that way, I was unable to tear myself away from him.

I sat by his bedside, refusing to leave, unable to eat or sleep as I watched him fade away from me, alternating between begging God to heal him and pleading with Him to take Nicky and end his unbearable pain.

If I could have switched places with him, I would have in an instant, the agony of watching the anguish in his beautiful dark eyes as his small fragile body fought a losing battle against the horrifying enemy that relentlessly attacked it overwhelmed me.

A feeling of helplessness and hopelessness invaded me and I hated it. I hated not being in control...unable to expel the bullies in his body. There was nothing for me to fight, punch, physically punish and I felt like yelling and cursing and pulling my hair out in frustration.

Tony and Mrs. Ramirez tried to comfort me as he lay dying in his hospital bed, assuring me that he would be with the angels where he belonged, in a wonderful place, a much better place than the pain-racked planet we inhabited, and I desperately wanted to believe that they were right, because of all the people I'd ever known, sweet, innocent, kind, caring Nicky deserved to be happy and pain-free, but I wasn't sure that God really existed.

Life was so rotten, so unfair...If there was a God where was He? How could He have let something like that happen?

The night Nicky died I ran out of the hospital with no thought in my head, just the feeling that I had to get away. I had no idea what I was trying to run from, but that didn't matter, nothing mattered except escape; I just had to...go. I was like a wounded animal...crazed, uncomprehending, dazed, angry, and in unbearable pain.

I vaguely remembered aimlessly wandering the city, but much about that night was a blur. Tony found me sometime in the early hours of the morning, sitting on a swing in the park that Nicky had mentioned the last time I'd seen him conscious, where our father used to take us when we were younger and happier, when we still had a family. I had no memory of making my way there, but my being there made a weird sort of sense.

Glancing dully around the cemetery, I noticed Tony's pickup parked about 50 yards away. I'd been wrong; someone was waiting for me, waiting to take me back to an empty house, to the vacant bedroom I had shared with Nicky. I wasn't sure I would be able to leave Nicky lying there in the casket, alone in the rain—storms had always scared him even though he had determinedly pretended to be brave—waiting to be buried, put into the ground and covered with six feet of dirt.

"I can't do it, I can't leave him here," I yelled at the heavens. "Don't make me do it, don't make me leave him! Don't leave me Nicky! Come back! Take me with you!" I begged, sobbing as I fell to the ground on my knees.

I felt myself lifted by a pair of strong arms and enveloped in a tight hug, the sound of Tony's grief helping me to deal with my own...his sense of loss mingling with mine as we cried out our pain.

~ * * ~

"Jack," Mrs. Ramirez, standing at the kitchen sink, turned to me in surprise, "You're up early."

"It's a school day," I shrugged.

"I know, but I assumed..." she bit her lip, unable to finish her sentence.

Her train of thought was obvious, Nicky's funeral had been the day before and she believed I needed time to recuperate, but what I really needed was to be out of the house. School wouldn't remind me of Nicky, the house did. It was as simple as that.

"See ya later," I mumbled as I left the kitchen, uncharacteristically skipping breakfast.

That day set the tone for the following weeks. I walked around like a zombie, going to classes, doing my work, avoiding eye contact as well as any other type of interaction with anyone, on the surface not that much different from my normal behavior.

Below the surface I felt dead, the small glow I'd always felt deep inside of me fed by Nicky's presence in my life totally extinguished. I was an empty shell.

I seriously pondered suicide, even going so far as to figuring out the best method. I knew where Tony kept his guns and with my former training by the Shaws could easily have gained access to one, but Mrs. Ramirez believed that Nicky was in heaven and if I ever wanted to see him again, I would have to get there somehow.

Suicide was, to paraphrase her, a one-way ticket to hell and although I was pretty sure my chances of getting into heaven were slim I wasn't going to risk my slim chance becoming no chance at all by doing something guaranteed to keep me out.

There was also the promise I'd made to Nicky that I would be okay...even more than that...a superhero. I'd never felt less like one in my life. I couldn't save anyone else...I couldn't even save myself.

I was able to make it through each day by simply going through the motions, lifeless and uncaring, and then I stumbled into a situation that brought me out of my stupor and gave me something to hold on to, to look forward to...a way to keep my promises to Nicky.

"I told you I wanted an A on that paper," a menacing voice broke through the haze that protectively surrounded my brain as I stood in the doorway of the boys' bathroom. "I got a C." I heard papers rustling.

"And I told you the teacher would never believe you wrote an A paper," a nasally voice whined. "Getting a B is even stretching it. I can't get caught cheating for you."

"Oh now I hope you didn't just call me stupid."

I recognized the voice: Grady Bryant, class bully extraordinaire. Although there were many like him at school, he was the head honcho of bullies. He had avoided me since I started boxing, only picking on kids who couldn't or wouldn't defend themselves, choosing his times carefully to ensure I wasn't around, so I hadn't seen him in a while.

Although we were about the same height he had at least twenty pounds on me—he relied on his size and buddies as his tools for intimidation—however, he knew from a previous, slightly bloody encounter that I had skills he couldn't hope to match and steered clear of me for the most part.

My choices were obvious; confront him or back out of the bathroom before anyone noticed me. I mentally shrugged, the decision already made.

"I'm simply saying that your grades don't support..." the nasally kid just didn't know when to quit. Apparently, Grady thought the same thing.

"I'll show you 'don't support'," he threatened.

His words made no sense, but his lackeys snickered encouragingly.

As I rounded the corner I saw the kid, Freddie Lawrence, being held captive by Grady's two newly acquired thugs—I didn't know their names—while Grady ripped what was obviously the detested C paper down the middle, releasing the pieces and allowing them to drift slowly to the floor.

Leaning against the wall in what I hoped appeared to be a relaxed, casual pose I folded my arms across my chest and clicked my tongue at him in disapproval.

"Littering," I shook my head regretfully, "Shame on you."

Grady started in surprise.

"This is none of your business, Knight," Grady growled at me, recovering quickly. "Get lost."

"Oh I think littering is everyone's business," I contradicted mildly. "So if you don't mind..." I indicated the discarded pieces of paper on the floor with a wave of my hand.

"If you're so worried about it, pick them up yourself," he sneered.

"Make a deal with you," I said amiably. "You and your friends let the kid go and I'll clean up the trash."

I figured Grady wasn't smart enough to realize I wasn't referring to the paper trash. I was right.

"Lawrence is fine, aren't you Lawrence?" Grady glanced at him warningly.

The kid nodded nervously casting me a pleading look, his eyes begging me to stay.

"See," Grady said expansively, "No problems here, now am-scray."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," I replied calmly.

I wasn't going anywhere; I felt more alive than I had in a month. I was ready for whatever was going to happen, but I wouldn't be the one starting it. I never did...not physically anyway.

"Then maybe you need a lesson in keeping your nose out of other people's business," Grady took a threatening step towards me.

I didn't move.

Grady paused, indecision clearly written all over his face. He knew he couldn't handle me alone, he had unsuccessfully tried that once before, but if he brought his two goons in on it they would have to release the kid.

I figured he wouldn't be able to resist the 3 to 1 odds and would choose me, hoping for payback from the last time.

Once again, I guessed correctly. Grady wasn't hard to figure.

"Let him go," Grady was looking at me but speaking to his sidekicks.

"But..." one of them began to protest.

"LET HIM GO!" Grady yelled, not taking his eyes off me.

Freed, Lawrence would have sped past me out of the bathroom but I grabbed his arm and, bending down, careful to keep my eyes on the three thugs, whispered out of the corner of my mouth "Get the principal."

He nodded, wide-eyed, and high-tailed it around the corner and out the door.

I didn't know how good my chances were against all three—two were unknown quantities and Tony had taught me never to underestimate an opponent—and I had no intention of fighting to the death or unconsciousness, whichever came first, so I thought it prudent to call for back-up. I knew I would be in just as much trouble as the 'bad guys'—it always happened that way no matter what the provocation, the principal generally unconcerned with who started it—but as usual, I didn't care.

For the first time in a month, my mind was alive and alert as Grady's two strong-arms made their way warily in my direction. Grady was too smart to put himself on the front lines, opting to wait until the others subdued me before coming in swinging, so I turned my attention to the two immediate problems. As long as I kept my back to the wall, I wouldn't have to worry about Grady sneaking up behind me.

The guy on my right was about Grady's size, but most of his weight was fat with very little muscle. One punch would probably send him crying into the corner. The other one was smaller but seemed to have more muscle and looked tougher. If I kept moving, I could take the bigger one out quickly and then be able to concentrate exclusively on the one that might give me more trouble, all the while keeping an eye on Grady.

I shook my head in amazement at how easy they were to read, transmitting their punches so clearly it was laughable. Both of them were cradling their right hands—if those were their writing hands they were certainly going to need someone to do their homework for them for a while—and cursing loudly and fluently when the principal and vice principal walked in. I had to admit I was surprised at the size of their vocabulary.

Grady, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

"What's going on here," Principal Murphy demanded. Noticing me for the first time, he asked resignedly "What did you do to them?"

"Never laid a finger on 'em, sir," I replied truthfully.

"That son of a..." the smaller one broke off realizing to whom he was talking.

"He broke my hand," the larger one whined, carefully lifting his limp appendage for display, tears streaming down his face.

"Let me see," the principal non-too-gently examined the hand which probably did have a couple of fingers broken judging by the loud cracking noise I had heard earlier.

"How did he break your hand?" Vice Principal Newton asked curiously.

"He...he...he made me hit the wall," he cried petulantly.

"He made you hit the wall," the vice principal repeated carefully keeping his face expressionless.

"Vice Principal Newton, why don't you accompany these two young men to the nurse and I'll deal Mr. Knight," Principal Murphy suggested mildly.

"If you will follow me, gentlemen," the vice principal requested courteously taking his cue from his boss and leading the other two out of the bathroom as he continued, "I'm sure the nurse will be able to..." his voice fading in the distance.

"I think we can find a more comfortable setting for our little chat," the principal offered pleasantly. "Shall we retire to my office?"

Nodding, I silently led the way out of the bathroom.

The hallways appeared deserted except for a few teachers patrolling for stragglers as we made our way to the main office. Mrs. Brent, the secretary, smiled at me as I passed her desk and I nodded in acknowledgement. I was a familiar sight.

"Have a seat, Jack," Principal Murphy invited, seating himself behind his desk. I sat. "So," he continued conversationally "I suppose I would be wasting my breath asking what happened?"

"They seem a bit klutzy to me," I commented casually. "Perhaps they had an accident."

"I'm not asking how Grady's henchmen broke their hands," he smiled slightly "That part seems fairly self-explanatory. I'm not even asking where Grady disappeared to, he seems to have a built-in radar as far as I'm concerned, but I would like to know who Grady was trying to bully. His grades have made a miraculous jump from failing to solid C's and B's over the past few months since the counselor warned him he would be repeating eighth grade next year for the second time at the rate he was going. In view of the fact that I noticed one of his papers lying on the bathroom floor ripped in half, I'm assuming this has something to do with his sudden rise to brilliance. I'm guessing perhaps he wasn't too happy with a C...?"

Principal Murphy was perceptive as well as observant. I wondered why he hadn't thought to detain Lawrence when he had reported the incident in order to ask him since Lawrence would have been the obvious choice.

Reading my face correctly he added, "And in case you're wondering, a girl came rushing into the office to report a fight in the boys' bathroom then exited just as quickly before the secretary had time to ask her name, so..." he paused, eyeing me without much hope.

I apparently needed to work on my poker face, or maybe he was just better at reading people than most.

"Maybe they're afraid of Grady and getting caught cheating," I suggested with feigned indifference.

Lawrence obviously had common sense to go along with his brains. He must have figured he would have been 'made' if he had personally reported the fight in the boys' bathroom...smart kid.

"Well, if you run across anyone who fits that description perhaps you could pass along a message for me," the principal said nonchalantly. At my nod, he continued, "He...or she...would have our thanks as well as whatever protection we can provide if he...or she...came forward. There would be no penalty for being coerced into helping someone else cheat; only if they were doing it for monetary gain."

I hadn't thought of that. Maybe that was why Lawrence hadn't wanted anyone to know; he was getting paid for it. Discarding that idea—I had an inkling that Grady never paid for anything if he could help it, bullies seldom did—I decided that Lawrence was probably just concerned with the type of retribution Grady would dish out once he discovered who had snitched on him. He was smart enough to figure out that it was unlikely anyone would be around to help him the next time

"No problem," I acknowledged, attempting to rise.

"Not through with you yet," the principal waved me back into my chair. "I also don't suppose it would do any good to ask you to stay out of other people's...issues."

At my stone-faced silence, he sighed and continued. "I thought not. Since you didn't technically do anything punishable this time, by their own admission those two idiots hurt themselves, I'll let you off with a warning. One of these days, Jack, you're going to run up against a situation you can't handle and..." he shrugged.

I got the point.

"Cross that bridge when I come to it."

"You could get seriously injured."

"My choice; victims aren't given that luxury."

"You'd make a damn fine Marine," he murmured thoughtfully "and if you tell anyone I said that I'll deny it."

"Thank you, sir," I replied, an unfamiliar feeling warming my insides for a brief moment.

Everyone knew Principal Murphy had been a Marine during the Korean conflict and was rumored to have won the Silver Star—he was certainly tough enough—but he wasn't telling and no one had the guts to ask.

"Here's a note for your teacher to get you into class," he handed me a slip of yellow paper. "And Jack," he stopped me at the door, "Try to stay out of trouble for the rest of the day."

I didn't respond. As I exited his office, I realized he hadn't expected anything else. I wasn't given much to making empty promises, and that would have definitely qualified as one.

He'd put an idea in my head, though...the Marine Corps. The whole concept appealed to me. If Principal Murphy was anything to go by, the corps was comprised of strong, intelligent, fair-minded men.

Semper fidelis...always faithful; the idea definitely had merit.

1974

How could you be so stupid? I asked myself in disgust, taking in the dozen or so angry faces surrounding me. I recognized all of them...not a good sign.

"He's here," the kid I had been following ran straight up to Grady Bryant and sniffled as he wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve "can I have my dog back now?"

"Frankie," Grady called, eyes glued on me. "Give the whiny kid his dog back." I recognized Frankie as the shorter and more muscular kid who had broken his hand in an attempt to punch me the previous year. There was no sign of the other guy, he must have wised up and distanced himself from Grady or maybe his parents had done it for him. "Now get lost kid before I decide to cook the mutt and eat it."

No one had to fill me in on the agenda of the motley crew in front of me...I knew; it was feeding time for the wolves and I was the main course. To say I was in trouble was a vast understatement.

I stayed quiet, evaluating the situation. Obviously, Grady had set me up, luring me into the alley, knowing I wouldn't be able to turn down a kid being pushed around.

Although I never went looking for trouble, I couldn't walk away from it either, and my penchant for "butting in" had spread to the point where picked-on kids came in search of me for help.

Forcing myself to remain outwardly calm, unwilling to give in to the sudden tension I could feel building in my stomach, I knew I had to think...think...think...

No way would I be able to take on all of them and I seriously doubted whether more than one or two, if any, could be persuaded out of participating. That left me very little to ponder and none of it pleasant.

"So, Knight, I'm sure you remember everyone," Grady was practically licking his lips.

"Hmm..." I murmured innocently "Bully convention in an alley, how original. All the good hotels booked?"

"You won't be in any shape to make jokes in a few minutes," he sneered. "See you're the main topic of this convention," he replied, grinning evilly. "We all got together and decided you needed to be taught a lesson. You've been interfering with official bully business and none of us appreciate it."

Glancing around, I noticed the nodding approval of Grady's words. Taking a closer look, I realized that there were basically only four ringleaders, the rest were the enforcers, the ones who always did the dirty work. That reduced the number I had to worry about to eight instead of the original twelve. 8 to 1...better, but still not good odds. Granted I had taken care of each one of them at one time or another...just not all at the same time.

As the circle started to tighten in on me, I began rolling up my sleeves as nonchalantly as I could manage noting casually "I may not come out of this one unscathed, but I have to wonder if any of you will be in any better shape when it's all said and done?"

"Get him," Grady yelled as the circle paused for a moment, some of them no doubt remembering what had happened the last time we tangled. The others were probably just wondering what unscathed meant; brains didn't seem to be a prerequisite as far as thugs went.

As the ring of bodies closed in on me, I began throwing punches right and left, connecting to jaws, stomachs, anything I could find to hit, constantly on the move, but I knew I was eventually going to be fighting a losing battle.

Two guys were on the ground, but there were still six more plus the four leaders.

Realistically, I knew I would tire and then the wolf pack alphas would pounce. Even as I acknowledged the thought, one kid managed to land a punch to the left side of my head causing me to see stars while another slugged me in the kidney area from behind, jerking me backwards in pain. There were just too many of them coming at me from all directions...I could feel my body weakening as more and more blows found their mark.

Dimly, in the background, I heard shouts of "Who do you think you are?" and "Hey you, butt out." Twice I heard Grady practically screaming, "Get him you idiots."

What is he talking about? I wondered fuzzily, beginning to punch thin air more often than connecting with body parts. They are getting me.

Almost miraculously, it seemed, there were multiple bodies on the ground writhing in pain. Did I do that? I asked myself in amazement as I noticed another one approaching me. I raised my fists, ready to continue punching, one eye partially closed and the other one a bit blurry.

"Hey, hold up there, I'm on your side," the short, Asian boy put his hands up as if surrendering, grinning from ear to ear, his dimples vaguely familiar.

He, however, didn't look familiar, and although I was fairly certain he wasn't one of the original twelve, I had a suspicious nature.

"Why?" I asked a tad belligerently.

"I think we should get out of here before the four head honchos convince all of the others to get off the ground and come after us," he suggested, ignoring my question as he took off quickly down the alley towards the street.

"Okay," I agreed cautiously as I trailed after him, more than happy to leave the area.

I wasn't sure how I had escaped death or at the very least permanent maiming—I must have been doing better than I thought—but I considered it prudent not to hang around and try my luck again. As soon as we hit the street, the boy seemed to be in a hurry.

Keeping up with his shorter stride easily, unsure what kept me by his side, I demanded, "Who are you?"

He didn't slow down but said apologetically "Sorry, but I'm late and my parents are gonna to be steamed. I'm Shun."

"Where'd you come from?"

"We just moved here from New York City, that's where my dad was born. My haha's from Japan, but I was..."

"I mean I didn't see you before the fight started and then suddenly you were there," I interrupted rudely, trying to determine if he was another Grady trick.

He didn't appear to be one, but neither had the kid with the dog. I had been guilty of underestimating an enemy. Apparently, Grady was smarter than I'd given him credit for, a mistake I was determined not to repeat.

"Oh, that," he replied breezily. "I heard the kid begging you to help him get his dog back and thought I might be able to help. Seems I was right," he laughed to himself.

"Help...?" I repeated incredulously. "You could have gotten hurt. Those guys eat little kids like you for lunch," I said contemptuously, but at the same time feeling oddly protective.

"You should never judge a man by his size," he grinned impishly.

"Man?"

"Hey," he objected, "I took out my half of the bad guys and without blood," he added immodestly. "Besides, I'm pretty sure I'm at least as old as you are...maybe even older."

"Older than me...?" I replied skeptically, he barely came up to my shoulders.

"I'm fifteen," he offered, "Here we are. Don't say anything about the fight, okay? My haha gets a little bit...nuts...about stuff like that. She doesn't speak much English but she understands the word fight."

"So how do I explain the blood?" I asked, indicating the stains splattering my white shirt and thinking Mrs. Ramirez was going to have a cow when she saw it. "And my eye...what the heck's a haha?"

"My mom, and don't worry about the blood and cuts, get it...blood and cuts instead of guts...I got it all under control," he said confidently as he pushed open the door of an empty storefront with a newly painted sign hanging from a post out front that read Suzuki Martial Arts.

The place was a mess, obviously a work in progress, with workmen installing mirrors on almost every wall and a handful of people painting whatever wall wasn't covered by the mirrors.

As soon as Shun was inside a woman turned from her painting and began spewing some language, presumably Japanese, at him. I assumed it was his mother and he was right, she was steamed.

After a few minutes of discussion, she finally calmed down enough for Shun to introduce us. I heard the word Knight and realized that Shun might think that was my given name since he must have heard Grady calling me that.

"I'm Jack...Jack Knight," I offered helpfully.

"Sorry, I just assumed..." he shrugged apologetically. "This is my haha."

"Nice to meet you," I said politely.

"Like I said, she doesn't understand much English so just bow like this," Shun demonstrated, "and smile," he added.

"Bowing I can do," I acknowledged, imitating Shun as best I could as I bowed to his mother, "smiling not so much."

"That's okay, I smile enough for both of us," he laughed.

"True," I agreed wryly.

"Come on back and meet my pop," he offered, moving quickly towards the back of the store.

"Wait," I tried to stop him but he had already disappeared through the doorway.

As his mother shook her head in despair and returned to her painting, I followed him cautiously, stepping around the paint cans and various tools scattered on the floor, unsure what Shun was doing. Although we'd just met, he was acting like we were long lost friends...strange. Maybe he had taken a couple of punches to the head; that would explain it.

Standing there, staring indecisively into a hallway at three opened doors, I wondered which room held the disappearing Shun.

"Hey Jack, over here," Shun's head popped out of the doorway to the right long enough to direct me then disappeared inside the room again.

That was when it hit me, the perpetual grin, the dimples, and the whole optimistic outlook on life...Shun reminded me of Nicky. I stood frozen in shock, realizing that was why I hadn't been able to just leave Shun and go my own way, why I had felt strangely protective. I'd been involuntarily drawn to the similarities my subconscious had noticed.

"Come on," Shun once again poked his head out, retreating just as quickly.

Shaking my head in consternation at Shun's inexplicable behavior, I approached the room where his head had disappeared and entered a different world.

1975

"That Selena girl is staring at you again," Shun said around the hamburger he was chewing.

"Let her," I muttered disagreeably sinking my teeth into my own hamburger.

"Girls aren't so bad, you know."

"Yeah so you keep saying," I replied dismissively. "Are you gonna eat...?"

"Knock yourself out," he pushed his plate full of fries towards me. I scooped them up and dropped them onto mine. "I eat junk food whenever I want."

"Lucky you," I responded dryly, squeezing ketchup all over the fries and picking up my fork.

"Hi," a female voice said from behind me.

I didn't bother to answer or look up from my plate as I shoveled food into my mouth. Shun would handle it. He always did.

Hey," Shun replied as his foot nudged my leg under the table.

I glared at him briefly before returning to my fries.

As the girls moved to stand beside us, I discarded the fork, and began picking up the ketchup-covered strips with my fingers, dropping them into my mouth.

I would have wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve but the habitual black t-shirt that I'd begun to sport ever since the Grady incident in order to hide any possible blood splatters I might acquire during the course of the day didn't have any sleeves. I settled for leaving whatever ketchup had landed on my face right where it was.

Let's see how they like slobs, I thought with satisfaction.

"I'm Selena, and this is Stephanie and Keliss," Selena continued. "You're Shun, right?" she asked, mispronouncing his name.

I stifled a snort at the irony of her mistake. I was the one who shunned and was shunned by people, not Shun.

"That's Shun, pronounced like moon but with a 'sh' at the front," Shun corrected grinning cheerfully. "It means speed in Japanese."

I quickly turned my amused snort into a cough.

You are not going to bring out that tired, lame old line are you...you little show off, I silently scoffed at him.

"Ask him his last name," I mumbled around the fries in my mouth.

There was the nudge again, but harder, bordering on a kick.

I narrowed my eyes at him, threatening retribution later for the bruises he was inflicting on my unguarded shins. Shun looked totally unconcerned, which was understandable since I spent most of our matches picking myself up off the mats.

"Last name...?" Selena repeated uncomprehendingly.

"What is your last name?" Stephanie asked curiously, speaking for the first time.

I was beginning to think the other two's tongues had been cut out. I paused from the inhalation of my fries, technically Shun's fries, and stared thoughtfully at my plate.

Not a bad idea, might have to try that with Shun, I decided, that might shut him up. Nah, I dismissed the idea in amusement adding, he'd just learn sign language or some other method of communication and still be just as annoying.

"I am Shun Suzuki," he said with dignity.

"Suzuki...? My cousin has a Suzuki," Keliss finally spoke, the excitement in her voice obvious. "You were named after a motorcycle?"

"A fast motorcycle," I agreed solemnly.

Again, I felt the kick under the table, harder than the last two. I didn't even bother to glare at him, focusing exclusively on my plate, trying to hide my amusement.

"No, stupid," Stephanie scorned "his family obviously owns the motorcycle company. It's his last name."

"I'm not stupid," Keliss objective angrily. "I..."

"Anyway," Selena interrupted the argument abruptly and turning her back on Shun faced me determinedly. "And you're Jack...aren't you...Jack Knight?"

"Yeah, he's Jack," Shun acknowledged. "What can we do for you three lovely ladies?"

Shun is so full of it, I thought in exasperation, furtively rolling my eyes at him before returning my attention to the few fries left on the plate.

"Well, Stephanie's parents aren't going to be home this weekend," Selena began enthusiastically, "so we're having a party and we were kinda hoping you two might be able to come."

"We're busy this weekend," I said curtly.

"Oh," Selena said deflated. "I see. Well if something happens to your other plans and you change your mind or anything..."

"We'll let you know," Shun finished for her. "Thanks for the invite."

"Sure," she replied uncertainly. "Well, I guess we'll see you later."

"Great," Shun replied enthusiastically.

The girls moved out of earshot and Shun's smile uncharacteristically disappeared.

"Hey, what gives?" he asked in annoyance. "We've never been invited to a party before."

"If you want to go...go," I said brusquely stuffing the last of the fries in my mouth.

"I didn't say I wanted to go," he protested. "What's up with you? It's just a party."

"With no parents," I pointed out "Which probably means drinking, smoking pot, maybe even some hard core drugs."

"Yeah maybe, but we don't have to do any of that stuff," he frowned. "Besides my parents would kill me first and ask question later if they ever even suspected I was doing anything like that."

"Do you know how I lost my parents?" I asked as unemotionally as I could manage.

"In a car accident," he replied, obviously confused.

"We were coming back from vacation. My...brother..." I stumbled a bit as memories washed over me bringing the accustomed pain. "My brother and I were sleeping in the very back while my parents kept switching off with the driving. My dad needed to be home the next day for something so they ended up driving all night. It was around three in the morning, and we were almost home, when a car jumped the median and hit us head on. The high school kid was drunk, apparently coming home from a party very much like the one we were just invited to," I finished dully.

"I didn't know...I didn't mean to..." Shun stammered.

I shrugged. "I didn't see any need to tell you...until now."

"No problem," Shun shuddered. "No party."

"Thanks," I said standing and picking up my tray.

"I'll see you after school?" he ventured a bit tentatively.

I nodded.

~ * * ~

"Here let me help you," Shun offered me his hand, grinning as usual from ear to ear.

"That's very considerate of you," I replied sarcastically, allowing him to pull me up "seeing as how you're the one who put me there."

"Be aware of everything around you," Mr. Suzuki's voice was in my ear before I even realized he was beside me. He was so silent it was almost creepy. I wished I could do that. "All of your senses must be in tune with your surroundings. Concentrate. Do not allow yourself to be distracted."

I took my stance again, Shun somewhere behind me. I heard a whisper of sound not even a split second before Shun attacked. My reactions were quicker, but incorrect; I still ended up on the floor.

"You must learn to use the attack of your opponent against him," Mr. Suzuki said from behind me. "Do not meet force with force. Find his weakness and exploit it. Try again."

"Notice he said 'try'," Shun laughed.

I ignored his ribbing—part of his strategy always included distraction—recognizing it for what it was, a leftover from the days when he constantly lost to his brother. Honestly, with me he didn't need it.

After ending up on the mat several more times, Shun's father moved us into punching exercises—my personal favorite...with my previous boxing experience, I had to admit, I excelled at that particular part—and kicking, also something I looked forward to, although it had taken quite a while for me to feel comfortable using my feet, and bare feet at that, as well as using my hands.

I was grateful to Mr. Suzuki for allowing me to join Shun's private instruction in exchange for help around the place. I could never have paid for lessons any other way, and the world of martial arts fascinated me.

Mr. Suzuki had also needed a new sparring partner for Shun since his older brother had graduated from high school the year before and had moved back east to attend college, leaving Shun without one.

Shun always told his father everything...well...almost everything...so after hearing about my propensity for getting into trouble as well as the training I had received as a boxer he decided to take me on and teach me in the same way he'd been instructing his sons.

Shun was ecstatic that he was finally able to come out on top after years of being bested by his older brother. I, on the other hand, wasn't used to being on the losing end. My confidence had been severely shaken at first.

Gradually, I began to improve and Mr. Suzuki seemed pleased with my progress. I doubted that I would ever be as good as Shun since he had been training ever since he could walk, but I enjoyed it tremendously.

Shun and I always trained in Mr. Suzuki's personal training room—the room where Shun had taken me to meet his father that first day, the day of the bully convention in the alley—not with the many paying students he had. He used the huge room at the front of the building for those classes.

At first, I was a bit disgruntled, wondering why his paying students were awarded the different belts and I wasn't, but he had explained that they were there to learn traditional Judo and Karate used in competitions where the belts meant something. I wasn't interested in competitions.

Mr. Suzuki trained me as he had trained Shun and Shun's brother using a combination of all the martial arts with emphasis on Ju Jitsu, known as the "gentle art" or "soft technique," which I thought sounded like a sissy thing until the first lesson. Shun had literally wiped the floor with me while barely laying a hand on me.

Feeling bruised in body as well as ego, I bull-headedly kept pulling myself off the floor to have another go, only to find myself immediately kissing the mats again. My attitude underwent a major overhaul that day and, from then on was eager to learn as much as I could.

"Enough for today," Mr. Suzuki declared. Although his paying students called him Sensei and he dressed in a gis for them, for our lessons he wore sweats and I called him Mr. Suzuki while Shun just called him Pop. "Tomorrow you will begin to learn to defend against weapons," he announced casually. "Don't tell your haha," he winked at Shun.

"When can we learn to use a sword," Shun asked eagerly.

"Don't push it," he warned, but his eyes were twinkling. "We'll see."

~ * * ~

"Ran into an old friend of yours last week," Tony mentioned casually as we sat around the supper table.

"Who?" I asked without taking a break from shoveling food into my mouth.

Mrs. Ramirez called me her skinny garbage disposal. I was always hungry and she never had to worry about leftovers.

"Grady Bryant," I could feel his eyes on me. "Have you seen him lately?"

"He hasn't been in school for a while," I shrugged nonchalantly.

"And he won't be for quite some time," Tony informed me. "We caught him in the middle of a drug bust, apparently he was dealing. The judge sentenced him to two years in Juvie."

"See how he likes being on the receiving end of the bullying for a change," I paused long enough from eating to growl unsympathetically.

"Jack," Mrs. Ramirez said disapprovingly.

"Sorry," I muttered, resuming the feed.

"So how is the Suzuki family," Tony asked changing the subject and attempting to hide his amused grin from his wife.

"Fine," I replied around the food in my mouth.

"The guys miss you down at the gym," he continued casually.

I stopped shoveling for a moment, something in his voice catching my attention.

"Sorry," I murmured, "Mr. Suzuki's been working us pretty hard."

"Do you miss boxing?" he asked hopefully.

"Some," I replied cautiously, not wanting to admit that boxing seemed almost boring after the things I'd been learning.

"Oh," the disappointment in his voice was obvious.

At first, I was confused. Why would Tony care if I missed boxing? He'd spent time at the gym before I came along and continued to go without me, so it wasn't like he had only been doing it for me. Absently, I lifted the fork to my mouth then sighed with relief as it dawned on me that Tony didn't care about the boxing, something else was bothering him.

"What I really miss is fishing," I turned my attention back to my food, hoping I had guessed correctly.

"Really...?"

The subdued excitement in Tony's voice told me all I needed to know. He wasn't disappointed about the boxing...it was the fact that we never spent time together any more...not since...

"Shun's never been fishing so..." I trailed off hoping he wouldn't mind if we made it a threesome.

"Now that's a crying shame," Tony said frowning. "Every boy needs to know how to fish." He paused for a moment then continued. "I'm off-duty this weekend. Do you think you and Shun might want to head out to Lake Conroe on Saturday?"

All right, I thought with satisfaction, loads better than some stupid party.

"I'll ask him tomorrow at school," I replied getting up and taking my plate to the sink.

Filling one side with dishwashing liquid and water, I grimaced as I stuck my hands in the water and automatically began washing the dishes.

1976

"So, you have five weeks to complete your research and write your paper," the Civics teacher, Ms. MacInnes informed the class. "I will not be checking your outline or notes as you progress...this time...but that does not mean you should procrastinate and let things slide until the last minute." She paused for a moment eyeing the class speculatively. "You're juniors now, and as such you should be mature enough to be your own taskmaster."

There were a few snickers as I heard Frank Shelton in the back of the classroom croon softly, "Oh yeah baby I'll be your taskmaster."

Opting to ignore his crude remarks—his obsession with Ms. MacInnes was well-known and turned my stomach—I determinedly concentrated on Cynda, one of the varsity cheerleaders and not the sharpest stick in the stack, asking a stupid question as usual.

"I don't understand," she whined. "What's the assignment again?"

Ms. MacInnes was the soul of patience I had to admit. She hadn't been teaching long, I'd heard it was her first year but I didn't know for sure, and unlike a lot of our other teachers hadn't yet been worn down by the constant crudeness, rudeness, and idiocy of much of the student body.

Shun called her a fox, and I suppose she was, but I felt dirty thinking of a teacher that way. My mother had been a teacher and the thought of male students having those types of thoughts about her...I shuddered, quickly obliterating that image from my mind.

"I want you to find an event or person in Houston's history that had—what you consider to be—a huge impact on the city," she explained kindly. "It can be someone or something we've studied in the history portion of the class, a current figure or event that we've talked about, or you can go look for one on your own."

As she finished, Linda's hand shot into the air. My ears pricked up, interested in whatever Linda was going to ask. Although they were both varsity cheerleaders and their names rhymed, that was all they had in common. Linda was as sharp as Cynda was dull, and I knew her question would be extremely pertinent and to the point.

"If we wanted to find something on our own," she began, "where would you suggest we search?"

"Good question, Linda," Ms. MacInnes nodded approvingly. I caught Cynda sticking her tongue out at Linda behind her back and narrowed my eyes at her. Cynda noticed my glare and lowered her eyes quickly. "I would try the public library; they keep copies of old newspapers which might give you a start and if you know any elderly people who have lived here a long time, you could ask them," she suggested smiling. "You can also use them as a source for your paper as long as you document it correctly."

Linda nodded and made a few notes. Cynda was craning her neck to see what she had written, but I doubted she would be able to understand any of it with her limited intelligence as well as vocabulary.

"Are there any other questions?" the teacher asked, glancing around the classroom.

"Yeah, are you busy tonight?" I heard once again from the back of the room.

Frank never spoke loudly enough for Ms. MacInnes to catch what he was saying, but she always heard the accompanying laughter. Mostly she just ignored it but, at times, it was too loud and rowdy for her to let it pass. I could see the debate raging in her head...should she disregard it, hoping it would stop, or should she say something and risk a confrontation.

Knocking my pen off the desk, I casually reached down to pick it up and, turning my head slightly in order to see Frank sitting two desks back and one row over, gave him what Shun laughingly called "The Stare". Frank didn't notice it at first, too busy taking congratulations for his questionable comments from his surrounding flunkies, but one of his groupies noticed and elbowed him, pointing. Frank defiantly tried to sustain the eye contact but ended up looking away.

Satisfied, I picked up my pen and settled in to listen to Ms. MacInnes' lecture.

~ * * ~

"Why are we here again?" Shun asked in irritation after receiving yet another glare from one of the librarians for flirting with every girl that happened to pass our table.

"I need to do research for a paper," I frowned at the old newspaper I was carefully perusing. "I told you, you don't have to stay. Just don't get me kicked out or I'll never find something to write about."

"Fine," Shun said picking up his books and preparing to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow at school."

Shun was extremely intelligent, but hated schoolwork of any kind and always did just enough to earn the types of grades his parents thought were acceptable...barely acceptable. He was much more interested in the female population than learning anything academically.

"Right," I replied absently, the word "Knight" jumping out at me from one of the newspaper articles, catching my eye.

"Right," he repeated in disgust as he moved towards the exit.

Idly glancing at the date in the corner of the paper I froze, August 13, 1968, the day after...

My eyes involuntarily moved back to the article. The headline had me fighting for breath.

Four Die in Head-On Collision

I read the article over and over, trying to control the emotions I could feel threatening to engulf me, but almost morbidly eager to uncover the details of my parents' death.

Being only eight at the time, I had no access to a newspaper or any other form of information about the wreck, just what I had been told judiciously edited for a child plus the conversations I'd overheard while the rescue workers attempted to free us, but there it was in black and white, the names of all of the people involved and what had happened to them.

Not expecting to do more than find a starting point for the assignment, I hadn't brought anything to write with or write on, but I didn't have to write anything down in order to remember that article word for word for the rest of my life. I didn't need to read it more than once in order to do that, but it was as if I couldn't stop myself.

It was as if seeing it written there made it come alive for me again, reliving the horror of holding Nicky in the back of the station wagon while the tearing, metallic sounds of the Jaws of Life assaulted our ears as it tried to free us from the mangle wreckage in which we were trapped. Nicky crying, loud uncontrollable sobs that couldn't be heard over the other deafening noises except by me, while I murmured soothing words in his ear and held him tightly trying to keep him still while the equipment ripped at our prison.

Then the sight of our parents', or what was left of our parents' mangled bodies—I had forced Nicky to look away, not wanting that vision to haunt him for the rest of his life, not realizing just how short that life would be—had left me with scars that would never heal, memories that would stick with me forever.

I sat at the table, my head in my hands, trying to control the overwhelming urge to cry, yell, destroy whatever I could get my hands on, and fall on the ground writhing with the unbearable agony of it, all at the same time.

I didn't know how to handle the overwhelming emotions running rampant through my body, couldn't think...I needed to think...I had to function...I was in a public place...I couldn't allow myself to fall apart.

Breathe...breathe...I kept repeating over and over to myself...just breathe.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes, I cautiously let go of my head. My breathing had slowed, and my brain was clearing, allowing me to process information again.

I carefully folded the newspaper, placing it on top of the stack I'd already read, along with all of the ones I hadn't gotten to yet, knowing I was done for the day. Making my way to the desk, I handed them silently back to the librarian who smiled as she took them from me and began marking them off against the list to make sure I'd returned them all.

Admittedly, I had thought about trying to keep the one with the article in it, but I knew that would have been considered stealing, something I'd sworn never to do again once Nicky and I managed to get away from the Shaws, so I stifled the urge.

"They're all here," she smiled brightly. "Thank you for being so careful with them."

I nodded, unable to answer. Some of the oldest newspapers were on microfilm and microfiche, but I'd decided to try the ones that had been printed during my lifetime first, and then go further back if nothing interesting turned up. Something interesting had definitely turned up and it was life changing for at least one small part of the city, but I didn't think that was what Ms. MacInnes had in mind.

As I headed to the nearest bus stop, I wondered glumly how long I would have to wait.

The sun was long gone and the only lights on the street were from the dim, sparsely populated streetlights. I didn't own a watch and because I'd been so upset had failed to check the clock in the library so I settled down for what would in all probability be a long wait. Although I'd taken Driver's Ed, passed the driving test, and received my license earlier that year, there was no way I could afford any type of car, so the bus was my only means of transportation.

Sitting on the bench, head bowed with the weight of what I'd just read, waiting for the bus, faint noises began penetrating the fog that had settled around my brain. My ears pricked up in spite of my stupor, and rising to investigate I moved around the behind bench and into the bushes pausing ever so often in order to determine the direction.

At first, I thought it might be a hurt animal since the area was mostly bushes and trees but, as I got closer, I could hear muted voices as well as muffled cries.

Creeping closer, peering through the bushes—there wasn't much light penetrating the dense brush—I could make out four figures...one lying on the ground, two kneeling beside the one on the ground, and a fourth figure standing over them all.

The figure on the ground was writhing and kicking, making angry muffled noises while each of the two kneeling figures had a hold of an arm. The wildly kicking feet seemed to be causing them some distress.

As my eyes adjusted to the lack of light I could see that, with the exception of the captive on the ground, they were all masked.

"Hold her down you idiots," a hissing voice carried to me in the bushes. "That's the third time she's kicked me."

"We're trying, but she's a wildcat," one of them whined.

"Yeah I've got scratches all over me," the third complained.

I didn't wait to hear anymore.

With the odds being three to one I wasn't going to announce myself and wait for a fair fight and, even though the woman—from the 'hold her down' comment as well as the skirt and spiked heels the victim was wearing I assumed the figure on the ground to be a woman—seemed to be defending herself valiantly, I didn't think she would be able to continue to fight them off long enough for me to find a phone and call the police.

I hope they're as incompetent as they look, I thought a split second before moving in.

~ * * ~

"Now tell me again how you happened to be passing by at the exact moment your friends were assaulting a woman," the police officer said with a disbelieving smirk.

"They're not my friends," I contradicted shortly.

"Yeah, so you say," he snorted. "And you weren't with them...right."

"I told you, I was doing research for a paper," I repeated stonily.

"And yet you have no notebook, or paper, or even a pen," he pointed out triumphantly.

"I was getting ideas..." I'd had about all I could take of his obnoxiousness.

"I'll just bet you were," he replied mockingly.

"You can check with the library and Ms. MacInnes..." I tried again.

"Ah, the lady that was being assaulted," he interrupted once more. "I'm sure she's fine with you and your friends attacking her as long as you get your paper in on time."

Resisting the urge to take a swing at him, I attempted to get through his thick skull one more time, "Look, if you'll just call Tony Ramirez..."

"Officer Tony Ramirez?" the cop repeated suspiciously. "How do you know him? Was he your arresting officer the last time you got caught doing something stupid?"

"I live with him," I said shortly.

"Jack...let me by you idiots...Jack are you alright?" Ms. MacInnes pushed her way through a couple of police officers, a blanket wrapped around her, hiding her torn and dirty clothing.

"You'll have to stay back, miss, I'm still interrogating the suspect," the officer stood between us facing her.

"Suspect?" she practically screeched. "What do you mean suspect? If it weren't for Jack those other three would have each taken their turn raping me."

She pushed him out of the way and sat down next to me on the bus stop bench.

"But you kicked him," the officer frowned in confusion. "He even admitted it."

"By accident," her tone of voice called the officer all kinds of a fool even if her words didn't. "I was aiming for one of the others and missed. I gave those policemen over there," she waved her hand vaguely towards the officers standing near the ambulance where she'd been checked out a few minutes earlier as well as the squad cars containing the three attackers, "my statement so why don't you slither on over there and talk to them before you go around accusing innocent people." Turning to me, she grabbed my chin and lifted my face toward the light examining the cut next to my lip where her spiked heel had caught me unexpectedly. "I'm so sorry, Jack. I wasn't thinking, or aiming, clearly. Can you forgive me?"

I nodded, relieved she had straightened up the mess with the cop. Tony was always telling me I was my own worst enemy with my clipped answers and expressionless face, but that jerk had barely let me finish any sentence before attacking me, assuming I was guilty from the start.

"I'm glad," she half-smiled, which was probably all she could muster after the events of the evening. "I'd hate to think I'd alienated the one student in my class I can always count on to keep the thugs in line."

At my start of surprise, she admitted sheepishly, "There isn't much you miss standing in the front of a classroom. I've pretended not to hear Frank's lewd comments all semester knowing you were more or less keeping him on a leash, just glad that he'd be someone else's problem next semester since Civics is only for half the year, but that was wrong of me and a copout. I'm sorry I abused you in that way. I should have dealt with it immediately, but I was...afraid."

I shrugged, "It wouldn't have stopped him from..." I broke off unable to use the word she had earlier.

"You're probably right," she acknowledged ruefully. "Well, I'm very thankful there were only three of them and you weren't hurt. Well, not seriously anyway. I should be more careful where I put my spiked heels," she added with a half-hearted laugh.

"Jack..." glancing up I saw Tony plowing through the crowds, flashing his badge to move people out of the way. I stood up, waiting for him. "Jack, thank goodness you're okay," he grabbed my shoulders and looked me up and down. "You are okay, right?" he asked uncertainly, taking in the bloody cut on my face.

"I'm fine. I just..."

"Ramirez," the obnoxious officer had returned. "This kid says he lives with you."

"That's right, Maddox, is there a problem?" Tony asked stiffly.

I could see there was no love lost between the two of them and that made me feel a bit better about disliking Maddox so intensely.

"No, just checking the kid's story," he replied defensively.

"Is he free to go?" Tony asked politely. "Have you gotten everything you needed from him?"

"For now," Maddox conceded unwillingly.

"Let's go before he thinks of some other way to be annoying," Tony murmured under his breath.

"Mr. Ramirez," Ms. MacInnes ventured hesitantly "I just want you to know how much I appreciate what Jack did for me tonight."

"He's a good kid," Tony nodded. "Good thing for you that he can't seem to butt out of other people's business," he continued playfully punching me on the arm.

"I'd heard that rumor," Ms. MacInnes smiled slightly. "See you tomorrow, Jack."

I nodded while Tony added, "Be sure they give you an escort home," as we moved towards his pickup.

"I will," she promised as she squared her shoulders and turned towards Maddox.

1977

"Gotta hot date?" I asked dryly, easily parrying his sword thrust.

"Don't I always?" Shun responded cheekily continuing his efforts to dismember me.

"Probably be better if your mind was on that sharp object you're brandishing so carelessly," I suggested mildly, disarming him in one swift twisting move sending his sword flying into the air.

"Concentrate," Mr. Suzuki commanded sternly, neatly catching the recalcitrant sword by the handle. "You cannot afford to allow yourself to be distracted while using swords. Besides the fact that your haha would behead me herself if either of you were injured," he added grimacing. "Do not make me regret teaching you the ways of the Samurai."

"Sorry, Pops," Shun grinned unrepentantly as he caught the sword his father tossed to him. "I'll beat you yet," he warned me slicing the air in a figure eight.

"Yeah, you're quite the Mouseketeer, oh sorry, Musketeer," I returned mockingly, readying myself for his attack. "I get them confused where you're concerned."

"I'll show you who the Mouseketeer is," Shun said as his sword sliced through the air towards my neck.

Once more parrying his move easily, I twisted the sword out of his hand and caught the handle neatly in my left before it could land on the ground.

"Enough," Mr. Suzuki halted us. "Shun, you have no focus today. Go get ready for your...evening. Instruction is wasted on you at this point."

"Yeah, you're even more distracted than usual," I frowned.

"Hey," he began defensively "You would be distracted too if you had a hot date with Barbara Schilling. She's a fox, man!"

"If you were half as focused on your sword play as you are on your girlfriends you might be able to best Jack," Mr. Suzuki admonished.

"As long as I can best the bad guys," Shun replied carelessly, "I'm okay with that. Coming Jack?" he asked as he opened the door.

"Jack still has some instruction time left," Mr. Suzuki responded before I could. "We will continue without you."

For a moment Shun hesitated, torn, indecision written clearly across his face. He wanted to stay, but was anxious to get the evening started. His hormones won out.

"Okay," he conceded reluctantly. "I'll see you at school tomorrow, Jack."

"See ya," I returned dispassionately, unwilling to let him see the anticipation I couldn't control at the prospect of a private lesson with Mr. Suzuki.

Shun and I were almost evenly matched, each with our own strengths and weakness, when it came to Ju Jitsu even though Shun could still put me on the floor more times than I could him, but he wasn't much competition for me when it came to swords.

As Shun closed the door behind him, something indefinable warned me attack was imminent. Turning around and raising my sword in one swift movement, I parried Mr. Suzuki's attack and the fight was on.

"You have learned much over the past two years," Mr. Suzuki nodded approvingly as we sat on the mats afterwards drinking water, dripping with sweat. "You have focus and an awareness of your surroundings that is rare in one so young. I will continue to allow Shun to leave early and will give you private instruction if you wish."

"As long as Shun's alright with it," I shrugged, hiding my eagerness.

Although the thought of private instruction with Mr. Suzuki was exhilarating, my friendship with Shun was far more important. Nicky's death had left me feeling alone and isolated from people in general and it wasn't until I'd met Shun that I realized I didn't want to ever go back to being a loner...a total loner anyway.

I didn't need hoards of people crowding my life, but as much as I hated to admit it, I did need a few. If Mr. Suzuki's suggestion bothered Shun at all, I would politely refuse the offer and things would continue as they had been.

"I will speak with him," Mr. Suzuki promised. "On another subject, Officer Ramirez informed me that some of your old enemies have returned to the area."

I nodded unconcernedly.

"They have aged and I would guess hardened with the time spent in Juvenile Detention," Mr. Suzuki warned. "I suggest you do not take them lightly. Nothing I have taught you will protect you from bullets, and with that type of violence on the rise in the city I suspect they will turn to guns in order to solve problems if they have not already. You must be ever vigilant and refrain from rushing into a situation without evaluating all of the possible dangers involved."

"I'll be careful," I assured him.

"Good," he rose and indicated for me to precede him from the room. "I will see you tomorrow."

~ * * ~

"Do I have time for a quick shower?" I asked as I entered the kitchen, the appetizing aroma of food almost changing my mind. I wasn't that dirty, a shower could wait.

"If you make it quick," Mrs. Ramirez replied carrying a pot from the stove to the sink in order to drain the water from it. "Supper is just about on the table."

I took my shower in record time, my stomach growling fiercely every few seconds. I decided I probably should start taking a snack of some sort to the Suzuki's for the bus ride home because the hunger pangs I experienced every day were becoming downright painful at times.

Steadily scooping large forkfuls of food off my plate and into my mouth without a break, I was unaware at first that Tony and Mrs. Ramirez were watching me rather than eating.

"What's wrong?" I mumbled with my mouth full, eyeing them guardedly.

"Nothing's wrong," Tony assured me, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "We just have some news we thought you might be interested in."

"Good or bad?" I asked warily, only slightly reassured by the smile on Tony's face.

"We think the news is good," Mrs. Ramirez reached over and put her hand in her husband's. "We're going to have a baby."

"That's good timing," I murmured almost to myself.

"What's good timing?" Tony asked confused. "We've been trying for years."

"Yeah, too much information," I said hastily. "What I meant was I have something to tell you, too, but until now I wasn't sure how to do it."

"You can tell us anything, Jack, you know that," Mrs. Ramirez said reproachfully.

"I'm joining the Marines," I said bluntly.

"You're only seventeen," Mrs. Ramirez reminded me gently "And still in high school."

"It's what I want to do."

"But what about college...?" Tony asked anxiously. "If it's the money..."

"I can always go to college afterward and get it paid for."

"When do you plan to enlist?" Tony asked.

"I'll have enough credits to graduate at mid-term and I'll be eighteen in January so I thought I would enlist by the first of February. That way you'll have plenty of time to get my room changed over to a nursery before the baby is born."

"We would never kick you out, Jack," Mrs. Ramirez said with tears in her eyes. "You're family as much as the new baby is. You don't have to do this."

"I know that, but I want to," I said adamantly. "I've wanted it since junior high."

"You know we would never try to hold you back from doing something you really wanted to do," Tony sighed in resignation "but we'll miss you."

"And we'll expect you back here with us every time you're on leave," Mrs. Ramirez added decisively.

"On two conditions," I qualified "As long as you always have meatloaf Monday."

"I think I can do that," Mrs. Ramirez smiled in relief.

"And the other condition...?" Tony asked, playing along.

"You keep our fishing poles ready to go at all times," I finished gravely.

"Hmm..." Tony pretended to ponder. "You drive a hard bargain, but I think I can just manage it."

"And when your son is born, he can join us," I added generously.

"Oh no," Mrs. Ramirez objected, "I don't think so. I am already outnumbered. This little one is going to be a girl," she added glancing down and patting her tummy. "Aren't you, my precious?"

Tony and I rolled our eyes and I went back to eating.

"Whatever you say, dear," Tony said soothingly, picking up his fork.

"See," Mrs. Ramirez was still speaking to her midriff "You'll have Daddy wrapped around your little finger, just like I do."

"Lucky you," I grimaced at him.

"Yeah, I am," Tony concurred seriously "Very lucky."

~ * * ~

"Oh come on, Jack," Shun complained. "You never take a break. Don't you ever just want to have fun?"

"I have fun," I contradicted absently as I vainly attempted to refocus my attention on the novel we'd been assigned to read for English.

"Yeah, right," Shun said sarcastically "Letting my pop beat up on you every day...big fun."

"It's not so bad," I shrugged. "If you hung around longer, I could keep beating up on you instead."

"You wish," Shun snorted. "I can lay you out any day of the week."

"As long as it doesn't cut into your social life," I taunted closing the book and putting it away in my backpack.

Shun was apparently in no mood to study.

"Hey a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," Shun grinned roguishly.

"Man...right," I smirked.

"So about Friday night..." Shun began hopefully.

"I told you, not interested," I said shortly.

"But Ashley won't go out with me if you don't come with us," Shun complained. "We're talking head cheerleader Ashley Smith, Jack. You know I've been after her all semester. You gotta help me out here."

"Find some other sucker to be her cousin's date," I frowned. "I'm not the only guy you know."

"Ashley said it had to be you or no deal," he explained. "Her cousin is some California beauty queen slash model something or other and she's really tall so she only dates guys over six feet."

"I'm not the only..." I began patiently.

"Okay, look," Shun interrupted me then continued tentatively. "Ashley was flipping through our yearbook from last year showing it to Courtney, that's her cousin, and for some reason when she saw your picture...well..."

"My picture wasn't in last year's yearbook," I pointed out.

"Yeah, I know, or the year before or the year before that...you and your aversion to pictures," Shun shook his head in disbelief, "but apparently there is a picture of you in one of the...what do you call those things where you stick a bunch of pictures together...?"

"Collages," I supplied testily.

"So someone obviously got a picture of you without you realizing it," he concluded. "You can see my dilemma. It's you or nothing. You've gotta help me out here," he finished, a slight pleading note entering his voice.

"What would I be expected to do," I asked in resignation.

"Just show up," Shun answered eagerly. "I'll pay for everything, drive us there, and handle all the details."

"What details?" I asked suspiciously.

"The food..."

"You're paying for my food?" I asked skeptically.

"...the movie...that type of stuff," he continued, ignoring my question.

"Movie," I groaned.

The food part sounded good, I'd make sure he paid through the nose, but a movie...

"We'll go see Star Wars," he informed me. "It's still playing at the downtown theatre."

"Haven't you already seen it like five times?" I asked wryly.

"It's a good date movie," he shrugged.

"Apparently," I returned rolling my eyes. "Well, since we're not getting any studying done, I vote we head down now."

"So...are we good for Friday?" Shun asked cautiously.

"I guess," I sighed heavily.

"It'll be great, you'll see," Shun said happily thumping me on the back and moving quickly to the stairs. "You won't regret it," he threw over his shoulder.

"I already do," I muttered under my breath before turning to follow him.

~ * * ~

"Would it kill you to smile?" Shun asked under his breath as we approached the house.

"Probably not," I conceded "but unless the point of this date is to cause mass panic in the streets with people running and screaming from me in horror, I strongly suggest you drop it."

"That bad, huh?" Shun asked grinning.

"Imagine your worst nightmare and double it," I suggested shrugging.

"One of these days you have got to show me," he insisted as we reached the front porch and he pressed the doorbell.

"Not in this lifetime," I muttered as the door swung open to reveal a rather harried looking man in his early forties wearing trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the top button undone, and a loosened tie around his neck.

Running his fingers through his already much abused hair he asked distractedly, "Can I help you?"

"We're here to pick up Ashley and Courtney...?" Shun made it into a question, obviously wondering if we had the right address.

"Oh, yeah," the man stepped back and motioned us into the house. "Sorry, it's been a rough day. Give me a sec and I'll holler for them."

Walking over to the stairs, he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled "Dates are here."

"I could've done that," Shun whispered laughingly in my ear.

"They should be down shortly," the man announced unnecessarily. "If you'll excuse me I have some work to finish," he turned abruptly and entered what appeared to be an office right next to the front entrance, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"Wow," Shun exclaimed. "You look great."

Dragging my attention reluctantly back to Shun and the stairs I silently watched the two girls descend.

"Thank you, Shun," Ashley replied looking pointedly at me as she reached the bottom.

"Ashley," I nodded abruptly in greeting.

"Jack," Ashley narrowed her eyes at me, and then making a Herculean effort smiled gaily as she turned to introduce her cousin. "This is my cousin Courtney...Courtney this is Jack Knight and Shun Suzuki."

"Nice to meet you, Courtney," Shun grinned, looking up at her.

He hadn't been exaggerating her height; she must have been close to 5'10" before adding the 2 inch heels and definitely dwarfed Shun's 5'7".

"Courtney," I greeted her much the same as I had Ashley, but unlike her cousin my form of 'hello' didn't bother Courtney.

"You are exactly as Ashley described you," Courtney smiled delightedly.

I knew precisely what she meant and she wasn't talking about my physical appearance. Ashley had no doubt regaled her with stories of my rude and crude behavior, enumerating my many faults, and probably adding a few of her own making. Ashley, to put it mildly, hated my guts.

I preferred it that way.

"Jack is something else," Shun agreed laughingly. "Are you ladies ready to go?"

"Absolutely," Ashley replied enthusiastically. "I've really been looking forward to this."

Something about her tone was off and my suspicions deepened. When Shun had asked me to double date with Ashley, at her request, I knew something was up and, although I suspected that Ashley would never willingly put herself in that position after the many rebuffs I had given her without a compelling reason, I had no basis for my distrust other than a gut feeling.

The one thing I didn't want to happen was for Shun to get hurt so, knowing how long he had practically worshipped her, I'd never told him about Ashley's attempts to capture my interest. I knew she was much too vain to ever admit to anyone that someone as low down the social ladder as I was had turned her down flat not once but four times, so I figured Shun would never find out.

I didn't know what was going on, but I planned to be on my guard.

The rivalry between Courtney and Ashley was apparent from the start. It didn't take a genius to figure out that they disliked each other and were just putting on a show—I could see Shun's confusion as he attempted to keep up a lighthearted banter—each competing for the spotlight and using Shun to showcase them selves.

"Oh, Shun, did you see that I was nominated for Homecoming Queen?" Ashley asked smiling vivaciously in the front seat next to him. "I haven't decided on an escort yet, of course, I have so many to choose from."

"I know what you mean," Courtney put in her two cents leaning forward from the back seat where she and I were sitting, placing her hand on my knee as she did so. I violently jerked it away from her, but she just smiled at me knowingly and continued. "I always have such a hard time, too...so many celebrity parties. Why just the other day I was telling Pamela Sue I couldn't decide between Shaun and Parker."

"Shaun and Parker...you don't mean the ones on that new show...?" I could see that Ashley was impressed in spite of herself.

"Exactly," Courtney answered smugly. "They are both so cute, but I mean really, how do you choose?"

I had no idea who they were talking about, but Shun obviously did. My knowledge of TV was practically non-existent since Tony didn't own one. The only time I ever watched TV was when Shun and I were together and there was something on he didn't want to miss. I very seldom paid attention finding most of it just plain stupid; dealing with real life was enough for me.

By the time we finished our burgers, Shun was as ready for the date to be over as I was. I thought he talked a lot, but even he couldn't get a word in edgewise. When the girls excused themselves to the ladies room, Shun didn't even bother to mask his irritation.

"Some date," he snorted in disgust.

"You certainly know how to pick 'em," I agreed amusedly.

"Do you think Courtney really knows all of those stars?"

"I don't know any of the names she's dropping, but I do know that for the most part, she's lying through her teeth," I grimaced.

"Really," Shun looked thoughtful. "Should we call her on it? She's trying her hardest to make Ashley look bad."

"I wouldn't go giving Ashley any awards for virtue just yet," I warned. "I believe she has her own hidden agenda."

"What...?" Shun began only to be interrupted by the girls returning.

"You'll see," I murmured as Shun and I rose politely to let the girls slide into the booth.

The movie was a relief, or so I thought at first. After their initial attempts to talk through the intro, Courtney of course hinting that she knew a few of the stars, the people in front of us were so irate the girls finally had to shut up.

Then the painful part truly began.

Instead of watching the movie, Ashley and Courtney apparently each had their own plan. With Ashley's eyes glued on us, inordinately interested in my reactions, Courtney began her campaign. I thought the girl only had two hands, but it wasn't long before I began to wonder if she was an octopus disguised as a human.

It started out innocently enough, resting her arm on the armrest between us, occasionally touching my arm and leg in an apparently accidental manner, but after that it went from bad to worse very quickly.

After unsuccessfully trying to hold my hand, she progressed to laying her hand on my leg and from there eventually moved to attempting to hold parts never before exposed to the sun all within the first thirty minutes. To say I saw very little of the movie would be a gross understatement.

I immediately excused myself and headed for the men's room hoping even she wouldn't have the audacity to follow me in there. After calming my involuntary reaction to being touched where no one ever had, I decided enough was enough.

Returning to the lobby, I asked an usher if he knew where I could find a pen and some paper. Scribbling a note to Shun I folded it and directed the usher to give it to him as soon as he could. I then left the theatre, making my way to the nearest bus stop.

~ * * ~

"You could have warned me," Shun frowned in disapproval.

"Sorry," I replied unrepentantly, "You gonna eat..."

Shun pushed his plate towards me. "I should make you beg for my food after what you did to me Friday," Shun said irritably "leaving me alone with both of them."

He shuddered.

"But you won't," I added knowingly, squirting ketchup over the fries.

"Next time I want to date someone who has 'the hots' for you would you mind giving me a heads-up or something?" he asked scowling. "They argued over you all the way home. How did you know Ashley made a bet with Courtney?"

"I didn't," I admitted between bites. "I only knew she was up to something."

"Too bad they weren't fighting over me," Shun lamented.

"You're too easily impressed to interest vain, shallow girls like that," I said in disgust. "They don't handle rejection well."

"Well no wonder you're a babe magnet, you reject girls on a daily basis," he teased playfully "That and the fact that you dressed up in brand new black jeans on Friday. Did I mention how smokin' you looked?" He winked. "Are you busy tonight?"

"Yeah, beating you up," I glared at him. "Mrs. Ramirez was being nice and bought me those. I didn't want to hurt her feelings by not wearing them."

"Okay, okay," Shun held his hands up in surrender, "Just kidding. Hey, you're not really mad at me are you?" he asked slightly worried.

"No, not you," I pushed the rest of the fries away in disgust.

"Are you sick or something?" Shun asked in concern. "You always finish any food within arm's reach."

"I'm okay," I muttered.

"Will you threaten my life again if I ask why you avoided me all weekend?" he ventured uncertainly.

"Sorry about that," I apologized. "It wasn't you."

"Ah...the classic 'it's not you...it's me' line," he grinned.

Ignoring his teasing I admitted reluctantly "I just...wasn't myself."

"Who were you then?" Shun asked irrepressibly.

I glowered at him.

"Sorry, can't help it. It's genetic."

"No it's not," I contradicted scowling. "Your whole family is as serious as a heart attack. You're just a black sheep."

"True," Shun agreed cheerfully. "But you're even more gloomy than usual."

"It's nothing," I said dismissively. "I'll get over it."

"You know, we never talk about serious things," Shun said thoughtfully. "Is that much of a friendship if we can't talk about things that bother us?"

"If you were ever serious..." I began pointedly.

"Okay," he surrendered, attempting to stifle his perpetual grin "This is my thoughtful and grave expression. Now can we have a deep conversation?"

"Maybe we should start with how you feel about being compared to your brother all the time," I suggested neatly turning the focus away from me "And the fact that you aren't sure you want to join the family business."

"Is it that obvious?" Shun asked in surprise.

I shrugged. "To me it is."

"Anything else about me you care to analyze?" he was torn between relief and anger.

"Well, I know that you would rather not train so hard," I continued. "You have other interests you'd like to spend more time on."

"Like fishing," he grinned "in more ways than one."

"I think you should tell Mr. Suzuki."

"He won't understand," Shun shook his head dolefully.

"I think he will."

"So if I agree to try to talk to him about it will you tell me what's bugging you?" he asked slyly.

"Just between us...?"

"Always," he agreed soberly.

"I left the movie the other night because I had a...an issue and I wasn't sure if I could...I needed to...I had to get away from Courtney," I finished lamely.

"What happened?"

"Let's just say she is no respecter of personal space."

"She got a little to close for comfort?" Shun laughed.

"That's one way of putting it," I admitted reluctantly.

"She liked you," he shrugged.

"Yeah, well, I can do without that type of 'liking' from someone like her."

"I saw her try to hold your hand."

"Yeah, not what I'm talking about," I could feel my face growing hot with embarrassment.

"Did she put her hand on your leg," Shun nodded in understanding. "That gets me, too."

"Keep going," I muttered.

"You don't mean she..." Shun's eyes widened in shock. "But you just met."

"Didn't seem to bother her any."

"Wow! California girls are different."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Wait...haven't you ever...I mean...are you saying you've never...you know...had a...you know..." Shun stuttered.

"Of course I've had a 'you know'" I replied in annoyance "I...oh, just forget it. You wouldn't understand."

"I can't if you won't explain it to me."

"I don't want anyone to have that kind of power over me," I replied furiously. "I knew she was a...well...that she wasn't nice, and I couldn't stand her, but I couldn't help my reaction. I couldn't stop it...control it. I hate it when someone else makes me do something I don't want to do."

The bell rang indicating the end of lunch and I rose, thankful for the timing. Shun grabbed my arm and urged me back into my chair. I probably could have broken his grip, but I wouldn't do that to him. I could tell by the look on his face that he wanted to say something to make me feel better, but I didn't think anything could.

"Geez, Jack," he lowered his voice and began speaking rapidly in Japanese as people surged around us on their way out of the cafeteria, unwilling to risk anyone overhearing. "You can't control everything, no matter how hard you try, and that type of thing is going to happen...I gave up on trying to control that a long time ago. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow...get it...flow...I crack myself up."

"I just don't want someone else...especially someone like her...controlling my...flow."

"In my experience..." Shun began.

"Which is obviously so vast," I broke in sarcastically.

"As I was saying," Shun continued with dignity "before I was so rudely interrupted, in my experience that part of our anatomy has a mind of its own."

"I guess."

"But there are some things we can control and you know what...you're right...I should talk to my father about what I want. I'm eighteen and I can make my own decisions."

At my look of amusement he said apologetically, switching back to English as the room cleared out "But we were talking about you."

"Were we?"

"Look, if I got upset every time my...special parts...got a little excited without my permission I'd never smile again," he grinned as if to prove his point.

"Now that would be a tragedy," I said ironically. "I'll keep in mind what you said, but right now we should probably get to class before we're late and end up in detention."

"Aw...man...there's the tardy bell," Shun got up quickly to dump his tray. "We could tell the teacher we're having a crisis," he offered hopefully. "Although she'd probably just send us to the counselor," he added glumly.

"I have a better idea."

~ * * ~

"My parents are gonna have a cow," Shun stated happily "but it was worth it. Who knew there was so much going on while we're stuck at school? What do you think Tony will do?"

"I think he'll be cool with it," I shrugged casually. "He knows I've never skipped before, and since I'll be graduating at the end of the semester..."

"How lucky is that?" he said enviously.

"Luck had nothing to do with it," I replied in annoyance. "That's what happens when you don't have study halls all the time."

"I didn't take that many study halls," he objected, opening the door.

"Whatever gets you through the day," I responded sarcastically. "Hey, I have an idea," I added as if the thought had just occurred to me "why don't I go wait in your room while you talk to your father?"

"Now...?" Shun stalled.

"No time like the present."

"Hmm...maybe tomorrow...?"

"No...now," I said firmly pushing him in the right direction. "I'll be snooping around in your poor excuse for a bedroom no doubt still searching for a place to sit when you return. Just come get me when you're done."

"Fine," he huffed.

Shaking my head in amusement at the look on his face, I let myself into his room. I hated housework but I was basically a neat freak. Not so, Shun. If such an award existed, he'd be a shoo-in for slob of the year.

Granted he had a lot more things to keep straight than I did—I usually saved what allowance Tony gave me and put it in the bank account he helped me set up so my worldly possessions could have all fit in a regular sized suitcase with plenty of room left over—but Shun never put anything away.

I straightened things just enough so I could sit on the bed and then gave up and relaxed on my back with my hands interlocked under my head, staring up at the ceiling. I never napped, but I hadn't slept well all weekend, sick to my stomach over Friday night, so it wasn't long before I was sound asleep.

~ * * ~

As I opened my eyes, I couldn't figure out where I was at first.

"Boy you snore," Shun joked.

"How'd it go with your dad?" I asked yawning and stretching.

"A lot better than I expected," Shun admitted. "He already knew and was just waiting for me to come to him and talk about it."

"Good," I nodded approvingly. "So do you know what you want to do with your life?"

"Nope," he laughed. "Not a clue, but I don't have to know yet. That's a relief."

"So does that mean you won't be training with me anymore?" I asked glumly.

"Again, nope," he grinned "I do like it, I just want to be the one to decide how often and how much and Pop is okay with that."

"What about this afternoon?" I asked expectantly. "You know I promised to beat you up."

"Good luck with that," he said facetiously punching me in the arm quickly and retreating down the stairs.

~ * * ~

"I called your...Mrs. Ramirez and let her know you would be late," Mr. Suzuki informed me.

"Thanks," I replied putting on my jacket. "Sorry we ran so long."

"It is good that Shun and I spent time discussing his future," he smiled. "He does not usually face his problems. I have waited a long time for him to come to me."

"Even though he has no idea what he wants to do?"

"At least it is out in the open and we can work on it together," Mr. Suzuki assured me. "He is not like you, so sure of what you want and determined to make it happen. Shun has no such direction in his life. Perhaps college will give him purpose."

I nodded as he unlocked the front door and let me out. The next bus wasn't for ten minutes but that gave me time to think about something Mr. Suzuki had said, or left unsaid.

What was Mrs. Ramirez to me? She had said I was family, and she and Tony treated me as much like a son as they could, but the truth was I didn't have any family; not like Shun did. I was alone in the world, with no blood ties to anyone.

Most of the time I didn't allow myself to think about it, but Mr. Suzuki's unintentional slip had stirred some strange feelings inside of me as had the father/son interaction between Shun and Mr. Suzuki. I would never know what that felt like.

Although it had been almost ten years since the accident and some of the pain had dulled, the accident itself was still very clear in my mind. The same quirk in my brain that helped me remember everything I had ever seen, read, or heard kept the memory of that night from fading.

The previous year, after reading the article in the old newspaper, I had pondered trying to find the guy who had been driving the car that night, but the events of that evening had pushed it to the back of my mind. Even afterwards, I hesitated, wondering what I would say to the person responsible for my parents' death.

"Hi, I'm Jack and you killed my parents," didn't seem to cover it but what else was there? "Why did you do it?" "Are you happy now?" "What were you thinking?" "Do you know what you did to me and my brother?" There were no good answers so I had decided against doing anything. Maybe later, when I was more mature, more able to handle the confrontation I would go find the man and see if what he had done had affected him at all.

The arrival of the bus saved me from any more conjecture. As I made my way to the back, I nodded to a couple of elderly ladies apparently heading home after a shopping expedition. They grasped their bags tightly to them and avoided my eyes. I didn't blame them. Riding the bus at night was probably not the safest thing for them to do.

Getting off at the bus stop a few blocks from the house, I could see flashing lights down the street, but couldn't make out exactly where they were. My heart sank to my feet as fear spread through my body like wildfire, some instinct urging me to hurry. I began to run towards the flashing lights, the words 'not them' keeping time with the pounding of my feet on the pavement. NOT THEM NOT THEM NOT THEM over and over in my head, faster and faster as I closed the distance and realized that all of the lights were directly in front of Tony's house.

I hit the crowd that had gathered, pushing and shoving my way towards the front where the policemen had already put up barriers and were holding the curious spectators back. I slipped between two officers and faintly heard them shouting at me, but I didn't stop until I made the front door and smacked into what strongly resembled a brick wall.

"Jack! You're alive," Captain Gardner was by far the largest man I had ever met and being hugged by him was, I imagined, the same as being hugged by a grizzly bear. "When we heard you weren't at school this afternoon, we all thought..."

"What's wrong...where's Tony? Is he...are they...?"

I couldn't catch my breath, whether from running or fear it was the same result, but he knew what I was asking.

"I'm sorry, Jack," he said contritely. "They didn't stand a chance."

"What does that mean?" I asked dazedly. "Chance against what...?"

"It was a drive-by shooting," the Captain explained heavily "and the shooters had major fire power; the whole front of the house is shot up."

I hadn't noticed any of that but a quick glance showed that the glass was totally gone from the front windows and there was splintered wood and holes peppered across the front of the house.

"Who?" I whispered.

"The neighbors got the license plate numbers..." he began.

"Numbers...?"

"There were two vehicles," he acknowledged. "We've already picked them up. Stupid bas...kids were downtown in an empty parking lot drinking and celebrating. Still had the guns they'd used. I'm about to head to the precinct to interrogate them."

"Can I see...them?"

I knew I shouldn't, knew it would haunt me forever just as the last glimpse of my parents had over the past ten years, but I couldn't seem to process what he was telling me. I needed to see it for myself.

"I don't think it's a good idea," Captain Gardner shook his head sadly. "It's not a pretty sight."

"I have..." I stopped, breathing deeply, trying to get myself under control. "I have to...please..."

"Jack..."

"Please," I hadn't begged in years but I did then. "They're my family," and as I said it I knew it to be true.

He moved out of the way and I didn't have to even step into the house to see the horrid scene. The furniture had been shot to pieces, but what held my gaze with heartrending sadness and shock were the two figures on what was left of the couch.

They had obviously been sitting there together planning for the baby, the wallpaper and paint samples were scattered all over the floor, while supper was in the oven—the smell of the enchiladas permeated the house—when the shooting started.

The sight of blood splattered everywhere and Tony's bullet riddled body almost totally obscuring my view of his wife, he must have thrown himself over her and the baby in a futile effort to protect them from the onslaught, sent waves of nausea pulsing through my body. I fought them back.

There couldn't have been any warning or Tony would have moved Mrs. Ramirez to safety and pulled his gun.

"Who...?" I asked managing to get that one word passed the lump in my throat.

"We think one of them was a kid Tony busted a couple of years ago for drug dealing," he answered. "He was recently released from Juvie because he turned eighteen."

"Grady Bryant," I said dully.

"Yeah I think that was the name," the Captain nodded.

"I'm through with the pictures, Captain," an officer reported respectfully.

"Okay, thanks," Gardner stepped away from the door to let the officer by, pulling me with him. "Tell the coroner he can take the bodies now."

"Will do," the officer answered.

"Two senseless murders," the Captain shook his head mournfully.

"Three," I corrected automatically, moving towards the couch and glancing down at the sample of blue wallpaper sprinkled with small yellow ducks that Tony had liked. He'd teased his wife that he was hoping for a boy, but I knew he hadn't cared, just thrilled at the prospect of becoming a father.

"Three?" he came to stand by me, confused. "You mean..."

"She was three months pregnant," I stated hollowly. "They weren't going to tell anyone until she'd made it past the fifth month."

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "They'd been trying for so long..." his voice broke on the last word.

Turning away, he stomped outside. I heard him speaking in low tones to someone and then the coroner and his assistant appeared with a couple of gurneys.

"Come on, Jack," the Captain motioned to me from the door. "There's nothing else we can do here."

I didn't want to leave, as gruesome as the scene was, it still felt like I would be leaving behind the only family I had left. Earlier I hadn't known exactly how to think of them, but too late I realized that Mrs. Ramirez was right. We were family. For them it hadn't been about blood ties, but about something deeper.

I was the one who had kept them at a distance, although not intentionally, maybe as a defense mechanism of some sort knowing that it was too good to last...that I was meant to be alone. Everyone in my life that had ever meant anything had been taken away from me. Why would I have ever thought they would be any different?

"Jack," he murmured in my ear. "We should go now."

Nodding, but unable to force my gaze from the bodies as the coroner loaded them onto the gurney, I allowed him to lead me out the front door.

Boot Camp

November 1977-February 1978

Nicky,

I feel stupid doing this but my DI says I have to write a letter every week—I'd just as soon not have any free time—and even though I tried to tell him I had no one to write to, he insisted that I find somebody so I decided to write to you and then mail it to myself. That way I'll mail a letter, get a letter, and be able to avoid unwanted speculation about why I don't send or receive any mail.

Jack

Nicky,

I'm back. Apparently I didn't write enough—who knew they were going to check before letting us mail our letter—so here we go again...

I guess I might as well explain to you why I have no one to write to. If you're really up there watching over me as Mrs. Ramirez always claimed, then you'll know about my friend Shun and are probably wondering what happened that made me dump him.

After I lost Tony and Mrs. Ramirez, Shun's family wanted to take me in until I finished my last couple of months of high school, but I refused. You know better than anyone that I'm bad news. Everyone I've ever allowed myself to get close to...well...you're all dead, except for Shun. I wasn't about to endanger the Suzuki family after all they'd done for me so I politely turned down their offer and broke off my friendship with Shun.

You remember Mrs. Phelps the CPS lady, well she got promoted and is running the whole office now and she asked me what I wanted to do. I told her I was joining the Marines as soon as I graduated from high school and since I only needed around 19 credits to graduate and already had enough, she managed to convince the principal to allow me to take all of my finals early and get my diploma so I could go ahead and sign up for the Marines. They would have taken me without a diploma, but I wanted one figuring it would make it easier for me to get into college after my stint in the Corps.

After talking to the Marine recruiter, I realized that, being from Texas, I was going to be sent to San Diego for boot camp. I have nothing against San Diego, but I knew my old junior high principal, Mr. Murphy, had gone to Parris Isle and that's where I wanted to go, sand fleas or no sand fleas.

I'd researched the Marines and had no desire to be called a 'Hollywood Marine' whether that was meant derogatorily or not so I took what money I had saved from my allowance and hopped a bus headed east not caring where I stopped as long as it got me to Parris.

My money took me as far as Atlanta, Georgia where I promptly found a recruiter and enlisted. Mrs. Phelps made sure I had all of the necessary documents and even though I'm not eighteen yet, they let me in.

I was lucky I got in when I did, because I only had to wait a couple of days before they shipped us out and I was out of money plus the fact that the benches in the bus station aren't the most comfortable place for someone of my size to sleep. I also discovered that cops tend to frown on bums like me camping out in the same place for more than one night in a row.

Once I was finally able to board the bus for Parris Isle, my stomach wouldn't shut up, growling at me in protest at the lack of nourishment I'd provided. There were plenty of drinking fountains around, but food was in short supply as I was flat broke. I was looking forward to three square meals a day no matter how hard they worked me at boot camp.

There was so much tension in the air on the bus ride to Parris that at first I had trouble sleeping, but it wasn't long before the fact that it was dark, and I'd had too many nights of broken sleep on hard wooden benches, began to tell on me and I was dead to the world.

I awakened to yelling like I'd never heard before in my life. My blurry eyes and foggy brain were struggling to focus on the fact that someone's ugly mug was less than an inch from my face, letting loose a string of obscenities at me that would make a sailor blush, as I sat bolt upright in my seat.

"Get out get out get out! Off the bus off the bus off the bus! You better be off my bus in 5 seconds or else!" seemed to be the main theme of the bellowing interspersed with expletives for emphasis as I pushed myself out of my seat and into the aisle moving with the panicked stream of bodies headed for the exit.

Once off the bus, more hollering and cussing ensued as we scrambled to find an unoccupied pair of painted yellow footprints on the ground and placed our feet on them.

Time stood still while we took the bashing of our lives.

"Shoulders back, arms at your sides, heels together. Do you see those footprints on the ground? They are not there for decoration, put your feet on them...what's so funny...don't look at me when I'm talking to you, you worthless piece of..." followed by a string of obscenities that would curl your hair.

For a brief moment, all the bullies I'd dealt with since elementary school flashed through my mind and I grimaced as I realized that was nothing compared to what I was apparently in for. And these tyrants were getting paid for it...by the U.S. Government no less...every bully's dream job.

"Are you smiling...?" a deceptively quiet voice murmured in my ear. "Answer me, boy!"

"No sir, I don't smile, sir!" I answered in the type of shouting voice the other recruits seemed to be using.

Obviously, that was a huge mistake.

"I...? I...? Did you just say 'I'? The only 'I' for recruits is in the spelling of the name," the voice bellowed in my face as everyone became deathly quiet, listening "and believe me if it could be taken out of that word I would f... do it myself! You will address yourself as 'this recruit' because you are not important enough to be an 'I'. You are sh..! No you are less than sh..! You are the maggot that crawls around on the sh.. and eats it! Do you understand you worthless piece of sh..?"

They all seemed to be suffering from the same deplorable lack of originality as evidenced by their limited vocabularies and they, to a man, could have all benefited from the use of a Thesaurus.

Although I can find humor in the situation now, I assure you as his voice became louder and louder and I felt smaller and smaller there was absolutely nothing funny in any of it.

I've never been so scared in my whole life and I didn't have to look around, which wasn't allowed anyway, to know that I wasn't alone. Every one of us was shaking in our shoes. It was not pretty.

Thankfully, I was too terrified to feel any hunger pains. I don't know what would have happened if my stomach had chosen that moment to make it's displeasure at being starved felt, but I did know I would rather not find out.

Once they were through shouting at us about our posture, they began barking out rules and regulations like Article 86 which prohibits absence without leave—as if any of us would ever have the guts to plan a jail break after what they were putting us through—and Article 91 which prohibits us from not following orders—again that was the last thing on our minds...most likely because we were mindless wonders by that point...and Article 93 which prohibits us from being disrespectful to senior officers—we were never going to disrespect another soul for the rest of our sorry lives.

We were finally allowed into the building, accompanied by more yelling and cussing, in order to complete our paperwork. They were practically climbing up on our cubicles screaming their heads off at us while we attempted to concentrate long enough to fill in the blanks required. I swear at one point I couldn't even see the desk in front of me because of the head stuck in between me and my paperwork, all the while swearing a blue streak at me.

The only time the yelling stopped was when they were shaving our hair off. I figured it was because we weren't required to do anything other than sit there while the man with the shears was doing all the work. We were grateful for the short break.

The recruiter had apparently developed a convenient case of amnesia while preparing us for the ordeal of boot camp because nothing he told me was anywhere remotely close to what happened to us over the next few days. Most of my fellow recruits would have had second thoughts if he had, which reinforced my belief that it was deliberate amnesia and not a mere oversight on his part. He probably had a quota to fill.

I was extremely grateful for one seemingly insignificant detail that the recruiter in Atlanta did mention.

"If you have anything of value that you don't want to lose, don't take it with you because you may never see it again."

After signing up, I left the recruiting office, sat down on a bench and fished my cherished jackknife out of my shoe, fingering it sadly. That jackknife and the cartoons you drew of me, which I always keep folded up in my old worn out wallet, a hand-me-down from Tony, were all I had left of our family, and I hated to think I might lose them forever.

I made up my mind right then and there that I'd rather they be in the hands of someone I knew, even if I never saw them again, rather than some stranger, so I boxed up the knife and the cartoons and mailed them to Shun with the last few coins I'd been saving to use for food before boarding the bus for Parris.

I knew that Shun was the only person left in the world who would understand what they meant to me. Although I debated about putting some sort of note in the box, I decided against it, allowing the keepsakes to speak for themselves.

So back to my shaved head...a lot of guys bemoaned the loss of their hair but I didn't care. I had always let Tony cut my hair and it never mattered to me how it looked, I simply wanted it as short as possible so I didn't have to suffer through as many haircuts. I never did more than soap it up and rinse it out whenever I was in the shower anyway, sometimes even forgetting to comb it afterwards so, if anything, I was glad it was all gone...just another thing I didn't have to worry about.

After that, all of our personal belongings, including the clothes on our backs, were taken and we were issued our uniforms and gear, plus some personal items from the PX they assumed we would need, and informed us the price would be taken out of our first paychecks.

I silently thanked the recruiting officer for the warning.

We were taught, accompanied by more yelling and foul language of course, to do everything 'by the numbers', using the 'head' which is the bathroom, taking a shower—there's even a procedure for soaping up...I liked that part, quick and efficient—and making our racks, beds to you. We all cast furtively longing glances at our racks as they were being inspected, but sleep was apparently something raw recruits didn't need.

By the time we were able to collapse into our racks for the first time, almost forty-eight hours after arriving, we were worn out, but the torture was just beginning. After a very short sleep, which barely qualified as a nap, we were up and making our racks for another inspection.

I did manage to load a good amount of food into my mouth at breakfast—I couldn't remember for sure how long it had been since I'd eaten, the hours were all running together—but I almost regretted it. After our dental and medical exams were over, we were put through a fitness test; and it was all I could do to hold my breakfast down.

The running wasn't so bad and the pull-ups were nothing, but the crunches weren't conducive to not tasting all that food again, and breakfast is never as good the second time around. I'm not sure how I managed it, but I kept it down, determined not to lose any of the precious nutrition that had been so scarce the past week.

If I'd known how, I would have smiled at the news that I was underweight for my height. I found out quickly that meant double rations for me, for which I was grateful. A couple of my fellow recruits were in the overweight category and had their rations cut and some ended up in PCP, which stands for Physical Conditioning Platoon, because they didn't pass the fitness test.

We've been chewed out about everything from drill to marching to how our uniforms look and even how we make our racks, but I'm getting used to it. I guess you can get pretty well used to anything after a while.

Probably the most exciting thing, for me at least, was being issued my M16 rifle. Tony took me to a shooting range a couple of times after you...well, anyway, he taught me how to fire his Colt, but I'd never used a rifle before.

Right now, we're not allowed to do anything other than carry it around and 'secure our weapon'—we don't call it a gun or a rifle, it is referred to as a 'weapon'—but I'm pumped about it.

There is a whole new language for me to learn here, it's like being on a ship or something. Instead of upstairs and downstairs it's topside and down below, windows are portholes, walls are bulkheads, the floor is the deck and right and left are starboard and port. All of our civilian ways are being pounded right out of us.

And that's not all, we have to memorize all sorts of things like the Marine Rifle Creed, the Marine Hymn—hopefully I won't have to do any singing because that could get ugly—11 General Orders for a Sentry, USMC Core Values, and Marine Corps history.

Good thing I have a photographic memory. Sorry I never told you about that, but I just never found the right time to bring it up.

I'm also glad Mom and Dad insisted we both taking swimming lessons when we were kids. Apparently, there's a lot of water involved here.

All in all it's been the toughest weeks I've ever spent. I wonder how much tougher it's gonna get. Maybe I don't want to know...yet.

I think I've finally written enough to please my DI, almost everyone else is through.

If you really can hear me, Nicky, I just want you to know that I miss you and think about you every day.

I'll write again soon.

Jack

Nicky,

Hey, it's me again.

I got my letter from me—or rather my letter to you from me sent to me...confusing isn't it—opened it to read and decided that it was a good thing for me to go back over the previous week that way. Putting everything down in written form helped me see where I was and how far I'd come in such a short time.

I hope you don't mind me using you this way. It makes it better somehow, as if I'm really talking to you.

So, this week has been pretty grueling, but on a positive note we have a general training schedule now so wake up, fall in, chow, personal time, and lights out are pretty well set and we know more what to expect during the day.

We chose a platoon leader as well as squad leaders—guess what, I wasn't one of them surprise, surprise...you know how popular I always am—but I had reason to be glad I wasn't chosen by the end of the week. Those guys suffer more quarter-decking than anyone else in the platoon.

Quarter-decking, by the way, is officially called IPT or Incentive Physical Training, but is basically punishment—like running in place for all eternity or performing an infinite number of pushups or thrusts and lunges, anything that they can dream up to wear us down—for any and all sins committed by recruits whether real or made up and some of the DI's appear to have very vivid imaginations and entirely too much time on their hands. Sometimes it's individual punishment and sometimes they force the whole squad or platoon to join the offenders; major fun...or at the risk of making a corny pun since most of our DI's have that rank...sergeant fun.

Anyway, there was a lot of quarter-decking going on along with massive amounts of training and all of those things I mentioned in the last letter that we had to memorize, which are causing wide-spread panic among quite a few of the recruits. We spend more time than I realized sitting in a classroom and, don't get me wrong, it's interesting stuff, but I already have it all committed to memory so I'm bored as usual.

Yesterday I spent most of the class period practicing breaking down and rebuilding my gun in my head hoping it would help my speed while the classroom instructor droned on and on and on and on...oh sorry I fell asleep just thinking about it.

On a positive note, I can now clean my rifle in record time and they are prepping us for the next phase where we'll actually get to shoot.

The first aid part of class is good though, I just wished it would go further. Instead of merely learning how to stop the bleeding and care for sprained and broken limbs, I'd like to know how to actually extract a bullet from a human body, along with how to inject one. Guess I'll have to look that one up on my own.

On the physical side, we were introduced to pugil sticks for the first time this last week; pugil sticks are sticks about a yard long with the equivalent of boxing gloves attached to the ends. You're supposed to use them to mimic close combat rifle and bayonet fighting but it's pretty tame and somewhat lame after using real swords.

We wear all sorts of protective gear. Apparently, an incident occurred last year in San Diego where a twenty-year-old kid was beaten to death with one of those sticks. The DI's insist that we should go all out, give it our all, since injury is, according to them, well nigh impossible with all the padding and the helmets recruits are required to wear and so I took them at their word.

I don't get to do much with pugil sticks since my first time was...well let me just say it didn't end well for a couple of my fellow recruits and one of the DI's. I knocked my first sparring partner out cold even though he was wearing a helmet, but the DI, assuming it to be beginner's luck picked another victim for me. Unfortunately for him, the same thing happened to the second one.

The DI then decided he would take me on himself, but it wasn't much of a contest. I avoided his head since he had opted not to don a helmet, but he may have at least one broken rib. Mr. Suzuki taught me well...I guess a little too well.

Now I'm used solely for target practice and the only thing I'm allowed to do is defend myself, not attack. So far, no one has been able to land a stick on me, but it may only be a matter of time before someone does. A couple have already come close and next week we start working higher off the ground...ought to be interesting.

We have to do a lot of close order drill and there is one recruit in my platoon who seems to have problems keeping in step with the rest of us at times, his named is Haydn Smith and is as closed mouthed as I am if you can believe that, never speaking except to answer direct questions from the DI's. I can hear a foreign intonation in his voice, which he is obviously trying to hide, but I don't think anyone else has noticed.

He is constantly being quarter-decked by the DI's for not staying with the rest of us and a few days ago, all of us were quarter-decked because of it. I took him aside afterwards and offered to help him, but he merely shook his head and left.

The next day, after we spent what felt like hours running in place because of his mistakes, he cornered me and asked what I wanted in exchange for helping him. I replied 'No more quarter-decking' to which he simply nodded and agreed to my plan of working on it during our coveted 'free time'.

We've been working on it for a couple of days now and he seems to be improving somewhat, but not fast enough for the DI's so yesterday instead of drilling with him, I sat him down and asked a few pointed questions, hoping to pinpoint exactly where the problem lie, since it obviously didn't stem from a lack of intelligence.

At first he resented my questions, but after a while I think he finally realized I was just trying to help him and by doing so, help us all and he finally admitted he was Iranian.

Neither of us are what anyone would call verbose, which I believe is partly why he accepted my offer as I am one of the few guys in the platoon less talkative than he is, but I managed to extract enough information from him to realize that he thought in Persian and translated to English and it was slowing him down.

From what little I had read about Iran, I'd always thought they spoke Farsi but he explained to me that in English it is frequently known as Farsi. You remember how I've always been fascinated with other countries and languages, even taught myself Spanish and learned Japanese from Shun and his family, and I couldn't pass up an opportunity to learn another language, so I convinced Haydn—his real name is Haydar meaning 'lion' which I like a lot better but I promised him I would not use it as he and his family had changed their names and anglicized them when they moved to the United States and became citizens—to teach me Persian or Farsi so I could work with him on faster recognition of the commands used during close order drills.

I hope it helps. Getting quarter-decked all the time is really getting old.

Guess that's all for now, Haydar and I are going to get in some extra language lessons. I'll let you know how it works out.

Jack

Nicky,

My favorite week so far; we finally started on the Obstacle Course and the Confidence Course.

Before I get into any of that, I guess I should tell you that Haydar is doing great now and we haven't been quarter-decked for our close order drill in days, which is good because we will be having competitions soon and the DI's take that very seriously.

I'm also learning to speak Persian and he's even agreed to teach me to read and write in Persian although he's warned me it will be difficult. So far, he's been amazed at how much better I can read and write it than speak and understand it. I figured he didn't need to know about my strange brain function so I kept that to myself.

No one in the platoon knows about his heritage and I don't plan on telling anyone...it's his business.

Personally, I don't care where he's from. He offered to put my name in for platoon guide but I nixed that idea right away. I was already drawing enough attention to myself by answering every question in class correctly. The instructor had realized fairly quickly that he could count on me when all else failed. Add to that, concussing a couple of recruits with the pugil sticks and I figured I didn't need any DI's looking my way anymore than they already did.

Which brings up another problem I had to take care of this week...a bully.

It's not what you think...this time was different...no really...it was.

His name is Harry Finch and he is huge!

Yeah I know, I'm 6'3" according to my physical, but I don't come anywhere close to 200 pounds. This guy, he's like a mountain with legs. Admittedly, he's shorter than I am, I'm guessing just over six feet, but he must weigh like close to three hundred pounds and I doubt much of it is fat even though he was one of the recruits whose rations were cut.

No one calls him Harry—not even the DI's when they're discussing him—everyone just calls him Bruiser or The Bruiser. Scuttlebutt, military gossip to you, is he earned that nickname as a front linesman on his high school football team. Personally, I think he looks like he could have been the whole front line, offensively and defensively.

He's one of the few recruits that have come close to knocking me off the wooden bridge with his pugil stick. I dodge as much as I can but when our sticks connect, I feel the raw power in him. If he ever gets me down, I'm in for it, I can tell by the ornery look in his eyes and the perpetual snarl on his face, and I'm not looking forward to it.

But I digress. Believe it or not, pugil sticks aren't the problem.

During free time last Sunday, after I'd written my letter to you, he found me on my bunk writing a letter for Haydar to correct and must have decided that he had the right to read my private correspondence.

I had him on the floor, the letter in hand, and was back in my rack before he even knew what hit him.

Pretending to ignore him as he pulled himself off the floor and slouched away, I realized I had made an enemy, but as that seems to be my lot in life, I shrugged it off and returned to practicing my Persian.

Less than an hour later, he was back. He stood silently watching me for a few minutes while I once again feigned ignorance of his presence. Eventually he spoke and I think I should write out the conversation, as that should explain better than I could exactly what happened.

"I hear you're smart," he began abruptly.

"Vicious rumor," I answered, not looking up.

If I'd actually been smart I would have kept my mouth shut in class, but we are all required to answer questions at times and missing them on purpose would be like lying which I thought unbecoming a Marine so I seemed to have made myself into a target again. I guess I'd thought it would be different here, but apparently not.

"I'm gonna flunk out," he stated baldly.

"Start studying."

"I don't know how," he admitted reluctantly.

Frowning in disbelief, I finally looked up from my letter and could see the desperation in his eyes. I wasn't certain what he wanted from me so I just waited. One thing I knew for sure, I would not cheat for him. Sensing my skepticism and realizing he had my undivided attention he continued.

"Serious, man, I never had to open a book...not since junior high."

"Why not?"

"I don't know if you heard but I was an all star football player in high school."

"So?"

He squatted down, rather easily for such a huge guy, by my bunk and continued earnestly "I remember back in seventh grade, I was flunking math and...well...a few other classes, too, and wasn't gonna get to play and the coach said he'd take care of it and he did. After that I never had to do much...just play football."

I shook my head in amazement, but he must have thought I didn't believe him.

"I ain't lying, man, I swear..."

"What do you want from me?" I interrupted abruptly.

"You could help me."

"I'm not your momma."

"Hey...!"

"And I don't cheat."

"No...I want to do this right...be a Marine...I just don't know how."

"So what exactly do you expect me to do?"

"I read this stuff and listen in class, but I get all nuts when I have to take a test and I forget everything. How do you remember it all?"

Well, I could hardly tell him that and, anyway, it wouldn't help him. I was the wrong person to be asking for aid when it came to regular studying because I had an advantage that had nothing whatsoever to do with me. It was just pure 'dumb' luck that I'd been fortunate enough to be born with a special ability, and quite honestly I never had to study either, although for much different reasons.

I found myself wanting to help him, he didn't seem like such a bad guy, and from everything I could see, he belonged in the Marine Corps—I was certainly glad he was on our side—but wasn't sure how to start.

Recalling how I had been able to pinpoint Haydar's problem after some serious discussion, I decided to try it out on Bruiser.

I asked him about his interests and mostly he talked about football. I realized that he could use his football knowledge of strategy and plays to help remember the Marine battles, but he couldn't seem to keep the rest of it in his head.

After a while, I could tell he was holding something back. I tried to drag it out of him, but every time the discussion led to what he enjoyed doing in his free time, he would just revert back to football. Finally, I gave up.

"I can't help you."

"Why not?" he asked in alarm.

"Because you're lying."

"I ain't lying," he objected vigorously.

"I want to know what you spend your time doing when you're not eating, drinking, and sleeping football and you won't tell me so you're lying by omission...get lost."

I was quickly running out of free time as well as patience and I still hadn't finished my letter to Haydar, so I turned back to it and began rereading what I had written.

"You'll laugh at me," he said sullenly.

"What makes you say that?" I asked absently.

"Because it's...a sissy thing."

"In case you haven't noticed, I don't laugh," I pointed out glancing up at him.

"True...I never even seen you smile."

"So...tell me."

"Okay but you gotta swear not to tell anyone."

Once again, I returned to my unfinished letter.

"I like to...sing," he admitted sheepishly.

"Music..." I said thoughtfully staring at the paper but not seeing it. "That sounds like something you could use."

"Whaddya mean?" he asked suspiciously. "You're not gonna tell anybody are you?"

"Have you ever tried writing your own songs?"

"Yeah, a couple of times, but I don't think they're any good."

"Doesn't matter," I assured him dismissively. "Have you managed to memorize the Marines' Hymn?"

"Sure that was easy."

"Because it's musical...that's what you have to do...relate everything to music, or football, and I don't think you'll have any problem."

"So you think if I wrote a song about the stuff I have to learn I could pass the test."

"It's worth a try," I shrugged.

He grinned "So it's more than just a vicious rumor, you are smart. I think we should vote you in as platoon guide."

"You do and everyone will be asking the canary to sing pretty for them."

"Don't you want to be...?"

"No."

"Okay then, no platoon guide," he held up his hands in surrender. "Just don't tell nobody...okay? I gotta go write some songs. Thanks," he stuck out his hand but I ignored it.

"It hasn't worked yet."

"But it will. I gotta good feeling about this," he stood there watching me for a few minutes then allowed his hand to drop muttering, "You're some kinda weird."

I didn't answer him, keeping my eyes glued on the paper in front of me, and he shrugged and left.

So the bully really wasn't much of a bully. My guess is that he would have been another Grady or Frankie but football saved him. Those two had no type of discipline in their lives, but Bruiser had and apparently, it made all the difference. I hope the song thing works for him. If it doesn't, he isn't going to be too pleased with me. Oh well, I've had worse.

With that out of the way, let's get back to the fun stuff...the Courses. My only regret is that we don't get to spend more time on them. The physical-ness of the whole thing really appeals to me. Everyone is good-natured about messing up and there is a lot of camaraderie, with yells of encouragement and quite a bit of laughter.

The Slide for Life is one of the more challenging parts of the Confidence Course and one of the DI's even mentioned something about alligators sometimes taking up residence in the water underneath it, but most of the recruits dismissed that as simply a scare tactic even though no one is one-hundred percent certain that's all it is and we all eye the water warily before beginning our descent.

I didn't fall off the rope, but quite a few guys did, and no one got eaten so it was either the wrong season for alligators, it's getting pretty chilly, or they were just testing us.

And speaking of the weather, I'm not sure whether to be glad or sad that it's winter weather here. On one hand, the next couple of months are going to be brutally cold, but on the other...no sand fleas. I've heard those things are pretty nasty. Guess it's a trade off and I should just be satisfied that I don't have to deal with both of those things at the same time.

We've also been prepping with our weapons getting ready to use live ammo and we had our first march carrying a pack. Even though it was only three miles, and that was enough to begin with, we heard that every week was going to be a longer march until we reached ten or fifteen miles...the rumors vary.

Next week we'll be instructed in gas masks and be sent to the gas chamber, not as bad as it sounds I hope, where we will stay for three to five minutes performing some different types of exercises. They use CS gas, which is not supposed to kill us—it's like a type of tear gas—and is frequently used to contain riots and things. I am trying to psych myself up so I don't panic as I've never done anything like that before. There is a lot of nervous excitement in the air. I'll let you know how it all works out.

Guess I'll close for now. Don't have anything else to say.

Jack

Nicky,

The gas chamber was...interesting.

We were all issued our masks and after a couple hours of classroom instruction, were deemed good to go.

I noticed one of the recruits, a tough, muscled Latino from the Bronx named Miguel Rodriguez hesitating the first time he put his mask on in the classroom and I watched him curiously as he closed his eyes and silently mouthed something that might have been a prayer as he quickly crossed himself.

As he opened them again, our eyes met and he practically snarled at me, deliberately pulling the mask over his face.

He was right behind the Bruiser in attempting to murder me with the pugil sticks, I'm fairly certain he's a boxer from the way he moves, and I figured he didn't appreciate me witnessing the only timidity I'd seen him demonstrate since we'd arrived at boot camp.

I wasn't sure why the mask scared him, he must have worn protective head gear while sparring and he didn't seem to have a problem with the football type helmet used with the pugil sticks, but once again I figured it wasn't any of my business and shrugged it off.

Although Rodriguez was quicker and masked his moves better, the sheer size of the Bruiser was a force to be reckoned with and every time I countered him, blocking his moves, the power he exerted almost knocked me off my feet whereas Rodriquez, although strong, couldn't have been much more than 5'10" and a hundred and sixty pounds. I was used to Shun so his size and quickness presented, while I won't say 'no problem for me', at least not as much of a problem as the Bruiser.

Rodriguez was scowling in my general direction as we stood outside the small concrete structure, but I ignored him. We were running on nervous energy, the electricity in the air was palpable making it difficult to concentrate, and I wanted to be able to think straight.

The DI's informed us that we could volunteer to remove our gas masks after the exercises in order to see who could last the longest if we had the guts, but tauntingly assured us that no one would think we were wimps if we chickened out, a sure-fire way of ensuring at least partial participation.

As we lined up to enter the building, Rodriguez moved himself deliberately in front of me so that I would enter behind him. The gas canister was sitting in the middle of the room and the masked DI issued instructions to us as we stepped into the building and moved single file until all of us were inside, backs to the wall, facing him.

He had us all bend at the waist and shake our heads from side to side to test our masks and then after straightening up we did about twenty jumping jacks. We all sounded a lot like Darth Vader, at least from the short amount of movie I had seen on the disastrous double date with Shun, and quite a few of the recruits were laughing and joking around as we did a couple more exercises.

We were the last batch of the day and there were about twenty of us in the fairly small and confined space. When the DI announced it was time to exit only five of us stayed; Rodriguez, The Bruiser, a tall, skinny Negro named Lebron Washington, a short sturdy white guy with bright red hair who everyone called Curly—I don't think I've ever heard his real name—and me.

The DI explained that he would count down from five and then we would all remove our masks and hold them over our chests. If we wanted out all we had to do was walk towards the door and we would be allowed to leave, however if at anytime we put our mask back up to our face, we would be done.

As he counted down towards one, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and yanked my mask off. Even with my eyes screwed tightly shut I could feel the burning, unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I'm not sure I could have opened them at that point even if I'd wanted to. I could feel them tearing up but was comforted by the knowledge I wouldn't be the only one.

I held my breath as long as I could and then was forced to exhale and attempted to inhale. I immediately wished I hadn't as the burning in my nose and throat was almost unbearable.

Through my body's distress, my ears managed to pick up the sound of some of the other recruits exiting. I counted three deserters and knew there were only two of us left...Rodriguez and me.

I could hear what must have been the DI's yelling something at us, but I couldn't decipher what they were saying as I didn't have enough brain power to spare...all of my concentration focused on surviving the moment.

Fighting the nausea rising up threatening to choke me, I was barely able to keep myself from heaving. The mucus running down the back of my throat was another matter. I could feel it adding to the sudden excess of saliva filling my mouth and I couldn't control the spittle from spilling out between my lips.

Dizziness was about to overtake me when I sensed Rodriguez give up and head towards the door. I waited until I was sure he was outside and then staggered in the same general direction.

As I hit the fresh air, I doubled over, coughing and gasping for breath, unable to open my eyes or close my mouth. I felt like every bit of fluid in my body had found its way to my facial orifices and were streaming out with a will of their own.

Moving as far away from everyone else as I could stagger, I could hear the jeers and laughter from the other recruits and then Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Robert Hines was clapping me on the back congratulating me and telling me I had broken the record of a minute and a half...the longest minute and a half of my life.

One of the other DI's barked at the recruits to line up and pull on their masks once more. I wondered what was happening as I wearily attempted to replace my mask.

"Not you, Knight," Hines forestalled me "stay here."

He left and I could hear him telling my four fellow competitors the same thing.

Curiously, I forced my eyes open and through the blurriness, I could make out the line of recruits going back into the building with their masks securely in place. After a couple of seconds they came bursting out of a door on the opposite side of the building mask-less and looking, I suspect, much as the five of us had just minutes earlier...poetic justice. If I could have smiled, I would have been grinning from ear to ear.

A few of them collapsed on the ground but the DI's were hustling them up and forcing them to move.

As we watched the spectacle, Lebron hooted with laughter, yelling, "Serves ya right, Suckers!"

The other three joined in and even I felt a bit of amusement at the sight.

"Not bad, Knight," Rodriguez admitted grudgingly "for a half-breed."

"Not bad, Rodriguez," I said in Spanish "for someone who fears the mask."

The others were looking at me in puzzlement as I casually strolled off, the effects of the gas finally dissipated enough for me to appear somewhat back to normal.

Being mask-less in the gas chamber is not something I ever want to do again, but at least I know now that I can do it. I feel pretty good about that.

I kinda wondered how Rodriguez knew about my Native American blood, but I'm not going to let it bother me. My coloring, cheek bones, and even my nose could have given it away.

Unlike Haydar, I don't care who knows about my heritage so it's no big deal, although I dislike the term half-breed and I suspect he knows it and that's exactly why he used it. I could tell he didn't like my reply any better, and that satisfied me.

Anything more I write about would be anti-climatic so I'll just close on that note.

I wish you were here so I could share all of this with you, but maybe you're getting my letters wherever you are. I hope so because then you'll know I'm keeping my promise to be okay. Anyway, until next time...

Jack

Nicky,

Guess who? Yep, it's me again.

We had Swim Qual this week and I made it through, although there were quite a few others who will have to suffer further training, a couple of them even up to a week of it, having no previous swimming experience.

Lebron Washington, one of the guys I mentioned in my last letter, was one of those. I could hear him cussing at the top of his lungs asking where a 'dirt poor brother from the Hood' was supposed to find enough water to learn how to swim.

Apparently, when the recruiter had mentioned he would have to demonstrate the ability to survive in an 'aquatic environment' Lebron hadn't thought to ask what 'aquatic' meant.

For some reason I was required to undergo higher qualifications for my Swim Qual along with a few others, like Rodriguez, who were apparently in for specialized duties. No one explained why or what duties we were being prepped for and I didn't ask.

DI's tend to quarter-deck recruits who asked too many questions and that isn't the way I prefer to spend my time. I'm sure I'll find out soon enough.

My absolute favorite part...heavy sarcasm...was the picture we were required to have. You know how I love pictures...yeah, right. We were given an open to the back, partial dress uniform that looked perfectly normal in the front from the waist up, but made me feel ridiculous. I'm sure the scowl on my face, captured forever on film, telegraphed my displeasure to the world.

I'd rather crawl through manure-filled mud pits face down in a squall under electrified wire with enemy gunfire whistling overhead than do that type of thing ever again.

Well...enough said.

My platoon picked the platoon guide this week and thankfully, I wasn't chosen. I casually mentioned to Haydar and The Bruiser that I thought Rodriguez would make a good choice and suggested they pass that around hoping it would ease the tension between us somewhat. They took the hint. After his performance in the gas chamber as well as his obvious skill with the pugil stick and on the Courses, it didn't take much for the rest of the platoon to agree and he was duly elected.

We've also been going through what they call Miller's Combat, learning hand to hand and how to kill an enemy quickly, quietly, and efficiently.

I won't go into any details for a couple of reasons: number one—I'm fairly certain it's not something you would really want to know about in any detail and number two—I wouldn't want to give away any Marine secrets if this letter should happen to fall into the wrong hands.

We had our first written test on Friday and Bruiser passed...barely but still...eighty percent is the basic requirement and he scored eighty-two on a fifty question multiple-choice test. I've avoided him the past few days and I think he finally got the hint and stopped trying to thank me. It's not like I wrote the songs or anything, simply gave him the idea, so I wasn't the one who deserved the credit.

For once, I didn't deliberately miss any answers, my gut telling me that would be dishonest, and ended up with a perfect score. After my conversation with The Bruiser I realized that I too should be giving my all and doing the best I can, accepting nothing less, because that's what it means to be a Marine. I want to be a Marine, more than I've ever wanted anything other than to have you and Mom and Dad back, which I know is impossible, and I plan to do whatever it takes to be worthy of that title.

Okay, that was deep; now on to less emotional matters.

Saturday we made the five-mile hike to the rifle range with the ALICE pack and it felt good.

Next week is Grass Week, whatever that means. I'll explain it to you as soon as I know.

So I guess that's it for now, except for the fact that I can tell I've gained some weight since I've been here, mostly in muscle and may have even grown an inch. Bulking up is a good thing, seeing as I was underweight for my height when I arrived, but since my pants feel shorter I may still qualify as underweight.

I hope when we have our follow up medical exam I don't get taken off of double rations; I like the extra food.

Talk to ya next week.

Jack

Nicky,

Grass week is aptly named. We spent hours in the grass at the rifle range, weapons empty, learning the correct sitting, kneeling and prone positions as well as the basics of muscle relaxation, breathing, sight alignment and trigger pull, and stock weld. The weather is turning colder and some days it's too cold to even feel our fingers, but the DI's don't allow excuses.

I think all the other recruits were feeling the same anticipation I was about finally getting to use our weapons. They've been our constant companions since the day they were issued to us, and the excitement was almost palpable.

As we practiced 'snapping in', which is basically getting into shooting position, the DI's watched us like hawks, correcting even the slightest mistake for which we were grateful believe it or not as next week is 'firing week' where we actually begin firing our weapon in order to get ready for qualification day where we have to obtain a certain score in order to pass and we have to pass in order to become a Marine.

Okay, that was a mouthful.

Anyway, all that to say, we are glad for any help we can get.

Most of Saturday we practiced 'snapping in' and when I'm finished writing to you I'm going to try to drill some more. I'm determined to do well.

Ever since the gas chamber, Rodriguez has turned everything into a competition between the two of us and is becoming more and more frustrated that he can't best me with the pugil sticks or hand to hand.

I could see by the speculative gleam in his eyes that he expects to beat me on the range and I have to admit, I'm just as firmly resolved that he won't. I guess the competitive feeling between us is a good thing and may push both of us to do more than our best. I just hope it doesn't get out of hand.

Sorry to cut my letter so short, but I'm anxious to get some more practice in. Hopefully, I'll have good news for you next week.

Jack

Nicky,

I am pumped! I scored a perfect score on the rifle range!

Thursday, which was our pre-qual day, I did well, but missed a few bulls-eyes. Doggedly determined to do better the next day, I lay in my rack that night and pictured myself acquiring the target and hitting it over and over until I was literally doing it in my sleep as I drifted off...and it worked!

Rodriguez came in right behind me, second high, with an Expert score also, but he missed two during the rapid fire, hitting in the four-point range instead. He was ticked off and began muttering in Spanish until he noticed I was well within hearing range, obviously recalling that I could speak the language, and became suddenly mute.

The next day we had our ten-mile hike wearing the ALICE pack. We started out at the rifle range, that place is beginning to feel like home as much time as we've spent there over the past couple of weeks, and ended up back at the squad bay. I was ravenous by the time we made it to chow. Nothing unusual there, I'm always ravenous.

I do kinda miss junk food. We aren't allowed to have any 'pogey bait' which is what they call it here, but at least I get plenty of chow. Some friends or family members have tried to send candy and cigarettes to a few of the recruits, but they are immediately confiscated. I suspect the DI's end up with them.

I'm more than halfway through now and can almost taste victory.

Time to practice my Farsi, I've been too preoccupied with the rifle range to do anything with it the past two weeks, so I've got some catching up to do.

Jack

Nicky,

Rodriguez is really starting to get on my nerves.

We spent the week divided up into small groups performing chores around the camp in order to foster small group leadership and teamwork and I was unfortunately assigned to work under Rodriguez.

Let me just say that Rodriguez is a sadistic old so and so, at least as far as I'm concerned, and I hope I never lay eyes on him again once I leave here.

The other recruits watched us with great interest, but I was on my best behavior—even though I wanted nothing more than to squash the cockroach—and performed my duties...dutifully.

I'd rather not relieve this past week, putting it in writing will serve no purpose other than to tick me off, so I'll just quit while I'm not too far behind.

Jack

P.S. The Company Commander's Inspection was this week and it went well.

Nicky,

What a great week! I really got the feel of what it was to be a Marine.

We learned how to rappel and practiced unknown distance firing. Then we had a movement course in urban training called MOUT where we learned to maneuver in and out of buildings as well as a combat endurance course in boots and utes where we navigated obstacles over a three-mile track.

We are getting ready to get out into the field and bivouac while we have mock battles and practice infiltration.

Graduation is so close I can taste it.

Sorry my letters are getting shorter. The DI's aren't on our case about writing home as much as they were in the beginning, although they are about everything else this week, telling us we got lazy while we were on our own with the work details. Quarter-decking has been rampant.

I'm also trying to get everything I can out of Haydar before we part ways.

The weeks have gone by faster than I expected after the rough start.

I don't know if I'll write again so just in case you can hear me I want you to know I think about you a lot and sharing my letters with you has made the whole ordeal of boot camp better in a lot of ways.

Thanks for that and thanks for making me promise to be 'your superhero'. When I finally receive my eagle, globe, and anchor, I will truly be a superhero...a Marine...and I owe it all to you.
You were and always will be the best part of me. You can rest easy knowing I'm gonna be okay.

I know I was never actually able to say the words to you when you were alive, and I appreciate you realizing how hard it was for me and letting me get by with it, but I need to say it now.

I love you.

Your loving brother,

Jack

Nicky,

I thought I'd drop you one more note and let you know that Rodriguez and I came to a sort of armed truce...I know, very funny...while we bivouacked, simulated combat, and made it through the infiltration course.

Rodriguez and I were teamed up and had to work together to get through it all.

The live explosions were scary, but in a way I was glad we had a chance to get used to it at boot camp instead of in a combat situation the first time.

Anyway, we still don't like each other much, but at least we are tolerating each other better.

Maybe we'll end up at opposite ends of the earth.

That thought almost brings a smile to my face...almost.

I'll be a Marine soon, thanks to you.

Jack

The Marines

1978

February-March

Done...finished...it was official. After the most arduously demanding thirteen weeks of my life I was no longer 'this recruit'.

I was Private Jack Knight...Marine.

The pride that swelled within me was something I'd never experienced before, contrasting sharply with the rather empty feeling in my gut as I watched my fellow recruits...Marines...sharing the special moment with their families. I had no one. Granted it was my own fault for shoving Shun out of my life, but I took small comfort in the realization.

That, added to the fact that I had no idea where I was going after my short ten day leave, in fact I had no definite plans for my leave, while all the others already had their assignments for further training, had me gritting my teeth in frustration.

Little was ever explained to recruits and the DI's had stonewalled my few queries. I suspected by the surprise I detected in their faces, although they managed to hide it quickly, that they were just as clueless as I was about my immediate future. That helped somewhat.

The fact that I was no longer a recruit but a Marine would make a difference. I was still low man on the totem pole, but as I was no longer a raw recruit, someone would have to find orders for me somewhere. I couldn't stay at Parris indefinitely.

While I was standing, incongruously grim-faced amidst smiles and hugs, tears, and laughter, Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Robert Hines handed me a note. He shook my hand, congratulated me, and pivoted sharply away attempting to hide the question in his eyes. Puzzled, I stared after him until he disappeared from view and then, remembering the note in my hand, turned my full attention to it.

Report to the Company Commander's office ASAP.

Although I had never set foot in the CC's office, every recruit knew where it was. Normally, an invitation from Captain Clint Daley was something to be avoided at all costs, but it had to be about my immediate future.

Even with that realization in mind, I couldn't stop the nervous churning in my gut as I plastered an impassive expression on my face and marched—marching was automatic after three solid months of drilling—towards the building.

No one was manning the outer office, but I could hear voices coming from behind Captain Daley's closed door. Making up my mind quickly, I decisively rapped three times to announce my arrival. An authoritative voice from within commanded 'Come', and I firmly turned the knob, stepped into the room, and smartly closed the door behind me. Snapping to attention, I immediately focused on a spot directly in front of me careful to keep my face expressionless.

Although I kept my gaze straight ahead, I took everything in peripherally.

125Captain Daley stood next to his desk facing two other men, one of whom I recognized in astonishment, which I hid as well as I could, as General Allen McKie...he had been part of recruit required study during boot camp as the CMC who answered directly to the SecNav...and I was awestruck to say the least. That man was the highest-ranking Marine in the entire Corps and I was in the same room with him!

Subconsciously, I noted the third man, but his comparatively short stature, nondescript brown hair, along his white shirt, dark suit and tie as well as his sloppy posture seemed bland in contrast to the two impressive uniformed men so I kept my attention, if not my eyes, focused on the General.

"At ease Marine."

General McKie's nod was as curt as his words, but as I forced myself into the more relaxed stance, careful to keep my eyes forward as he moved to stand beside me, the swell of pride and honor in my chest at being addressed in that manner, especially by him, was almost overwhelming.

"Captain, if you'll excuse us..." he continued without taking his eyes off me.

"Yes sir," the captain saluted smartly and left his office.

As I struggled to remain impassive under the General's intense scrutiny, I could feel his eyes taking in every minute detail of my appearance.

The other man moved around him and stood before me, barely topping my shoulders in height. His examination was insignificant. I remained focused on the General.

"Well he certainly looks impressive," the man admitted reluctantly.

"He's a Marine," General McKie stated with dignity as if that alone should have impressed the man.

I was in complete agreement.

"Yeah, yeah I know all about your precious Marines," the man said dismissively "but I'm looking for a standout...the best of what you obviously think is already the best."

"Expert on the rifle range, perfect scores on the written tests," the General replied still watching me carefully "no one could touch him with the pugil stick—not even the DI's—and excelled in Miller's Combat as well."

"All without having faced an enemy," the man noted contemptuously. "The other men are all seasoned veterans. He'd be a liability."

"I guarantee he'd have you dead in a split second if I gave the order, no hesitation and no noise, all with his bare hands."

I could have sworn I glimpsed the ghost of a grin on the General's face as he contemplated that scenario, but it disappeared so quickly and completely that I couldn't be certain I hadn't imagined it.

"He does have some unique qualifications," the man shrugged but didn't elaborate.

"You find any Marine better suited to your...particular needs...and I'll buy you a steak dinner, Garrett...or better yet...Chinese, since that seems to be your mainstay," General McKie offered calmly.

"That is tempting but I have a time issue," the man frowned. "I read his records and sure...I'll admit...he looks good on paper, topping out on everything, but he wasn't even a squad leader and apparently that kept him from making PFC. I'm looking for men with initiative and leadership ability."

"Marine," the General addressed me abruptly "what excuse do you have for not being chosen for any leadership role?"

"Unpopular, Sir!"

McKie chuckled and looked directly at the man he had addressed as Garrett for the first time since I'd entered the room.

"And there you have it," he said complacently "another characteristic all of the Marines you've...borrowed...seemed to have in common. Need we look any further?"

"No," Garrett grudgingly agreed, "I'll take him and we'll see if he makes the cut."

"Not so fast," McKie turned back to me. "So Private Jack Knight, Mr. Garrett here has requested the use of some Marines in a special operation that the CIA is running somewhere in South America. I can't give you any details unless you agree to go and as he so succinctly put it 'make the cut', and even then the details will be sketchy, but I can tell you that it is highly dangerous and strictly voluntary. If you should choose not to accept the assignment or get booted out you will be sent for further training just as all of your fellow graduates will be, continuing on the same course as the rest of them. If, however, you decide to join this special operation you will leave immediately for an undisclosed location to undergo a different type of training and evaluation. You may ask questions, but I might not be able to answer them."

"Will I still be a Marine, Sir?" I asked in the same manner I'd been trained to over the past thirteen weeks, minus the third person pronoun.

"Son, you will always be a Marine," he assured me decisively "and you will be under my command as long as you're on active duty, but Mr. Garrett will be...calling the shots, so to speak...during the time you are on this mission."

"Do I obey him without question, Sir?"

There was a pause as McKie eyed me thoughtfully.

"Mr. Garrett," McKie began in a low, controlled, carefully polite voice "please step outside for a moment."

Garrett's eyes narrowed as he took in the resolute look on McKie's face. I could tell he wanted to say something, but was...while not afraid exactly...obviously uncertain whether or not to risk it.

In the end he settled for slamming the door behind him in order to make his displeasure felt.

"You are the only Marine that has asked that particular question," McKie noted quietly. "Why?"

I remained silent, unwilling to voice an opinion which could get me kicked out of the corps before I'd even started while at the same time realizing that failure to answer a direct question could accomplish the same thing, cursing the rock and hard place I was crouched in between.

"You know," he continued conversationally "when I ask a question it's usually because I want to know the answer. Oh, and if I were you, I'd drop the standard 'Marine voice' as I'm one hundred percent certain Garrett has his pointy little ear pressed to the keyhole and I'm just as certain that he won't like what I suspect your answer is going to be."

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?" I asked imitating his lowered tone.

"Permission granted, Marine."

"Without fear of...repercussions, Sir?"

"There will be no repercussions," he assured me tranquilly.

"This Marine does not trust Mr. Garrett, Sir."

I reverted back to third person, unable to voice the 'I' for some odd reason, keeping my voice as inaudible as possible.

"Between you, me, and the wall...this General does not trust Mr. Garrett either, Marine," McKie replied humorously then continued soberly "I believe that is a prerequisite for a CIA agent. However, I do trust my Marines, and to answer your question, if push comes to shove, you follow the Creed and never forget who you are and what you represent. That is an order and it supersedes any other order you have been or will be receiving barring one directly from the SecNav or the President. Do you understand, Marine?"

"Sir, yes Sir!"

"Any further questions...?"

"What story do I give the others, Sir?"

"No need to worry about that. You leave immediately. Your gear will meet you at the chopper."

He waited while I digested that piece of information then continued.

"So, does Mr. Garrett have his volunteer?"

"Sir, yes Sir!"

"I suspected as much," he replied heavily as he moved towards the door. "Well, let's not keep the man in suspense; I'm sure his ear is quite painfully sore by now."

~ * * ~

"No, dammit, push the stick forward, Valdez," the instructor barked in frustration. "Oh forget it...it's too late. You and your passengers are dead."

"Hey!" he objected defensively "we go down, I pull up."

"Yeah well pull your ass up out of that seat and get lost," the instructor ordered sourly.

Valdez stomped angrily out of the trailer muttering in Spanish, leaving me alone with Agent Krantz.

"Well Knight, I guess you're it," Krantz sighed. "Ready or not, we go up in a real plane in an hour."

I didn't reply, knowing there was nothing to say. We'd been working on the flight simulator non-stop since the wee hours of the morning, even having our meals brought in, and one by one all of the others had been kicked out until I was the only one left.

Although I'd crashed numerous times while attempting to land, apparently I was the best out of a poor lot. I hoped our ultimate survival wasn't going to rest on my flying skills. If so, we were all in deep trouble.

"Meet me in the hangar in an hour," he ordered, turning away and shutting down the equipment "we don't have much daylight left.

I began gathering my gear as Garrett walked in. His swift encompassing glance took in the empty trailer and came to rest on me.

"Knight is the only one left?" he asked in disgust.

Krantz shrugged "If the point is to arrive with as few injuries or fatalities as possible then yeah, Knight is your only hope. Unlike Valdez, he doesn't panic and do the exact opposite of the right thing and Montez and Hondo couldn't have cared less. We go up in an hour. Take-off won't be a problem, but we need more time than you're allowing in order to work on the landings."

"I've given you all the time I can," Garrett said heavily. "Just do your best. In an emergency, he simply needs to be able to get it off the ground and back down again. It doesn't have to be pretty. You have the rest of today," he ignored Krantz's snort of sarcasm at his overwhelming generosity, continuing "and until noon tomorrow; the others will be in the chopper simulator and he'll need to play catch up quickly. I have to get both simulators back before anyone misses them and starts poking around asking awkward questions."

Garrett turned to me and said irritably "Get moving, we don't have all day."

The training he'd pushed us through over the past few days were nothing like boot camp—no yelling, no drill, and no formality...the total opposite in fact—everything had been done with very little sleep and a lot of intense instruction expecting us to master skills in a day which usually required weeks, months, and sometimes years to acquire.

Originally there were five of us and my fellow Marines were all, as Garrett had implied when we'd first met, hardened seasoned veterans who no doubt had seen action in Vietnam and were a lot less...structured...than what I was accustomed to.

The barracks where we were all housed wasn't exactly a pig sty, but with the lack of discipline running rampant, by no means measured up to Marine standards and with the exception of Stockingdale, who was no longer with us, having suffered an accident on the heavy artillery range, all of them smoked...heavily.

We'd all been thoroughly searched after arriving and, from the displeased language, I suspected that unlike me, having come straight from boot camp without my ten-day customary leave, the rest had been forced to surrender a few personal items. Although no one batted an eye at cigarettes, alcohol and drugs were a huge no-no and a couple of the men were a bit upset at losing their favorite beverage flask. Not that anyone had spare time for recreational or medicinal imbibing...free time was non-existent.

From the first day we'd hit the ground running. We'd already been through the explosives course, spending hours in a field attempting to find every dummy mine buried there. Most of us, including me, theoretically lost a limb or two in the process. By the end of the exercise, Hondo was the only one completely intact.

Apparently, the mines used in the part of South America where we were heading—we were still in the dark about our final destination—looked nothing like the land mines used in Vietnam and none of the others, with the exception of Hondo, knew any more about it than I did.

We were then versed in the delicate art of diffusing bombs.

Hondo was lean and mean of indeterminate age and a perpetual chain smoker with the inevitable cigarette hanging out of his mouth even when handling bombs, and he didn't seem to be on a first name basis with either a razor or a comb. I didn't know Hondo's first name, or maybe Hondo was his first name, but he wasn't the type anyone would dare to ask.

The instructor, for lack of a better description, came unglued at Hondo as soon as he saw the cigarette, but Hondo simply said "Ain't stupid, it ain't lit" and left it where it was. The youthful 'expert' met Hondo's eyes for all of two seconds before quickly turning away and beginning instruction. I wasn't sure what he read in them, but whatever it was convinced him that a strategic retreat was in order.

After the first couple of hours of handling 'bombs', Hondo and I were the only ones left, the others sent off to begin the next section...heavy artillery...after 'blowing themselves up' repeatedly with the fake bombs.

The tremendously loud bangs assaulting my ears and shaking the old deserted hangar where we were housed the whole time I was working with the dummy bombs as the other three practiced with the artillery had me jumping at every explosion, but Hondo was apparently oblivious to it all and never even so much as flinched. Either that or he was totally deaf. I envied his nerves of steel and attempted to mimic his monolithic calm, but failed miserably.

Five hours later, Hondo had taught me everything he thought relevant, and finally allowed me to get some shut-eye before moving to the next phase. Apparently Hondo's knowledge of things that go boom was on a much higher, more useful plane than the kid not much older than I was who was ironically supposed to be instructing him. The instructor hadn't even attempted to stop him from taking over my education.

I was rather concerned that someone might have slipped up and given me a live bomb to diffuse and the next explosion I would hear would be me scattering into millions of pieces into the earth's atmosphere, so I was greatly relieved when that part of the training was over and glad Hondo, the resident expert, would be along on the op.

There was no way Garrett would be cutting him. If there were bombs or land mines involved, Hondo would be the most important person to the success of the mission.

The next morning it was obvious that Valdez, a short stocky Hispanic whose primary language was not English, had developed an affinity for the tank the previous day while I was attempting to learn how not to blow myself and everyone in the immediate vicinity up...not driving it, we hadn't made it to that part of the instruction yet, but firing from it.

He seemed to derive great satisfaction from destroying the landscaping, which admittedly was not much to look at anyway being barren of any signs of life, but his aim left a lot to be desired. Although, I had to admit, what he lacked in precision he more than made up for in enthusiasm, pounding everything in sight.

The artillery instructor had to forcibly eject him in order to allow the rest of us a 'shot' at it.

Hondo had simply shrugged and walked away, totally uninterested in the proceedings, more concerned with finding a comfortable place to light up after being smokeless for hours.

Montez, the oldest and by far the calmest, most even tempered of our bunch of misfits, volunteered his turn to Stockingdale since he was already well versed in heavy artillery and even had to help out the artillery instructor by gently correcting his mistakes.

Stockingdale, not the most coordinated of the bunch, was attempting to climb onto the tank when the accident occurred. Somehow he must have lost his footing and the loud crack as he fell to the ground landing awkwardly on his left leg, was painful to hear. I had no idea how someone with his lack of coordination had actually managed to make it through Marine boot camp, but my guess was...minimally.

The agent in charge of our instruction had apparently slept through his first aid class, if he'd even had one, and Montez took over, ordering the rest of us to find something to splint the leg so we could carry him back to the base.

Garrett had informed us from the start that no one would be allowed to enter or leave the base unless it was an emergency and, even then, they would be taken by one of the agents to an undisclosed location to be treated, but not released until Garrett deemed it safe to do so without endangering the mission.

Calling up an ambulance or chopper to transport Stockingdale was out of the question and we, against every rule in the first aid book, had to carry him a mile back to the base in order to put him in a vehicle and get him to whatever Garrett's idea of a medical facility was.

The 'base' where we were undergoing the training was in reality no more than an old abandoned airfield that had been cordoned off and was so tightly secured that no one could enter or leave without Garrett and his agents knowing about it. We didn't even know where we were as we had been blindfolded for the flight in, so all we could do was guess at our location.

I hoped Stockingdale's unavoidably rough treatment wouldn't cause him any permanent injury or he'd be out of the Corps. I wasn't sure at that point whether the Corps wouldn't be better of without him, but I had no idea then exactly why he'd been chosen for what was obviously a dangerous and physically exacting mission.

I wasn't sure where Garrett had dug up his 'expert instructors', but I was losing confidence in most of them and beginning to think that he had just taken a bunch of his agents and ordered them to read up on things and then attempt to teach us. Thankfully, so far, we had our own experts and wouldn't have to rely on what they were teaching us in order to survive.

After suffering through days of inexpert experts, I suspected that had been Garrett's plan all along.

So far, Krantz was the only agent for which I had any respect. He was a pilot and knew exactly what he was doing—although taking me up in a plane and allowing me to fly it with only basic instruction and a few hours on a simulator didn't seem to me to be the wisest decision he'd ever made—but I knew that Garrett had given him no choice. I got the distinct impression that with Garrett there were only two ways...his way or the highway.

It took me a few days to realize that each of us had been selected for a specific reason—we all had a skill Garrett required—but he wasn't putting all of his eggs in one basket and was trying to give us all a basic understanding of every skill in case one of us didn't make it. I was also finally beginning to get an inkling of what General McKie meant when he'd informed me that the mission was dangerous. In my naïveté, I'd possessed no concept of what that actually meant, but it was becoming clearer by the hour.

Hondo was an explosives expert, Montez had forgotten more about heavy artillery than the agent who had been attempting to train us ever knew, Stockingdale, we found out after his injury had taken him out of the game, was an electronics/communications expert—that training day was still to come—and I guessed I was there because of my hand to hand combat skills.

That was the only thing that made sense. Very few people would be able to stand up against Mr. Suzuki's training.

As I headed towards the hangar where Krantz was waiting, I pondered the Valdez thing wondering what he could possibly be bringing to the table that was necessary for the success of the mission. So far he didn't seem to possess any outstanding skills.

He was a Marine so he possessed higher-level skills than average, but so did hundreds of other Marines.

Although he was older than I was, he was younger than anyone else in the squad and, personally, I worried that his lack of maturity would end up getting us all killed. He seemed to think it was playtime, like with the tank, and had yet to master anything that the agents had thrown at us.

Oh well, I shrugged to myself as I entered the hangar, I'll find out soon enough I'm sure.

I spent the rest of that day and the next morning flying...and I loved it. Although my take-offs weren't anywhere close to perfect and my landings where...just barely passable...I could tell Krantz was pleased, telling me I was a natural. Krantz regretted to see me go almost as much as I regretted having to leave.

"Go catch up with the rest of them," he urged me as soon as I'd finally bounced us through a passable landing "I believe they're in the chopper simulator. If they're as sorry a bunch with that as they were with me, you will be sorely needed."

I idly wondered, as I made my way to the trailer, whether choppers were Valdez's thing.

An hour later, I knew better.

Per Garrett's instructions, the instructor had allowed part of the previous day and all that morning for them to demonstrate any aptitude in the helicopter simulator, but by the time lunch had arrived, Agent Ferris was done with Valdez. He was the first one kicked out of the trailer. Montez and Hondo had apparently been biding their time until then and as soon as Valdez was gone, they followed in short order and I arrived at the simulator to find the instructor alone. He eyed me without much hope and then glumly began my tutorial.

After a couple of hours, Agent Ferris left the trailer and returned with Garrett.

"Knight again," Garrett noted sourly.

"Yep," Ferris grinned.

"Ferris only has today and as we're running out of time he wants to go ahead and take you up now," Garrett eyed me thoughtfully. "You'll have to dig up some chow when you can because we haven't been able to locate a...suitable...replacement for Stockingdale so tonight you'll be working with our communications expert to bring you up to speed on the equipment you'll be taking."

"Great," Ferris enthused. "Let's go."

We worked for hours and I didn't do as well with the chopper take-offs or landings as I had with the plane, although both my plane and my helicopter skills were admittedly lacking in any type of finesse, but in my defense I hadn't had as much time in the helicopter simulator since I'd been out flying a plane all morning.

Ferris assured me that the main thing was getting airborne. If for some reason I had to get us out of there by air, it would only be because things had gone horribly wrong and our planned extraction was no longer an option, so having a rudimentary knowledge and skill level would suffice.

By the time Agent Murdock, the communications expert who was reminiscent of Stockingdale in some indefinable way although physically they looked nothing alike, had finished regaling me with the ins and outs of receivers and transmitters and homing beacons and radars, it was 0 dark thirty, everyone else was asleep, and I was brain-dead tired.

I was rudely awakened at oh five hundred the next morning by an impatient Valdez urging me to get up.

"Vamonos...we jump!"

"Jump...?" I blearily asked the air, as Valdez was already out the door.

I could hear the other two stirring as I pulled on my pants and shrugged my arms into my sleeves moving towards the head wearily, shaking my head to rid it of the strange humming noise in my ears and acknowledging the fact that I was getting as careless as the others about my appearance as well as my rack. None of us bothered to make them anymore, although I had been the last hold out to the never-ending amusement of my barrack mates who delighted in calling me their own special 'house mouse'.

Hondo, scowling fiercely, pushed past me as I came out and even Montez was grumbling as he tumbled out of his rack.

"What's with Valdez?"

Although Montez was far from pleased, Hondo was totally unapproachable when in the type of foul mood I'd seen clearly displayed on his face.

"Ever used a parachute, Kid?" Montez asked indifferently as he stood and stretched.

"No."

"Well, after today you won't be able to say that," he grinned wickedly and moved past me towards the head as Hondo came out glowering at us both.

"Sadistic bastard," he pronounced grimly.

"Who...?"

"Garrett," he spat the name in disgust. "That son of a bitch kept the parachuting part to himself."

"Have you never...?"

"Once," he growled and then was silent leaving me to assume his 'once' hadn't gone well.

Montez and I followed Hondo, giving him plenty of space, to the hangar where a C-130 was waiting...obviously, the hum I'd detected earlier.

"...just have to squeeze his training in before he jumps," Garrett was telling Valdez. "The C-130 has to be back to base by tomorrow morning so we only get today. He'll be fine."

Garrett turned away abruptly and entered the hangar behind him, ignoring Hondo's hostile stare.

Valdez shrugged and turned towards us, eyes shining in anticipation, motioning us all onto the aircraft.

My stomach plummeted to my feet as I realized Garrett had been talking about me. I was apparently the only one who had never parachuted from a plane and I was going to have to make the jump without any practice. Hondo had been right...Garrett was a sadistic bastard.

I listened intently to Valdez—suggesting he speak in Spanish as all of us appeared to be well versed in the language and his English skills left a lot to be desired, which made sense as our ultimate destination was somewhere in South America—and tried to grasp everything he was spouting about static lines, emergency chutes, five points of contact, and which direction to fall plus the correct body positioning, but how I survived that day was a mystery to me as we were forced to practice ground landings over and over again.

Unlike the other two, I hadn't had anytime to practice—Valdez drilled them for hours the previous day while I was otherwise occupied—and I desperately tried to visualize the sequence in my mind, but it was nearly impossible even with Valdez mimicking the movements, standing on the empty crates in the plane and then stepping off to demonstrate how to fall.

I was as panicked as I'd ever been in my life as I'd never even been up in a plane until the previous day, much less jumped from one.

We suited up and as we approached the drop zone, the crew members strapped us in and hooked us up to what was apparently the static line Valdez had mentioned telling me not to worry, the chute would open by itself. Small comfort...I knew it was the end and that everything I'd learned up to then had been a waste because after my body lay crushed and mangled on the ground, my brain would be useless unless they decided to transplant it into someone else's head.

First Montez and then Hondo were shoved out of the plane, and I made one last valiant attempt to get a grip on myself, forcing calming breaths into my lungs, but it was all for naught as I felt myself propelled out into space and then violently jerked upwards, my chute thankfully opening on its own.

The descent might have been enjoyable, I had an unparalleled view of the surrounding area and I normally would have been curious about where we were, but I knew that would have to wait as one part of my brain absently surveyed the greening countryside while the rest of it was furiously repeating...legs together, knees slightly bent, toes pointed, okay, I'm okay, I can do it...relax...relax...relax...yeah right...relax...hands on the toggles...don't look straight down...45 degree angle...don't look down...idiot, I said don't do that...and as the ground rapidly approached and I fought to keep my feet together, not succeeding as well as I'd hoped...I began chanting feet...calf...thigh...butt...back...over and over as if that was going to help me.

On a positive note, I hit the ground on the balls of my feet and I did collapse, but I don't remember anything after that because by the time I ended up on my back I was tangled in the lines, the wind totally knocked out of me.

Thankfully, Valdez was there to help me out of my predicament, laughingly telling me not to worry; assuring me that I would do better the next time.

Next time!

I was never doing that again. I quit...I didn't care what they did to me...they could beat me, hang me, starve me...well I'd rather they didn't starve me...shoot me, draw and quarter me...it didn't matter...I was done. I'd drag Garrett up there and drop him out of the plane without the benefit of a chute.

My sympathies lie totally with Hondo.

But jump again, I did...over and over and over and just when I was beginning to feel I might survive the initial part of the mission, Valdez gleefully informed us that we would be attempting to land on a shoreline, but we could possibly end up in the water and we needed to practice steering away from it.

The water landing techniques were supposedly the same as land with the exception of releasing our chutes as soon as we'd completed the five steps and oh by the way, while we were at it, we needed to keep our heads and not panic, maintain the air pocket in our helmets to prevent us from suffocating, refrain from jettisoning any of our gear except for the chute, and try to roll over onto our backs to swim.

I desperately prayed that I could avoid the water.

Of course, the one who ended up in the drink was Hondo. His lugubrious expression did not bode well for someone. Although Valdez was his closest victim, I suspected it was Garrett who was the true target of his murderous imagination—if the gleeful glint in his eye was anything to go by—and I could almost bring myself to feel sorry for Garrett...almost.

Just when we thought we were finished, Valdez announced our last jump, the piece de resistance; we were to parachute onto the beach...in the dark.

Garrett's life was forfeit. If Hondo didn't finish him off...I would.

Surprisingly none of us ended up in the water, although Montez came close, and it looked as if Garrett might actually live to torture another day.

We all fell into our rack 0 dark thirty so bruised and battered that even our bruises had bruises.

The next morning, I had reason to change my mind...Garrett had to go.

Once again, Valdez had permission to rout us out of bed at five in the morning, the excited gleam in his eye not boding well for the rest of us.

We were loaded in the back of the same paneled van that had been used the previous day to pick us up after each jump, driven what felt like approximately 15 klicks, and dumped onto the same beach we had parachuted into the day before. There was a raft and a pile of what appeared to be diving gear.

It was official...Garrett was determined to kill us off.

"Vamonos...we dive," Valdez grinned widely, his teeth startlingly white against his dark skin.

"Of course we do," Montez sighed in resignation.

Apparently, no one but Valdez had known about the diving.

Hondo gloweringly fell into step with us as we followed Valdez towards his play toys. It was becoming clear to all of us that Valdez was some sort of adrenaline junkie with no fear, but I comforted myself with the thought that he had known exactly what to do with the parachuting so odds were fairly even that he knew how to scuba dive.

As we piled into the raft and headed out to sea, I couldn't help but compare the different expressions on the faces of my companions.

Valdez was in his element, looking towards the open sea with such anticipation it would have been pointless to try to disguise it, which he had no intention of doing. Montez was starring wistfully back at the shore, no doubt yearning to have his feet on dry land again. Hondo cast longing glances towards Valdez, no doubt wishing he was Garrett, and picturing the nasty tortures he had in store for him.

I simply watched the faces of the others wondering if we would all make it back to base...alive.

We'd already pushed out luck to the limits. The odds weren't in our favor.

1978

April

"Get me the hell outta here!" Hondo's irritated voice floated clearly across the span of water. "Nobody said nothin' 'bout no damn sharks!"

Neither Montez nor I bothered to reply, climbing doggedly towards the crate, which had predictably landed on the highest point of the small rock Garrett had generously termed an island. Below us, Valdez spouted instructions to Hondo in Spanish.

"Island my ass," the normally placid Montez mumbled as his foot lost its hold on the rock face and he slid down five feet.

I reached the top and offered a hand to Montez who accepted it gratefully.

"I'm getting too old for this crap," he grumbled as I eyed the crate—still fully intact—noting the precariousness of its positioning as a third of it hung over the edge of the precipice. "Thought Garrett said the damn thing would bust open."

"Unlike us...the crate apparently isn't required to follow Garrett's orders," I replied wryly adding ironically "Don't happen to have a crowbar on you I suppose," as I pulled my knife out of its scabbard and cut the lines of the chute.

"Knowing Garrett, there's probably one in the crate," he responded morosely "Sadistic bastard."

"Wonder how diving cylinders react to being dropped from a cliff without a parachute?"

"I dunno, but I doubt the gasoline's gonna care much for it."

"I hope there's a lot of cushioning in there," I shrugged as I leaned my shoulder into the side of the crate, Montez joining me immediately, and heaved it over the edge.

By the time we reached what passed for level ground, Valdez had fished a thoroughly soaked and violently cursing Hondo out of the water and was enthusiastically pulling equipment out of what was left of the smashed crate.

We joined him and the three of us managed to unpack the fortunately well-padded and waterproofed supplies as Hondo stripped off his wet jump suit muttering a constant string of epithets interspersed frequently with the word 'shark' and the name 'Garrett'.

I didn't want to know.

Although, unlike Hondo, I managed to touch down on solid surface, I'd landed on one of the jutting precipices and had barely been able to keep from sliding off into the water myself. Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to release my chute and miraculously find a small protrusion to grab onto, grateful for the gloves protecting my hands.

Montez had fared much better...at first...landing on a lower level with more flat real estate, but his momentum had carried him into a solid rock wall and the loud crack of his helmet on the unyielding surface had been painful to hear. By the time I'd climbed down from my unintentional perch, however, he'd shrugged it off and insisted that he join me in the climb for the crate.

I could see why Garret had chosen Montez...they didn't come any tougher.

Valdez, the obvious resident expert on all things water and sky related, made a textbook landing much to the disgust of Hondo who, of course, ended up in the drink, and then promptly proceeded to rescue Hondo from his own parachuting incompetence.

Needless to say, Hondo was not in a good mood.

Valdez checked the cylinders as the rest of us pulled on the wetsuits he had produced from the deep recesses of the crate, and while he was donning his, Montez and I moved the raft to the water and inflated it, tying the mooring lines around our waists, having no place to secure them and understandably loath to lose our only means of transportation off the desolate rock on which we found ourselves.

Coaxing Hondo into helping, Valdez managed to get the hundred and seventy-five horsepower outboard motor down into the raft. I handed an extremely disgruntled Hondo my mooring lines and moved swiftly back and forth from the crate loading our weapons, equipment, and supplies making sure the gasoline and oil were first so Valdez could get us mobile as quickly as possible.

According to Garrett, who had laid out a strict schedule for us, we had until 0600 to dispose of any and all evidence of our temporary occupation of the island and withdraw from the inhospitable rock that had been our landing site.

Between the inconvenient positioning of the crate and Hondo's unfortunate dunking, we were cutting it close.

We were good to go by 0615, but because our orders were to maintain radio silence until we met up with Franklin, we all just shrugged it off as close enough. As far as most of us were concerned, Garrett was lucky we were alive and in one piece.

As the raft pulled away from the uninviting rock, which appeared to have suffered no damage from our temporary occupation—I was sure it would continue its unruffled existence long after we were all dead—Valdez took charge of the motor and the compass while I manned the portable radar and Montez and Hondo hunkered down to catch some shut-eye.

Garrett expected us to be able to make thirty to forty knots—my best guess was closer to thirty—but even at that speed we were taking a beating with the swells and I had no idea how the two of them expected to sleep.

Somehow they managed it, because fifteen minutes into the trip, after finally getting the radar up and running, I glanced over, surprised to note that both of them were out like a light.

I put it down to the fact that none of us had gotten even so much as a catnap in over twenty-four hours, adrenaline and coffee our mainstays and the only reason we weren't all dead on our feet, but those only lasted so long.

Instead of allowing us any sleep, Garrett had used that time to brief us on the mission, insisting that we memorize every detail of the insertion and extraction plus the various maps involved, as well as squeezing in one more training session for me...something he ordered me to keep to myself.

Valdez was in his element, so I left it to him and turned my exclusive attention to the radar, watching for blips.

Garrett had warned us that we would have to be ever vigilant in order to remain undetected and had allowed us a calculated amount of extra time to make the mainland, which was approximately three hundred and fifty klicks from our touchdown site, in case we had to take unexpected detours to avoid any watercraft that might be in the area.

Our radar was top of the line. Garrett assured us that we would be able to see before being seen and have plenty of time for evasive maneuvers.

I wondered who would be missing it, noting that Garrett had a penchant for 'borrowing' things that didn't belong to him.

Of course, Garrett had also told us that parachuting onto that 'island' was a piece of cake and that the crate would burst open upon landing, so he was already 0 for 2.

I wouldn't be taking his word for anything else any time soon, and I had the distinct impression none of the others, with possibly the exception of Valdez who didn't have a suspicious bone in his body, were planning on trusting his judgment calls either.

The way I saw it there were two possibilities concerning Garret: either number one...he was a complete idiot—I didn't believe that for a second—or number two...he made a practice of lying about everything on general principles. I suspected the latter. He certainly liked to play his cards close to the chest, spreading vital information out over all of us without telling any of us everything.

About midday, I relieved Valdez at the helm so he could get some sleep, Montez took radar duty, and Hondo snored on, none of us willing to take our lives into our own hands by attempting to rouse him.

Hours later, I was practically asleep at the helm. We had to stop to refuel and although Valdez had explained it to me, I was too fuzzy from lack of sleep to trust myself with flammable liquid so I shook Valdez mumbling "Your turn" and promptly crashed.

I awoke to darkness and silence, Montez leaning over me.

"It's time," Montez informed me gloomily, sitting back and eyeing Valdez's attempts to ready Hondo towards the rear of the raft with trepidation.

"You okay?"

The antipathy Montez had developed towards scuba diving rivaled Hondo's aversion to sky diving and then some. I suspected Montez was claustrophobic. That would certainly explain why he had no idea how to drive a tank, but was an expert gunner. I hoped we wouldn't be expected to live in caves.

"I'll live," he shrugged philosophically.

As I nodded silently, I hoped that would apply to all of us.

Valdez worked quietly and efficiently which was highly unusual for him—the quiet part anyway—but as Garrett had succinctly pointed out before we left, noise carried over water. Since we were less than ten klicks from land and had no intention of announcing our arrival, silence and stealth were our only hope of remaining undetected...and alive.

We were loaded down with the necessary waterproofed weapons, equipment, and supplies, and in the water, knives drawn all inside of twenty minutes. As we slashed our raft, relieving it of buoyancy, I felt a momentary twinge of panic realizing that we were burning our last bridge, there was no way back until we had completed our mission or died trying.

As the motor drug the raft downward into the water, I comforted myself with the thought that Garrett would have a hard time explaining how an expensive piece of radar equipment managed to end up at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

One by one, we moved away from the bubbling water, Montez the last to leave as we—donning our masks and securing our mouthpieces—turned toward the coastline and our mission.

Valdez eagerly led the way as we silently sank below the surface.

~ * * ~

"Garrett's toast," Montez murmured to me in amusement as we stood on the narrow beach stripping off our wetsuits. "He'd better be praying Hondo doesn't make it back alive."

My Spanish vocabulary had certainly expanded with Hondo around—none of it acceptable in mixed company however—and he was using every word at his disposal as he stood glaring at the 200-meter cliff looming over us.

Shrugging nonchalantly in answer, I tore into the still wrapped and waterproofed weapons we hadn't touched realizing they would need to remain as protected as possible, our lives might well depend on them in the not too distant future, and indicated that Montez should do the same with the ammo.

However, as important as our weapons were, I was after something else and as Montez distributed the weapons and ammo I dug deeper.

"Holding out on us?" Montez noted mildly from behind me.

Once again, I merely shrugged, concentrating exclusively on my task, as I began assembling the pieces.

"What's that?" Hondo asked abruptly as he joined us, having apparently run out of original expletives or else simply tired of cussing out the cliff that had completely ignored him remaining dark, silent, and daunting.

"Harpoon gun," Valdez answered for me, eyes shining.

I was thankful that Garrett hadn't entrusted Valdez with the shoulder gun...the look in his eyes reminiscent of the gleam that had been there when he'd been pounding the countryside with heavy artillery.

"Planning on spearing some whales while we're here?" Montez asked offhandedly.

"Got a cliff to scale."

I lifted the loaded shoulder gun and attached rope and moved towards the water as far as the small beach allowed, which was only about ten feet. I hoped I had enough of an angle for a shot.

Placing the coiled rope on the ground, I stepped away from it and, lifting the gun to my shoulder, attempted to scope out the mostly likely area. I couldn't make out anything at the top of the cliff, it was too dark.

Pulling the trigger I sent the projectile, with rope attached, towards what I hoped was the top of the cliff.

"We should probably move in case I missed," I suggested mildly "what goes up..."

They scattered. A few minutes later, with no sign of the projectile's imminent return, we moved towards the rope dangling against the side of the cliff.

"Who goes first?" Montez asked.

"No one...yet," I replied pulling on the rope cautiously. There was some movement and then it seemed to catch. "You may want to move away...just in case."

"In case what?" Valdez questioned.

"Well, I'm about to put all my weight on this rope so..." I left the rest to their imaginations.

Glancing around, I noticed I was suddenly very unpopular and lonely. Even Valdez with his sketchy English understood what that meant and skedaddled.

Mentally crossing my fingers, I grabbed the rope as high as I could reach and picked my feet up off the ground.

Not for long...I could feel the rope give and I barely got out of the way before the clawed missile came screaming back down at me, landing on the ground almost exactly where I'd been standing.

"Now what?" Hondo asked mordantly.

"We try again."

Valdez and Montez volunteered to recoil the rope while I reloaded the gun. After three more attempts, the hook finally seemed anchored enough to hold one of us.

"Back to my original question...who goes first?" Montez queried.

"Valdez weighs the least, but I'm the youngest and the lowest ranking..." I began impassively, even though I'd been promoted to PFC before we'd begun the mission I was still low man on the totem pole.

Valdez was a Lance Corporal, Hondo a Corporal, and Montez held the rank of Sergeant.

"I go," Valdez agreed eagerly.

None of us argued. If anyone stood a chance of making it to the top, it was Valdez. He was at least thirty pounds lighter than Montez or Hondo and fifty pounds lighter than I was.

Furnishing him with a flashlight and an extra coil of rope along with his weapon, just in case, we assured him that his job was simply to reach the top and secure the rope for the rest of us.

Thankfully, Valdez made it up the side of the cliff without incident. I would have rather done it myself, hating the thought of being responsible for someone else's possible injuries, but Garrett had made his wishes known and had insisted that Valdez be the one, although I had allowed the others to think it was strictly voluntary...also per Garrett's orders.

I hated the deception, and I hated Garrett for putting me in that position.

Garrett was quickly becoming my least favorite person on the planet—probably because I was figuring out what made him tick and it wasn't pretty—and I decided that if I made it through the mission alive I would never volunteer to work with him again.

I'd originally thought that Valdez had been his choice to lead the climb and secure the rope because Valdez weighed less and was the most agile of the group. Plus, he had that whole death defying adrenaline junkie attitude going on. However, a comment Garrett made during my shoulder gun training led me to realize that the only reason he had insisted on Valdez was because, by that point, the skills Valdez brought to the mission would have already been utilized.

To Garrett that meant that Valdez was expendable. I wondered how long before all of us were.

1978

August

"Garrett didn't say nothin' 'bout us splittin' up," Hondo spat on the ground at Franklin's feet. Franklin, wisely, ignored the gesture.

"Do you see Garrett here?" Franklin asked sarcastically. "I'm in charge and I say we're getting nowhere fast. There's too much ground to cover. You will each take a section of Choco and report back here once a month until one of you finds him. Santos will instruct you and give you your assignments."

"Son of a..." Montez muttered as Franklin left the room.

As Santos outlined his plan to cover the whole department, I couldn't help but think that our search was too much like the proverbial needle in the haystack. Vasquez could be anywhere in Colombia and there was no way to be sure he was even still in Choco, but for some reason Franklin was convinced he was. Just like Garrett, we realized that Franklin knew more than he was telling.

The whole situation stunk to high heaven, but we were under orders and there was nothing we could do about it.

"...leave your equipment here," Santos was saying.

"What equipment," Montez asked suspiciously.

"You will maintain radio silence at all times so you won't need any communication equipment. If you find Vasquez, Franklin's orders are to shoot first and ask questions later. He won't be feeling very welcoming, and you'd be dead before you got within fifty feet of him. Then either make your way back here or get to a phone and call this number to leave your position, and we'll send someone to pick you up."

None of us said a word. Up to that point, our orders had been to locate him and radio it in; something had changed.

"Get a good night's sleep and in the morning Gomez will make sure you each get to your assigned areas..."

"No," Hondo broke in.

"What?"

"We leave now."

"Wait a minute..."

"Knight, let him have the communication equipment," Montez ordered.

"You can't just...come back here..."

Hondo moved towards the door and Valdez followed him. I unloaded my electronic equipment as ordered and caught up with them as they made the front porch.

"We know what we have to do and we'll check back in a month...as ordered," I heard Montez inform him as he brought up the rear.

We were out the front gate five seconds later; no one attempted to stop us.

After hiking for a couple of miles, Hondo doubled back to ascertain that we hadn't been followed and we hunkered down for a powwow.

"Garrett ordered us to bring him back alive and suddenly Franklin wants us to shoot to kill," Montez noted calmly. "Any thoughts...?"

"I ain't fond of Garrett, but Franklin's a dirt-bag," Hondo pronounced and spat on the ground...his normal MO when discussing Franklin.

"So, it's settled," Montez grinned, "We take Vasquez alive if possible. Well, I guess this is it, gentlemen. Hondo and I will head north from here and you two go south. I don't like being incommunicado, but I guess we don't have much choice so I say we all try to get back here as close to forty days as possible. That'll give Hondo and Knight a little extra time since they have further to travel."

"Franklin say a month," Valdez pointed out.

"Franklin can eat sh..."

"If he doesn't like it, he can come find us," Montez calmly interrupted Hondo.

"You think Franklin's hiding something," I spoke for the first time.

"My gut's telling me he is," Montez shrugged "but I have no hard proof," he admitted. "The whole setup here is suspicious. How is he able to maintain what amounts to an armed fortress in the middle of what I would consider hostile territory without repercussions?"

"Franklin's dirty," Hondo spat again in disgust.

I doubted Hondo even realized he was doing it.

"Maybe," Montez replied noncommittally "or maybe he's pretending to be dirty. I don't know. Damn Garrett and his secrecy. All I can say is don't turn your back on him or Santos because you might end up with a knife sticking out of it."

Right before we parted, Hondo murmured in my ear "Stay invisible and you might make it out of this godforsaken country alive."

I nodded and turned to join Valdez.

I knew why Hondo had singled me out. Montez and Valdez over the past few months had been all for blending into the towns in search of Vasquez, taking on the identity of a local, but Hondo had insisted we remain as ghosts, moving only at night and finding a place to hide and observe during the day.

Hondo was good at it, but I could tell that he held out very little hope that the other two would continue in that manner. He suspected that I would and had been uncharacteristically offering advice...good advice I planned to take.

Although Hondo was admittedly an odd character, and without doubt the most dangerous man I'd ever met, I respected him and had quietly learned as much as I could from him. It was beginning to dawn on me that Garrett hadn't selected him for his knowledge of explosives as much as his ability to track, blend into his surroundings, and remain undetected.

Hondo was the best chance we had of finding Vasquez. Even so, I still suspected that our chances were slim to none.

As we separated, I felt deserted and alone, and more than a little afraid. I was eighteen years old and stuck in a foreign country expected not only to survive, but also to find and apprehend or kill a dangerous traitor as well.

There were only two choices...quit or continue.

I headed south.

1979

March

Rain...rain...and more rain...I hated rain.

Almost a year and still no sign of the one thing we were looking for...the one person responsible for our continuous presence in the rainiest area of Colombia...and I was beginning to think Garrett had sent us on a wild goose chase; that Leandro Vasquez was simply a figment of his imagination.

Franklin hadn't wanted us there, but Garrett—not surprisingly—had ignored him and sent us in anyway.

I wished Franklin had been more persistent.

Although we periodically checked in for a sit-rep and replenishing of our supplies, I was way past tired of the C-Rations and LURPs Franklin furnished. That plus the fact that they took up way too much room in my pack and weighed me down forced me into finding my own food by fashioning a crude fishing line, foraging for wild fruit, and nabbing any small game available.

Thanks to Hondo—I'd watched him carefully the first couple of months before Franklin separated us—I had become extremely proficient at nailing a scurrying potential meal with my knife within a twenty foot radius and building small undetectable fires in order to avoid the whole raw meat thing.

He'd also taught me the art of invisibility—the man was a ghost...which he'd most likely picked up from his time in Vietnam—and I was definitely getting better at it.

Even though Montez outranked him, Hondo had been the undisputed leader those first few months, being the only one of us with wilderness survival skills, and we followed him unquestioningly.

I had observed him carefully, keeping my questions to myself realizing Hondo had no patience for that type of thing after my first query merely netted a "Ain't your wet-nurse," anxious to learn all I could from him even though I didn't realize at the time we would be forced to split up.

After months of failed attempts to ferret Vasquez out and Franklin's decision to have Santos assign each of us different areas of Choco to search—making sure we were incommunicado—I was worried how I would survive, but I was pleased I'd learned enough from Hondo to be able to subsist on my own.

Franklin still refused to comment on why he was so sure Vasquez hadn't left Choco, but he continually made it clear to us that he was in charge and we were simply minions sent to do his bidding with unquestioning loyalty. We had no way of contacting Garrett, which forced us into the undesirable position of having to follow Franklin's orders.

That didn't set well with any of us—we trusted Franklin less than Garrett—but we didn't have much choice.

As more months passed with no sign of our target, my frustrations mounted.

When Franklin split us up and confiscated our communications equipment, he effectively isolated us from each other. I knew he'd done that on purpose, but I still had no idea exactly why.

The last time I checked in, I discovered that Valdez was dead and we were down to three. The only thing I could get out of Santos, Franklin's sidekick, was that there was a woman, a jealous husband, and a broken bottle involved. Personally, I didn't believe it.

Although Valdez was indisputably the most irresponsible member of the team, there was no way that an enraged husband could have gained the upper hand...not against his training and certainly not with such a crude weapon. I kept my suspicions to myself, however, realizing I would get nowhere with Franklin or Santos, but I knew something was off.

After the first check in when we all deliberately returned at the same time, Franklin had Santos assign us different check in times, but after finding out about Valdez, I had hunkered down less than a klick away and waited for one of the others to show.

I managed to catch Montez before he made base, which was a residence belonging to one of Santos' many Colombian relatives, and explained about Valdez. We both agreed something was fishy, but all we could do was watch our backs and attempt to stay in touch.

Montez had 'gone native' and then some with his wild, unkempt, shoulder length hair and full shaggy beard reaching to his chest.

Although my facial hair would never be as full as his was due to my Native American background, and I had my rather massive head of hair pulled back into a ponytail, admittedly, I had no room to talk as I looked fairly disreputable myself.

He'd also somehow managed to procure one of the gaudiest ponchos I had ever seen under which he concealed numerous weaponry. The final touch, a huge sombrero that he intentionally pulled down low over his face in order to obscure it, completed his transformation into a Colombian national...albeit a somewhat scruffy Colombian national.

At least people would be inclined to keep their distance.

He'd found a 'senorita' and was using her as a cover—as well as other things which were not my business—and, giving me a phone number, instructed me to call and leave a message for Poncho with his 'friend' if I were to find myself in trouble.

I was to identify myself as Jorge and mention the meeting place casually in conversation and he and Hondo would be there. Apparently, they were managing to stay in contact somehow.

I had no way for him to communicate with me as I chose to remain hidden from public view, but I gave him a general idea of where I would be and what my search grid entailed and I knew Hondo would be able to track me down if they needed my help.

Although the meet with Montez reassured me somewhat, there were other frustrations not as easily dealt with that disturbed me greatly.

From the first, it was glaringly obvious that there were political struggles going on within Colombia. Choco...although admittedly the least populated of the departments...was one of the most important because of its strategic location, bordering the Pacific Ocean where we'd made landfall the previous April, as well as the Caribbean Sea and Panama. Ironically, it was also the poorest.

That particular part of Colombia was mostly rural and agricultural and, for decades, the people there had been independent, growing what they could to eke out a living—including coca leaves—that they used themselves.

However, I'd watched over the past year as two opposing groups fought over territorial rights to control the area in order to force the locals into growing more and more coca leaves and marijuana, taking what they wanted from them with very little if any reimbursement.

Whole pickup loads of armed men made the rounds as they used intimidation to ensure the cooperation of the poor farmers, threatening them and their families, and I could do nothing about it.

Although most of the cocaine paste used up to that point filtered into Colombia from Bolivia and Peru, the Colombian drug traffickers had been building labs throughout Colombia to refine the Cocaine. Each of the groups were apparently interested in making the Choco area their own special supply of coca leaves thereby relieving them of the necessity of having to ship the paste in from other countries.

The maddening part was I knew where the labs in that part of Colombia were, even the new ones under construction—after almost a year of methodically searching the area I would have been hard put not to know—and there was no doubt in my mind that most of the cocaine was making its way into my own country, but I couldn't do a damn thing about it.

According to Franklin, drugs were not our mission or our business.

As if that wasn't exasperating enough, even though I'd fought it, I'd become a stalker of sorts. Sure, I was supposed to be stalking Vasquez, but not a Nun, of all things. My self-disgust knew no bounds, but I couldn't seem to help myself.

Within the past week, I'd discovered a monastery, semi-hidden on the edge of the rainforest not too far from an obscure and, as far as I could tell unnamed, village. The huge old building housed a small group of Nuns whose main mission in life was to ease not only the spiritual, but physical suffering of the local inhabitants as well as others who found their way to the monastery.

I'd climbed a strategically placed tree so I could see over the walls, thinking that was exactly where I'd go to hide if I were someone like Vasquez greatly in need of indiscriminate help, the very definition of the word catholic, and I'd watched for days without seeing any sign of him. Regrettably, I had seen something else which, to my extreme mortification, interested me greatly.

Inside the enclosure there were a few small buildings scattered around the courtyard area. Interspersed among the buildings was a water well, a cow that spent most of its days under a lean-to type of structure in an obvious attempt to avoid the rain, and some chickens in a tiny coup.

Also inside the courtyard was a fenced in, beautifully kept vegetable garden, but what interested me most was the gardener.

Somehow she seemed...familiar, but I couldn't figure out what it was at first. I knew I'd never seen her before, but there was...something...

All of the Nuns had been to the village at one time or another, rendering aid and caring for the sick, swathed from head to toe in the usual garb, but inside the courtyard one young woman frequently appeared in jeans and a cotton blouse her thick sandy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail as she tended the garden...and she was beautiful.

Even though I realized my attraction to her was most likely the result of my year long enforced isolation, I couldn't seem to stop watching her. Every morning and evening at exactly the same time I'd be up in the tree awaiting her arrival and it wasn't long before I could spot her in the village, even at a great distance and wrapped from head to toe in the required costume, simply by the way she moved.

I dreaded finishing my recon in the area because I knew I would have no excuse to stay, and I didn't want to leave her. Calling myself all kinds of a fool didn't seem to help. As I watched her interact with the children in the village, I desperately wanted to...I didn't even know or want to admit what I wanted from her...she was a Nun for crying out loud.

I admitted to myself that I was lonely...something I never thought I would be...and I tried to convince myself all I wanted to do was talk to her...to any decent human being...but I knew that I was kidding myself, that what I wanted from her was something I'd never wanted from any woman before.

I realized that nothing like that was ever going to happen—she could never know I was there—but that didn't stop the physical ache inside of me.

After a few days of spying on her it dawned on me...she reminded me of Mrs. Ramirez. Of course, I'd never had any fantasies about Mrs. Ramirez, she'd been more like a mother to me than anything else, but the way she interacted with the people in the small village, especially the children, was so reminiscent of how kind and loving Mrs. Ramirez had been that I felt an unaccustomed lump in my throat as I watched the woman.

My life had been so empty, devoid of any type of close relationship for the two years since I'd lost Tony and his wife, that it had left me wide open to the pain and yearning I was experiencing. I tried to stifle my churning emotions, making plans to leave the area as soon as my recon was completed, but with no success. I wasn't sure I would be able to leave.

Eventually I began dozing in the tree—I had to sleep somewhere—in between her visits to the garden during the day, since my nights were taken up with recon.

On the third day of tree-sleeping, having overslept and cursing the lost hours of darkness, I was about to shimmy down the trunk when out of the corner of my eye I detected movement inside the enclosure.

Pulling out my night vision glasses, I focused on the spot where I'd noticed the activity. I was just barely in time to see a figure disappearing into one of the small stone enclosures, possibly a storage building of some sort, a woven basket hung over one arm, the contents of which were covered with a small cloth, possibly a napkin, reminiscent of young girl setting out for a picnic.

A glance at my watch informed me that it was 0130...strange time for a picnic.

Keeping my glasses trained on the building, I was rewarded as fifteen minutes later the same figure exited the building, glancing around furtively before heading to the main structure, still carrying the basket, which had obviously been emptied, the cloth crumpled on the bottom.

The young woman had a secret and the same gut feeling that had drawn me to that place was telling me that Vasquez had found a bleeding heart and was capitalizing on it; either that or he was holding them hostage.

The girl's demeanor seemed to suggest the former, but I wasn't ready to rule out the latter until I could assess the situation.

I needed to get inside that building.

The rain had thankfully let up—it usually poured all afternoon and evening and on into the night until 0 dark thirty, but seemed to slow down after that—which was probably why she'd picked that time to take her 'guest' his food. I had no doubt that was exactly what she'd been doing, but I'd been gone by then all of the other nights and therefore failed to catch it.

My excessive weariness was the sole reason I'd seen it...I'd had trouble sleeping, thinking about the woman entirely too much during the day, hoping she would put in an extra appearance and not willing to miss it, and I'd simply overslept.

That certainly wouldn't be going into my report...if I ever returned home to make one.

After surveying the area, I slid down the tree in which I'd been perched and swiftly shimmied up the one closest to the eight foot stone wall, crawling out onto a thick branch and lowering myself to the top of the fence. From there it was a simple thing to drop noiselessly to the ground.

The animals ignored me—obviously used to humans, not that I smelled remotely like one—as I moved silently and swiftly to the door of the building the woman had just exited.

Drawing my Colt and my flashlight, I pushed the door open swiftly and silently, eyeing the contents of the room...empty. The only things visible were old wooden crates filled with various pieces of junk.

Flitting the beam over the bulkheads and deck, I noticed bits of dried mud on the floorboards. Because of the constant rain and the lack of any type of walkway, it would be extremely difficult to hide a trail and the girl didn't strike me as someone who would be accustomed to that type of thing, and so she had made a huge blunder.

I followed the mud to a couple of wooden crates in a hidden corner of the room and attempted to remove the obstacles assuming a door of some sort was beneath them, but as I lifted crates—having holstered my Colt as well as my flashlight—the hinged floor beneath moved with them.

Quickly I replaced the crates, which appeared to be empty, effectively closing the trapdoor attached to them.

I wasn't sure how long it would have taken me to figure it out if I hadn't had the mud to follow, but I was fairly certain I would have made a lot of noise doing it and alerted whoever was residing beneath the building well before I could have gotten the drop on him.

Drawing my weapon once more, I cautiously opened the hinged trap door. Peering carefully into the dark hold below I couldn't make out anything but, feeling around the opening, I discovered a vertical ladder attached to the side.

Opting to use the cover of darkness rather than producing my flashlight, I stepped onto the ladder and as I disappeared into the hole, grabbed the conveniently placed handle on the bottom side of the trap door with the same hand that held my Colt, and pulled it shut after me.

I was halfway down when the ladder creaked under my right foot, and I heard the scrape of a match as a flame flared below me. I froze.

"Did you forget something, Senora?" a slightly accented voice asked curiously, as I heard the hissing of a kerosene lantern.

Quickly descending the last half of the ladder, I moved towards the light drawing my flashlight and pointing the Colt as well as my own beam into the eyes of the man reclining on a makeshift bed, a brightly covered blanket thrown over him.

"Did you forget something?" I asked pleasantly, recognizing Vasquez from the pictures Garrett had shown us before we left the states. "Like whose side you're on?"

Vasquez did not answer immediately as he studied me, apparently unconcerned with the weapon in my hand.

"You are military," he noted idly examining my worn camos "Marine...yes."

"Yes," I acknowledged, unmoving.

"I must ask myself, what is a U.S. Marine doing in the middle of a country rife with political unrest and the beginnings of a drug war and the answer, my friend, would seem to be self-evident," he paused. "Who sent you to find me?"

"The U.S. Government."

"That does not tell me much."

"The CIA," I replied between clenched teeth.

Vasquez's reaction was not what I expected and his unruffled exterior took me aback. I decided he was trying to throw me off in order to gain the upper hand, and I tightened my grip on my pistol.

"Hmm...yes...that I managed to surmise on my own, but who in the CIA?"

"Why does it matter?"

"It matters, I can assure you...senor...I must know."

"Garrett," I replied shortly.

"Ah..." he grinned, "in that case I would like to surrender to you."

"I don't think you have much of a choice," my lips twisted sardonically.

"I am not sure how to tell you this without risking a bullet in my brain as well as hurting your feelings, but I have a submachine gun under my blanket, which you are now welcome to confiscate," he offered almost apologetically.

"A sub..." I broke off, unsure what to do next, cursing my stupidity in not realizing that was why his right hand had remained covered up.

"I assure you my finger no longer touches the trigger, so please to relax yours while I uncover myself, and you may take possession of it."

I nodded, unsure what else to do, as Vasquez slowly uncovered his concealed weapon.

"You see that I could have killed you, yet I did not," he laughed. "I will set this on the floor...see...two fingers only," he demonstrated as he grasped the end of the handle "and then you will relax and no one is hurt."

"Why didn't you shoot me?"

"Because you are one of the good guys," he grinned again, "even though you do not wear a white hat."

"But you aren't," I pointed out "and you know I have to take you back to be tried as a traitor."

"I want you to take me back, but to Garrett, not Franklin."

"Why not Franklin?"

"Because unlike you and me...Franklin is a very bad man."

"How do you know?"

"If I may ask...what were Garrett's orders for my recovery?"

"He wanted you alive...he said you were no good to him dead."

"And Franklin...what did he want?"

"He contended that Garrett was out of touch with the realities here and that we were to shoot first and ask questions afterwards."

"And yet you did not shoot me on sight."

"Garrett's orders supersede Franklin's...all of us agreed."

"There are more of you?"

"Yep," I answered noncommittally.

Once again I wondered if he had purposely allowed me to get the upper hand simply so he could extract information from me.

"Does Garrett know about Franklin being dirty?"

"I could only communicate with Garrett through Franklin, so..." he shrugged.

I was silent as I digested the possibilities.

He sighed heavily "I can see that still you do not trust me."

"Nope."

"I do not blame you...but I hope to gain your trust eventually. For now, I will settle for you lowering your weapon so we may talk. You are upsetting the Senora and I am certain she has no wish for you to injure one she has worked so diligently to save."

I spun around towards the ladder and then moved back until I was up against the wall and could see both directions, keeping my weapon centered on Vasquez.

"Leandro, who is he?" the Senora asked in Spanish.

"He is a Marine...one of the white hats you talk about...everything will be fine now," he reassured her in English.

"Then why is he pointing a gun at you?"

"Because I have not had time to explain," he replied reasonably. "Come...sit in your accustomed chair by the bed. I fear he will suffer whiplash attempting to watch both of us and, although I am the more dangerous adversary, I am sure he would prefer to watch you."

I could feel the redness creeping up my neck wondering whether he was just guessing or if he somehow knew.

"Please to take a chair...what shall we call you?"

"Private First Class Jack Knight," I answered automatically in a staccato voice.

"That is a mouthful, and rather formal under the circumstances so I believe we shall just call you Jack," he stated decisively.

I grimaced.

"Senor Jack...?" he suggested hopefully. "And perhaps you could lower your weapon...there are women present...well, one woman."

"Tell your story...then we'll see."

"Perhaps I should just show him...eh...Senora Stanton," he suggested grinning wickedly as the Senora moved to sit in the chair strategically placed by the foot of the bed.

I frowned and moved closer, gun aligned with his forehead as he removed the blanket from the rest of his body.

If I hadn't been so well trained I would have gasped at the sight. His whole left leg was gone.

"Not so pretty," he admitted with a fatalistic shrug. "Senora Stanton did not like having to do it...but she had no choice."

"You did that?" I asked attempting to keep the horror out of my voice.

"He'd been shot multiple times and by the time he made it here, it was too late to save his leg," she replied defensively. "There was nothing else I could do."

"Who shot you?" I demanded of Vasquez.

"The bullet was courtesy of the Mendoza brothers; they did not take kindly to my...defection. They of course were hoping to take me alive and therefore aimed at my legs. Thankfully, they only managed to hit one of them."

"What happened?"

"Two years ago, when the Mendoza brothers first began gaining power, Garrett sent me in undercover. I joined their ranks and managed to work my way up to a trusted position. I was closing in on the...er...target...when Franklin broke into the scene a little over a year ago. My handler had been killed and Franklin took over. Suddenly things began to go wrong, badly wrong, and I began to suspect Franklin was dirty, but had no way of proving it."

I noticed his pronounced accent was lessening and suddenly began to realize what being undercover in a foreign country actually meant. I'd only had to eavesdrop on conversations and stay out of sight, but he'd had to interact daily without standing out.

"So what happened a year ago?"

"My information was becoming useless to Garrett, the Mendoza brothers were always one step ahead of him, and I knew my cover had been blown. The only thing in my favour was the fact that neither Franklin nor the brothers knew that I knew so I made one last gamble and broke into their office safe to steal this."

He pulled a type of ledger out from under his mattress and attempted to hand it to me.

"What is it?" I asked ignoring the book, refusing to lower my weapon.

"I believe it to be copies of ship manifests."

"What was being shipped?"

"I have not been able to decipher it, as that is not my area of expertise. I do know it is important, the brothers were not happy when they discovered it missing, and I believe it is what Garrett is after."

"Which is...?"

"If he has not told you, I cannot and if you know Garrett as you claim, you will understand why."

Flipping off my flashlight and stowing it, I reached toward Vasquez and grasped the book in my left hand.

Glancing around the room, I noticed a couple of wooden crates similar to the ones topside and I made my way over to them asking idly "So how did you find your way here?"

"The Mendoza brothers have...interests...in the area..."

"Yeah, I noticed," I interrupted shortly as I made myself comfortable on the crates tucking my colt into my waistband for easy access in case Vasquez tried anything. "Coca leaves with a dash of marijuana thrown into the mix for good measure."

"I've spent quite a bit of time here and became acquainted with Senora Stanton," he explained smiling tenderly at her. "I knew she was an American and a nurse and could be trusted."

"You're American?" I glanced at her sharply.

"Si...yes..." she corrected herself. "There is no doctor anywhere close so..."

"How long have you been here?" I asked as I took out my flashlight and turned the beam as well as my eyes towards the ledger.

"Two years give or take a few months," she supplied softly.

"I owe the Senora my life," Vasquez offered simply.

I felt jealousy tearing through me at the way he looked at her, but stifled it immediately realizing I had more important things to worry about. Flipping through the book in what I hoped appeared to be a casual manner while keeping part of my attention trained on Vasquez I was silent as I attempted to concentrate on memorizing each page while not appearing to do so. If it was as important as Vasquez seemed to think, I knew there was a very real possibility that it might not ever make it to Garrett, and having it in my head would give us an edge no one else knew about.

"So our goal is to get you and your prized possession to Garrett in one piece..." at Senora Stanton's snort of disgust I realized what I had said and muttered "sorry...poor choice of words."

Vasquez however laughed delightedly.

"I think I like you," he pronounced good-naturedly. "So what is the plan?"

~ * * ~

"Are you sure Leandro will be alright?"

"We don't have a choice," I replied brusquely. "We can't take him with us."

"I know...I just..." she broke off, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Do you have a better idea?"

I knew I was being too rough on Senora Stanton, but I was sorely disappointed that she was not only married, albeit separated—the sisters had insisted she pretend to be a nun for her own protection—but obviously had developed such a strong attachment to her patient that she couldn't bear to be separated from him.

"No," she admitted reluctantly "but he only has one leg..."

"Yeah that kinda stood out to me."

"Not funny."

"Are you staying or going?"

"Going..." she whispered.

"Then if you don't mind, I'm in a hurry."

She nodded silently and I turned away from the outer stone wall, moving quickly and silently into the rainforest, tempering my speed to allow her to keep up.

We had a long hike ahead of us and depending on how well she traveled, might end up even taking two whole days. I cursed the luck that had forced her presence on me.

Valerie, as I had taken to calling her in my mind, not only knew the area well, but was well-known by just about everyone, and had informed me that the nearest available phone was quite a distance away in the house of an American missionary and his wife who lived on the edge of the closest established town.

She would have attempted to get help through them before I arrived, but Vasquez wouldn't allow it, refusing to put her or anyone else in harm's way any more than he already had. He was also unsure who could be trusted.

I would have gone alone, but I needed Valerie to make the call to Montez so I could remain invisible, besides the fact that they knew her and I wasn't exactly...presentable...at the moment. Vasquez and I both agreed that to send her alone was unthinkable.

Vasquez had enough ammo to survive a small assault thanks to the Mendoza's weapon cabinet and supply closet, which he had broken into before escaping with the ledger, as well as food to last him five days, compliments of Senora Stanton, if he was careful.

I hoped it was enough: we weren't leaving much leeway for the unexpected.

~ * * ~

"Um...Private...er...Jack..."

"What?" I asked shortly without turning around, intent on finishing the crude shelter I was constructing.

"I need to...you know..."

"Five paces that way," I pointed towards an opening between two trees. "Don't lose sight of the camp."

I felt her hesitation before she tentatively began, "I didn't think to bring...I don't suppose you have any..."

"That's what leaves are for."

I heard her irate huff as she stomped off in the direction I indicated.

Although I wouldn't have admitted it to her, I'd developed a grudging respect for her during our all night trek, never complaining or asking for a break, understanding the urgency of the situation, which was why I was wasting valuable time and energy building her a shelter.

Unlike me, she wasn't used to sleeping in the rain and if the day ran true to form, it would be pouring by the afternoon. I also had no intention of allowing her close enough to me to cause me physical discomfort so sheltering her myself was out of the question.

She returned and I hid my amusement as I noticed her attempt to give me the cold shoulder.

Eventually her curiosity got the better of her and she stood behind me watching as I finished up the lean-to type watershed I was building.

"What are you making?"

"A shelter."

"It's not very big."

"Doesn't have to be."

"We won't have much room."

"Only has to house one person."

"It's for me?"

"Don't see anyone else around."

"That's very kind of you."

"Yeah, kind is my middle name," I replied sarcastically. "Grab some of that greenery over there and spread it out underneath the shelter. Then I suggest you get some shuteye. Tonight won't be any easier than last night was."

"What about you?"

"I'll be dozing nearby."

"No, I mean why would you build a shelter just for me?"

"Do you have to question everything?"

"Usually."

"Have you ever slept in a deluge?"

"No..."

"I don't think you want to start now, besides the fact that I can't afford for you to get sick. We have a long way to go."

"Aren't you afraid you'll get sick?"

"No."

"But..."

"If you aren't gonna sleep, we'll just keep moving."

"Fine...I'm going."

"If you hear any noises, remain perfectly still," I warned. "I'll be close by and will deal with it."

"What do you mean...what kind of noises?" she asked in alarm.

"Go to sleep," I ordered.

"But if I..."

"Now!"

"Sir, yes sir!" she saluted mockingly and, crouching down slid under the crude shelter I'd built.

I had to admire her spunk even while she exasperated me.

Shimmying up a nearby tree, I made myself comfortable and settled in for the first sleep I'd had in over twenty-four hours, one ear as always pricked for any unusual sounds.

~ * * ~

"Jack...Jack...Jack!" the frantic whispering finally penetrated my consciousness.

Instantly awake and alert, I glanced down in the dimming light and could make out Valerie's panicked figure moving from tree to tree whispering into the darkness.

"Jack, where are you?"

"Damn," I muttered under my breath, she wasn't even wearing her raincoat even though it was pouring.

Sliding down from my perch I turned and collided with the frightened, half-drowned figure who grasped the front of my jacket with shaking fingers demanding angrily "Where have you been? I thought you'd left me...I called and you didn't answer..."

"I'm here now," I broke in, disengaging her hands roughly. "I told you to stay out of the rain."

"Yeah you tell me a lot of things, but you never explain anything," she accused "like why you only built the shelter for one...or where you were planning to be...or...?"

"Could you at least put your raincoat on?" I asked resignedly. "Or is that too much like telling you?"

Turning on her heel, she stormed angrily towards the shelter. I followed and attempted to assist her as she donned her coat, but she shrugged me off irately.

"Why did you take it off in the first place?"

"I was using it as a blanket," she returned defensively "but I was...worried...when I woke up and couldn't find you and didn't think to put it back on."

I crouched down beside the shelter as I shrugged out of my pack and fished out a C-Ration, placing it on the amazingly dry ground under the impromptu shelter.

"What's that?" she asked suspiciously in my ear startling me.

"Food," I answered shortly picking up my pack and withdrawing quickly to a safe distance.

"Will you stay here with me?" she asked tentatively, all traces of anger gone from her voice.

"No room."

"I'll make room," she moved as far over to one side as she could, her legs sticking out into the rain. "Please," she pleaded softly.

Sighing heavily I dropped my pack to the ground next to the shelter and slid my upper body into the small space.

"Thank you."

I grunted noncommittally.

"That's a lot of food," she eyed the cans doubtfully. "I'm not really that hungry."

"Pick a can," I ordered. "We won't stop to eat once we get going and I don't want you fainting on me."

"Do you dislike all women, or is it just me?"

"I don't dislike you."

"You're giving a very good imitation of it then."

"Which can?"

"What?" she blinked in confusion at my change of subject.

"Which can do you want?" I asked as patiently as I could manage.

"Surprise me," she answered dismissively. "Is it that you don't trust me?"

"I trust you fine," I replied curtly. "Here," I pulled the lid off of some weird looking meat like substance "I think it's supposed to be turkey loaf or something," I wrinkled my nose as I handed it to her along with the spoon I'd uncovered.

She tentatively took a bite and then commented "It's not as bad as it looks...do you want some?"

"No thanks," I attempted not to shudder.

"So you're making me eat but you aren't going to."

"I ate...yesterday," I couldn't keep the humour from creeping into my voice.

She laughed, "Well I guess you're good for at least another week then."

There was silence as she finished the can.

"I guess you're tired of...what did you call it...C-Rations."

"Pretty much," I agreed.

"So I'm guessing by your long hair you've been in Colombia more than a month," she continued conversationally.

"Something like that," I hedged. "So why did you choose Colombia? I'm sure you could have gone anywhere and been welcome with your medical knowledge and skills."

"A friend of mine from nursing school was here, but got sick and had to return to the states," she explained. "I was temporarily taking her place, but she developed complications and died...and so I stayed."

"Cutting off his leg must have been hard."

"It was the single hardest thing I've ever done in my life, and I was scared to death, afraid I wouldn't be able to stop the bleeding and..." she broke off and I could hear the tears in her voice.

I wanted nothing more at that moment than to have the right to take her in my arms and comfort her, but I was worried that if I touched her, I wouldn't be able to stop...besides the fact that I smelled worse than a sewer.

Abruptly I slid out of the shelter and as I straightened I instructed brusquely, "Finish eating, use the...facilities...and we'll get started."

"Bossy," I heard her mutter under her breath as I headed into the forest to use the 'facilities' myself.

~ * * ~

"Okay, repeat the phone number and message back to me."

Rolling her eyes, Valerie mimicked back everything I'd said in a longsuffering tone.

"Do not mention me or anything about..."

"Leandro..." she broke in, impatiently. "I know...I know. Regardless of your obvious impression of me, I am not an idiot."

"I've never thought you were an idiot."

"Well you act like I am."

"That is not my intention."

"What are your intentions, then?"

"To get all of us back to the states alive."

"You mean you and Leandro."

"I mean all of us," I contradicted. "You don't think your little contribution to Vasquez's survival will go unnoticed, do you? The Mendoza brothers don't appear to me to be the forgiving type."

"What about the nuns? Do you think they'll be...?" she began fearfully.

"Go make the call," I interrupted as gently as I could, urging her out onto the dirt path that led to the house.

I watched her go with mixed feelings; on the one hand I hated to leave her behind, but on the other I was relieved I would no longer be subjected to the myriad of desires that had been plaguing my whole body since the first time I'd laid eyes on her.

She would be angry of course, when she returned to our temporary hiding place and discovered I was gone, but it was for the best. I knew she would be safer with the Goff family than with Vasquez and me; he was a ticking time bomb...come to think of it, we both were.

Eventually they would all have to be evacuated, the Goff's included—the country was unstable at best—but for the time being I hoped they would be safe enough.

For the return trip, I'd planned a slightly different route to take me back to the monastery in the unlikely event we'd been followed, so I veered towards the left taking me further east than our original track.

It would take me a bit longer, and could have been considered paranoid, but I had an important mission to complete and would rather be paranoid and alive than trusting and dead.

As I left the area, I determinedly pushed all thoughts of Valerie out of my head.

I had done the right thing.

Small comfort.

~ * * ~

With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I knew what the pickup in front of the monastery meant: the Mendoza brothers or, at the very least, their thugs.

The good news: I only saw one pickup.

The bad news: I'd seen how they could pack men with guns in the backend like armed sardines and there could be anywhere upwards of twelve to fifteen of them in the monastery.

Even as I debated what to do, I heard a scream from inside which was quickly stifled, and a man exited the monastery, got into the pickup, and moved it through the gates, closing them securely behind him. Apparently, they hadn't been there for long.

I had to figure out something and quickly, but I was alone and didn't know when or if Montez and Hondo would arrive...very possibly a week.

The nuns didn't have that much time.

I had to think...rushing in guns blazing wouldn't do any good...think...think...think...a plan...that was what I needed...and to formulate a plan I had to see inside. The courtyard......of course...that was as good a place to start as any, plus it offered me an entry point into the monastery.

As I crept stealthily towards the tree, which I'd used as a lookout post as well as 'home' what suddenly seemed eons ago, I was pulled up short by the flare of a match.

There was a sentry.

Realizing I only had a short window of opportunity, the guard temporarily blinded by the flickering flame, I quickly and silently moved around behind him and a grab and a twist later removed the cigarette from the immobile lips stubbing it out under foot as I lowered him quietly to the ground,.

As I drug him away from the wall to hide his body, I felt sick to my stomach. I'd just killed my first man.

I took two steps away from him and doubled over with the dry heaves that I couldn't seem to control, thankful I hadn't eaten in over twelve hours as that would have left evidence of my existence. I was fairly certain the guard I'd killed wouldn't be the only one.

In one part of my mind, I realized that sooner or later I would have to deal with the fact that I'd killed a fellow human being and all the ramifications of that. I chose later. At the moment the nuns, obviously being held hostage, were the overriding priority, and I couldn't allow myself to dwell on what I'd done.

Pulling myself together, I continued to reconnoiter the perimeter and ascertained that there was only one other sentry. The two of them were apparently circling the enclosure no doubt waiting for something or someone. I had to assume that it was me they were expecting and that meant I'd been had and Montez and Hondo would not be coming.

The way I saw it there were two possibilities: number one—I had been careless and hadn't realized I'd been under surveillance the whole time I was searching for Vasquez, I didn't believe that, or number two—Montez and/or Hondo had either turned traitor or been betrayed themselves.

Whatever the case, I couldn't wait around for help that in all probability would never materialize.

After dispatching the second sentry in the same manner as the first and hastily hiding him, I heard a spurt of automatic gunfire coming from the courtyard and I froze.

Another burst brought me to my senses and had me running flat out towards my tree perch, scrambling up quickly with heart pounding so loudly I was sure the men in the courtyard below would hear it.

The flashlights the men were holding were the only form of illumination in the courtyard and I fumbled in my pack for my night vision glasses.

I made four men, two covering the storage building where Vasquez was hiding, their flashlights as well as their guns trained on the doorway, and one illuminating the fourth man who was holding a woman hostage in front of him, knife at her throat.

With shock, I realized it was Valerie.

I should have known she wouldn't give up that easily.

"I want that book, Vasquez," Valerie's captor yelled in Spanish. "I have your pretty Senora, she has touchingly returned to you, but sadly you seem to value the book more than you do her."

There was silence.

"When I finish with her I will give her to my men," he warned. "I wonder how pretty she will be after ten men have had their fun. We might have to kill her in order to put her out of her misery."

Two down and eight maybe nine to go depending on whether he was counting himself as one of the ten, which I doubted. Leaders seldom identified themselves with their followers so I had to assume I had nine more to contend with. That meant five more in the building with the nuns.

"I'll be back once I have enjoyed the delights of her body," he began backing towards the entrance to the main building taking Valerie with him.

"Let her go, Sanchez," a voice commanded from inside the storage building. "This has nothing to do with her."

Valerie must have arrived shortly before or after I had, because by the tone of Vasquez's voice, he was as surprised to see her as I was. Somehow, she had secured a vehicle because other than a quick meal many hours ago and few water breaks, I hadn't stopped to rest the whole trip back to the monastery, and I knew she couldn't have made that kind of time on foot.

"The book...my friend...throw it out on the ground and you and your woman may yet live to see another sunrise."

Training my glasses on the doorway, I could see the tip of Vasquez's submachine gun peeking out. Realizing that type of weapon was just as likely to kill the innocent bystanders as the enemy and knowing Vasquez wouldn't want to risk hitting Valerie, I quickly reached into my pack and pulled out my night scope calmly fixing it to my weapon.

As I worked, I saw the ledger fly out of the building and land on the ground a few feet from one of the men who, in turn, swiftly snatched it up and headed towards the main building...the other man on his six.

Sanchez halted them and ordered the man carrying the ledger to open it. After a cursory examination, he curtly nodded and the two men entered the monastery taking the ledger with them.

"You've got what you came for now scurry back to your boss like a good little dog for your reward," Vasquez mocked.

I wasn't sure antagonizing Sanchez was the way to go, but then I realized that Vasquez would never have given up the ledger so easily without an ace in the hole and was obviously counting on the fact that if Valerie was there, I would be, too.

Armed with that knowledge, and knowing Sanchez apparently better than he wanted to, he must have figured that taunting him would make him careless and perhaps give me an opening.

If I could take Sanchez down first, Valerie would be freed and could possibly make it to the storage building while I took out the second man, well before any of the other men could make it into the courtyard.

They would to all intents and purposes be leaderless and that would definitely work to our advantage.

The only problem was the knife at Valerie's throat. Would Sanchez spasm and injure...possibly even kill...Valerie as my bullet entered his skull? I futilely racked my brain for another option, but I knew there wasn't one.

Flattening myself on the branch, I steadied my weapon, lining up my sights on Sanchez's forehead which was proving to be an easy target—Sanchez obviously thought he was totally in control of the situation and wasn't shielding himself with his hostage as he should have...as I would have if I'd been in his position—watching for the right moment.

"I've waited a long time to bring you down, Vasquez, but now I make you wait and imagine all of the things I do to your woman," Sanchez laughed, cruelly digging his knife into Valerie's throat as she gasped. "After that, I kill you...slowly."

I squeezed off the shot and Sanchez fell backwards away from Valerie, his knife dropping from his lifeless fingers, clattering on the stones at their feet. Ignoring everything else but the second man, I swiftly acquired him in my sights and he took my next slug straight through the heart.

Inside the monastery, I could hear shouts of confusion and I picked off the first two men coming through the doorway, guns drawn, while it slowly dawned on the rest of them that the courtyard had suddenly become a shooting gallery with them as the sitting ducks.

There were no more attempts to make it out through the doorway, and a few moments later I heard an engine turn over.

Cursing my stupidity, I slung the M16 over my shoulder, and made it to the ground in record time, speeding towards the front gates of the monastery. As I rounded the corner, rifle to my shoulder, I watched as the pickup made the corner and the taillights disappeared behind into the trees.

"There goes the ledger," I grumbled then realized the gates were wide open and I wasn't one hundred percent sure that all of the men were gone.

Keeping my weapon raised and ready, I began to move through the monastery, searching for any sign that some of the men had stayed behind. I didn't think it probable, with their leader dead they were all probably scared witless, but I wasn't about to take any chances.

As I reached the main hall, I heard muffled cries and peering into the room from the shadows, I discovered the nuns tied up and gagged.

Unwilling to be seen, I left them there and moved quickly towards where I imagined the exit leading to the courtyard would be, carefully checking out every door so I wouldn't miss it.

I needn't have worried...it was the only door blocked open by dead bodies.

Stepping over them and averting my eyes from the bloody scene I'd orchestrated, I made straight for the storage building.

The door was closed and realizing the couple inside would not know who was attempting to enter I called softly,

"Vasquez...? Don't shoot, I'm coming in," as I cautiously pushed the door open.

"Took you long enough," the figure on the floor joked weakly.

"What happened?" I asked harshly as I knelt beside Valerie who was working feverishly to stop the bleeding from the gaping hole in his gut.

"Put your hand here and hold it down firmly," she ordered as she placed my hand on the blood soaked cloth covering his abdomen. "I'll be right back."

As I watched, she hastily pulled up the trapdoor and disappeared into the hole.

"The ledger...it is gone," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, looks like it."

"I have failed," Vasquez breathed heavily. "Tell...Garrett...I am sorry."

"You didn't fail," I contradicted in a low tone. "It's all up here," I tapped the side of my head.

"In your head?" he asked bewildered. "How...?"

"I have a photographic memory," I admitted, unwilling to let him die thinking he had been a failure. "No one else knows, so maybe I can get it to Garrett safely."

"Smart...mi amigo...tell the dying man," he chuckled faintly his feeble laugh turning into a cough as blood trickled out of his mouth.

"That seems to be my MO."

Valerie returned with a box of medical supplies and the brilliantly coloured blanket from the bed down below and as she squatted down beside him, attempting to cover him, he took her hand and held it.

"You must do something...for me."

"Of course," she replied immediately.

"Take this..." he handed her a crumpled piece of paper he'd been hiding in his hand.

"What is it?"

"My sister...half-sister...I told you..." he wheezed.

"I remember," Valerie replied softly, tears shimmering in her eyes.

"Garrett doesn't know...his operatives...no families...never told him...tell her I...love...her," he gasped.

"You can tell her yourself," Valerie insisted with false bravado.

"It is...too late...for me...Querida...you must..." his voice faded as he took one last weak breath and was still.

There was silence and then Valerie reached over and closed his eyes as quiet sobs escaped her.

As I took a secure grip on her elbow pulling her up off the floor, she attempted to resist, grasping the blanket as if it was a lifeline.

"We have to leave...now," I murmured firmly, realizing she needed time to grieve, but unable to give it to her. "Mendoza's men will most likely be returning in force shortly, and we need to be gone."

"But the sisters..."

"...will be fine as long as we leave them tied up and we aren't here when they get back," I finished for her as I drug her across the courtyard towards the main building.

"But..."

"I doubt even Mendoza's men would dare to harm a nun. Do you have any paperwork?" I asked as I carefully lifted her over the dead men still blocking the doorway.

"Paperwork...?" she repeated dazedly, seemingly unable to take her eyes off the bodies.

"Something to prove you're an American?"

"In my room..."

"Go get it...quickly...and anything else you need to take with you as long as it fits in a small bag," I took the blanket from her, dropping it on the floor, and pushed her towards the stairs. "Meet me at the front gate."

Moving swiftly back out into the courtyard, I knelt down beside each of the men, relieving them of the money in their pockets—they wouldn't miss it—and stuffing it all into a small compartment of my pack.

Most of them were carrying very little, a few coins, Mendoza probably picked up cheap labour wherever he could find it, but Sanchez had quite a bankroll of peso oro on him, no surprise there, the surprise was that there were 1000 peso oro notes along with the 200 peso oro ones. I had overheard the locals discussing the rumour that they were in the offing but had never seen one, wasn't even sure they had been officially released.

Making a spur-of-the-moment decision, I peeled off the larger notes and stuffed them back into Sanchez's pockets, keeping only the smaller ones. No need to draw undue attention to ourselves; there were plenty of small bills to get us where we were going.

Entering the storage building, I had a momentary twinge of regret at not being able to take Vasquez's body back to the states for burial, but I stifled it. Vasquez was past caring and when Mendoza's men returned, which was an almost certainty, the only way to ensure the safety of the nuns was to leave the evidence of his death. They had the ledger and the spy was dead; I was fairly certain they would be content with that and leave the monastery as well as the women strictly alone.

Franklin, however, would be a different matter. He knew I existed and it was very possible he knew about Valerie if it was, as I suspected, her phone call that had somehow tipped him off.

They would be coming after me.

Rummaging through the medical kit Valerie had produced from down below, I filled every empty space in my pack with the medical supplies and after stopping to retrieve the blanket I had discarded, was at the front gates and across the road inside a minute, not wishing to be surprised by a group of armed men returning earlier than expected.

"Jack...?" I heard a tentative voice call from inside the gates moments later.

"Over here."

"Did you find the car?"

"Car...what car...?"

"I borrowed a car from Mr. Goff and hid it thinking it would help us move Leandro to..." she trailed off.

"Did you get your papers?" I asked changing the subject abruptly.

"Papers...yes I have my passport, driver's license, and birth certificate," she recited absently.

"Then let's get going," I gently nudged her. "The car...?"

"Oh, over here..." she began as she led me down the road in the opposite direction from the route Mendoza's men had taken.

She had pulled the car off the path in between two trees, barely squeezing it in, and then covered it with some foliage.

"Smart," I murmured. "Keys...?"

"Under the driver's side floor mat...I thought it best not to carry them around with me..." her voice drifted off.

"Get in," I ordered as I tossed my pack in the back seat and squeezed into the driver's side, searching for a way to adjust the seat to accommodate my height.

"What are you looking for?" she asked idly as she shut her door.

"Trying to push the seat back," I replied irritably.

"That's as far back as it goes," she offered apologetically, a ghost of a smile playing around her lips.

"Figures," I muttered as I turned over the engine.

"I could drive," she suggested with a half-hearted attempt at humour.

I was relieved to see she was recovering her equilibrium.

"You'll get your chance," I grimaced "because we're not stopping to sleep."

"Where are we going?"

"Bogotá."

~ * * ~

"Senora...wake up," I shook her gently at first and then more vigorously as she failed to respond.

I'd been driving all night on dark, mountainous, winding roads, unable to push the car to its limits, taking more time than I had originally planned on, and I was dead tired. Getting to Bogotá safely was the whole point of the exercise and there were two things working against me; I was in unfamiliar territory and I hadn't driven an automobile in well over a year.

Valerie had offered to drive but then had turned onto her side with her back to me and promptly fallen asleep. I hadn't the heart to rouse her.

"Valerie!" I barked.

"Hmm...?" she finally began to stir and, as she twisted back around in her seat, stretching her arms above her head, extending her whole body, I averted my eyes...the sight of her bare midriff as her blouse rose quite a few inches above her jeans doing strange things to me.

"Wake up already," I growled irritably.

She sat up suddenly remembering where she was and, out of the corner of my eye, I could see the play of emotions crossing her face as her memories of the previous night's events came flooding back.

"Oh," was all she said, but it was enough.

Although she might not possess the total recall that plagued me, I was absolutely positive she would never forget one second of what had happened.

"Did you want me to drive now?" she asked stifling a yawn.

"No, we're stopping for a while."

"I thought you said..."

"Took longer than I expected to get this far and it'll be daylight soon," I pointed out. "We also need to fill up and clean up...I can't walk around Bogotá looking like this," I indicated my military clothing and pack lying in the back seat.

"So what's the plan...I'm assuming you have one."

"There is a motel just down the road, I want you to take this money and go pay for us a room..."

"Where did you get all of this?" she asked wide-eyed.

I ignored her question and continued, "Tell them we're married, Valencia and Juan Rodriguez, and that you..." I paused and asked impatiently "are you getting all of this?"

"Valencia and Juan Rodriguez," she repeated still staring at the money in her hand.

"I had too much to drink at the fiesta we attended last night and you need a room until I sober up. Pay for what's left of the night and then one more night. Pay in advance and get a receipt that shows that you did...Valerie, forget the money, it's unimportant. Can you do it?"

"Yes," she replied more forcefully. "You're a drunk and I'm the long-suffering wife. I need two nights..."

"And a receipt, because you aren't sure when I'll wake up and we may leave in the middle of the night. We don't need the local cops coming after us."

"Because we need to get home to the kids," she smiled faintly.

"Whatever makes it believable," I replied grimly. "If they ask where we live tell them we live in..." I paused rubbing my eyes, searching the map in my mind for the best place, "...La Dorada," I finished wearily. "That should send any tail we might have picked up in the wrong direction. We'll leave sometime after dark. Got all that?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'll get in the back and cover myself with the blanket," I opened the door and quickly ducked into the back seat. "Move over into the driver's seat and park in the darkest part of the parking lot. I doubt there's much light so just stay as far away from the main building as you can and we should be fine."

I waited until she was situated behind the wheel and then continued "After you check in, move the car directly in front of the room and then 'assist' me in."

Valerie must have performed flawlessly, because she was back in no time, room key in hand, to relocate the car.

Leaning on her heavily, keeping as much of myself and my pack as possible hidden under the brightly coloured blanket, I leaned on her as she 'helped' me into the room, thankful that the parking lot was as poorly lit as I'd predicted.

As soon as the door shut, she began "Now what..." but I clamped one hand over her mouth and put my index finger to my lips whispering "Thin walls."

She nodded in understanding as I removed my hand and lowering her tone asked "Now what do we do?"

"Can you sew?"

"Yes, what does that have to do...?"

I tossed her the blanket and digging in my pack, produced the needle and thread I'd filched from her medical kit.

"Make me a poncho...a big poncho...out of this," I murmured softly. "I need a shower and a nap in that order, and you can have the bathroom...or what passes for one here..." I added frowning at the facilities "as soon as I'm through with it. Did you happen to bring soap with you? There doesn't appear to be any in here."

"And toilet paper," she half-smiled. "Leaves don't appeal to me."

She fished out the necessary items and even added shampoo to the mix.

"Living high on the hog now," she laughed, then remembering the thin walls, attempted to stifle it.

"Thanks," I replied shortly, disturbed by her laugh more than I cared to admit, as I took the toiletries from her and shut the bathroom door between us...decisively.

Even though the water was tepid and the pressure was practically non-existent, the shower felt good after so many months with nothing. The only times a shower had even been an option was whenever I was scheduled to check in at the base, but after the first attempt, hating the feeling of vulnerability it gave me without my weapon hanging from my shoulder, I had decided to forego the shower in favour of peace of mind. It hardly mattered anyway, as I was the only one who could smell me besides the wild animals, and it was actually a plus to have fewer manmade odours emanating from my body while attempting to nail a meal.

Although I realized I wasn't much to look at in the first place, after catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I was surprised Valerie hadn't fled from me in horror every time I came into view.

Pulling the scissors I'd swiped from the medical kit out of my pack along with my long disused razor, I began to cut off what I could of my somewhat scraggly beard and then proceeded to shave the rest. I used soap liberally but without shaving cream, it was extremely painful. I suffered through it stoically realizing I didn't have a choice.

The highest percentage of Colombians in the area where I'd resided for the past year were of African descent but Native Americans were also abundant and although I was taller than most, once I removed all facial hair I was not that dissimilar. However, I realized that I definitely needed to do something about the disgusting mass of hair I'd ignored for months.

I wondered how proficient a barber Valerie was. If she could just manage to get it untangled and more evenly cut, I could leave it long and use it to hide my face.

Wrapping my towel around my hips, I peered out the door to see what she was doing.

"I've almost finished," she offered softly.

"Can you cut hair?"

"I'm no expert, although I've been cutting my own for a couple of years now," she shrugged "but I didn't bring any scissors."

"I have the ones from..."

"My medical kit," she finished for me. "Those will be fine. You'll have to sit on the edge of the bed," she added apologetically. "You're too tall for me to reach."

I moved over to the bed while she dug around in her bag and produced a comb.

"How do you want it?"

"I want to shave it all off, but since I need to blend in as much as possible when we get to Bogotá, or at least not look like a Marine, I was thinking maybe you should leave it long, just untangle it and even it out a bit."

"Hmm..." she lifted my hair between her fingers as she pondered what to do. "I think I know what to do," she said at last. "Do you want me to explain or just do it?"

"Just do it."

"Okay here goes," she murmured as I heard the first snip.

After a few minutes of silence, she asked, "How long have you been a Marine?"

"Little over a year."

"So that would make you...how old?" she asked with studied indifference.

"Old enough to vote."

"You don't like talking about yourself."

"Not much to talk about."

"Somehow I doubt that."

I shrugged.

"So do you have any family?" she continued, not at all put off by my abrupt, uninformative answers.

"You heard Vasquez."

I was just recalling his words myself and putting them in context with what General McKie had alluded to when discussing me and my fellow Marines with Garrett. Apparently, that was my 'special qualification', I had no ties to anyone, and that fact alone had brought me to Garrett's attention.

"Garrett only takes men with no family ties."

"I just thought...I mean...you're a Marine, not an agent..." she stammered.

"Don't think that makes a difference to him."

"You know, something about that's been bothering me..."

"What's that?"

"You and your friends are all Marines..." she began thoughtfully.

"Your point?"

"I overheard what Vasquez said about Garrett and I was wondering...if Garrett didn't know about Franklin, why wouldn't he use his own agents to find Leandro? Why bring in three marines..."

"Five marines," I corrected automatically, but the wheels in my head were turning, spurred by her words.

"Five...?"

"One was injured during our...training, and one was killed after we got here."

"Okay...five marines...why bring in outsiders unless you knew something was wrong with your insiders?"

"He knew," I muttered. "He had to know...probably didn't know how far the rot had spread."

"So he sent outsiders, his only hope of getting Leandro out alive."

"He could have warned us," I growled as I stood up and began pacing.

"Do you think the others are...dead?"

"I don't know...I have to assume..." I halted abruptly.

"Good thing I'm done cutting," Valerie noted mildly, indicating the scissors in her hand.

"Sorry," I drug my fingers through my hair. "Thanks."

"I think you should see it before you express any gratitude," she teased gently.

"Looks...appropriate," I barely glanced at the image in the bathroom mirror, mind on other things.

"Glad you approve," she laughed. "I think we should buy you a hat, though, as soon as possible. You don't have the type of face that would go unnoticed no matter where you were."

"Thanks," I replied drily.

"No...I didn't mean it like that," she hastened to assure me. "It's hard to explain, but you have a very strong face, one that will always stand out, even covered with a bunch of whiskers or long hair."

"I'll just clean up my clothes and then the bathroom's all yours," I abruptly changed the subject. "Also, if you don't mind keeping an eye out for unexpected visitors, I thought I might grab some shut-eye."

"You go ahead and sleep, I'll take care of your clothes."

I was too tired to argue. Placing my weapon on the bed, and tucking my Colt and knife under the pillow, I slipped out of the towel and between the sheets.

As I situated my weapon under the covers and my consciousness faded, I realized ironically that, even in a motel room with a beautiful woman present, my M16 was still my only sleeping companion.

I wondered if that would ever change.

"No! No!"

I was running, pulling Valerie along behind me, but Sanchez was close on our heels, blood pouring from the hole in his forehead, the one that I had put there.

"You must pay for what you have done," Vasquez shook his head at me sadly, as I sped past him. "You are a murderer. You killed six men. You must pay."

"But I had no choice," I anguished. "They were going to rape her and kill you."

"They killed me anyway...you didn't save me...now my sister is all alone in the world...and it is your fault," Vasquez's voice was becoming fainter, and still Sanchez dogged me.

"Now it is my turn, Senor Knight," Sanchez wasn't even out of breath, his laughter toying with me. "I will show you pain," glancing back I could see the evil grin on his face, "but first I will have your woman...and you will watch..." he finished as he grabbed Valerie by her hair and jerked her backwards and onto the ground.

"No!" I yelled and sat straight up in bed, sweat pouring off me, the humidity in the room almost unbearable.

Frantically my eyes did a sweep of the room, but there was no sign of Valerie. Throwing off the covers, I burst into the bathroom, but it too was empty.

As I stood there, panting heavily, the front door opened and as I spun around, Valerie entered the room carrying some packages.

She shut the door and I burst out angrily "Where the hell have you been?"

In three strides, I was in front of her, grabbing her arms and shaking her, fear fueling the rage that engulfed me, the dream I had just awakened from forming too vivid a picture in my head.

"Do you have any idea what could have happened to you? And I would have had no clue where you'd gone...where to look...?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered tearfully "I...I didn't think..."

"Don't ever do anything like that again...do you hear me?"

I shook her one last time and I could hear the sobs rising up in her throat.

With a groan of sheer anguish, I pulled her towards me and wrapped my arms tightly around her, wanting to apologize for my rough treatment of her, but unable to voice the words.

The smell of her hair filled my nostrils, the same shampoo she had loaned me, but mixed with the warm, female scent of her it was such a potent combination that I couldn't think straight.

In one corner of my mind, I knew I should stop, push her away from me, but as I felt her arms encircle my waist, feeling her hands on my back, my arousal was instantaneous. Although she couldn't have helped but notice it, she made no attempt to move away.

My hands began desperately caressing her shoulders and back as I moaned her name over and over against her hair while she began to stroke my naked back and even lower, inflaming me almost beyond endurance.

She finally pulled away, but only slightly in order to look into my eyes.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

"I don't...I've never..." I stuttered hoarsely as she smiled at me knowingly.

"Don't worry," she breathed, reaching up and clasping her hands behind my neck, pulling my lips down to meet hers, "I'll show you."

~ * * ~

"Are you going to continue to ignore me all night?" Valerie asked acidly.

I didn't reply. Basically, I didn't know what to say. The time we'd spent together had been...too incredible for words...but when we finally arrived at our destination and she realized I wouldn't be going with her she was going to be less than happy, to put it mildly.

"Don't try to deny you wanted it just as much as I did," she warned. "It was bound to happen..."

"I'm not denying anything."

"Then why won't you talk to me?"

"I have nothing to say."

"So that's it?" she asked incredulously. "Thanks for the sex, but I'm done with you now?"

"You're married."

"Separated," she corrected, "because my husband can't seem to resist anything in a skirt. That's one of the reasons I moved to Colombia...it was far enough away from him that he couldn't suck me back in with his apologies and empty promises."

"Are you going to divorce him?"

"I'm Catholic."

"Yeah I noticed the crucifix while I was in the middle of making love to another man's wife."

"I can't divorce him."

"Then I don't see the point of this conversation."

"I don't want to lose you, Jack...you...I...I love you," she finished on a whisper.

"You don't know me."

"But I do," she protested. "I know who you are even though you try to hide it with your clipped answers and rudeness."

"I killed six men, four of them right in front of you; are you saying that doesn't bother you?"

"You did it to protect Leandro and me."

"It wouldn't work, Valerie," I tried to gentle my tone. "I'm not the type to shack up with another man's wife. What we did was wrong, that seems to be par for the course for me lately, but I'm not going to make it worse by repeating my mistakes."

"Jack...please...don't do this. I've never felt like this about anyone before. We have something special."

"You won't divorce him because it goes against the Catholic Church, but you want to continue sleeping with me...is that it?" I shook my head in disgust. "You think adultery is a better alternative than divorce?"

"No...it's just...I can't..." she stammered then fell silent.

I didn't want to part like that...knowing I would probably never see her again...but I knew myself well enough to realize that if I couldn't have it all, like Tony had, I would never be satisfied settling for less.

Besides that, there was also another fact to consider...I wasn't returning to the states with her. I had a job to finish and it was very possible that I wouldn't survive to fulfill any promises I might make.

There was no further conversation until we reached the outskirts of Bogotá.

"I need you to do me a favour."

"Sure...why not," she replied listlessly.

"Don't volunteer details to anyone other than Garrett."

"Garrett...why would I talk to Garrett?"

"Just promise me."

"Fine...I promise, but I don't promise not to wring him out for what he did."

"I wouldn't expect any less," I replied amusedly.

"What are we going to tell the people at the Embassy then?" she asked unaware that she would be on her own once we reached U.S. soil.

"Just tell them that you harboured an injured fugitive from the Mendoza family and they didn't take kindly to it."

"What about names?"

"You can give them Vasquez's name, that is verifiable, but don't tell them anything about the ledger, or the CIA, or about me...as far as you're concerned I'm just a fellow American on vacation, and you know nothing about me."

"At least that won't be a lie...apparently I don't," she pointed out bitterly.

"Look, Valerie, I'm trying to protect you," I replied in exasperation. "You already know too much for your own good. Just do as I ask, okay?"

"Fine," she huffed.

"And one other thing...I need your papers."

"Why?"

"We're almost to the Embassy."

She pulled her papers out of her bag and wordlessly handed them to me.

I turned my exclusive attention to navigating the streets from the map in my head, which was no easy task, and was eventually rewarded by the sight of the Embassy coming into view. Breathing a sigh of relief, I parked across the street from the entrance.

Nothing was stirring, but I could make out the Marine Guards stationed at the front gate. I was fairly certain I could get Valerie in...the hard part was going to be forcing her to stay in and getting away without being stopped.

Pushing myself out of the tiny car, I waited for Valerie to grab her bag and join me.

Papers in one hand and her elbow in the other, I urged her towards the front gate.

"Stop," a stern voice ordered in Spanish.

"We're Americans," I spoke in unaccented English.

"Come back during regular hours."

Moving closer to the gate, a rifle pointed at a spot between my eyes halted me.

"Look, we have..."

"Knight," a voice spat my name "What are you doing here?"

"Rodriguez," I sighed in resignation, of all the Marines in the world it had to be him.

"Did the Marine Corps finally wise up and kick you out?" he asked mockingly.

"Look Rodriguez, I'm in kind of a hurry here. This woman," I indicated Valerie standing wide-eyed next to me "is in danger from the Mendoza family and she needs to be returned to the states as soon as possible."

"The Mendoza's...?" the first guard started in surprise.

"She has her papers and she can explain the situation. Open up and let her in."

"Let me see those," the guard snatched the papers from my hand.

After a brief perusal, he motioned for Rodriguez to open the gate. I shoved a shocked Valerie through the small opening they were allowing and turned to leave.

"Wait...wait a minute...Jack...what do you think you're doing?" I could hear the beginnings of hysteria in her voice. "You can't be going back there. Jack...they'll kill you! Please...don't..."

"Shut her up," I growled, glancing around to see if we had any unwanted spectators.

Thankfully, the darkened street was deserted.

"You should come inside and explain..." the guard began but I was already halfway across the road.

I heard Valerie's muffled cries, but forced myself to ignore them as well as the guards yelling for me to stop, as I returned to the car. The last view I had of Valerie as I squeezed back into the sardine can disguised as an automobile was of her fighting the guards as they drug her towards the main building.

Although it was for the best, I realized she might never forgive me.

Pushing any remorse I felt to the back of my mind, I shoved the car into gear and sped away, my active brain already planning my route out of Bogotá.

1979

April

Someone was dogging me and I knew it, but I couldn't seem to shake him. Whoever it was, he had a higher level of skill than I did.

I'd attempted every trick I'd learned from Hondo during the short time I'd spent with him, backtracking myself, covering my trail, misdirecting, even setting a trap, but nothing worked...he was still there...I could sense it.

He had to be one of Franklin's men. I'd picked him up a couple of klicks from the base and I doubted that was a coincidence, but I didn't recall noticing anyone from my regular visits that had the type of knowledge and skill that the man following me possessed.

I needed to get to the base...it was vital in order to finish what my fellow Marines and I had started. Franklin had information I wanted and I wasn't leaving the country without it or without him if I could manage it.

The problem was the tracker was closing in on me, not even bothering to hide his presence any longer...and I was dead tired. I would have to sleep some time...and soon...and I knew he had already realized that and would be waiting.

Resignedly, I decided it was time to allow him to catch up with me, but at a time and place of my choosing...not his.

Unwilling to wander too far away from the base—I'd been circling it within a five klick radius, desperately hoping to lose my shadow—I realized it was time for action.

I'd noticed a small clearing just south of the base and decided that it was there I would lay my trap. Nothing elaborate...I simply needed to distract him for a split second while I got the drop on him.

He was close and I didn't have much time as I made four paths through the middle of the clearing, exiting four different places and then backtracking after five yards in order to return to the clearing.

I realized it wouldn't fool the tracker, but it would be necessary for him to examine the tracks I'd made in order to determine which direction I'd actually taken. That was all the time I needed...I hoped.

Shimmying up a tree—I'd become an expert at that—just outside the perimeter of the clearing over one of the paths, I waited...and waited...and waited...

Nothing happened.

Doubts assailed me. Maybe there wasn't anyone there. With all the events of the past couple of months, perhaps I was just becoming paranoid.

I was about to slide back down to the ground when a familiarly mocking voice floated up to me.

"Plannin' on a long-term engagement with that tree? Lookin' purty cozy up there."

"Hondo!" I exclaimed in surprise "I thought you were dead."

"Guess I could say the same 'bout you."

I froze as an unpleasant thought hit me.

"Where's Montez?"

"Where's Vasquez?" he countered.

"Dead," I wondered as I said it whether he already knew. "Montez...?" I prompted.

"Dead...his lovin' senorita drugged him, then slit his throat."

"Why would she do that?"

"Once she got the call from your senorita about Vasquez, guess she decided she liked the single life better after all."

"Montez told me to leave him a message with the location and he'd get in touch with you".

I didn't bother to hide the accusation in my voice.

"Makes us both look purty bad," he surmised.

"Why does that make me look bad?"

"You came back here."

"Ditto," I replied wryly.

"Guess we ain't feelin' the love right now."

"Guess not."

"Whaddya suggest we do?"

"You answer my questions about Montez and I'll answer yours about Vasquez and we compare notes. We each apparently have reasons for not trusting the other...maybe that'll help us figure out what really happened."

"I'll go first. Who killed Vasquez?"

"I'm not sure which bullet killed him, but there were eleven of what I assume were Mendoza's men already at the monastery by the time I made it back there. The leader was a man named Sanchez, and they were heavily armed...my turn. How is it you know how Montez died?"

"I called him at night 'bout once a week or so to check in an' he always answered. The one night he didn't, I tracked down his senorita. Seems she wuz kinda fond of her purty little face an' didn't want it all cut up...sang like a canary."

"Why...?"

"Takin' turns, Knight," he reproached me. "Who was the woman?"

"An American nurse living at the monastery; she sheltered Vasquez and amputated his left leg to save his life."

"But ya just said..."

"Gotta play by the rules," I remonstrated in turn. "Why did the woman kill Montez?"

"Now that there's the real problem; seems she's a relative of Santos."

"So Franklin was behind it."

"How'dya find out Franklin's dirty?"

"Vasquez told me."

"So ya came back here to...?"

"Find out what happened to you and Montez, and then take Franklin back for Garrett to deal with."

"Tall order ya got goin' on there."

"Why are you here?"

"Same thing...with a coupla minor adjustments...find out what the hell happened and then kill Franklin and Santos. I'm not feelin' real generous right now."

"I'm coming down."

"Bout time...gettin' a crick in my neck from lookin' up atcha."

I landed on the ground in front of Hondo who looked even more disreputable than either Montez or I could have ever aspired to look.

"Did you really think I was a traitor?"

"Nope, but I knew ya thought I was," he reasoned "so I figgered I'd stand a better chance of convincin' you that way."

"It worked."

"Ain't surprised."

"Why have you been dogging me?"

"Wanted to see whatcha were doin', but then ya made me and after that I decided to just keep up 'til ya got tired of runnin'. Knew I'd catch ya dozin' sometime or other."

"How long you been here?"

"Two weeks give or take, I've been tryin' to figger out how to get inside without gettin' killed. Be easier now there's two of us."

"I noticed on one of my previous visits that Franklin has a hangar," I said thoughtfully. "I'm thinking Garrett suspected something like this was gonna happen and that's why he tried to train us to fly a plane and a helicopter."

"Ya think the bastard knew Franklin's dirty?"

"I wouldn't bet money against it."

"Son of a..." he bit off the expletive with a snort of derision. "When I get my hands on him, he'll be wishin' I'da died here."

"Let's just make sure we don't," I suggested mildly.

"I'm all for that."

~ * * ~

"Franklin's bin a very bad boy," Hondo said darkly as we watched the activity in the compound.

Although it'd already been a week since Hondo and I had joined up, we weren't in any hurry and had been scoping out the daily activities of the base residents hoping to find an opening to get to Franklin without getting us both killed.

What we saw should have surprised us, but didn't.

"Certainly does seem as if he's playing both sides of the fence," I noted thoughtfully. "That's helpful."

"How d'ya figger?"

"Wonder what the Mendoza brothers would do if they knew Franklin was selling arms to their rivals...the Cortez family?" I pondered aloud.

"You thinkin' to squeal?" he asked in amusement.

"When you were contacting Montez, where were you calling from?"

"Whatever house I could break into the easiest."

"Did you ever get caught?"

He gave me an old-fashioned look, but didn't bother to answer. Stupid question...it was Hondo.

"I think you should continue your life of crime."

"You comin' over to the dark side?"

"Desperate times..."

"Don't s'pose you happen to be carryin' a phone book on ya?" he eyed me morosely.

"Think of it as a challenge," I offered encouragingly.

"Didn't think so," he said glumly.

~ * * ~

"Wish they'd git here already," Hondo grumbled.

"Still have thirty minutes to go," I pointed out calmly. "Although my guess is neither will want to be late for the party and..." I broke off as a group of five older model pickups, carrying at least a dozen armed men each, trailed a late model Suburban as it pulled up to the front gate.

Arguing and angry gesticulation followed and eventually the lead vehicle moved inside the fenced compound and proceeded to pull up to the front of the house.

"Luis Cortez," Hondo muttered next to me.

A well-dressed man calmly exited the front passenger side of the Suburban and casually joined Santos, who had miraculously appeared on the porch, shaking hands and allowing himself to be led into the house.

"Won't be long now," Hondo grinned wolfishly in anticipation.

"Glad you're enjoying yourself."

"Get goin', don't wanna get caught with yer pants down when Mendoza gets here," he chuckled.

"Oh...now you believe in my plan."

"Mind the mines," he offered by way of send off.

We'd been in Colombia over a year and I hadn't seen any of the mines that we'd been prepped by Garrett to deal with, but I no longer had to wonder why. Before I'd arrived on the scene, while Hondo was trying to figure out a way inside the compound, he'd made an important discovery...the mines were Franklin's...placed around the compound apparently to keep out unwelcome visitors like us.

During the week that followed our reunion, I'd noticed the comings and goings of a plane and helicopter identical to the ones I'd been trained to fly. I didn't even bother to feel surprised.

It did, however, set me to wondering how Garrett had been so well informed. Things were looking very dark for him indeed. The mines, along with the presence of a helicopter and plane of the exact same types as the ones I had practiced on, were just more nails in his already closed coffin.

Garrett had known exactly what we were up against and had sent us in blind.

As I approached the rear of the compound, careful to keep out of sight of any windows—or portholes as I'd been trained to call them—I heard gunfire and knew it was time.

The Mendoza's had arrived.

I didn't bother to hide my intentions as I approached the fence, careful to line up with the portholes in the very middle of the back wall of the house in order to avoid the active mines. Hondo had been a busy bee the previous night as he'd disarmed the two mines in that area, wiring all of the others together, and snipping the fence to allow me a point of entry.

As I quickly pulled back the cut wires, I didn't waste time on finesse nor did I bother to cover my tracks as I moved towards the house. No one would be bothering me...not with the war going on towards the front of the compound.

Although I hadn't been allowed in every room of the house, I'd been offered a bedroom the first night we'd arrived in Colombia and that was where I headed, guessing it would most likely be empty. It was.

I slashed the screen with my knife and busted the glass, reaching in carefully to unlock it, and then shoved what was left of the pane up.

Once in the room, I wasted no time. I knew exactly where Franklin's office was and I suspected he would be there packing up whatever he thought was essential for a quick get-a-way depending on the outcome of the feud outside. Neither group was going to be feeling too pleased with him.

As I reached the door of the office, I noted that it was slightly ajar and drawing my Colt, I slid silently into the room.

Santos and Franklin were both furiously attempting to shred apparently damning documents in a strip-cut paper shredder.

Santos saw me first and, as he pulled his gun out of his shoulder holster, the split second of shock which had held him immobile was a lifetime too long as the Colt bucked in my hand and he crumpled to the floor, a hole in his forehead, blood splattered on the wall behind him.

Franklin was fumbling with a key trying to open a drawer, apparently complacently weapon-less, assuming he had no need to arm himself, cocooned as he had been in his fortress surrounded by guards.

"I wouldn't if I were you," I suggested mildly. "In fact, I'm thinking it would be a good idea for you to toss that key on the desk and get your hands up where I can see them."

"You don't want to do this, Knight," he warned as he complied with my requests. "There are bigger things at stake here than just you and me."

"Yeah, from the war out front I'd have to agree."

"There is a lot of money to be made, plenty to go around. You could be a rich man."

"I'm more interested in what really happened to Montez and Valdez."

"Valdez saw something he shouldn't have and you signed Montez's death warrant by finding Vasquez and having your girlfriend call him," he shrugged indifferently.

"And Hondo...?" I queried as an afterthought.

"We couldn't find him, he's...slippery."

"Why are you shredding all your papers?"

"I'm not," he answered shortly.

At my frown he continued.

"The Cortez family isn't as well funded...they don't stand a chance," he informed me impassively then added in surprise as comprehension dawned "You called them."

"Naughty of you to be selling arms to both sides, there was bound to be trouble eventually."

"I was brokering the arms to both sides."

"So if you're not the mastermind, who is?"

"I only know him as El Titiritero...The Puppeteer."

"Appropriate...where would I find this puppeteer?"

"You don't...he finds you and I'm telling you right now...you don't want to mess with the man. He doesn't play games and he has no conscience."

"And you do?"

"He's dangerous and you are nothing more than an annoyance, a cockroach he'll crush underfoot."

"Cockroaches are known to have pretty tough shells."

Even as I spoke, I heard the explosions...my cue...Hondo lobbing grenades.

"Time to go."

"Go...? Go where?"

"Back to the states where you'll be tried for treason or whatever Garrett decides to do with you."

"I don't think so," he said as something came down hard on my gun hand.

I cursed my stupidity in not only turning my back on the door, but also allowing myself to be distracted by Franklin's talk as my fingers involuntarily released my weapon and it clattered to the floor.

I grabbed the end of the broom that had been used to disarm me and pulled the boy holding it towards me, slinging him against the opposite wall, reaching into my boot for my knife at the same time.

As Franklin dove towards Santos' gun, I flicked my wrist. The sharp blade met very little resistance as it buried itself deeply, splitting Franklin's Adam's apple, the hilt the only part visible as he collapsed on the floor.

"You'd have been nothing but trouble anyway," I commented indifferently as I pulled the knife out of Franklin's throat and wiped it on his white shirt.

"Senor, please do not hurt me," the boy cowering in the corner pleaded in Spanish.

"Who are you?" I asked absently as I quickly thumbed through the papers the shredder hadn't had a chance to destroy.

I didn't see anything that would give me an indication of who Franklin was working for and time was short, but decided that the papers might be worth something to Garrett.

"Jose Delgado," he replied fearfully.

"I don't remember seeing you before."

"Santos is my uncle. I work for him."

"Well, Jose...if you want to live you best be getting out of this house...now."

Jose pushed himself up off the floor and, eyeing me suspiciously, edged his way out the door.

Stuffing the Cortez paperwork in my pack, I realized I needed to be gone myself and hastily made my way back to my point of entry, noticing that the explosions had stopped. I was late.

Jumping out the window and sprinting towards the fence, I barely cleared it before the mines began to go.

Fifty yards later, I heard Hondo join me. Glancing over I noted the ever-present cigarette hanging out of his mouth and smoke emanating from his mouth and nose.

"Those thing are gonna kill you, you know."

"Yer one to talk. Cuttin' it kinda close with them mines, doncha think?"

"I was...delayed. The house...?"

"Should be blowin' jest 'bout...now," he finished in satisfaction as a huge explosion shook the ground beneath our feet, spurring us on our way.

"Nice."

"See ya changed yer mind."

"Santos and Franklin changed it for me. They were most uncooperative."

"Wish I coulda been there," he said wistfully.

"Sounded like you were having a blast yourself."

"True...ain't had that much fun since 'Nam."

"You're a head case."

"And yer one ta be talkin'."

As we arrived at the hangar and pushed the huge doors open, I was unsurprised to note that there was an army tank sitting next to the plane and the helicopter. Neither of us even bothered to comment.

"So which type of death would you prefer?" I asked courteously "Death by plane, or death by helicopter?"

"Don't s'pose we could leave out the death part?"

"Probably not."

"Take yer pick...all sounds the same to me."

"I'm thinking the plane...easier to get out of the hanger and has more of a range."

"You 'member how to fly one o' them things?" he asked dubiously as we approached the single engine Cessna. "Bin a while."

"Guess we'll find out."

"I done changed my mind. I'll jest be takin' the tank an' stay on good ole' terra firma."

"You didn't learn how to drive one of those, either," I reminded him wryly "and I doubt Panama would be so obliging as to let us cross their borders in an M1 tank...if we even made it that far."

"Good point," he conceded as we settled into the cockpit.

"You can close your eyes if you want."

"Think it'd do inny good?"

"Nope," I replied with cheerful pessimism as I revved up the engine "but if things start to go wrong, I may try it myself."

As we cleared the hangar, Hondo asked casually, "Do ya think ya could hurry it up a mite? The natives are gettin' restless."

As I glanced over my shoulder towards what was left of the house, I caught a glimpse of the angry, gun-waving mob headed straight for us.

"Yeah, I think that might be a good idea," I agreed as I made the runway and turned the plane onto it. "Don't know if you're a praying man, but this might be a good time to start," I murmured as the plane began to pick up speed.

"Now ya tell me."

We were airborne by the time the irate group reached the runway and thankfully well out of range of their guns.

Hondo had been up all night rigging the mines surrounding the compound and planting explosives—I didn't know and had no intention of asking where he'd gotten the explosives—while I slept so I wasn't surprised by his grunted "Wake me and yer dead" as he slouched as far down as his seat allowed and conked out, not even bothering with the seat belt.

Eight hours later, I debated which would be worse...waking Hondo or attempting to land.

I woke Hondo.

After he removed the barrel end of his gun from my eyeball muttering "Sorry, force o' habit," I gave him the bad news.

"I ain't strapping on no chute," he growled. "I thought ya could land this thing."

"It's dark, we're out of gas, there is no landing strip in sight, and I don't know where we are other than a general idea that we're somewhere in Central America. I don't think that's an option."

"So we jest ditch the plane an' hope it don't land on nobody's head?"

"We'll point it towards the ocean on autopilot and jump before it moves out to sea."

"Water agin...that figgers."

"Oh yeah, about that, I've been circling, trying to find the best place to jump and from what I can make out there isn't much beach between the trees and the ocean so you probably want to decide which one you'd rather end up in and make adjustments accordingly...just in case you miss the beach."

"Ya mean when I miss the beach," he corrected dolefully.

"I'm no Valdez, so if you end up in the drink, you'll have to get yourself out. Better start praying there aren't any sharks this time."

"Yer a ray o' sunshine, ain't ya? Nobody tole me I'd have to get religion when I joined this mission."

"Let's go. The chutes are in the back. We don't have much time."

"Aw...hell...I knew I shoulda held out fer the tank," he grumbled as he followed me to the back of the plane.

1979

May

I allowed Garrett to settle himself comfortably in his seat before speaking.

"You really should wear your seatbelt," I reproached. "These are dangerous times we live in."

With the flick of a switch, the overhead light emitted a gentle glow. I wouldn't have expected any less from a luxury car.

"Knight," if Garrett was surprised by the fact that I wasn't a corpse rotting away in the rain forest he hid it admirably. "How did you get past my driver?"

Even as he spoke, the window between us slid down silently and the chauffeur turned around to grin at Garrett.

"Hondo, of course," he acknowledged with a grimace. "Where's Burton?"

"You're driver is taking a cat nap in the trunk."

"Yeah...couldn't seem to keep his eyes open," Hondo added, suspiciously cheerful.

"You two left quite a mess behind you in Colombia," Garrett said disapprovingly.

"Three good men dead cuz of yer damned secrets," Hondo replied angrily, grin conspicuously absent. "I'd be sendin' ya straight ta hell, it wuz up ta me."

"Years of covert ops down the drain because you couldn't keep Vasquez or Franklin alive," he continued irately, ignoring Hondo's threats.

"Tell us what exactly you were after and we might be able to help you," I suggested calmly.

"Forget it...you don't have clearance for..."

"Clearance my ass," Hondo growled. "I'll show ya my clearance," he turned to open his door.

"Hondo, we agreed," I reminded him gently.

"Ya got too muchuva conscience," he grumbled, settling back in his seat.

"Look, Garrett," I began reasonably "We went through hell to get back here...all we're asking for is an exchange of information. You fill in the blanks for us...give us some closure...and I'm fairly certain I can give you at least part of what you're after."

"Prove it," Garrett folded his arms across his chest.

Reaching into my newly purchased black leather jacket, I extracted some papers from the inside pocket.

Garrett's eyes widened as he eagerly grabbed them out of my hands.

"Now that's better," he grinned greedily, partially mollified.

"Your turn," I prompted firmly.

"What do you want to know?" he asked suspiciously.

"How did you know about Franklin's...toys...his plane, helicopter, tank, even the land mines? Where did you get that information?"

"I have an informant."

"Who?"

"Classified..."

"Who?"

I grabbed his tie and yanked it up and over to the side of his head cutting off some of his airflow.

"Now yer talkin'," Hondo approved.

"Delgado," he managed to get out.

I released him and sat back.

"Don't recall no Delgado," Hondo grunted.

"I do," my eyes narrowed as I remembered the youth who couldn't have been more than sixteen, if that. "How did you get Santos' nephew to turn on him?"

"I pay well," he gingerly massaged his neck and straightened his tie "and he has a girlfriend who likes nice things."

"Just so you know, he probably isn't totally on your side," I mentioned casually.

"Never thought he was."

"So you admit you knew all along that Franklin was dirty?"

"Of course," he replied irritably "I don't make a habit of going into an op blind."

"Apparently you don't mind sending others in that way," I scoffed "and if they get killed because they don't know who the enemy is, you just shrug it off and replace them."

"What do you want from me? I've never claimed to be a saint. I do what I have to do to get the job done."

"And that brings up another interesting point...your main objective...?" I looked at him questioningly.

"Classified," he replied shortly.

"Fine," I shrugged "I guess that means you don't want the ledger."

"Ledger, but I thought Vasquez..." he stopped abruptly, realizing what he had revealed.

"Don't tell me, Vasquez wasn't your only undercover operative in Colombia."

He remained silent.

"You left Vasquez hanging out to dry as a decoy, knowing full well that Franklin was dirty, while your other spy kept you informed," I surmised in disgust.

"Like I said, I do..."

"...what you have to do," I finished for him. "Yeah, I get it. Why don't you get the other spy to steal the ledger?"

"My informant doesn't do that kind of thing," Garrett hedged.

"What...you have another child spy?"

"No, of course not," he assured me hastily.

"A woman," Hondo, who had been listening intently without comment, asserted firmly.

"Of course it is. You are a piece of work," I shook my head in amazement. "I guess we're through here, Hondo."

"Looks like it," he agreed, turning to face the front.

"Wait...you said you had the ledger..." Garrett forestalled me.

"No, I said I guess you didn't want it...not the same thing at all."

"But you do have it, don't you?" he grabbed my arm "Or a copy of it."

Narrowing my eyes at him, I asked in a quiet voice "Why would you think that?"

"Vasquez gave it to you, didn't he?"

"I gave it back, and then Vasquez surrendered it to the Mendoza's."

"But you looked at it," he persisted.

"So I looked at it."

"I need that ledger."

"Good luck with that," I reached for the door handle.

"It's in your head," Garrett murmured softly close to my ear.

I sat back and met Garrett's eyes.

"Hondo, would you mind shutting the window," I requested quietly.

The barrier between us closed just as silently as it had opened earlier.

I asked between clenched teeth, "You mind telling me how you know that?"

I didn't bother to deny it. The look on Garrett's face assured me he wasn't shooting in the dark.

He knew, he just hadn't wanted to admit he knew, hoping to get me to own up to it myself. That could only mean one thing.

"I have my ways."

"No, there is only one way you could have known that, and last time I checked it was illegal to read other people's mail."

"I want that ledger."

"How many letters did you read?"

"What does it...?"

"How many?"

I leaned towards him ominously as his hand protectively covered his tie.

"All of them."

"So the whole thing with General McKie was faked...you knew exactly who I was and how to manipulate me into volunteering. You're quite the actor."

"I told you...I don't go into things blindly."

"So you chose me because of that...because of my...special ability."

"It wasn't the only consideration, but I thought it might come in handy."

"You thought it might..." I broke off shaking my head in disbelief.

"All of your other skills gave you a more than even chance of making it out alive."

"Vasquez never stood much of a chance, thanks to you."

"He knew the risks."

"I suppose you know about Vasquez's half-sister."

"It's my job to know things."

"You hired him anyway."

"I've been known to make exceptions."

"Good to know," I nodded thoughtfully. "I've got an exception for you. Here's the deal, you make sure she receives a lump sum of cash commensurate with how much she deserves..."

"I'm not sure I can..."

"...and I will give you the ledger. You can even keep your 'classified information' confidential. That's the deal...take it or leave it."

"That's what you were after all along, wasn't it? You never cared about my classified information. I'm not the only one here with acting skills. You were trying to play me."

"Does she get her money or not?"

"Fine," he sighed heavily. "I'll work it out somehow. What do you plan to tell Hondo? I'm assuming he doesn't possess all the information that you do."

"Don't worry about Hondo. He knows as much as he cares to. His goal is to get as far away from you as he can manage."

"Am I allowed to go now or did you want something else?" he asked acerbically.

"That should about do it," I shrugged diffidently, hiding my pleasure at being able to manipulate him for a change.

I hadn't gotten him to reveal his knowledge of El Titiritero, but it was enough for the moment. Garrett was dangerous and pushing him too far was probably unwise. He was correct in his assumption that I was mainly concerned with making sure Vasquez's sister received compensation...not that anything could make up for the loss of her brother.

"The ledger...?" he prompted impatiently.

"As soon as I have the proof you followed through with your part, you can have the ledger."

"I'll have the money transferred by the end of business hours tomorrow."

"Oh, there is one other thing," I began "about Valerie Stanton..."

"Valerie Stanton..." he frowned.

"The nurse who helped Vasquez...I got her safely to the Embassy in Bogotá."

"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?" I asked narrowing my eyes.

"The plane she was being evacuated on crashed. There were no survivors."

1981

December

"More coffee, Sir," the young, pert, blonde waitress offered brightly.

"Thanks," I replied, pushing my cup over towards her without looking up.

"Anything else I can get you?" she asked hopefully.

I glanced up from my newspaper and frowned.

"No thanks."

I bent my head once more to the classified ads as the waitress moved away.

"Now you've gone and crushed her spirit," an amused voice broke into my thoughts.

"Go away Garrett," I ordered as I hastily turned the page, unwilling to let him see I was looking for a place to live.

I didn't waste my breath by inquiring how he'd found me in the middle of New York City.

"I warned you that I'd be back as soon as you finished your stint in the Marines," he reminded me. "May I?" he asked as he pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down.

"Do I have a choice?" I asked resignedly, folding up my newspaper and setting it by my coffee cup.

"Not really."

"What do you want?"

"What do I ever want?"

"I told you in Okinawa and again when you showed up at Parris that I'm not interested," I reminded him harshly. "Are you deaf...or just plain stupid?"

"I have to say you looked good in that weird campaign hat they all wear," he continued, apparently determined to ignore anything he didn't want to hear. "The Company Commander had nothing but good things to say about you. Knowing you as well as I do, I found that hard to believe."

"You're wasting your breath," I enunciated as clearly as I could, attempting to control my irritation at his obvious meddling into my business.

"What do you want out of life, Jack? Some lame nine to five job with benefits, a wife and kids with a station wagon and a vacation to the Pocono's every year or do you want to make a difference? You've been fighting bad guys since you were a kid, you think you can just turn it off?"

"I'm starting college next month; I have time to decide what I want to do."

"Yeah, I heard that rumour," he commented casually. "NYU...right...?"

"Butt out of my life, Garrett," I demanded in a low angry tone.

"They offer quite an array of options," he noted coolly "Especially in the language department. You've always had a talent for languages."

The obvious reminder of his previous invasion of my privacy had me speechless with rage. Closing my eyes, I gathered every bit of self-control I could muster and breathing deeply managed to prevent my hands from developing a mind of their own and ridding the world of the most annoying insect I'd ever had the misfortune of encountering.

"What restraint," he said admiringly.

Opening my eyes, I eyed him malevolently.

"College is an admirable ambition," he agreed pushing his chair back and pulling out a couple of dollars, tossing them on the table. "Coffee's on me."

"Generous to a fault," my lips twisted in derision.

"Hey, I offered to get you promoted straight to Sergeant as soon as you returned from Colombia, but you turned me down," he reminded me.

"I made it there on my own," I pointed out with satisfaction.

"So you did," he conceded. "General McKie was most impressed by your performance in Colombia."

"You..." I began angrily.

"Of course he wanted a report and I ended up buying him that steak dinner we'd wagered. The Drill Instructor gig was his idea you know."

"You'd best learn to sleep with your eyes open, Garrett."

"I've been doing that for years," he laughed. "Tell you what I'll do; I'll leave you alone until you finish college...then I'll come see you again."

"Not if I see you first," I muttered as he walked off.

"I heard that," he called over his shoulder.

"You were meant to," I retorted.

He chuckled as he pushed open the diner door.

1984

April

"Hey, man, give the studying a rest...come party with us, dude," a good-natured male voice coaxed. "It's gonna be wild."

"All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy," a sensuous female voice added.

I felt a finger tracing patterns on my back and reaching over my shoulder, grasped the hand causing the disruption.

"Not interested," I replied shortly, giving Jessica her hand back, careful not to break any bones.

"Ssh," the librarian glared at us from the circulation desk.

"We only have a couple of weeks till graduation, Jack," Phillip lowered his voice and continued persuasively "take a break, have some fun."

"That's not my idea of fun."

"What is your idea of fun?" Jessica bent down to whisper in my ear. "Maybe we can play together."

"A ten-mile hike, with full pack, in a torrential downpour," I answered amusedly. "Wanna sign up for tomorrow? I leave at 0600."

"Yeah, right," she laughed disbelievingly.

"He's not kidding, Jess, he goes every Saturday morning and doesn't come back until Sunday night," Phillip murmured.

"Forget that," she spun around and headed towards the door mumbling "freak".

"Sorry, Jack, she doesn't handle rejection well," Phillip apologized as he turned to follow her. "Sure you won't come?"

"Thanks, but no thanks," I softened my voice.

Phillip wasn't such a bad guy, just immature like most of the college kids I'd met. He reminded me a little of Nicky with his dark hair and dimples and was the same age Nicky would have been had he...I pulled myself up short.

Sometimes the thought of Nicky was so fresh in my mind that it felt like a punch in the gut, leaving me gasping for breath.

Thoughts of Nicky always preceded thoughts of Garrett. Years later and I was still furious that he'd read what should have been private correspondence.

"Always disappointing the ladies, Jack," a mocking voice scolded me.

"You sure must enjoy rejection, Garrett."

I gathered my books together and stood, not surprised by his sudden appearance. I'd been expecting him.

"Oh, I don't know, I think I may have an offer you can't refuse this time," he replied a bit too casually. "Meet me at your usual diner in an hour."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I have important news about a mutual friend of ours," he replied cryptically as he turned to go.

"Who?" I asked, but I was talking to air.

Slamming my fist down on the table I once again netted the attention of the Librarian who glared fiercely at me.

Grabbing my books, I beat a hasty retreat.

~ * * ~

"Hey Jack," Emma, the middle-aged red-headed waitress greeted me amiably "sorry, but there's a guy sitting at your regular table. He's the only customer in the whole diner and I told him he could have his choice of tables but..."

"That's fine, Emma, thanks," I responded gently. "He's waiting for me."

"Oh...well...in that case...the usual?"

"No, just coffee, I don't plan on staying long."

"Is everything alright?"

"Sure, I just have a lot of studying to do for my finals."

"Okay, be right there with your caffeine fix," she smiled brightly as I made my way over to my regular table.

"You've become predictably boring," Garrett criticized, carefully sipping his steaming coffee, as I sat down opposite him.

"I don't consider that a bad thing, except when you turn up," I shrugged. "What mutual friend?"

"I've always admired that about you, Jack, no beating around the bush."

"Here's your coffee, Jack, and can I get you a refill?" Emma asked Garrett politely.

"No, I'm good," he smiled winningly at her.

To my amazement, she became flustered. I'd never seen Garrett interact with a woman and Emma wasn't usually so easily impressed. As soon as she was out of earshot, I started in on Garrett.

"Spit it out, Garrett, or I'm leaving."

"Have you seen the Suzuki's lately?"

I paused in the middle of raising my coffee cup.

"No."

"Shun is very anxious to see you."

"What have you done, Garrett?"

I carefully set my cup back on the table.

"Shun is a very interesting character," he rambled on. "You can't help but like the guy. He's the total opposite of you which..."

"Garrett!"

"Did I forget to mention that Shun is my newest recruit?"

"Shun is a CIA agent?"

"Oh, yeah, about that...I'm no longer with the CIA...I've been promoted to head my own agency."

"What agency?" I asked through clenched teeth.

"Well, we have no official name, you see we technically don't exist, so I just call it my agency and leave it at that," he explained complacently.

"And what exactly does this agency do?"

"I think if you put your mind to it, you could guess."

"You're after him, El Titiritero...The Puppeteer."

"I suspected you'd gotten more information out of Franklin than you ever admitted to me," he replied admiringly. "You play your cards almost as close to the chest as I do. I always knew you were smart."

"Smart enough to stay away from you."

"Apparently, your friend Shun isn't so smart because he's one of my new agents."

"Shun has a family...your rules..."

"Ah yes...my rules...as I told you once before, I have been known to bend the rules occasionally...for a good cause."

"What could Shun possibly have that you want so badly you'd break your own rules?"

"Can't you guess?"

"Garrett!"

"Jack...Jack...Jack..." he shook his head mournfully. "You know what I want. Why must you be like this? So difficult...always so difficult..."

"You think by recruiting Shun you'll get me."

"See...was that so hard?" he patronized. "Agent Jack Knight...has a nice ring to it don't you think?"

"Why me...?" I asked attempting to remain impassive. "I'm only one person...not really that important in the whole scheme of things...and not worth your time and effort. Just let it go."

"You have a combination of skills I've never found in anyone else," he admitted with rare honesty. "The way you handled yourself in Colombia...I didn't think any of you would make it out alive, but you did."

"Because of Hondo."

"Hondo added to your growing list of skills, undoubtedly, but Hondo made it out alive because of you, not the other way around."

"Pure dumb luck," I shrugged indifferently.

"Call it what you will...I want you and I'm determined to have you."

"I'm flattered," I replied sardonically "but shouldn't you at least buy me dinner first? Coffee hardly qualifies."

"I will use whatever means necessary to get you," he continued completely ignoring my crude comment.

"Since you seem to be so well-informed, you'll realize that I've neither seen nor spoken to any of the Suzuki family since I was seventeen."

"I guess if you aren't concerned with Shun's safety..."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought for sure the thought of Shun putting himself in harm's way, with his propensity for taking life so lightly, would spur you into protective mode, but apparently I was wrong. Shun will be so disappointed," he stood and added, "You know, he reminds me a bit of your brother" as he once again threw some bills on the table. "Have a nice life, Jack...if you can live with yourself."

I sat immobile, a statue until Garrett reached the door.

"I'm in," I murmured almost inaudibly.

"Never had a doubt," he replied airily without turning around.

Epilogue

August 12, 1984

Taking a deep breath, I shut off the motor, dismounted, removed my helmet, and hung it on the handlebars.

I was torn...wanting to be there yet longing to be anywhere but there.

As I made my way through the familiar arch, my whole body stiffened involuntarily and I could feel the familiar lump forming in my throat.

Although I hadn't been there since Nicky's funeral I hadn't bothered to stop to ask for directions...I was cursed with total recall...I knew exactly where I was going.

Idly, as I moved further into the cemetery, I noted the many changes that the years had wrought...the trees close to the entrance were much larger, there were bushes that hadn't been there before, and a few scattered covered pavilions dotted the landscaping.

That would have been helpful, I thought wryly as my mind wandered back to the miserably rain-soaked and bedraggled figure that I must have presented to onlookers in the downpour following Nicky's graveside service.

As I drug my attention back to the present and the three graves lined up about fifty meters in front of me, I slowly became aware of a figure in a pinstriped suit crouched in front of my parents' headstone.

The person the court had appointed as executor for my parents' estate had asked my preference and in an uncharacteristic show of whimsy I had chosen to join their names on a single headstone instinctively knowing that in death as in life they would have preferred not to be separated.

The figure slumped forward, head and shoulders bowed with what appeared to be the weight of the world.

The date was sixteen years to the day since the accident, and I didn't need a psychic to tell me that I was looking at the man who, as a teenager, had killed my parents.

There were too many thoughts and feelings tearing through my body for me to even attempt to identify any of them, so I didn't bother, just stood there watching the man who had effectively ruined my life.

My mind ran the whole gamut from allowing my anger to dominate my other emotions and crushing him as he had crushed the hopes and dreams of two small boys all those years ago, to letting the small amount of sympathy I felt as I watched his obvious torment come to the forefront and offer him what he obviously needed...forgiveness.

There would be no in-between with me, I'd learned enough about myself to realize that I couldn't settle for half-measures.

Standing there, partly concealed by a fifteen-year-old pine—I recalled it as a mere seedling—I remained frozen to the spot, morbidly and somewhat detachedly fascinated by the man whose shoulders were inexplicably moving in an odd rhythm.

It took a few moments for my brain to register the fact that the man's strange movements were the result of sobbing. Ever so faintly, the subdued sounds reached my straining ears, and I realized in a moment of pure clarity that allowing my anger to surface would help neither of us, but at the same time, I wasn't yet ready to forgive and forget...I was still too bitter.

Turning abruptly on my heel, I stoically made my way back to my bike.

The End

Be sure and watch for the next books in the series:

Agent Jack Knight: China

Agent Jack Knight: Russia

Like L. M. Reed on Facebook for updates on upcoming books

Go to lmreed.com for links to all of L. M. Reed's books

