Chapter 7 #2
She kept walking, looking through her bag for her silent phone. She didn’t look up until she needed to cross the parking lot to her car. There, leaning against the door, stood Jerry McBride, a cup of coffee in one hand and a white paper bag in the other. She grinned and trotted toward him.
“Good morning,” she said. She found it ridiculous how happy seeing him made her. “For me? You shouldn’t have.”
He held the cup out to her with a slight bow of his head. “Happy to oblige.”
He wore his ACUs, the green and brown camouflage clashing with the red paint of her car.
He wore his trousers tucked into the tops of brown suede boots and had his green beret pulled down over his right eye like a brim.
Her eyes skimmed over the various badges and patches on his uniform, duly impressed with his accomplishments as a soldier.
“You should be happy I got off on time today. Sometimes I get stuck.”
“I’m really happy you didn’t get stuck.”
The mostly hot brew tasted delicious. “I didn’t expect you until the middle of the week.”
He set the bag on top of the car, then leaned against the door and crossed his arms over his chest. “We got called back. We have to, ah, go somewhere.”
“Unofficially.”
He nodded. “Unofficially.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’d ask if you could tell.”
“Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Wasn’t that a military thing?”
She laughed, “Now I really want to know.”
“Best not. Just trust the plan. And there is always a plan.” He tilted his head and looked down at her. Her heart rate accelerated slightly as she looked into his eyes. “But I’m free tonight. Can’t promise when again. Would you like my company?”
“What if I have plans?” she teased.
“Change them,” Jerry answered without a hint of humor.
Their schedules had not meshed since Thanksgiving two weeks ago. She relented, “Jerry, I would love your company.”
His eyes shone as his mouth formed a smile. “What time’s good for you?”
She took another sip of coffee and looked at her watch. “I need to sleep this shift off, or else I would be no fun. How about any time after five?”
“Let’s call it six-thirty. I haven’t slept in a couple of days myself.” He straightened and picked up the bag. “Hey. Close your eyes.”
“Close my eyes?”
“Last time I saw you in Germany, you were watching the sun rise with your eyes closed. Never seen that before.” She could not believe he remembered that. He nodded again with a tight-lipped grin. “Olive. Close your eyes.”
She raised both eyebrows but complied. Suddenly, the rich buttery smell of pastries filled her nose. Her mouth immediately began to water.
“Croissants, from my favorite bakery. I was going to bribe you if you said no.”
She opened her eyes and grinned up at him. “I could still change my mind,” she teased.
“That could be fun. Then I could change your mind back again.” Jerry chuckled and held the bag out to her. “See you at six-thirty.”
On an impulse, she shifted the bag of pastries to her right hand, which also held the coffee cup, and stood on her tiptoes to hug him with her free left arm.
He barely hesitated as he returned the embrace.
His strong arms felt good as they came around her.
She didn’t mind the smell of his musky sweat and the faint smell of gunpowder and gun oil.
He smelled very much like a man. “Thank you,” she said as she stepped back. “Get some rest.”
He ran a finger down her cheek. “You too.”
She could feel his touch long after he walked away.
Feeling lighter, freer than she had just minutes before, she slid into her car and set the bag in the passenger seat.
She caught her reflection in the rear-view mirror, trying not to cringe at the disheveled hair pulling out of her braid or the shadows of fatigue under her eyes.
Since when did she care about how she looked after a shift?
Shaking her head, she pulled out of the parking lot.
The aroma of the croissants tempted her to dig into the bag before she was properly secured at home and could enjoy them to their fullest. She smiled and bit her lip, thinking about the handsome soldier who’d waited by her car.
He’d clearly come straight from the field.
The fact that he’d come to see her before going home meant a lot to her.
She remembered what it was like, coming in from the field, and all you could think about was a shower and a meal that didn’t involve opening a foil-lined bag and scooping the cold contents out with a long brown plastic spoon.
But he’d come straight to her. It electrified her to think that he might like her as much as she liked him, that he might miss her when he didn’t get to see her the way she missed him.
When she pulled into her driveway, she parked the car and dug her phone out of her bag, sending a text before she forgot.
Olive: Thanks for breakfast. You made my day. Just need a dress code for tonight.
As she walked in the door and set her keys on the table, he replied.
Jerry: Casual and warm.
Excited, she pulled the band out of her hair and started to undo her braid, humming a bright Christmas carol as she walked toward her bedroom.
Miami, Florida
Jean Desalin kept his infrared blocking sunglasses on as he wove his way through the throngs of tourists in the heart of Miami’s Little Haiti Christmas parade.
The sun beat down on his head, causing sweat to bead on his forehead.
Food vendors hawking their wares had fans pointed at the crowds, sending the scents of grilling meats and spices out to tempt hunger.
He stepped out of the way of a man pushing a toddler in a stroller. He didn’t mind the crowds. More crowds meant more anonymity. The sunglasses would help defeat any facial recognition cameras that happened to record his image.
Jean ducked into a cigar shop, and the man behind the counter gestured with his chin toward a beaded curtain. Jean went through the beads into the back room. A large Chinese man in a linen shirt stood next to a closed steel door. Jean approached and spoke quietly. “Good to see you, Hao.”
Hao Jun, Chinese MSS agent assigned to the Caribbean, nodded in greeting. He and Hao met in the early days of this deal and had spent several weeks together hashing out details and plans. In that time, Hao and Marie had, surprisingly, become extremely close.
Jean wondered if Hao’s masters in Beijing, who directed his mission, also knew of his romantic involvement with the sister of Papa Libète. Or, he thought—and not for the first time—perhaps they had ordered it?
“You as well,” Hao said in perfect French. “I am happy to facilitate this meeting.” He punched a code into the panel near the door, and it swung silently open.
From his perch just inside the doorway, he stood for a moment in the cool room, his eyes running over the cutting-edge technology lining the walls—at the screens and computers displaying market data and a live feed of Congress, as well as various CCTV feeds from different cities.
His sister, Marie Desalin, approached him, arms outstretched. She spoke their native Haitian Creole in her greeting. “Bonjou, frè.” She hooked her arm in his and turned to the man sitting in an armchair. “I would like you to meet George Schwartz.”
The old white man with the pudgy face and blue suit did not stand, nor did he extend his hand for a handshake. Jean could not have cared less about his lack of manners or decorum. “Mr. Schwartz,” he said, “I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me.”
“Get to the point quickly.”
Anger burned deep in his chest, but he did not react. “I need ten million American dollars.”
The old man raised a thin eyebrow. “I know that. What will I get for my investment?”
“I have made preliminary arrangements with China. I already have half the money. In exchange for deeply discounted arms, I will grant them access to my country, deep water ports, surveillance outposts, and a home base for any anti-Western operations.”
Schwartz sat silent for several seconds. “Why do you think I care about that?”
Jean laughed and sat in the chair opposite the billionaire. “It is no secret you hope to destroy this administration. And you don’t care about the collateral damage in the process.”
Jean’s mind drifted off to the 2010 earthquake, when armed American “relief” helicopters buzzed overhead but delivered more troops than tents, followed shortly by the ceaseless cycle of UN missions that imported cholera and exported nothing but excuses.
“I want to save my people from the endless gang wars and give my nation a strong leader.”
Schwartz looked him up and down. “The people call you Papa Libète.”
Marie answered. “The people love him. He has rallied an army. We just need weapons.”
The billionaire glanced in Marie’s direction but did not respond to her. Instead, he stood and said to Jean. “I will give you twenty million. Save your money to feed your men.”
Jean lowered his head and said, “You will not regret your decision.”
“I trust I will not.”