“Unconventional but tactically sound,” Tower said at last. “Outstanding work, O’Neal. Truly top-notch. Also, the British government is grateful for the location of the Blenheim. They’re working to get permission to repatriate the remains.”
Connor set the dog tags he’d taken from the crash on the table. “Their families might want these.”
Tower picked one up, examined it. “I bet they will.”
The meeting moved on, Corbray taking over. “We’re putting together a team for a small security operation on behalf of the State Department in Nairobi—a diplomatic mission.”
“Let’s do it.” Connor needed a distraction.
“Not you, O’Neal,” Corbray said. “You’re over your operational-hours limit for the month. You’ve got the rest of the month off.”
Fuck.
“You just ruined his day,” Shields teased.
Connor drove back to his place through a city that ought to have felt like home but didn’t. Nothing seemed the same—not Denver, not the office, not his condo. He told himself it was just re-entry, just the same struggle he always had. But he didn’t believe it.
This was about Shanti.
Get a fucking grip.
He sent her a quick email, asking her how she was feeling—and went for his bottle of whiskey. He started to pour himself a drink.
It won’t help. You know that. You’ve done this before.
He stopped. It was September 7, and he had the rest of the month off. He couldn’t spend that entire time drinking.
He cleaned his condo, watched ESPN for a while, hit the gym, a storm raging inside him. Desperate, and with nowhere else to turn, he packed a bag, threw it into his truck, and headed north to Ault.
Shanti’s parentsstayed for a week, buying groceries, making meals, doing her laundry, keeping her company. She slept a lot—something the doctor had said she might do. When she was awake, she checked her phone obsessively for email from Connor. She was happy to hear he hadn’t gotten in trouble and that they’d given him some vacation.
“I’m at my parents’ farm for a few days. They don’t have good internet so you might not hear from me for a while,” he wrote. “How is your head?”
“I still have bad headaches most days, but I’m walking with a boot now. The bruise on my cheek and the bump on my head are healing.”
She signed her emails, “Love, Shanti.” He signed his simply, “C.”
Then came Sunday morning, and it was time for her parents to fly home.
“Take care of yourself, sweetie.” Her mother hugged her tight, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “If this Connor fellow you’re heartsick over feels the same for you, it will work out. Look at your Dad and me.”
“Thanks, Mom. And thanks for your help.”
“Good work, my angel.” Her father kissed her forehead. “You’ve always wanted to make the world a better place, and you are doing just that.”
Then they stepped into the taxi and headed to the airport.
That’s when the nightmares started. Twice that night, she awoke, terrified and covered in cold sweat, dreaming that Connor had disappeared in front of her, leaving her alone in a dark tunnel with no way out.
The next morning, she went back to work, her coworkers standing up at their desks and applauding as she hobbled by.
Bram walked with her to her office, bringing her quickly up to date about their progress cataloging the evidence. “I am so grateful that you’re home and safe.”
“Thanks, Bram.”
Shanti threw herself into her job, working late hours, even though using the computer made her headaches worse. She finished organizing all their evidence—survivor and witness interviews, cell phone videos, still images from the videos, satellite data shared by various nations, UN data, reports from Bangladesh—and wrote an extensive brief that would be part of their official request for an arrest warrant.
It wasn’t easy, not just because of her headaches, but because she kept forgetting things. She resorted to writing herself notes and found herself leaning on her clerk much more than usual. “I’m sorry, Makena. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”