A simple song sung by the girl he couldn’t forget on a base deep in the Kunar province. For a dangerous second, he let the memory light the darkness inside and stepped out onto the street.
Honking jerked him back. A taxi nearly sideswiped him.
Yeah, he hated the city.
The taxi driver flipped him off.
And people, really.
Orion waited until the light changed, then crossed over into the concrete park, searching for Ham. The crowd was still packed, the supporters not quite ready to give up the day, and Orion stood at the edge, scanning the crowd. His gaze landed on a familiar backpack—NYU. The college student he’d seen on the subway stood next to an abstract black granite sculpture. As Orion watched, NYU took off his pack and sat on the edge of the circular fountain, wearing a stripped, pale expression, a line of sweat streaking down his cheek.
The kid might be going into shock. The former trauma medic in Orion gave him a nudge.
Fine. He took a sip of his coffee and ambled over to the kid.
NYU abruptly got up, drew in a breath, and walked away.
Clearly, the kid was rattled because he’d left his backpack behind. Orion limped up to it and lifted it. “Hey, kid! NYU! You forgot your backpack.”
The student turned, glanced back, eyes wide. Stopped.
Orion tossed it toward him.
NYU’s mouth opened, and he grabbed the pack, clutching it to himself. If possible, his face had gone even paler. “Thanks,” he shouted.
Orion had the strangest urge to follow him, put his hand on his shoulder, make him sit down, breathe.
He knew what it felt like to barely escape with your life, and sure, the kid hadn’t exactly been in mortal danger on the subway, but maybe his heartbeat hadn’t figured that out yet.
Poor kid should take the day off. Go back to his dorm.
Hide in Alaska . . .
As if reading his mind, NYU turned, walking away fast.
Orion let him go.
Turned back to the crowd.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. Ham.
Meet me behind the stage, at the tour bus.
Orion texted back and moved around the crowd, working his way toward the large bus with Isaac White’s handsome mug plastered along the side.
Ham stood, hot cocoa in hand, talking with a couple security guys in suits who guarded a roped-off area. Wind raked his dark blond hair, lifted the collar of his leather jacket. He blew on his cocoa and nodded toward Orion when he spotted him.
One of the security guys walked over and let him in. Shook his hand. “Ham says you had a little scuffle on the subway.”
Orion shrugged. “No big deal. A couple thugs. We didn’t save the world or anything.”
The man laughed and Orion smiled as he walked over to Ham. Okay, it felt good to pull out the old warrior, dust him off. “You’re a hero.”
Not really. Not anymore.
The tour bus door opened, and a man walked down the stairs.
Orion had watched a few news clips of Isaac White but hadn’t expected the immediate charisma that radiated off the former SEAL. Graying hair, blue eyes, he took Orion’s outstretched hand with a two-handed grip. The man possessed the kind of smile that made Orion feel like he was in the presence of a movie star.
George Clooney, maybe.
“Senator,” Orion said, wishing he’d cleaned up a little better than his canvas jacket and a pair of jeans.
“Ham said you needed my assistance.” White angled Orion over to where Ham stood.
Orion’s mouth went weirdly dry. His anger had suddenly abandoned him in the face of White’s seeming willingness to help.
Ham must have seen his stripped expression. “We’re looking for a teammate who went missing in the debacle in Afghanistan,” he said. “Operator Royal Benjamin. He was one of the two SEALS captured in the attack. And one of the two—”
“Who were rescued in your rogue op.” White looked at Ham. “I know.”
“Then you know that something isn’t right,” Orion said, finally finding his voice, a little more oomph in it than he probably needed. But the anger was returning. “The other SEAL, Logan Thorne, showed up on my doorstep last summer. He told me a story about the CIA trying to cover up what happened in Afghanistan—and, trying to kill him.”
White held up his hand, lowered his voice. “Not here, not now—”
Orion’s mouth closed, and the heat stirred in his chest. He should have known—
“Mistakes were made, for sure,” White said. “And the CIA knows it. But before you start throwing accusations around, let me do some digging.”
“C’mon, Senator—”
Ham shot Orion a shut-up look, but White talked over him.
“I’m not sure where your friend is, or if he’s even alive, but if you want me to find out, I’ll need some time.” He clamped a hand on Orion’s shoulder. “And patience.”
Orion wanted to believe him and his smile, but—
“Sir, we need you to come with us right now.” One of the security agents stepped into the conversation. “There’s been a bomb found in the square.” He pushed White away from them, toward a waiting SUV. Ham jogged after him, Orion limping quickly behind them.
He caught up to the second agent. “What kind of bomb?”
The agent looked at him. “I don’t know. We found a backpack near the fountain. The bomb squad is on their way, and the police are evacuating the square. It could be the same kind of bomb that took out the San Antonio rodeo arena a couple weeks ago.”
San Antonio arena? Orion hadn’t a clue what he might be referring to.
That’s what he got for living off the grid.
Still, a fist had grabbed his gut, squeezed. “What kind of backpack?”
The man flashed his cell phone toward him.
Black, with a purple NYU stitched on the back pocket.
Orion slowed, stopped, watching as the agent climbed into the front seat.
Ham hung back and joined Orion.
“What?”
“That kid with the backpack.”
“Seriously?”
Orion finished his coffee and tossed the cup into a nearby trash can. “I’m going back to Alaska where I can stay out of trouble.”
The secret to not dying was simple.
Don’t look down.
Shouts from sixty feet below bounced against the domed ceiling of the GoSports indoor ice climbing complex. Jenny Calhoun blocked them out and released a long, slow breath.
Relax. Assess.
Tensing up on a climb only led to mistakes. Which led to crashes.
On a mountain, that could mean landing in a crevasse or at the base of an icefall—or worse, buried under an avalanche of snow.
She hung ten feet from the top, with two more quick clips ahead of her, but the hardest move still loomed above her—the overhang.
This didn’t have to be hard. She could almost hear North, her instructor, in her head as she tightened her grip on her ice axes. “It’s called a figure four. Swing your right leg over your right arm. Use that to leverage yourself up and land a new left-hand hold.”
She ticked off the move in her head, seeing her next move, the one that would position her under the overhang. “Wind your right leg over your left arm. Release your right hand. Now you can move your axe under the overhang, wedging it against the face of the wall.”