Okinawa…

            He’d come to Okinawa the first time because of Prescott.  And, damn if it wasn’t Prescott who had brought him to Otaka’s doorstep yet again. 

            Two nights later, sporting black cotton pants, a black pullover and black rubber-soled slippers, Brady stood on the balcony of his hotel room waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon.

            He pulled out of the parking lot a half-hour later and sped off into the hills as darkness enveloped the capital city of Naha. 

            He scaled the compound’s wall and dropped down into a plush, colorful courtyard. He surveyed the grounds, recalling the days when he and Otaka’s other students had maintained these sculptured flowerbeds and elegantly tiered garden pools as they set off together on their great Eastern adventure. 

He crept up to the Dojo and peered through the window.  Sensei Otaka sat unmoving in the center of the floor, forearms resting on his knees. Three students lie prone on the floor in front of him.

            Brady slipped through the window and rolled into a darkened corner of the room.

            “They have mastered the art well, have they not, Kenjisan?”

            “Yes, Sensei.”  Otaka had not lost his touch.  “Reduced breathing technique. Tell me, Master, how long..?”

            “Since you entered the room, my son. There are but four bodies here, yet I sensed five distinct heartbeats. The one, though out of harmony with the rest, was at once familiar. One does not forget his prized pupil even though years pass between meetings.” 

            Brady walked to the center of the Dojo, bowed respectfully and sat down cross-legged. “Master, we must talk.” 

            “Hai, Kenjisan., I have been expecting you.”  He excused the students and they rose in unison and left the room.

            “Then, you have been reading the papers from America, Sensei?”

            “Hai.”

            “And you are aware of the Company’s current dilemma?”

            “Hai, I am.”

            “Then you must tell me all you know of the one called Azrael.” 

            “How have you happened upon this name, Kenjisan?” 

            Brady spoke of his life in Arizona and of Ally, which brought a smile to Otaka’s face.  

            “One day, a young woman showed up, Erika Kingston. Supposedly on assignment from National Geographic, but from the beginning there was something disconcerting about her. I can’t put a finger on it but Ally felt it too. I eventually dug out equipment from the old days and eavesdropped on one of her phone calls. Take a stab at who was on the other end of the line?”

            “Hai, Prescott.”

            “You know of her, then?”

            Otaka nodded.

            “And?”

            “You’ve been away from COMMEX for a long time, Kenjisan, since Elizabeth’s death. What you now ask could put you back into the thick of it. Are you prepared for that?”

            “Hai, Otakasan.” He looked into his master’s face. Although he was some eighteen years older than when Brady had left his tutelage, the essence of life still danced in the depths of the old man’s ink-black eyes.

             Otaka appeared lost in thought then said, “Azrael was born to the dark path. The murder of fellow human beings, he revels in it, craves it as one craves the essence of the Poppy. What he does is repugnant. Not just legally wrong, but morally wrong.”

            “Tell me what you know of him, Sensei. Who is he? Where did he come from?”

            “Out of your past, my son. There is a coldness inside him, as if he’d been born to dwell in a cave atop an ice-bound mountain. A heartless man who lives a blood oath, to avenge his father’s death.” 

            “I don’t understand?”

            “Azrael,” Otaka paused, then added, “is the Druid’s son.”     

            “Sweet Jesus,” Brady whispered.

            “He searches relentlessly for you and is a determined, capable foe.” 

            Brady was stunned. “He knows then?”

            “Hai, he knows that COMMEX and specifically you are responsible for the Druid’s death. 

            Brady’s questions were aimed at himself. “Then, I am responsible for the deaths of those agents? They were pawns, used to get to me?” 

            “Azrael is no neophyte, his knowledge of the ‘The Way’ is formidable, Kenjisan.”

            “Certainly, he is not a former student?”  

            “No, he was trained by Master Masaaki Cho. My brother once, now a sworn enemy.”

            Silence passed between them, then Brady said, “I must leave, Sensei. I’ve difficult choices to make.”

            “Hai.”

Brady stood and bowed.

            “Kenjisan, the choice is yours alone. Once made, you must be prepared to bear consequences that may adversely affect lives other than your own.”

            “I understand.”

            “Is it not sometimes better to walk away from such a choice?” 

            Brady smiled. “You test me still? To walk away also constitutes a choice, does it not? A choice that carries with it yet another set of consequences?”

            “You have learned much, my son.”

            Brady bowed his head low, his chin touching his breastbone, exhibiting abiding respect. “I had a great man as my teacher.”

            Otaka’s eyes moistened.

            “Goodbye, Master. I will visit again, soon.”

            “Hai, Kenjisan.”

             Brady walked out the door and strode across the compound toward the front gate.

             Warm tears welled in the old man’s eyes. “If not in this world then surely in the next,” he muttered.

            Seiji stepped from the shadows and stood next to Otaka.

            “Follow him, my son. Stay close, closer than ever before.”

            “Hai.”

            Otaka’s voice was weary. “We near the end of a long journey and these are turbulent times.”

            That night, Brady examined the man staring back at him from the mirror. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered, wondering how middle age had crept up on him a whole lot sooner than it should have. “Well, old man, what in hell do we do now?” It seemed, at times, as if the fates had conspired to ensure that his path in life be strewn with rocks and surrounded by mountains that defied human passage. 

            And, always, there was loneliness. 

            He’d been left at the orphanage when he was six months old.  

            Years later, as a ward of the state, he spent time reading and studying the discipline of Isshin-Ryu, the traditional Okinawan karate style. 

            Then, COMMEX, the chance encounter that altered the path of his life. Komichi! 

            Prescott had intervened when Brady was at his most vulnerable. Fresh out of the Army, and from a run-in with Elizabeth’s parents, he was a young man searching desperately for a place to vent his anger. And Prescott had leveraged that anger, sweet-talked him and sold him on joining Shadow Company, couching it as a ‘golden opportunity’ to do something for his country. Through the deft insertion of phrases like pride, duty and patriotism, he had convinced Brady that COMMEX offered untold monetary remuneration as well as the freedom of thought and action not available in commerce and industry or in other branches of government.

            And Brady bought it all, no questions asked. What he had done for COMMEX was done out of duty, out of respect for his flag and loyalty to his country. He became a mercenary, a soldier for whom there was only winning and losing, living and dying. He had carried out assignments so unspeakable that not even the military sanctioned or acknowledged them.    

            He’d been a soldier without uniform, without credentials or identity living in a self-imposed purgatory where, with each assignment, his target became every broken promise and every shattered dream he’d ever known. And it had shaped his life for ten long, bloody years.  

            He snatched up his suitcase. “Well, I escaped COMMEX’s tentacles once and I’ll be damned if I’ll get caught in its grasp again. Azrael can go straight to hell and join his old man. Besides, he thought, I live in Arizona where neither he nor the Mezzhandi could find me in a hundred years, right?

 

CHAPTER 3

 At eight-fifteen the following morning, COMMEX Headquarters, an inconspicuous, three-story brick building was a hive of activity.   

 Lt. Marcus Kinnard strode by Mrs. Periwinkle’s desk, his eyes riveted to the door leading into Colonel Prescott’s office.

 “Excuse me, Lieutenant.” Her voice was cool, patronizing.  “The Colonel is on the phone and cannot be disturbed.”

 “Not to worry, Periwinkle,” he said, in his patented machine gun voice. “You just keep answering phones, taking messages and making coffee like a conscientious little woman, okay?  Let the Colonel and me worry about running the organization.”  

“Up yours,” she whispered, casting him a homicidal grin. 

Lt. Marcus Kinnard, second in command to Prescott, was a small, ratish-looking man, a badly preserved fifty-one, with a drinker’s purple veined face, a nose the color and size of an overly ripe apple and beady black eyes. Mrs. Periwinkle thought him a poisonous little man, secretly wondering how many times a year he shed his skin.  

Kinnard opened the door and waltzed into Prescott’s office.

The Colonel glanced up, his eyes filled with a quiet fury and pointed to a plush leather chair.

Kinnard sat down, struck up a Chesterfield and waited for Prescott to end his phone conversation.

“Yes, sir,” Prescott said, his voice controlled and expressionless. “The wheels are in motion even as we speak, sir. Lt. Kinnard has just arrived and my niece should be here any moment.”  Kinnard sucked on the cigarette and blew a large white smoke ring toward the ceiling.

“Of course, sir,” Prescott said. “I’ll keep apprised of our every move. Good bye, sir.” He muttered as he hung up the phone, “Oh my, yes, sir. But of course, sir”

“I just heard about Williams,” Kinnard said. “How, Colonel?  How in hell could anyone have known he was here at the Marriott?”

“I don’t know, Marcus. We’d taken every conceivable precaution.”

“We’re certain it was Azrael?”

“Forensics confirms it was a Yak-Pak.” Prescott cradled his head in the palms of his hands, thick fingers toying with the silver wisps sprouting from a balding pate.

“Well, then, there can be only one answer. Either Azrael or someone within his organization has happened upon the Key and accessed the computer.”

Prescott’s head snapped up. “I don’t believe that for one minute. We’ve got a foolproof system here. The damn Key and code changes daily. If someone did manage to get hold of it, without the proper code they’d end up hiking a false trail.”

“You have a better explanation, Colonel?” Kinnard said, thin colorless lips pulled back in an oily sneer.

“No, and I’m not about to waste time looking for one. The President has ‘strongly suggested’ that I remedy the situation straight away. So, I’m going to put this to bed once and for all. I’ve asked Mrs. Periwinkle to have Erika report to my office.”

“Somewhat drastic, Colonel.” 

“Drastic times and drastic measures, Marcus.” The intercom on the desk buzzed. “Yes?”  

“Ms. Kingston to see you, sir.”          

“That’s fine, send her in please.”

Erika walked into Prescott’s office, running a towel through her mop of blond hair. “I was in the middle of a workout at the health club, Uncle T, but from Ms. Periwinkle’s tone, I assumed immediately meant skip the shower. 

“That’s right, my dear.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Please, sit, we’ve much to discuss.”

“Lieutenant.” She sat, the patented Kingston pout enhancing her sensuous underlip.

“Erika.” Black pupils set into rheumy, yellow orbs traveled the length of her body, then returned to her ice-blue eyes.

Prescott knew that Erika had long been the focus of Kinnard’s warped fantasies but chose to ignore it. Regardless of his penchant for young women, preferably slim and trashy, as well as an insatiable appetite for what might be considered deviant sexual practices, Marcus Kinnard was a resolute, energetic employee, indispensable to the organization.

 “All right, Prescott said. “Down to business. Erika, I’m sure you’re aware that we’ve had a rash of ‘accidents’ lately.”

“If you mean the loss of several agents, then yes, I believe everyone’s aware of the problem.”

“Well, it appears we’ve lost another.”

“My God. Who? How?”

“Tim Williams.”

“You’ve heard about last night’s explosion at the Marriott?” Kinnard said. 

“Yes. Has someone claimed responsibility?”

Prescott leaned forward, his forearms on the desk. “No, but the work has a unique signature.”

Erika gazed into her Uncle’s slate-gray eyes, waiting for him to get to the point.

“Lieutenant Kinnard and I have orders to put an end to this dilemma and we need your help.”

“Sir?” Her forehead wrinkled. 

Prescott had never before asked for Erika’s help, had always kept her on the periphery, away from the big picture, offering only an occasional, cursory glimpse into the heart of COMMEX.

“We’ve reason to believe that a group called the Mezzhandi is responsible,” he said. “They are led by a ruthless killer with an appropriate moniker: Azrael.”

“Mezzhandi?” she murmured, with a quizzical look

“The Mezzhandi are not unfamiliar to us,” Kinnard interjected. “Its members have been monitored by the government for years, long before COMMEX became involved.”

“Mezzhandi,” she whispered. “Scuttlebutt has it they were disbanded by a team of agents known as ‘Shadow Company’? But there are no files, either in the computer system or in the vault that contain a single reference to ‘Shadow Company’.”

Prescott nodded. “I purged the file years ago, though I still have digital backup.  Best goddamn team of agents we ever put together.”

“All right then, Uncle, what can I do to help?”

“We need you to locate someone for us,” Kinnard said.  “Someone,” he added with a smirk. “Who has made it perfectly clear he wants never to hear from us again.” 

“I don’t understand?” She continued to stare at her uncle.

“The gentleman the lieutenant refers to was once the leader of ‘Shadow Company’. A ‘wet’ agent, one of the most lethal the intelligence community ever produced.”

“Do I know of him?”

“I think not.” Prescott leaned back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap and stared down at the tips of his shoes. This was dangerous territory. “His name is Brady Thomas. Known as Kenjisan within the intelligence community. He’s since left us. You see, there was a terrible accident…”

For the next two hours, Prescott and Kinnard recounted the history of the Mezzhandi, of ‘Shadow Company’s’ involvement in its demise and the elimination of the Druid. Finally, he detailed the unfortunate incident that caused Brady Thomas to leave COMMEX.

“So,” Erika said. “Our agents are being systematically killed off by the Mezzhandi, a group thought disbanded by Shadow Company and you believe the only way to stop the bleeding is to bring this Brady Thomas back into the fold?”

“Exactly,” Kinnard said.

“But you’ve already told me he wants nothing to do with us as he blames us for his fiancé’s death. What makes you think we can change his mind?”

“The Mezzhandi, Erika.” Prescott said it deliberately. “The Mezzhandi and Azrael, the Druid’s son, were responsible for Elizabeth’s death.”

Prescott was renowned for his ability to coolly and assuredly intertwine threads of truth and fiction into the fabric of a story. Erika was a living example of his ability to manipulate facts. After all these years she still suspected nothing.

“I see,” Erika said. “Sounds like a simple case of revenge.  Why not try to contact him yourself? Explain the situation. I don’t understand why you need me?”

“Oh, but that it were that simple, Erika.” Prescott shook his head. “Unfortunately, we face two very real problems. First, although we know Brady lives in Arizona, somewhere in the Verde Valley, most likely the Sedona area, we’re not sure of his exact whereabouts. Second, as Lt. Kinnard has alluded to, he’s not likely to be what you would call approachable.”

“What the Colonel is saying,” Kinnard interjected. “Is that Mr. Thomas would not welcome us back regardless of the reason. If he gets an inkling that we’re involved, he’ll burrow in so deeply that we’ll never find him.”

“Right,” Prescott added. “But he doesn’t know about you, Erika, has no idea you’re affiliated with us. That makes you, my dear, our ace in the hole.”

“All right, Uncle, shoot, what do you want me to do?” 

Prescott turned and logged onto his computer terminal. “I want you to go home and pack. You’re going to Arizona.”

“Arizona?” Her bright blue eyes sparkled as she watched him bang out a memo.

“Now.” Prescott spun on the chair, stared at her. “Listen carefully. The success of this mission is entirely dependent upon you following everything Lt. Kinnard and I have to say to the letter, understand?” 

“Yes, sir.”       

He handed her a memo and a check. “On your way out, stop by petty cash.”

“Fifty-thousand dollars?” 

“You’ll need to pick up a few items before you leave. I want you to stop by The Photo Emporium. Buy the best equipment on the shelf, strictly first-class stuff: cameras, lenses, light meters, everything a professional would take on assignment. You know what’s required. You’re the finest photographer we have on staff.”

“Thanks, but why not take what we already own?”

“He’d know,” Kinnard said. “Every piece of COMMEX equipment has an asset code etched onto it. He doesn’t miss a trick.”

She looked at Prescott. “I…”

“Stay with us, it will all fall into place. He handed her a first-class ticket to Phoenix. We’ve left your return flight open for now.  No telling how long this assignment will last. Okay so far?”

“Yes.”  

“Good. Now, once you get to Phoenix, rent one of those fancy RVs. Then, head north toward Sedona. We’ve reserved a secluded campsite for you outside of town.” He rifled through a file. “Here we are, the Manzanita Campground. Here are your papers.” He handed her a manila envelope. “You’ve already been cleared through appropriate state and federal agencies.”

“This is my cover? I’m on assignment from National Geographic? In the Verde Valley to photograph rock formations for an upcoming feature on northern Arizona?”

Prescott nodded. “Once you’ve settled in, it’s business as usual. Act as if you actually are on assignment.”

“And?”

“That’s it, my dear. Enjoy yourself, good food, lots of sun and from what I understand, spectacular photo opportunities. Oh, and snoop around a bit, name drop. You know the drill.”

“All right, then what?”  

“You wait. It will be only a matter of time before Brady finds you.”

“And, when he does?”

“Well.” Kinnard pulled at his lower lip. “That’s the tricky part. You must do your damndest to convince him that you truly are there at the request of the National Geographic. But we also need you to slip up on occasion.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, Erika,” Prescott said. “We’ve already told you what’s likely to happen should Brady find out we’re searching for him. At the same time, as strange as this sounds, we want him to realize just that. But it is absolutely vital that he figure it out on his own. But slowly, we can ill afford to be overly zealous or conspicuous.”

“So, I drop subtle nuggets?”

“Exactly, but keep them very subtle and very infrequent. You’re to impart, over time, only enough information to make him suspicious, to get him to make a move and contact us directly.”

“And believe me,” Kinnard added. “If we pull off this off, Mr. Thomas be all over us when he figures it out.”

“All right,” she said.

“One last point,” Prescott said. “You’ve been fully trained here, so use that knowledge to your advantage. But please, take your time and be very careful. You need to leave a trail, but do not make it appear as such. Brady’s a damn bloodhound, understand?”  

“Yes, Uncle, this guy sounds like an interesting man.”

“A thoroughly dangerous one, Erika, a man of enormous conviction. Regardless of your training, I want you out of there and on a plane home at the first sign of trouble.”

“I understand.” 

“Well, I think that’s about it. Any questions?”

“None that I can think of at the moment.”

“All right, then. Stay in touch with me daily.”

“Yes, sir.” She stood, leaned over the desk and kissed Prescott on the cheek.

“Please, be careful.” He was genuinely concerned.

“I promise, Uncle T. Hey, I’ve been trained by the best, right?”

“What would you have me say?” 

“Is the letch staring at me again?” she whispered.

“Of course, my dear. You’re going to be the death of the man, but you already know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, I hope so.” She smiled impishly. “I’ll check in when I get to Sedona.” She blew him a kiss and walked out.

“Well?” Kinnard turned back to his boss.

“Well, what?”

“Do you think she can pull it off?”

“I believe so.” His smile broadened, as it did whenever he became nervous or agitated. “Then again, it doesn’t really matter, does it? One way or another, Brady will come back here. It’s only a matter of time. Hell, that’s why I initiated this strategy all those years ago, isn’t it? In anticipation of a moment, a situation, precisely like this? I knew the day would come when we would require Mr. Thomas’s extraordinary talents in order to save COMMEX.”  

“Oh, I understand, Colonel,” Kinnard said. “But I’d certainly not want to be in your shoes should he have to be told the truth about Ms. Kingston.”

“Well, Lieutenant,” Prescott said and sat back in his chair and cleared his throat. “let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, shall we?”

Alanna opened the General Mercantile at precisely seven-thirty, a tradition started by her parents that she’d carried on since inheriting the store.

She poured a cup of coffee and turned toward the door, the red clay chimes announcing her first customer. Her smile blossomed as Brady strode across the floor.

“Morning, good-lookin’.” He smiled and handed her his grocery list.

She leaned over the counter, her face turned up. “What? No good morning kiss? Remember last week at your place? Couldn’t wait to give me a kiss and then some if memory serves.”

“Ally.” He glanced around the store. “Someone could hear you.”

She walked away grinning over her shoulder. “You’ve got to loosen up, let your hair down.”

Her slim hips moved easily beneath the skin-tight Levi’s and open-heeled sandals accentuated her long, shapely legs. Her lack of inhibitions both intrigued and embarrassed him.

The only daughter of an Anglo father and a Tonto Apache mother, Ally was thirty-five years old, bronze-skinned and radiant, with waist-length, blue-black hair that framed a face adorned with just enough makeup to emphasize high, pronounced cheekbones and full, inviting lips. Her expressive, light gray eyes sparkled in the Arizona sunshine. She was sensuous, alluring and sure of her power to please.

Her father, Patrick R. Morgan, had wandered into Sedona early on. A sly investor, Morgan made the decision to forsake a blooming Wall Street career in favor of the more leisurely paced life of the golden southwest. He returned to New York, liquidated his assets and headed back to Sedona with a four-hundred thousand dollar security blanket tucked away in a leather suitcase.

A month later, he began courting Ulsa Alykhotani, a full-blooded Tonto Apache Sedona area native. They were married in a traditional Apache ceremony a year later and blessed with Ally’s birth the year after that.

That fall, with a portion of Patrick’s money and help provided by Ulsa’s brothers, they erected and celebrated the opening of Sedona’s General Mercantile.

Ally had attended college, graduating from Smith College with a major in economics. She’d hung around long enough to catch an interview and secure a position with a financial consulting firm in Brookline, Massachusetts. Then, it was home to Arizona for a three-week visit.             

Sadly, the return flight coupon was pasted inside her diary. 

She’d returned home to find her mom bedridden with a broken hip, having fallen off the store’s loading dock, and a case of double pneumonia. The strain of working the store and caring for her mom had also begun to wear on her dad. Concerned for their well being, she had called her employer and been granted a two-month extension on her starting date. Two months later, her mother’s condition no better and activity at the store picking up, she’d telegrammed her regrets to New England.

Ulsa passed away in November of the following year and her father two years later.

Ally’s inheritance included hefty money market accounts and deeds to the General Mercantile and the Morgan family home. Her net worth was estimated at over two million, a figure she soon doubled. Young, attractive, and wealthy, she soon began to attract a bevy of suitors, none of whom were taken seriously. 

She and Brady met not long after he’d purchased the cabin in Sterling Canyon.

It had taken her months to bed him and they had been partaking on and off ever since; a carefree, purely physical relationship. It seemed an impossible meld, he, a stoic introvert with a secretive past, existing in a self-imposed purgatory, and she, a gregarious extrovert who viewed each new day as a grand and glorious gift from God.

“Brady?” She returned to the counter, a basket filled with canned goods, meats and vegetables. “Some of these items won’t be in until later today.”

“That’s okay, no rush. I can swing by later.”

“I can deliver them personally, provided payback includes dinner.”

“My place, six o’clock?” he said with a grin.

She handed him the groceries, bent over the counter and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Can’t wait.”

He stopped at the door. “Ally? The girl who’s renting one of your jeeps?”

Her brow arched.

“How much do you know about her?”

“Well, she’s young, blond and built for speed, but obviously you’ve already noticed.  She’s a photographer on assignment from National Geographic. Stops in once a week to pick up supplies, but drops in to place a phone call every day at 3:00 . Why do you ask?”

“No special reason. I ran across her last night on my way home.” His face pulled up into the boyish grin Ally believed was reserved only for her. “Lobo gave her a hell of a start, I’ll tell you.”

She gave him a studied look. “Three or four days in the valley and she’s already caught the attention of my two favorite males.” She picked up a rag and dusted off a spotless countertop.

“I have to run.” he said. “Don’t forget, six o’clock sharp. Oh, and Ally?”

“Yes?” 

 “For a moment, your eyes looked more green than gray.”

She gave him a look reserved for the truly demented, then her eyes brightened and she palmed a can of beans and launched it.

He ducked out the door, the can rebounding off the wall behind him, then peered back through the window and waved.

“You’ll pay for that, smart-ass,” she shouted.

She wandered into the back room wondering if old green eyes had reared its head? Jealousy was an emotion with which she was utterly unfamiliar. She and Brady had been lovers for almost as long as he’d lived here but it had always been a purely physical thing, no emotional ties or moonlight promises that faded by dawn. That’s the way they wanted it, right?

She wheeled her jeep along side Brady’s cabin at ten minutes to six.

After a dinner of beef tenderloin, baked salt potatoes smothered in butter and chives and Caesar salad they sat on a blanket in front of the cabin, Ally’s head nestled into Brady’s shoulder and stared into a roaring campfire.

Lobo, his interest piqued, inched his way out of the trees and circled the cabin. He chose a spot just outside the cone of light formed by the fire and sat back on his haunches, bright, yellow eyes studying every movement.

“That was delicious,” Ally said.

“Something special for a special lady.” His ran his fingers through her long, silky hair. “Cognac?”

“Sure, but you don’t have to get me loaded to take advantage of me, you know.”

He shook his head and loped up the cabin steps, returning moments later with two large snifters of golden nectar. Ally was wrapped in her mother’s old Indian blanket.   

“Cold?”

“Not really.” She wore a sensuous smile, leaned back on her elbows and let the blanket unfold. “Did I mention that I was bringing dessert.  Her golden-bronze skin shone seductively in the firelight and his gaze traveled the length of her.

He stripped off his clothes and kneeled down between her legs, his hand priming her warm, wet mound as he mouthed a nipple, his lips kneading it to a tender, fiery tip.       

Her hips rotated in tight circles, her back arched off the ground as soft cries escaped her throat.

He moved on top of her, paused momentarily to run his tongue through the valley between her breasts and then speared her with one swift plunge.

Her body, slick with perspiration, arched up to meet his, her hands climbing over his back and hips. “God, yes,” she whispered.

The need within them was primitive, exciting, and they trembled in each other’s arms. Then, the earth fell away and they traveled to a place of rapture, surrendering to a spiraling climax.   

Later, they sat in silence, staring into the flames, Ally’s blanket fending off the cool air.

“Can you stay the night?” His eyes were fixed on the fire.

“I don’t know. I don’t normally spend the night with strangers.”

His brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, we’ve known each other for quite a while now and yet…” her voice trailed off.

“Yes?”

“In many ways, you’re still a stranger to me. Think about it, how much do I really know about you or your past? About who or what you were before you showed up here? My Mama used to say that to truly know a man you must know his memories.”

He smiled at her but said nothing.

She jabbed his ribs. “So, how much longer before you open up and fill me in on this carefully guarded past of yours?” She paused, then added, “Put away the armor, Brady. You don’t need it when you’re with me.”

His head rotated back toward the fire, his gaze floating off into the distance.

“You really loved her, didn’t you?”

A tear tracked down his cheek and she reached up and wiped it away. “Tell me about her.” She knew there were places inside him, dark places that she might never reach and it made her all the more determined to press on. “Don’t you think it’s time?”  

A moment of silence passed between them. “Her name was Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I was an orphan. Never knew my parents.”

She sat back, her arms wrapped around her legs, her chin resting on her knees, and listened, never interrupting as he spent two hours recounting his past, the names of those he had known and the lives that had touched his along the way.

He spoke first of his youth and then of his relationship with Elizabeth and the hopes and dreams they’d shared. “As far as her parents were concerned dating me through high school was fine, but her future lie with someone else. They were convinced that I could never provide for her in the manner to which she’d become accustomed.

She was sent off to school to carry on family tradition and to happen upon a more suitable mate.”

The glow in his eyes suggested a lethal predator and a chill raced through Ally that neither the blanket nor the fire could quell.     

“I ran into a man just before I mustered out of the Army. A man who promised me a job with a solid future and money enough to provide Elizabeth the kind of life her parents had planned for her.” 

He described his training in Okinawa and of his acceptance of a position with ‘The Company’, never referring to COMMEX by name. “Eventually,” he said. “I got so caught up in what I was doing that the years began to slip by unnoticed. I suppose that deep down inside I convinced myself that she would always be there waiting for me. I was still young enough to believe in starting over and naive enough to believe in forever.” He paused and wiped away a tear. “I saw her again, years later, on Hilton Head Island. I can’t explain it, but it was like we’d been reborn, given a second chance to fulfill the dreams, the promises.” 

He spoke of their last days on Hilton Head, of a daughter he’d never known and finally, of the explosion that had claimed Elizabeth’s life avoiding any reference to his affiliation with COMMEX.

“My God,” she whispered when he’d finished, her eyes shiny and wet. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I never would have…”

“No, please.” He put a finger to her lips, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “I’ve told you this because I wanted to, needed to, not because you asked me to.”

They sat quietly then, resting comfortably in each other’s arms, sipping Cognac and staring into the fire.

Ally broke the silence. “Tell me more about this company you went to work for, the one that kept you from getting in touch with Elizabeth after she’d left for school?”

“It was a government agency.”

She pulled away and grinned. “Government, huh? Let me guess, FBI? CIA?”

“What? Do I look like a spy or something?”

“Don’t know, never met a spook before. Still, why do I get the feeling there’s more to this story than you’re letting on.”

“Not now, please?” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

“Come on.” She poked his side, prying, yet striving to keep it light. “Don’t stop now.”

“I can’t. It’s still too soon, Ally. Besides, I’ve already told you things I’ve told no one else. Ever.” He turned and pressed his lips against her forehead.

She’d pushed as far as she could, had put at least a chink in the armor. If she pushed much further, he was liable to disappear into that hole in the past from which he had come. She would eventually learn all there was to know, but it was going to take a long time.

“Tell you what,” she nuzzled against his chest.  “You start a fire inside and turn down the bed. Tomorrow morning I’ll cook you a first-class breakfast.”

Jake Slaughter has had enough and is heading back to the South Carolina Lowcountry after twenty years of globetrotting. There, he will confront a lost love, personal demons and a captivating young woman with secrets of her own. A cast of local characters and family members all play a part in his struggle to reclaim his life, to begin anew and to finally love again without the pain and misery of his past. This is a powerful journey across physical and personal landscapes; a story about breaking with the past and a love story about people stifled by grief and regret who struggle to begin anew.

Twenty years later…

Jake Slaughter sat alone in the quiet of the Sacristy at The Basilica del Voto Nacional in the historic center of Quito, Ecuador.

He was dressed in a priest’s black cassock, a white, wide-sleeved surplice and an eight foot long crimson stole, his head bowed as he awaited the evening’s final confessor.

 Cold rain fell in sheets as don Pedro de Alvarez’s black Mercedes limo pulled up in front of the church. Two men jumped out with umbrellas and escorted don Pedro up the front steps, through the front door and into the darkened vestibule.

Jake, kneeling at the altar, turned, then stood and walked toward the confessional. The nave was empty and don Pedro dismissed his bodyguards with a wave, then draped his wet coat over a pew and entered the confessional.

A small slider opened, a dim light illuminating Jake’s slightly turned away angular face.

“Who are you and where is Father Medina,” de Alvarez asked in a surly tone?

“I am Father Jake, my son. Father Medina is not feeling well and I have come from San Miguel de Sucumbios at his request to hear your confession. He did not have to look at don Pedro to know that he was being scrutinized. “Do you wish to confess your sins, my son,” he said in a calm reassuring voice?

A moment of silenced passed between them before don Pedro began, “Bless me father for I have sinned….”

Jake sat in silence, head bowed, for the next fifteen minutes as don Pedro rendered a detailed account of his myriad indiscretions against Almighty God and the Holy Mother Church.  de Alvarez looked up through the screening when he was done, awaiting penitential discipline and absolution.

Jake turned his head to the man and asked softly, “Are you truly sorry for your sins, my son? Do you now renounce Satan and his disciples of evil, and beg forgiveness of almighty God?”

This was an unusual question, one never asked of him by Father Medina, but de Alvarez had wasted enough valuable time and was already late for an important meeting  “But of course, Padre, why else would I be here.” For the first time, he noticed the blood red cross dangling at the end the black bead necklace hanging around Slaughter’s neck. “What’s with the red cross, never seen one like that?”.

Instead of answering, Jake whispered, “May almighty God bless you, forgive you and have mercy on your soul?”

“Hey, what…”

Before he could finish, Slaughter pulled a 9mm Glock with its heavy silencer out from the left sleeve of his white surplice and shot de Alvarez through the neck. He rushed out, grabbed hold of the dying man, dragged him out onto the floor and kneeled down next to him looking into crazed and frightened eyes.

“Why?” de Alvarez’s voice was beginning to fail him. “Who are you?”

 Jake leaned closed. “This is for Connie Mack”, he said, pressed the Glock against the man’s temple and pulled the trigger.

 He slipped out the back door of the church where Father Medina waited in a silver Lexus sedan.

 “The bodyguards,” he asked?

“Taken care of,” Medina said.

Jake nodded and rested his head back against the seat.

Twenty minutes later the Cleaners had finished removing all incriminating evidence from the church and Jake was aboard a private Gulfstream jetting back to the states.