16. Doc
DOC
“Daniel Kane has three days to live.”
Hampton stops talking.
That's impressive.
Since Sheriff Tate put him in handcuffs, Hampton has complained about the chair, the coffee, the lack of food, the temperature of the holding room, and what he describes as an unconstitutional shortage of bathroom breaks.
But the moment I tell him about Kane’s name on the wall, he goes silent.
I stand outside the bars with Mara beside me.
Sheriff Tate is behind us.
Wolf, Trigger, Blaze, Ace, and Havoc are crowded into a hallway designed for approximately three normal-sized people.
Hampton looks at all of us.
“Why are there so many Rangers?”
Trigger answers, “We multiply when threatened.”
Hampton looks at me.
“Was he always like this?”
“Worse.”
“Head injury,” Trigger says.
Blaze turns toward him. “You've been blaming everything on that since we got home.”
“It's convenient.”
Sheriff Tate points down the hallway.
“Everyone who isn't necessary, out.”
No one moves.
Tate sighs.
“I don't know why I bother.”
Mara smiles.
Then Hampton looks at me.
“Where did you find Kane's name?”
“Storm cellar on Vance's old property.”
His expression changes.
“You found where he’s living?”
“You knew he was living here?”
“I’ve been listening to all of you talking. I knew Vance had a place near Eagle River.”
“You've been searching for him for fifteen years.”
“Yes.”
“And he was living half a mile from Mara’s mother?”
“Apparently.”
Mara steps closer to the bars.
“Why is Kane on that wall?”
“I don't know.”
“His name has a date beside it.”
“What date?”
“Three days from now.”
Hampton stands.
The chain connecting his cuff to the bench rattles.
“You need to find him.”
“That was the plan.”
“No. You need to find him now.”
Mara folds her arms.
“You're going to have to give us more than that.”
Hampton looks at her.
“Kane knows who the Colonel is.”
The hallway goes silent.
I step closer.
“You told me Vance knew.”
“Vance worked directly for him. Kane saw him.”
“When?”
“The night Grant followed Kane to Site Seventeen.”
My pulse changes.
“You said Grant saw the Colonel.”
“He saw a man meeting Kane. Grant didn't know who he was.”
“But Kane did.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me this earlier?”
“Because Daniel Kane is a dangerous son of a bitch who would sell his own mother if the price was right.”
Trigger raises a hand.
“He tried to sell Wolf once.”
Wolf turns.
“What?”
Trigger grins. “Poker game. Kabul.”
“That was not selling me.”
“You were collateral.”
“I was sitting beside you.”
“Kane was very persuasive.”
Despite myself, I remember.
A battered table.
Warm beer.
Kane announcing that Wolf’s watch, boots, and “general services” were part of the pot.
Wolf nearly threw him through a wall.
Grant laughed until he couldn't breathe.
The memory hits me unexpectedly.
Not painful.
Not entirely.
I almost smile.
Mara notices.
Of course she does.
Hampton continues.
“Kane was embedded in your unit to watch Miller. When Grant started asking questions, Kane began watching him too.”
“Then why didn't Kane stop Grant?”
“Because Kane realized Grant might be useful.”
“For what?”
“Leverage.”
Mara's expression hardens.
“Against the Colonel?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
Of course.
Some things never change.
“Where is Kane now?” I ask.
“I told you that was his motorcycle last night,” Hampton says.
“Do you know where he might be?”
“I don't know.”
“You just told us to find him.”
“I said you need to find him. I didn't say I knew where he was.”
Trigger leans toward Wolf.
“Can we give him back?”
“To who?”
“Anybody.”
Hampton points at him.
“I can hear you.”
“That was the idea.”
Sheriff Tate steps between them before this becomes even more ridiculous.
“Kane is supposed to be in federal prison.”
“Yes,” Hampton says.
“What facility?”
“Last I knew? Beaumont.”
Tate looks at Mara.
She's already reaching for her phone.
“I'll check.”
Hampton laughs.
Mara stops.
“What?”
“You think Vance put an execution date on a wall for a man sitting safely inside a federal prison?”
“No.”
Hampton's smile disappears.
“Then Kane isn't in prison anymore.”
He isn't.
Mara confirms it eleven minutes later.
Daniel Kane was released eighteen months ago after serving part of his sentence for conspiracy, fraud, and weapons violations unrelated to Operation Twenty-Three.
His current address is listed as Houston.
He hasn't lived there in eight months.
No forwarding address.
No current employer.
No vehicle registered in his name.
The man has disappeared.
Again.
I stand beside Mara’s desk while she searches the information Sheriff Tate obtained.
“Last known phone?”
“Disconnected.”
“Family?”
“Ex-wife in Florida. Adult son in Colorado.”
“Friends?”
She looks at me.
“You.”
I stare at her.
“No.”
“You served together.”
“That doesn't make us friends.”
Mara shakes her head and turns back to the computer.
I watch her.
Dark hair falling over one shoulder.
Small bandage near her temple.
Grant’s little sister.
Except that isn't what I see anymore.
I see Mara.
And that's becoming dangerous.
Not because of Grant.
Because of me.
She looks up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You were staring.”
“No.”
“You were.”
“I was thinking.”
“Loudly?”
I smile.
“Apparently.”
Her eyes soften.
For a moment, neither of us looks away.
Then Blaze drops a folder onto the desk.
“Found something.”
I step back.
Probably too quickly.
Mara notices.
Definitely.
“What?” she asks.
“Kane had a storage unit outside Dallas.”
“When?”
“Until six months ago.”
“What happened six months ago?”
“He stopped paying.”
“Contents auctioned?”
“No.”
Blaze taps the paper.
“Someone paid the balance in cash the day before the auction.”
“Who?”
“No name.”
“Cameras?”
“Six months ago. Probably long gone.”
Mara looks at me.
“Worth checking.”
“Yes.”
Sheriff Tate comes out of his office.
“Not tonight.”
Mara closes her eyes.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
She points at me.
“Don't encourage him.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were going to.”
Tate looks at me.
“I see what you've started.”
“That was Grant.”
Mara smiles.
For a second, the room feels warm.
Then a deputy enters carrying an evidence bag.
“Sheriff.”
Tate turns.
“What?”
“We found this in the storm cellar.”
Inside the bag is a cell phone.
Old.
Cracked.
Not a smartphone.
A flip phone.
“When?” Mara asks.
“Behind a loose concrete block. Battery's dead.”
“Any idea how old?”
“Ten years, maybe more.”
Hampton calls from the holding area.
“What kind?”
Everyone looks toward the hallway.
Tate sighs.
“Why are you listening?”
“Because your walls are thin.”
The deputy answers.
“Black Motorola.”
Hampton goes silent.
I look toward the hallway.
“What?”
No answer.
I walk to the holding room.
Mara follows.
Hampton is standing beside the bars.
“What?” I ask again.
“Show me.”
Sheriff Tate takes the evidence bag from the deputy and holds it where Hampton can see.
All the color leaves Hampton's face.
“Where exactly did you find that?”
“Storm cellar.”
“Behind the wall?”
“Yes.”
Hampton grips the bars.
“That was Grant’s.”
My heart stops.
“No.”
“I gave it to him.”
“When?”
“Three days before the ambush.”
My pulse pounds.
“Why?”
“So he could contact me without using military communications.”
“What was on it?”
“Nothing when I gave it to him.”
“Then why hide it in Texas?”
Hampton looks at Mara.
“I don't know.”
Mara takes the bag.
“Could Grant have mailed it home?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He had it in Afghanistan the night before he died.”
I stare at the phone.
“Then Grant didn't put it in that cellar.”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Hampton's eyes meet mine.
“Someone who came home from the valley.”
Silence.
Eight entered.
Grant died.
Others died.
Some survived.
Someone brought Grant’s phone back to Texas and hid it on property connected to Robert Vance.
“Who had access to Grant’s body?” Mara asks.
My throat closes.
I know the answer.
“We did.”
“Who specifically?”
“Me. Wolf. Trigger.”
Behind us, Wolf goes still.
“And Kane,” I say.
Mara turns.
“Then he could have taken the phone.”
Hampton shakes his head.
“Not without Doc seeing him.”
I remember blood.
Dust.
Grant’s body.
Men screaming.
My hands trying to stop wounds that wouldn't stop bleeding.
Did I see everything?
No.
I couldn't.
“I was treating casualties.”
Hampton looks at the phone.
“Then Kane could have taken it.”
Mara's eyes narrow.
“And fifteen years later, someone wants him dead.”
The pieces move again.
Kane took Grant’s phone.
Kane went home.
Somehow that phone ended up hidden in Vance's storm cellar.
And now Kane has three days to live.
“We need what's on that phone,” I say.
Sheriff Tate nods.
“I'll send it to the state lab.”
“How long?”
“Could be days.”
“We don't have days.”
Mara looks at the phone.
“Maybe we don't need a lab.”
Tate gives her a warning look.
“What are you thinking?”
“It's an old flip phone. If the battery is the only problem, we may be able to find a compatible replacement.”
“Evidence rules.”
“I know.”
“We don't start experimenting with it.”
“I said I know.”
Doc leans toward me.
“He enjoys saying that to you.”
“I've noticed.”
Tate points at both of us.
“I can still hear you.”
Hampton laughs.
“I'm starting to like Eagle River.”
Tate looks at him.
“Don't.”
By ten that night, the station finally begins to quiet.
The phone is secured.
The lockbox is secured somewhere Sheriff Tate refuses to tell us.
Hampton is still in custody.
Kane is still missing.
Vance has Grant’s key.
And the Colonel still doesn't have a name.
Progress.
Apparently.
I walk outside.
Mara is sitting on the hood of her SUV beneath the parking-lot lights.
I stop.
She looks at me.
“Are you following me?”
“Yes.”
The answer surprises her.
“Usually you pretend you aren't.”
“I'm tired.”
“That makes you honest?”
“Apparently.”
I walk toward her.
She shifts slightly, giving me room against the hood.
I lean beside her.
For a while, neither of us speaks.
Eagle River is quiet.
The Last Stand Tavern glows several blocks away.
Somewhere a dog barks.
Ordinary sounds.
I forgot how much I missed ordinary.
“You should go back to Fort Worth,” Mara says.
The words hit harder than I expect.
I look at her.
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
She answers too quickly.
Something in my chest loosens.
“Then why say it?”
“Because you had a life before this.”
“Did I?”
“You had a job.”
“That's not the same thing.”
Her eyes find mine.
“What was your life like?”
I consider the question.
Work.
Apartment.
Takeout.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Once or twice a year, search Mara Ellis.
Make sure she's alive.
Close the computer.
Keep going.
“Quiet.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was.”
“Why?”
“Because I made it that way.”
She doesn't argue.
I appreciate that.
“I thought if I let people matter again, I'd eventually lose them.”
Mara looks toward the street.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was efficient.”
She laughs softly.
“Of course you would describe loneliness as efficient.”
I smile.
Then she becomes serious.
“Grant mattered.”
“Yes.”
“And you lost him.”
“Yes.”
“So you decided nobody else got to matter.”
I don't answer.
“You know that's stupid, right?”
I look at her.
“Your bedside manner needs work.”
“I'm a deputy, not a therapist.”
“Thank God.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers.
Carefully.
Avoiding my injured side.
I notice.
“Mara.”
“What?”
“I meant what I said earlier.”
Her expression changes.
I don't have to explain which words.
I think I'm staying because of you.
“I know.”
“That scares me.”
Her eyes soften.
“Me too.”
I turn toward her.
She's close.
Too close for pretending.
“I promised Grant I'd protect you.”
“I know.”
“But when Hampton took me…”
“You were kidnapped.”
“I remember.”
“I chased you.”
“I noticed.”
“I would've chased you even if Grant had never existed.”
The words knock the air out of me.
Mara slides off the hood.
Now she's standing directly in front of me.
“This isn't about my brother anymore.”
My heart pounds.
“No.”
“Good.”
She reaches up.
Her fingers touch my jaw.
Every reason I have to step away disappears.
“Mara.”
“Colin.”
My name.
Not Doc.
Colin.
Something inside me breaks.
I lower my head.
Her lips meet mine.
For one second, neither of us moves.
Then fifteen years of loneliness catches fire.
I wrap one arm around her waist and pull her closer.
Mara's fingers slide into my hair.
The kiss deepens.
Warm.
Hungry.
Real.
Nothing about Grant.
Nothing about promises.
Nothing about guilt.
Just her.
Just me.
For the first time in fifteen years, I want something for myself.
Mara.
A truck horn blasts.
We jump apart.
Wolf's truck rolls into the parking lot.
Trigger hangs halfway out the passenger window.
“FINALLY!”
Mara covers her face.
I close my eyes.
Wolf leans across the steering wheel.
“Sorry.”
He doesn't look sorry.
Trigger points at me.
“Grant would've punched you.”
I stare at him.
“For what?”
Trigger grins.
“Pick one.”
Mara starts laughing.
I look at her.
Then I start laughing too.
Wolf honks again.
And for the first time in fifteen years, I don't feel like a man who survived when Grant didn't.
I feel alive.
Then Mara's phone rings.
Of course it does.
She checks the screen.
Her smile disappears.
“What?”
“Unknown number.”
I straighten.
She answers.
“Deputy Ellis.”
A man's voice comes through the speaker.
“Did you enjoy kissing Doc?”
Every bit of warmth leaves the night.
Mara looks at me.
The voice continues.
“Because if you want him alive tomorrow, bring Grant’s lockbox to the McKinley cellar.”
The call ends.
I scan the dark street.
Windows.
Rooftops.
Parked vehicles.
Someone saw us.
Someone is watching right now.
Mara reaches for her weapon.
I catch her hand.
She looks at me.
I know exactly what she's about to say.
“No.”
Her eyes narrow.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
Then I look back into the darkness.
Someone watched me kiss Mara.
Someone knows exactly where we are.
And tomorrow?—
They want Grant’s box.