“No it wasn’t. Nice try, though.” She shifts her body so that her head is on my chest and one hand runs idly up and down my midline. “You asked if I’ll ever quit this life.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I murmur.
“Will you?” she asks, and I’m so mesmerized by the surge of desire I feel at her touch that I don’t immediately realize I’m answering my own question before she does.
“Someday when my career has run its course… This life isn’t fair to kids, and I definitely want to have kids someday.”
“How will you know it’s run its course?” she asks, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of my neck.
“When the buzz is gone,” I say matter-of-factly. “Then I’ll know that I’m too complacent, too cautious, and not worthy of this job anymore.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can sense her collecting her thoughts, trying to figure out what I mean. “The buzz?”
“Yeah. That adrenaline buzz you get from getting a story or for you the perfect shot. The one that —”
“Lights your blood on fire and makes you fidget with the unexpected anticipation of what’s to come next,” she finishes for me, and causes my breath to hitch because she gets it. Gets me. That’s a rarity.
“Exactly.” I press a kiss into the crown of her head. “The day I no longer feel that from the first phone call on, I need to hang up my credentials.” I laugh halfheartedly. “But I don’t see that happening anytime soon. I love what I do too much. Am addicted to that buzz in a sense. It’s what drives me on a story, and the promise of it is what keeps me patient in the lulls between them.”
“I feel the same way, in a sense. I always told myself I’d do this job until I met the one,” she says, reminding me immediately of that first night we met, the “You’re the one” that fell from her lips, and I immediately clear away the thought, knowing that isn’t exactly what she was referring to. “And then I’d have to domesticate myself, and my only clients would be babies and brides.” She mock shivers. “So in other words I’ll be doing this for a long time, because I don’t feel that urge coming anytime soon. What would you do, though, Tanner, if you didn’t do this?” Curiosity infuses her tone, and for the first time ever, I don’t feel stupid telling someone besides my family the answer.
“I’d like to write a book.” I wait for her to make a sarcastic comment, but none comes.
“You’d be good at it,” she muses in a way that warms me from within. “Some people like to create storms and then complain when it rains. You, on the other hand, like to stand back, watch the storm move in, churn, and affect people, and then document the fight and fallout. You’re able to separate yourself from the emotions of it all in self-preservation, and yet you can still explain and express what happened so that people feel like they were there. It’s an incredible gift.”
Frankly, I’m a little shocked by her assessment. Flattered by it really. “Thank you,” I murmur to Beaux. It’s all I can say as a comfortable silence falls around us, and I wonder if her thoughts are as foggy as mine on the topic right now. I shift my weight so that we are lying face-to-face on our sides with my hand on the side of her neck; I’m enjoying this moment and completely ignoring the hornet’s nest we will be walking into later today on the embed.
She responds instantly when I brush my lips against hers, her body fitting into mine perfectly as I deepen the kiss.
I lean back and look into her eyes, knowing that my period of hesitation is over. I’ve let the emotions churn and swell within me long enough, and I’m ready to tell her. “Hey, Beaux? I l—”
“Open up, Thomas!” A fist pounding on the hotel room door knocks the words from my mouth. As soon as she recognizes Pauly’s voice, Beaux scrambles up from the bed to grab for a pair of jeans resting over the back of a chair.
“Hold on!” she calls out, but looks at me with a mixture of unease about getting caught in a relationship – as if Pauly didn’t already know since he’s knocking on the door of her room – and confusion over why in the hell I’m not getting some clothes on myself. I snicker as she does the hop-around-to-get-into-her-jeans thing and then succumb to full-blown laughter when she falls over to the ground in the process.
I rise calmly from the bed and pull on my own jeans and slip a shirt over my head as I walk to open the door, still laughing at what just happened. Once I know Beaux is clothed and doesn’t look like we were just rolling around in the sheets, I open the door.
“What’s up, man?” I open the door for him to come in and head back to stand near the table, sliding Beaux a glance and trying not to laugh.
“Nothing. I was just curious if you’d gotten wind of anything, because word on the street is you might have gotten a mission to tag along on,” he says as he leans a shoulder against the wall, eyes flicking back and forth between Beaux and me, lips pursed, expression leery.
Fuck. Now I have to lie to my friend on top of being mad at him for interrupting us and the perfect moment for me to tell Beaux I was in love with her too.
“Possibly. I’m still waiting to hear from my contact.” I figure a partial truth is better than a complete lie.
Still, the moment he asked, I knew Pauly was on the scent, and he’d follow us in his own transportation if necessary in order to get the story he thinks we have for his own, which means we need to figure out how to leave in the next few hours and do so without him finding out.
Chapter 20
T
he scent of destruction is one you never forget and one you can recognize at the first whiff. It also helped that for the hour-long ride to the village, we could hear the F/A 18 fighter jets overhead followed minutes later by the squelch of the radio and then Sarge relaying to us that a direct hit was made.
Sitting in the back of the armed transport carrier in the dim light, one thigh pressed against Beaux’s and the other against Rosco’s, I could feel that buzz humming through me, that rush that had been missing while I sat for hours on end in the hotel, watching the insects fly in endless circles around the lobby.
As the rocky terrain jostled us around, our combat helmets hit the metal of the transport behind us more times than we cared to count, but that only amplified the anticipation of what was going to greet us when we got our boots on the ground. Being packed like sardines in the Stryker, shoulder to shoulder, made it impossible to turn and meet Beaux’s eyes, to make sure she was okay without speaking aloud and giving away that I might care a little more than I should about my colleague. But I tried to ascertain her comfort level in other ways. With my hands flat on my thighs, I ever so subtly moved my pinkie finger to brush over the edge of where our thighs met. Just enough to let her know I was there, next to her, looking out for her.
But that was all I could do. The words I wanted, no, needed, to say, were lost for now in a lack of opportunity between when Pauly interrupted us and we were forced to slip out of the hotel on the sly, to the crazy cab ride where Beaux was stuck giving turn-by-turn directions to the driver in Dari until we arrived at the meeting location. Surrounded by soldiers geared and amped up on the adrenaline of the big raid stretched out before them, their excitement was palpable. In order to do our job, Beaux and I both needed to be in the right mind-set.
I never got the chance to tell her: either the moment was not perfect enough, my timing was off, or my courage gave way due to other circumstances.
Once we start making our way on foot to the bombing sites, the click of Beaux’s shutter accompanies the background noise of the soldiers’ boots crunching over cobbled streets, and the intermittent conversations between stern voices in English and confused villagers speaking in Dari to the American soldiers. The air feels thick with dust, plus the smell of nitrates and the scent of fire grows with each step we take closer to the epicenter of the bombing campaign.
Although I’m making mental notes as we walk so that I can commit things to memory, I also keep my ear attentive to the conversations Sarge is having a few steps in front of me. In betw
een commanding soldiers to clear houses, check for hostile or retaliatory activity, and to hurry to the main site to help where the SEALs have already moved in and are looking for intel that might be left over, he’s also talking to commanders looking at the scene through drones flying overhead and discussing mission success.
“The situation seems stable,” I can hear him say to his next in command, “but this isn’t a friendly zone. I want you guys clearing houses. I want all military-age males in the village square so that we can make sure we have any threats contained until we clear out.”
My eyes wander as we walk. The many women I see peering through windows, eyes shaded by their burkas, make me wonder what they are thinking right now. Do they look at the uniforms of our armed forces and think savior or enemy? Their eyes express nothing. Barefoot little boys sit on thresholds, eyes wide as saucers with both fear and curiosity as they watch the brigade of desert camo uniforms stomp through their town. A constant keening sound has become white noise to my ears, but I can see women and kids bent over at the waist in certain courtyards, mourning whomever they think they’ve lost. I force myself to put up my fourth wall, shut my own emotion off so that I can report objectively and not be affected by the sights and sounds of devastation around me as best as I can. It’s not as easy as it looks, but I know Beaux is documenting everything: the emotional destruction in candid shots now, and then the physical destruction for Worldwide when we reach the epicenter.
I glance over at her as we walk, taking in her hair braided down her back beneath the helmet, camera bag slung over her shoulder and Kevlar vest, and the black Canon an extension of her hand as she snaps the shutter over and over, changing the angle to get a new shot every few clicks. She must feel the heat of my stare because she lowers the camera momentarily, her vibrant green eyes meet mine, and a soft smile forms on her lips.
The thought flickers in my mind again how she is this little piece of Heaven in this land full of Hell.
“Remember the rules,” I tell her, which earns me an even bigger smile.
“Yes, Mr. I’m-in-control,” she teases, adding a little bit of lightheartedness to this oppressive atmosphere. “I won’t leave your side. I’ll listen to you. I won’t leave your side, and I won’t leave your side. Satisfied?” She shrugs, her smile turning into a lopsided smirk as she raises the camera again.
“Smart-ass,” I murmur, although I feel a tad bit better hearing that she knows how important it is not to wander off.
“You wouldn’t know what to do with me if I was any different,” she fires back, causing me to just shake my head.
When I move to adjust my backpack, the weight of all of my reporting gear heavy enough to cause discomfort, I can’t help but think how Pauly’s going to kick my ass for once again getting the story first. I’m sure the other news agencies will be here inside of sixty minutes of my first report due to travel time. No doubt some are already en route, sniffing their way here after hearing the Hornets overhead and subsequent explosions.
But we got here first, and I can’t wait to get set up and go live. I have Rafe on standby waiting to patch me in.
My mind wanders to Omid and how his intel was wrong. I wonder whether he was protecting me or playing me for the opposition, except I can’t give it much more thought once the edge of the bomb zone comes into view. Beaux and her camera are back in action as we step into the scene of destruction, the steady sound of the shutter click a reassurance because when I hear it, I know she’s okay.
Piles of concrete rubble with trickles of smoke ascending from them lie before me. American soldiers comb through the piles, putting items I can’t quite make out into sacks to bring back to base and turn over to the CIA. Black bags are laid out here and there to signify deceased victims who appear to be high-value targets waiting to be DNA tested and identified. Such a mechanical set of procedures for the manmade loss of life.
And no matter how many years I’ve been on the job, how many scenes like this I’ve come to report on, I’ve never gotten used to the sight or the scent of lost lives. Quickly, I turn to look toward Beaux, to make sure that she’s okay; she doesn’t have many situations like this under her belt, and I know how tough it can be to process it all. She stands a few feet beside me, camera up to her cheek as her shield to make the reality seem far away even though, in all irony, it brings her closer to the destruction.
She seems as fine as one can be under these circumstances, so I turn my focus back on Sarge’s communications, all the while getting more perspective on the enormity of the operation. I begin to work out the wording of my report in my head, ears tuned in to Sarge’s voice and Beaux’s shutter, and eyes darting at the debris field stretched out in front of me.
I collect as much information as possible – the destruction of buildings, the emotional devastation on civilians, gauge the hostility versus the willingness to help the soldiers, anything and everything to add to my report and allow the viewer to understand the magnitude and importance of this campaign. I take it all in, filter through the things I have to be vague on now and details to clear with Sarge later before I can give an in-depth report. All that matters is I find a place to set up right now, get the feed up live, and file a story before anyone else gets here.
So you’re the one.
I chuckle to myself, my mind flashing back to the first night I met Beaux and the comment she made that’s never been more true than right now. Yep, I’m the one that every reporter hates and wants to be all at the same time. I find a setup that I think will work to report from just as loud shouts break out across the square. Soldiers are physically coercing three men from a house who are not cooperating. The soldiers have their guns drawn on the locals as shouting escalates from both sides, hands gesticulating wildly to try and bridge the language barrier in an attempt to mediate an already volatile situation.
“Thomas?”
I look up to find Rosco bearing down on me. “Yeah?”
“We know it’s not your first rodeo, but Sarge wants to make sure you’re vague. No location. No confirmed hits on high-value targets. No —”
“I know the routine, Rosco. I’ll play by the rules,” I confirm, irritated he’s even saying anything as I look back down to my computer to finish setting up my connections.
It’s a split second that lasts a lifetime for me. So many things happen simultaneously, but at the same time feel like they are their own individual moments: I swear I hear “BJ” called somewhere behind me at the same moment I realize the constant comforting click of Beaux’s shutter is gone. I snap my head up just as Rosco’s eyes widen at something over my shoulder.
And I know in an instant that it’s something to do with Beaux. That gut instinct I’ve spent my career honing picks up on something, and my heart plummets to my feet.
“Beaux!”
We both call her name as I whirl around to make out what he’s seeing. She doesn’t hear us, too damn preoccupied with her camera in one hand and that big heart of hers that she wears on her sleeve. She’s walking toward a dog lamed by something wrapped around his hind quarters. He whimpers, tries to walk, and stumbles.
Everything clicks into place at once for me. Snapshots that play together to show what’s about to happen minus the sound of her shutter.
Pure, unfettered terror steals my voice as I move on instinct – fight-or-flight – and knock everything over, my only thought to get to Beaux.
Rosco’s shout rings through the chaos around us and adds to the riot of fear screaming in my own head.
Beaux stops a few feet from the dog before her body jerks at the absolute commanding terror in Rosco and my voices even though I swear no sound even came out of my mouth.
Her face. I know before anything further happens that the look on her face will forever be scarred in my mind. At first it’s confusion, parted lips, widened eyes, as she ever so slowly lowers her camera.
One second. All it takes is a split second for the confusion to morph into a perfect visual of
her panic-stricken fear that is like a vise grip on my heart.
My feet feel like they are wading through concrete, legs seizing up and not moving nearly fast enough to get to her.
She drops her camera. I don’t know why I focus on that, the sight of it falling and then stopping and recoiling back up like a bungee jumper when the strap around her neck loses slack.
Her body contorts, arms pumping, legs pushing, eyes locked on mine pleading with me in an apology I never want to accept.
C’mon, rookie, I call to her silently, urge her, beg her to put as much distance between herself and the dog caught in the improvised explosive device.
C’mon, baby.
The explosion rocks me to the core. The earth beneath my feet is nonexistent as I’m thrown into a spin cycle of smoke and sound and the complete unknown before my shoulders end up finding the ground again.
I’m stunned, shell-shocked, paralyzed. Unable to speak, can’t think, can’t hear anything except for a high-pitched ringing in my ears, and I am terrified to see.
Beaux?
Beaux.
Beaux!
My mind screams with fear; the horrific images of war in my memory mix with the thought of Beaux producing visuals I don’t want: her small body impossibly contorted, soft skin marred, long hair matted with blood. I hear the sound of Stella screaming in pain, but I’d swear it’s Beaux’s voice this time around.
Then the pain that radiates throughout my body and the sensation of my skull feeling like it’s beneath the wheel of a car rolling at an excruciatingly slow pace drown out everything else.
So you’re the one, huh?
Panic ricochets, and my head swims in a viscous haze that grows thicker by the second. My body is so heavy, and all I want to do is roll onto my stomach and crawl to find her. But I can’t move, can’t think beyond the dust and particles raining down around me, the staggering scent I winced at earlier now becoming a part of me.