Guarding The Soldier's Secret

Yancy’s Irish temper sparked to life and built to a slow simmer. Not the best timing for it, she realized, but it did help burn off the fog of shock. Before her anger could reach full boil, she halted, so abruptly Hunt had to sidestep nimbly to keep from bumping into her. She heard him swearing under his breath.

“What are you stopping for? Move, move.”

Yancy tightened her grip on her purse strap. “That’s not going to happen. Not another step. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

From the shadows between his turban and beard, his eyes seemed to glow like those of a wild animal. “Can’t you just trust me?” She stared at him without answering. He hissed out a breath. “Dammit, Yancy, this isn’t the time. I’ll answer your questions when I’ve got you to safety.”

“Okay, sure, that’s fine.” Holding herself straight and firm, tall as she was, she still had to look up to meet his eyes. “Darn right you will. But there’s someone else here I’m sure has questions. Maybe they can’t wait. Did you even think about her? Did you stop to think you might be scaring her?”

She saw him hesitate, saw his gaze flick to Laila and something she couldn’t identify flash across his eyes, though his features remained impassive. He dropped to one knee, took Laila by the arms and turned her to face him in a way she’d seen him do once before.

In a gentle voice she’d also heard him use once before, he said, “Hey, do you remember me?” Laila stared stoically back at him, rigid as a post. “Do you know who I am?”

Moments passed, filled with heartbeats and silence. Yancy held her breath until it hardened in her chest. Then Laila whispered a single word, in Pashto. “Akaa...”

There was a soft hiss of breath. He threw an unreadable glance at Yancy before turning his attention back to Laila. “That’s right. Akaa Hunt, remember? I need you to come with me now—will you do that?”

He reached for her hand, but she shrank back against Yancy, shaking her head, whimpering, “No...no...”

Hunt drew back and draped the rejected hand across a drawn-up knee. His voice was, if possible, even more gentle. “No? Why not?”

Yancy put her hand on Laila’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She nearly choked on the words. “It’s okay, baby. He’s...our friend.”

Laila turned swimming golden eyes toward Yancy and asked in a small voice, “Is he going to take me away, Mommy?” A tear made its way slowly down her cheek. “I don’t want to leave you. Please don’t make me go.”

Again, pain sliced through Hunt’s chest. He had to look away and his hand clenched into a fist while Yancy gathered his daughter close and murmured reassurances.

My daughter.

But I deserved that, I suppose.

Not that knowing it lessened the weight in the pit of his stomach to any noticeable degree.

He stood up and briefly laid his hand on Laila’s scarf-draped head. “I’m not taking you away from your mom. You’re both coming with me. Right...Mom?” He braced himself and met Yancy’s eyes, prepared for the blazing anger he saw there, knowing he deserved that, too.

No apologies, Yankee. I did what was necessary. Couldn’t be helped.

Laila looked to Yancy for confirmation, back at Hunt with her chin at a particular tilt, one he remembered well. “Okay, I’ll go,” she announced. “But I’m very tired of walking. My feet are tired. And I’m thirsty.”

“No problem,” Hunt said with a shrug. “I can carry you.”

She bristled, as he’d known she would, and her chin rose up another notch. “Don’t be silly. I’m way too big to carry. I’m eight years old. I’m not a baby.”

Yancy automatically murmured, “Laila...”

Hunt spoke over her. “You’re right—you’re not. So, we’d better get a move on, okay? It’s not much farther. Sooner we get going, the sooner we’ll be there.”

“My mom said we were going to have ice cream. Do you have ice cream?”

He glanced at Yancy, who shrugged and looked away, hiding her expression behind a swath of scarf. He gave the kid—his kid—a sideways look. “I imagine that could be arranged.”

“Pistachio?”

Pistachio? He and Yancy exchanged another look. His said, What the hell?

Hers, along with another shrug, said, Don’t look at me. She’s got your DNA.

He snorted and gave Laila his best glare. “How ’bout we save the negotiations for later? Right now, we’re gonna play Follow The Leader, and I’m the leader—you got that?”

After a moment, she nodded, though he could tell from the gleam in her eyes she wasn’t all that impressed with his claim to authority. Growling under his breath, he turned and led the way down the curving alley, trusting Yancy to bring the girl and keep up with him.

Mommy. My mom said...

It played over and over in his head. He was having trouble wrapping his head around that. Not the fact of it—he’d known about the adoption, of course. Maybe hearing her say the words... No—it was the way he felt when he heard her say the words. That was what he couldn’t reconcile himself with.

Hunt Grainger—the Hunt Grainger he’d made himself into—couldn’t afford the luxury of feeling. For so many years—he’d lost track of how many—he’d put away any feelings that threatened to get in his way, put them in a safe he’d long since lost the combination to. He’d had a job to do, a job with lives at stake. Sometimes more than just lives. Sometimes the future of nations depended on his staying focused, going into impossible situations and getting the job done. Not only would feelings get in the way of him getting the job done, but they could be downright dangerous.

* * *

“No apologies. I do what I have to do.”

I remember saying those words the night I finally went to her Quonset.

To tell you the truth, I don’t know what drove me to knock on her door. It was a couple of weeks after my team pulled hers out of a firefight, the day she’d invited me to drop by and tell my story. Like the last time, we’d come in off a mission, only this one hadn’t gone the way we’d planned. We hadn’t lost anyone on the team, but there’d been civilian casualties. Children. Women. I had no intention of telling anybody about any of that, but I was carrying pictures in my head that weren’t going to be erased by a sub sandwich, even if it was accompanied by a cold beer. Or several. Maybe I thought the company of a beautiful redheaded woman would do something to make me forget the image of a little girl clinging to her dead mother and crying, “Ammi, Ammi...” over and over.

But that wasn’t the first time I’d had to deal with such things, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. So maybe what I was really looking for was an excuse to do what I’d been wanting to do all along.

* * *

Watching Hunt Grainger face off with his own daughter did a lot to restore Yancy’s spirits. Oh, she was still half in shock, still angry, for so many reasons, and she still had more questions than she could put in coherent form, even though asking questions was how she made her living. But he was right—those were for another time. At the moment she was finding a certain measure of satisfaction in the look of utter helplessness she’d seen on Hunt’s face when he was haggling with Laila. Who would have guessed the man she still thought of as more superhero than man, more machine than human, could be brought to earth by an eight-year-old girl?

But she’d seen that look of utter bewilderment on his face before. Only once. And it was probably what had made her sleep with him. At least the first time...

* * *

It’s still sharp and clear in my memory, even after so long. I’m in my quarters, working on the copy for next day’s report. I’ve always written my own. It’s one of my trademarks as a correspondent. I don’t know if he knocked; if he did I was deep into the work and didn’t hear it. Then he is simply there, standing inside the door, standing straight and tall, almost at attention.

“Well, hello, soldier,” I say as I hit Save on my laptop and close it.

He says, “My name’s Hunt.” My heart begins to beat faster, and I fight to maintain my poise.

“Does this mean you’ve decided to talk to me?” I ask with professional calm, holding on to a smile as he saunters toward me. He frowns and shakes his head. “Then why,” I say, “are you here?”

“Damned if I know,” he replies, and the look on his face makes me catch my breath. For the first and the only time, I see pain there, and sadness, and confusion. I don’t know what to make of it.

Later I thought I’d mistaken the look completely; it seemed so out of character for him and never came again.

“Can...I help you?” I ask him, my smile faltering as he comes closer...so close. Though I’m not afraid, and I don’t know why.