Chapter 1
Chapter 1
16 hours earlier
T he snow blew sideways, carried on a brittle, cutting wind. Dusted dark coats, glasses, gloves, and umbrellas stood in stark contrast to the perfect rows of white headstones rolling off into the fog. In my life, I’d found myself in many places where I never wanted to be again. This was one of them. Arlington National. Not because the dead aren’t worth our greatest respect. They are. These are the best of us. Chances are good I’m writing this and you’re reading this because of those lying there.
But today was different. Today we’d add one more.
Today, we’d officially bury Bones.
It’d been a month since I watched Bones’s limp body, riddled with bullet holes and arms wrapped around his brother, disappear down the well shaft, splashing a hundred feet below. I’d replayed those events ten thousand times, and no matter how often I reached out my hand, I could not catch him. Since that moment, I’d dealt with guilt, shame, anger, and a soul-piercing sadness I’d known only once before—when I lost Marie. One half of me could not shake knowing I was responsible for his death, while the other half knew I was not. I lived somewhere on that narrow ledge between what my head understood by reason and what my heart would never accept.
Bones knew the cost. He’d always known. His life for one chance to turn his brother. A gamble. Had he? Had he turned Frank? I don’t know the answer to that. If I had it to do over again, I’d shoot his brother in the face and be done with it. But not Bones. Bones would not dismiss Frank. Never had. So, for the last time, he left the ninety-nine to attempt one more impossible rescue. In truth, it was a prisoner swap. His life for Frank’s. In Bones’s mind, it was the only way to bring Frank home. But that’s the crazy thing about all this: Not every prisoner wants to be rescued. Some prefer chains to freedom, darkness to light. Bones knew this. He also knew there are no second chances in this business. Bones himself told me that. It’s why he did what he did. Frank’s attempted rescue was a one-way trip. Always had been. Despite the cost, Bones stuck with his brother. Let Frank pull him down that well shaft. Bones knew what darkness lay at the bottom, and my guess is that he didn’t want his brother to face it alone.
When I close my eyes and relive those last few seconds, the image that returns is the look in Bones’s eyes. It wasn’t anger. Not sadness. Not fear. It was peace. Resolve. Bones had done what he came to do, and he’d calculated and committed to the cost long before he met me.
When I first met Bones, I’d discovered quickly he was something of a genius. Given his life’s work, he’d been given broad latitude to hand-pick recruits and develop a program with a singular purpose: Find people. Specifically, lost people. One at a time.
When Bones first explained this to me, I had said, “So you work for the CIA.”
He shook his head. “No, but they often work for me.”
In my time at the academy, he’d routinely disappear for days at a time. No explanation. No goodbye. And then without notice, he’d return. When I started paying attention, I noticed that on several occasions, he was protecting some part of his body. Nursing an injury. One time he returned from a week’s absence with an obvious problem in his shoulder.
“Cut yourself shaving?”
He didn’t respond.
“You want to talk about it?”
I’ll never forget his answer. He reached into his pocket and simply handed me a bullet. Not the cartridge that contained the shell casing plus the bullet. Just the bullet. The spent projectile. The copper thing had gone down the barrel at high speed and entered his body. When he dropped it in the palm of my hand, I picked up on the fact that Bones was playing for keeps, and this whole clandestine training thing ended somewhere other than a grammar school playground.
He stared at it. “Life is not a video game, and there is no do-over.”
No do-over echoed through my mind as I stared through the snow. Down at the box. And when I closed my eyes, I saw Bones staring back at me.
Two weeks ago, we’d met as a group on the beach near Bones’s childhood home and tried to say our goodbyes. I had lifted Shep onto my shoulders and waded out. Then, like now, we had nothing to bury. No ashes to scatter. So we buried his orange case at sea. Then, like now, I wanted to speak; I just couldn’t. So Clay broke the silence and spoke beautiful words over the water, his deep baritone a balm to my soul. Then Eddie. Followed by Casey and Angel. Final words spoken at random. Our tears mingling with the ocean. I stood shattered. One breath. Two. In. Out. Repeat.
Finally, Summer had patted me. “Your turn.”
I stared at the box. Scuffed. Scarred. One last voyage remaining. Solo. I tried to speak and could not. When I tried again, no words formed in my mouth. Then, on the wind, I heard his voice. There in that water, in that broken place of earth where the sand told the sea, “You will go no farther,” Bones spoke to me. And when he did, I could hear him smiling. Tell me what you know about sheep.
I shook my head and spoke out loud. “No. I will tell you about the one who keeps them.” Wanting to see him off, I had waded out past the breakers until the water rose above my chest and placed the orange box on the surface. There I let it go.
I let Bones go.
Staring through the snow at the flag-covered coffin, I knew I had not. I could not. As much as I knew I needed to, I was not able.
When we learned Bones would be buried with the highest of military honors, we scoured Freetown for mementos of Bones. Books, his Bible, a watch, a few nice bottles of wine, an old pair of boots, a pocketknife, his priestly vestments, a camera, a lens. I had deliberated adding the coin I carried in my pocket, but my hand wouldn’t let go. As we scoured Freetown, returning with our offerings, Gunner appeared with an old wool sweater Bones wore when he sipped wine by the fire. Worn, tattered, a couple holes here and there, leather patches on the elbows, it smelled like Bones. When Gunner dropped it in the pile, I pretty much lost it.
A string of black SUVs and limos lined the road. Not a large crowd but a crowd nonetheless. As “family,” Summer, Angel, Ellie, Casey, Shep, and I walked behind the horse-drawn caisson. Summer held one hand, Shep the other. Whether I held them or they held me, I could not say. We walked over two hills and down into a valley protected by giant sentinel trees. The caisson came to a stop and the casket team approached from the side, lifted the simple wooden box, and began stepping backward in perfect unison. In lockstep, they carried Bones’s box to its final resting place, where one member spread a flag lengthwise.
I scanned the attendees and knew Bones would be uncomfortable with the attention. Platitudes were never the reason for the scars he carried. The directors of the CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security. The joint chiefs. Multiple members of the House and Senate. Speaker of the House. President pro tempore of the Senate. Secretaries of State, Treasury, and Defense. As well as the chief of staff to the president, who had been detained overseas. A bomb here could really mess up presidential succession. Most of these men and women had personal experience with Bones—he’d rescued someone they loved. Returned them to the dinner table.
Lastly, escorted by multiple Secret Service agents, the vice president exited a limo, refused an umbrella, and approached the coffin.