Chapter Three

When the message came through by text, late that night, Carmen untangled herself from Angelo’s arms, moving carefully so she didn’t wake him. She dressed, then went in search of Garrett. He wasn’t anywhere near the big fire, although it was close to midnight. He would be doing rounds in the hospital rooms inside, with the eternally patient Gracia by his side.

She stepped inside and felt the immediate difference in the surrounding air. She had been living outside for so long that anywhere inside felt muffled, too warm and the air too thick.

Gracia hovered by a sleeping patient, taking his blood pressure. She straightened when Carmen moved into the room and stripped the cuff from his arm. The man was sleeping or unconscious. He didn’t move.

“I’m looking for Garrett,” Carmen told Gracia. “I thought he would be with you.”

Gracia shook her head. The dark shadows under her eyes were still there. “It is quiet here tonight. No emergencies. I told Doctor Blackburn he should take the night off and get some sleep.”

“While you slave over the patients?”

“Someone must,” Gracia said. “I do not have two occupations to fill my hours as Doctor Blackburn does.”

Carmen nodded. “Thanks. I’ll try his room.” She hesitated. “Can I ask you a question?”

Gracia nodded, winding her stethoscope into a neat coil.

“Does it bother you that Garrett spends his daylight hours killing Insurrectos, then comes here and does this?”

“Healing people?” Gracia clarified. “It is not my place to judge anyone.”

“I didn’t say judge. I asked if it bothered you. You’re a registered nurse, aren’t you?”

Again, Gracia nodded.

“Don’t you swear an oath to protect your patients?”

“Only doctors take the Hippocratic Oath,” Gracia said.

“Where they swear that first, they will do no harm,” Carmen replied.

Gracia pressed her lips together. “You should ask Garrett that.”

Carmen gave up. Gracia wouldn’t rat on Garrett no matter what she said to persuade her. The woman had all the ethics Garrett didn’t.

She wended her way back through the monastery to the small room where Garrett hung out when he wasn’t doctoring or fighting. It had been given to Garrett as his office and sleeping quarters. The door was shut. It was always shut, so the closed door meant nothing.

Carmen rapped on the wood and got no answer. She pushed the door open a few inches. The chair behind the rickety desk was empty. She pushed the door open even farther. The room was deserted. The door to the tiny bedroom was ajar and she could see the bed. It was made and undisturbed.

She shut the door again. Where was Garrett? The monastery was a big place, although the monks discouraged the fighters from stepping inside unless expressly invited by one of the brothers—a rare occasion. Did Garrett follow that custom, or had he found a room somewhere farther inside, where no one would find him?

Carmen was tempted to give up and go back to her sleeping bag and Angelo. Only, the news from Cristián was urgent. Instead, she blew out her breath, exhaling her frustration and went back outside. She circled the exterior of the main monastery building, checking behind out-buildings as she came to them.

She found Garrett on the far side of the monastery from everyone else. He had found himself a shallow trench on the lee side of a small shed. The shed was old and falling down. The stones that had once made up the walls were piled against the remnants of the wall itself. The trench wasn’t deep, yet sitting at the bottom would protect against the tiny breeze.

Garrett wasn’t in the trench, though. He sat on the pile of rubble that glowed a ghostly white in the light of the full moon. He was a black silhouette against the stones, his back against the section of wall that still stood.

“Are you hiding?” Carmen asked.

“‘parently, not well enough.” It was a low growl.

“We heard from Pascuallita,” Carmen told him. “They want to meet in two days, at Valle Leñosa, that little village in the lowlands.”

“You couldn’t’ve told me this tomorrow?”

Carmen stared at him, even though she couldn’t see any details in the dark. “Are you drunk?” she asked at last. Something in the way he was talking…

“Not hidden enough. Not drunk enough. Can’t do anything right.” He lifted his arm and something clinked against the stones at his side. He raised the bottle to his lips and drank deeply.

“Where did you get that?” Carmen asked. The camp had been dry ever since she had arrived. Not because Garrett wanted everyone sober, but because alcohol of any sort was impossible to obtain.

The label on the bottle in Garrett’s hands was a familiar one. Carmen hadn’t seen it since before she had left for college. It was Vistarian mescal. “Did Hernandez slip you the bottle?” she asked.

“Go back to your skinny lover. Leave me alone.”

He might not be drunk enough to suit his tastes, yet he was still drunk. His speech wasn’t slurring, though. Garrett’s superhuman discipline didn’t take a breather even when he was blasted.

Carmen sighed. “I need you to dig in and focus for a moment.” She made her tone crisp. Pure business. “We need to send someone to the rendezvous point. They must observe it until we get there for the meeting, so we can be sure it isn’t an Insurrecto trap. It’s nearly a day’s walk from here, although twelve hours observation should minimize the risk.”

Garrett smiled. His teeth were white in the moonlight, contrasting with the darkness over his eyes. “Ms. Fix It.”

“Garrett, snap out of it.”

“Why?” His tone was reasonable.

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

“Don’t want to talk to you, anyway.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Carmen shot back. “You’re always raving about the chain of command. I have to talk to you and you have to give the order. Save me from having to spend any more time listening to your self-pity. Straighten up for thirty seconds and I’m out of here.”

He stretched out his legs, leaning back to keep his balance on the top of the pile. With one large lunge, he stepped onto the ground. He straightened. The bottle swung from his fingers, making sloshing sounds. He hadn’t bothered recapping the bottle.

Carmen crossed her arms, fighting the anger rising in her. She had never seen Garrett drunk before, yet even drunk, he was formidable.

He stood over her and spoke with perfect clarity. “Send your scout. You will, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t!” she refuted. “Not if you haven’t said to.”

“Then you’ve surprised me.”

“After the weeks and weeks of you bawling me out for not following orders, for trying to do my own thing? Do you think I’m so stupid I can’t learn anything?”

He circled around her and with the moonlight over her shoulder, his moon shadow lurched on the dry ground. “You’re not stupid,” he said flatly. “You’re reckless. You let emotions drive you.”

“You sound like Spock now.” She stood where she was and let him walk around her. He was speaking clearly, yet the looseness of his gait betrayed him. He wasn’t staggering—not yet. He was close to it, though.

“He might have been right. ‘motions are grit.”

Carmen cocked her head. “That’s why you’re hiding out here?”

He stopped circling. He was behind her, so she turned to face him. He was looking at her. No, he was looking through her, as if what she had said had punched buttons and now his brain was firing.

“Go back to the fire.” This time he sounded far more sober than he had since she had stumbled across him.

“I can send the scout?”

He grimaced. “Send Angelo. He’s good at ingratiating himself. The locals will adore him.”

Carmen let out a breath, letting go of the need to defend Angelo. She stepped away from Garrett. “I suggest you get some sleep.”

“Nothing there but bad dreams,” he muttered. This time, his words slurred.

Carmen hurried away, heading for the refectory. She hugged herself, feeling an odd chill even though the night wasn’t cold.

It was almost a relief to wake Angelo and tell him what his orders were. She was doing something. She was acting, rather than thinking. She wasn’t thinking about Garrett, whom she didn’t want to think about.

Angelo was sleepy and protested about having to get up and dressed and head out into the night.

“It’s an order, Angelo. Get off your lazy fucking ass and move it, soldier!”

His eyes widened, although he got up and thrust his feet into his jeans.

Carmen watched him dress. She hated the little voice in her mind that pointed out that Angelo was skinny. His thighs had no muscle to speak of and his ribs stood out clearly.

When he was dressed, he tried to kiss her goodbye.

Carmen stepped away from him. “Kiss me hello, instead. When we get back.”

His expression was one of surprise, yet there was bitterness in it, too.

He walked away silently. His pack and belongings were on the other side of the fire. He would only come to her sleeping bag when everyone was asleep, even though the whole camp knew they were together in a tenuous way that even she wasn’t sure she could define.

She watched him shrug on a jacket and heavy boots, then shoulder his pack, pick up his rifle and slide into the night. Once he was gone, she got into her sleeping bag and hugged it around her for warmth.

The bag smelled faintly of Angelo. That should have comforted her. Instead, it annoyed her.

* * * * *

The United States had not officially recognized Nick as the President pro tem of Vistaria. Nor had diplomatic relations been extended toward the Loyalists. Their arrival in Washington was low key and the antithesis of any official flight Olivia had ever been on. They flew economy on a commercial flight to preserve the Loyalists’ dwindling funds and did not declare themselves in any way at the border.

The customs and immigration officials stared at Olivia and then at her hastily put-together Vistarian passport with deep puzzlement. She understood and waited them out. They decided there was no reason she should be denied entry and stamped her passport.

Because neither of them were United States citizens, both she and Nick were photographed and finger-printed, which was a novelty for Olivia. It was interesting to be treated as a complete nobody. It was nerve-wracking being back on American soil.

They hiked through the airport to the luggage pick-up area. Nick stretched hard as they waited for the carousel to belch luggage. “I’m surprised they didn’t hold us up back there.” His voice was quiet.

“Perhaps the calls are going through now,” Olivia suggested. “I can’t see my father letting me walk free around Washington when I’ve just declared myself a non-American. I counted on him trying to horn in and ask a question or two.”

“Someone will let him know.” Nick glanced toward the exit and nodded. “I think someone already has. Look.”

There were five tall, fit men in suits, looking around the carousel area.

“FBI?” Nick asked.

“National Security,” Olivia said. “They guard the White House. Dad would have sent them here as soon as the passports tripped everyone’s panic buttons.”

One guard spotted her and turned his head to speak to the others. Then they all strode toward her and Nick. Olivia stayed where she was. Nick turned to face them.

“Miss Davenport?” the lead man asked.

“It’s Señora Castellano,” Olivia replied. “You’re…Jerry, right? I think we’ve met before. You’re on my father’s detail.”

Jerry didn’t react. “Señora Castellano,” he acknowledged, “The Chief of Staff to the President of the United States would like to have a word with you and your…companion.”

“Officially?” Olivia asked, although she already knew this would not be an official meeting. For an official meeting, the Deputy Chief of Staff or the Communications Director would be here, and the demand to go with them would be phrased as a polite request.

However, Nick and she had no political standing here. Any meeting they could get would be unofficial and covert. Nick had warned her it would be this way, on the flight up from Acapulco, although Olivia had already figured out how it would go.

An unofficial meeting with her father was a good first step.

Nick looked at her and raised his brows the smallest amount. This request matched what he had predicted.

She nodded and looked at Jerry. “We need to collect our luggage first.”

“No need, ma’am,” Jerry said. “We’ve already cleared your luggage. It’s waiting in the car.” He moved back and to one side and waved toward the exit, while another of his team spoke into their lapel microphone.

The carousel clanked and groaned as it started up. Scattered cheers sounded from the passengers waiting around it.

Olivia sighed and moved in the direction Jerry indicated.

Nick moved up alongside. “It’ll save on cab fare,” he said philosophically, making her smile.

Yet her thoughts were running ahead to the meeting with her father and her smile faded quickly.

* * * * *

Carmen didn’t know what prompted her to do it. After breakfast she sat back on her sleeping bag and pulled out the laptop once more.

Garrett was nowhere to be seen. She figured he was sleeping off the mescal. He had been most of the way through the bottle. She had no doubt he finished it after she had left. That was a lot of alcohol, especially Vistarian mescal. He wouldn’t be up until noon. That left her free and clear for a few hours.

Remembering the way Garrett had sneaked up on her the last time she had used the laptop, Carmen put her back against the wall and angled herself so she could see both directions of approach just by looking over the top edge of the screen.

Then she went surfing. The first thing she did was type Garrett’s full name into Google and hit ‘enter’.

There were a lot of results for Garrett Blackburn that led to LinkedIn, YouTube, Facebook and the other social networks. She couldn’t imagine Garrett hanging out on any of them. He just wasn’t that sort of human.

On the next page there were half a dozen entries linking to Harvard Medical School. They were dated around the time Garrett would have completed his medical degree. Even if he had gone straight into pre-med out of high school, then he was older than she had first thought. She clicked on one of the links. It was a simple listing of med students for that year. She shut down the tab and clicked back to Google.

On the third page, she came across an entry that didn’t seem to be related to Garrett at all. It was from the English Times newspaper. The headline was bleak. “Bodies of Mother and Daughter Found Outside Baghdad.”

Her heart squeezed, as she moused down to the link and clicked on it.

The news article was short, although she didn’t need any more detail. There was enough in the three paragraphs to tell the whole story.

An American doctor working for the WHO, Garrett Edward Blackburn, had been pulled from his home in the middle of the night by Iraqi soldiers, who claimed he was distributing black market drugs and food to locals. They took his wife and daughter, too.

While attempting to make Garrett talk, the soldiers had killed his family.

In front of him.

Garrett was turned loose three days later. He stumbled into the American Embassy, his feet and body raw from the caning and clubbing he had suffered. That had been four weeks before the bodies of his wife and daughter had been found outside Baghdad.

The article summarized the horror in neat Times Roman and concluded that the bodies were being flown back to the United States.

“Who are you talking to now?” Garrett asked.

Carmen barely held in her yelp of surprise. She dropped the lid on the laptop. “I’m just clearing the cache and stuff. I forgot to do it last time.”

Garrett looked none the worse for his dive into the bottle last night. His gray eyes narrowed and he bent and snatched the laptop from her, sliding it out from under her hands. She couldn’t try to grab it back. That would make her look as guilty as she was.

She got to her feet, knowing she could do nothing to halt this. She felt beyond guilty now. Her gut churned and her heart raced sickly. It didn’t help that she couldn’t get the image out of her mind of Garrett lying bloodied and beaten on some concrete floor somewhere, watching while his daughter…

She pushed the image away, as Garrett opened the laptop and waited for the image to reform on the screen.

His face darkened. “How dare you,” he breathed. Only, there wasn’t just anger there. Pain showed in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Carmen said. “I know that doesn’t excuse it, but I am. I had no idea—”

“For a reason!” he shouted. “I didn’t fucking tell you, that’s why you didn’t know!”

Heads turned.

Carmen held up her hand and wasn’t surprised to see it shake. “I don’t know anything about you at all. Nothing. I wanted to know more about the man who gives the orders around here.”

“No one else wants to know,” he pointed out. “Everyone except you is content to mind their own business.”

His vitriol sparked her own anger. Guilt pushed her into firing back. “I wanted to know how you live with yourself, Garrett. How can you practice medicine all night, save lives and ease suffering? How do you even live with the knowledge that every day you’re out there, a gun in your hand, breaking your Hippocratic Oath?”

“You’re fucking kidding me!” he cried. “You’re losing sleep over my ethics?”

She bit her lip. She had braced herself for anger. This white hot fury was more than she had expected. “Look, Garrett—”

“No, you listen,” he snapped. “Stay out of my life. Do what you’re told. Be a good soldier or get the fuck out of my camp. Got it?”

She trembled. It would be much easier just to say ‘yes’.

Instead, she swallowed and made herself speak the truth. “You shouldn’t be fighting.”

A vein throbbed in his temple and his jaw rippled. His gaze wouldn’t let her go. His eyes were stormy with anger and a whole slew of emotions she couldn’t name. Why had she ever thought him to be cold and emotionless?

“I don’t understand,” she added. “You’re a smart man. You’ve got a heart. You feel. How do you live with yourself when you’re killing people like you do?”

He gave her a smile that had no humor in it. “It’s called prophylactic medicine, Escobedo. Look it up on your precious computer, if you don’t know what that means.” He shoved the laptop into her hands.

Carmen watched him stride back to the door that led to the hospital rooms. Her trembling grew worse now it was over. She sank onto her sleeping bag, not meeting anyone’s gaze, for everyone in the refectory watched her. She didn’t open the laptop again. Instead, she rested her hand on the cover.

She knew what prophylactic medicine meant. It was preventative medicine. Garrett justified how he spent his days by telling himself he was preventing needless deaths of Loyalists at the hands of the Insurrectos.

It was such a weak argument. Did Garrett cling to it because he wanted to fight?

Her hand on the laptop reminded her of the Times article.

Perhaps he did want to fight, after all.