Chapter 6 #3
He took a tentative sip. The broth was complex—sour, spicy, and rich with shrimp flavor, but not overwhelming. “Okay, that’s incredible. How did you know I’d like this?”
“Lucky guess. And it’s my favorite.”
Interesting. “So, did the guy have a lead?”
She put down her spoon. “The man was a predator. Tried to lure me into his car, probably would have succeeded if I hadn’t gotten scared and run.
” Her voice stayed steady, but he could see the cost of telling this story in the slight tremor of her hands.
“When I told my parents, instead of being proud of my initiative, they were horrified. My father said I could have ended up just like Hannah, that they couldn’t lose me too.
My mom had a panic attack and wouldn’t let me out of her sight for months. ”
“That’s when you learned that your courage scared people.”
“That’s when I learned that when I try to take action, I make everything worse and hurt the people I love.” She finally looked at him. “And here I am, thirty years old, dragging you into a situation that could get us both killed because I can’t let go of a story.”
“Hey.” He reached across the table and covered her hand with his.
“First of all, like I said, I’m a big boy.
Nobody dragged me anywhere. I came willingly, remember?
Second, you’re not thirteen anymore. You’re a brilliant journalist who’s uncovered a possible bioweapons plot and who could save thousands of lives. ”
“I’ve done this before, Skeet. Gotten in over my head and pulled other people down with me.
In Syria, I was dating this war correspondent, Marcus Rodriguez.
We kept trying to out-scoop each other, taking bigger risks.
He got captured because he went after a story alone, trying to prove he was as brave as me.
He survived, but when he got out, he blamed me.
Said I’d made everything a competition, that he’d nearly died trying to keep up with my recklessness. ”
“Sounds like Marcus had some issues with his own ego,” Skeet said. “Any guy who feels like he has to compete with his girlfriend instead of supporting her probably isn’t relationship material anyway.”
She blinked at him. “You’re not going to tell me I should have been more careful?”
“Why would I? You were doing your job. If he couldn’t handle dating someone braver than him, that’s his problem, not yours.”
Something shifted in her expression. She didn’t pull her hand away from his.
“Tell me about the other places you’ve covered.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to understand what drives someone to walk into war zones with nothing but a notebook and a camera. And because you light up when you talk about work that matters to you. It’s very attractive.”
She laughed despite herself. “Now, you’re flirting with me while I’m having an existential crisis.”
“I prefer to think of it as providing emotional support with style.”
For the next twenty minutes, she told him about Afghanistan. About South Sudan. About the children in those stories who’d stayed with her long after the articles were published.
“There was this girl in a refugee camp outside Kabul.” Her voice softened.
“Maybe eight years old, taking care of her baby brother because their parents had been killed in a bombing. She reminded me of me and Selah after Hannah disappeared—trying to be grown-ups when we were still children ourselves.”
“What happened to her?”
“Last I heard, she was in school in Germany. My article helped get her refugee status.” She smiled. The first genuine smile he’d seen from her all evening. “Sometimes the stories help.”
“See? You save people.” He leaned back, reaching for his wineglass. “And Marcus? What happened to him in the end?”
Her smile faded. “He left journalism. Became a corporate communications consultant in Los Angeles. Says he’s happier now.”
“But you don’t believe him.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he is. Maybe I just tell myself he’s not because it’s easier than admitting I destroyed something good.”
The waiter arrived to clear their soup bowls and serve the main course.
The massaman curry was served in a traditional clay pot, rich brown sauce fragrant with cinnamon and star anise, tender chunks of beef and sweet pineapple visible beneath the surface.
Alongside it came jasmine rice, fluffy and perfect for soaking up the sauce.
“This,” Skeet said after his first bite, “is why I’m keeping you around. Forget the brilliant investigative skills—you can order food.”
She laughed. But, “I just hope when this is all over, you don’t look at me and say, ‘Wow. That was a bad choice.’”
The words hit him, left a sting. A flash of something—rawness, fear—in her blue eyes.
“This is not a bad choice, Chloe.”
She drew in a breath.
“Hey. I came to get you, remember?” He reached across the table again and squeezed her hand gently. “Best decision I ever made.”
“That was before you knew what you were signing up for.”
“What I signed up for was keeping you safe. I didn’t know you were in the middle of exposing a medical-supply trafficking operation. What we’re doing now feels bigger than both of us.”
“Is it? Or is it just another example of me getting in over my head and dragging someone else down with me?”
“Chloe, look at me.”
She did. His chest hurt at the churning in her blue eyes.
“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me. Maybe I’m better off working alone.”
He studied her face. The careful way she held herself, as if she was ready to bolt if he agreed with her. “Do you believe that?”
Long pause. She looked away, then back. Something in her expression cracked open just enough to show him the truth.
“No.”
“Good. Because you’re stuck with me. I make excellent company in life-threatening situations, remember?”
She smiled—small, but genuine—and it hit him square in the chest.
“You think you’re dangerous to the people you care about.”
“I am. They try to save me from my own stupid decisions—”
“Because they care.”
She lifted a shoulder.
He sighed. “We might be in big trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you my dad walked out when I was fourteen.”
She nodded.
“And then he was killed on that mission.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“My mom never recovered. Started drinking, then taking pills. My sister, Katie, tried to take care of her, but it was too much for a seventeen-year-old. She left home at eighteen, and that’s when the state pulled me out, sent me to live with my grandparents. It was . . . rough.”
He paused, swirling the wine in his glass. “I joined the military as soon as I turned eighteen. Told myself I was following in my father’s footsteps, but really I was just running away from a situation I couldn’t fix.”
“Did it help? The military?”
“Yeah. I found brothers in the SEALs. Men who understood that sometimes the only family that matters is the one you choose. And then Jones, Inc., became that family when I got out.” He met her eyes. “I’ll always be there for the people I care about. That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
“The problem is that when I care too much, I stop thinking clearly. I make mistakes that get people killed.” He was quiet for a moment, then, “This isn’t my first rodeo in Thailand.
I was here three years ago on a mission to free a journalist, some aid workers and a diplomat who’d been taken by the Burmese government.
” He took a breath. “We had an operative. Narin Chen. Burmese-American. Small woman with fierce eyes and determination that reminded me of my sister. I trusted her judgment. Respected her courage.” He paused.
“Maybe cared about her more than I should have.”
Chloe didn’t say anything, just waited.
“She told us the hostages had been moved to an abandoned monastery compound. No sentries, no patrols. Said she’d guide us in, make sure we got them out safely.” He took a sip of wine. “I believed her. Why wouldn’t I? Narin had never steered us wrong before.”
“But something went wrong.”
“The moment we entered the compound, shooting started from everywhere. Not military positions. Civilians screaming.” He grew quiet. “Narin’s voice came over the comms, desperate, telling us to get out. There were families there. Children.”
He looked away. “Turned out she’d been captured weeks earlier, forced to agree to feed us false intelligence under threat to her family. The hostages were never there. Just forty-three displaced villagers sheltering in the monastery.”
He had finished his wine.
“Six civilians died in the crossfire. Two of them children under ten.” He met her eyes. “And the worst part—Narin was executed by her own handlers for trying to warn us.”
“So in the end—”
“In the end, if I hadn’t cared about her so much, if I’d been more objective, maybe I would have questioned her intel more carefully.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“I spent three years convinced that getting too emotionally invested makes me a liability to the people I’m trying to protect.” He looked at her across the table. “So yeah, we’re a pair. You, worried that someone will get hurt protecting you. And me, worried that I can’t protect you enough.”
He lifted a shoulder, offered a wry smile.
She was quiet for a moment, turning her wineglass in her hands.
“By the way, my real name is Easton,” he said. “Easton Blackwood. Everyone calls me Skeet.”
“Easton.” She tried the name. He liked the way it sounded in her voice. “How’d you get Skeet?”
“My sister couldn’t pronounce Easton when she was little. Called me Easter, which turned into Skeeter, which got shortened to Skeet when one of the guys in basic training found out.”
“I like Easton.”
“Yeah?”
“It suits you. Strong, dependable, but not trying too hard to prove anything.”
Did she not hear him? He was trying to prove everything. Still, the compliment warmed him more than the wine had. “So what’s your brilliant plan for tomorrow?”
“I was hoping you had one.”