his eyes slowly and fought back the memories that haunted him. The mental pictures he still buried every day of his life. They attacked the back wall of his mind like crashing waves. Picture after picture.
The girl. His wife. Smiling that smile a woman only gives to the man she loves. Swimming together in the ocean. Bright cheeked and grinning on a Canadian ski slope. Her voice and her laugh. The smell of her skin. Warm . . . like fresh-baked bread.
That last Christmas and the girlâs mischievous gifts. Her simple delight in doing something nice for him. A loving face glowing in the soft firelight as they quietly planned for the future.
And the child. His little girl.
And she was gone. And his baby. Sheâd died alone and afraid. He would never forgive the system and the men who had done that. Never. He wasnât even supposed to be there, at Langley. Heâd had an assignment out. A training squadron in Arizona. It wasnât the front lines, but after three wars heâd had enough of that anyway. In a training outfit heâd be home every night. There would be no deployments. He could take care of a wife and children. But theyâd canceled his assignment because their ambition meant more than his family.
Lying perfectly still for a few moments, he waited for the anger to pass. For it to slowly sink back into his chest. He waited until the hot flash of rage became the sullen, heavy hate that never left him. Opening his eyes, the mercenary stared at the pattern on the ceiling. He tried to count the revolutions of the fan, the spirals in the stucco. Anything to focus.
Eventually the emotions passed and he was empty, as always. Rolling out of bed, he pulled on a pair of baggy Arab cotton pants and walked to the window. Gazing out, he was struck, as always, by the contrast between the modern world and one much older. Satellite antennas and mosques. Suits and robes. Donkey carts and Mercedes. Leaning against the huge bay window, he yawned and let his eyes clear.
The door to the past was shut again.
Standing two inches over six feet, the mercenary had wide shoulders, long, thin legs and a deep chest. Dark skinned, he had an angular face with high cheekbones that ended at his eyes. Eyes that could shift oddly from light cloudy gray to hard gunmetal, and whatever thoughts lived behind them rarely showed. It wasnât a handsome face but it was an interesting face. Most important, it was a face that could be Arab or European or even American.
Catlike, he stretched and yawned again. Damn, his shoulders ached. It had been a long forty-eight hours.
Heâd coasted into Victoria Harbor just past 0315 hours, Hong Kong time. It was just as deserted as it had been two months earlier during his reconnaissance trip to the port. Smelling like hot oil and salt water, the cigarette boat had been well provisioned and served him well. Eating several bananas and some jerky, the mercenary had some cold water then opened the leather bag heâd left with the boat. Idling offshore, away from the ferry lane, heâd delayed long enough to change out of the stale flight suit. After slipping on a pair of blue jeans, deck shoes, and a black turtleneck, he motored quietly up to the Pacific Club and tied up. The Kowloon dock was used exclusively for pleasure craft and at this hour was completely deserted.
Depositing his flying clothes, boots, and checklists into a canvas bag, he weighted it with the boatâs extra anchor and dropped it overboard. The data cartridge had gone into the other black bag, which he hoisted onto the dock. Taking a last look around, the mercenary ducked below and opened the sea cocks. He stared a moment as the dirty dark water poured in, then stepped back up the companionway onto the deck.
Jumping lightly onto the floating dock, he untied the Tiger and shoved it backward. The big boat turned sideways and slowly drifted with the tide. Satisfied that it was settling in the water, he slung
The girl. His wife. Smiling that smile a woman only gives to the man she loves. Swimming together in the ocean. Bright cheeked and grinning on a Canadian ski slope. Her voice and her laugh. The smell of her skin. Warm . . . like fresh-baked bread.
That last Christmas and the girlâs mischievous gifts. Her simple delight in doing something nice for him. A loving face glowing in the soft firelight as they quietly planned for the future.
And the child. His little girl.
And she was gone. And his baby. Sheâd died alone and afraid. He would never forgive the system and the men who had done that. Never. He wasnât even supposed to be there, at Langley. Heâd had an assignment out. A training squadron in Arizona. It wasnât the front lines, but after three wars heâd had enough of that anyway. In a training outfit heâd be home every night. There would be no deployments. He could take care of a wife and children. But theyâd canceled his assignment because their ambition meant more than his family.
Lying perfectly still for a few moments, he waited for the anger to pass. For it to slowly sink back into his chest. He waited until the hot flash of rage became the sullen, heavy hate that never left him. Opening his eyes, the mercenary stared at the pattern on the ceiling. He tried to count the revolutions of the fan, the spirals in the stucco. Anything to focus.
Eventually the emotions passed and he was empty, as always. Rolling out of bed, he pulled on a pair of baggy Arab cotton pants and walked to the window. Gazing out, he was struck, as always, by the contrast between the modern world and one much older. Satellite antennas and mosques. Suits and robes. Donkey carts and Mercedes. Leaning against the huge bay window, he yawned and let his eyes clear.
The door to the past was shut again.
Standing two inches over six feet, the mercenary had wide shoulders, long, thin legs and a deep chest. Dark skinned, he had an angular face with high cheekbones that ended at his eyes. Eyes that could shift oddly from light cloudy gray to hard gunmetal, and whatever thoughts lived behind them rarely showed. It wasnât a handsome face but it was an interesting face. Most important, it was a face that could be Arab or European or even American.
Catlike, he stretched and yawned again. Damn, his shoulders ached. It had been a long forty-eight hours.
Heâd coasted into Victoria Harbor just past 0315 hours, Hong Kong time. It was just as deserted as it had been two months earlier during his reconnaissance trip to the port. Smelling like hot oil and salt water, the cigarette boat had been well provisioned and served him well. Eating several bananas and some jerky, the mercenary had some cold water then opened the leather bag heâd left with the boat. Idling offshore, away from the ferry lane, heâd delayed long enough to change out of the stale flight suit. After slipping on a pair of blue jeans, deck shoes, and a black turtleneck, he motored quietly up to the Pacific Club and tied up. The Kowloon dock was used exclusively for pleasure craft and at this hour was completely deserted.
Depositing his flying clothes, boots, and checklists into a canvas bag, he weighted it with the boatâs extra anchor and dropped it overboard. The data cartridge had gone into the other black bag, which he hoisted onto the dock. Taking a last look around, the mercenary ducked below and opened the sea cocks. He stared a moment as the dirty dark water poured in, then stepped back up the companionway onto the deck.
Jumping lightly onto the floating dock, he untied the Tiger and shoved it backward. The big boat turned sideways and slowly drifted with the tide. Satisfied that it was settling in the water, he slung
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