“If he is, he can wait to talk with you until …” Connor’s words trailed off.
Two men carried the body of a little boy on a blanket. The child couldn’t have been more than five years old, his yellow shirt muddy and torn. Resting on his lifeless chest was some kind of homemade toy—a little bamboo car.
Connor watched as they passed.“No.”
It was only a whisper, but Shanti heard it.
She walked up beside Connor, saw recognition and shock on his face. “Connor?”
Did he somehow know this little boy?
A muscle clenched in Connor’s jaw. “I spoke with him yesterday. He showed me his little car. I wanted to…”
Shanti waited for him to finish, but he said nothing more, obviously hit personally by the child’s senseless death. “It’s awful when children die.”
“Let’s get you inside.”
As she entered the hospital, Shanti saw the man in the gray lungi watching her.
Connor tookhis turn standing out front amid the wails and weeping of those who’d lost loved ones in the mudslide. He’d sent Cruz to watch the back entrance, while Jones stood watch outside the interview room—part of Connor’s attempt to put a professional distance between himself and Shanti. He also wanted to keep an eye on the guy who’d been watching her.
The man had noticed Connor and walked a short distance away, where he now stood, glancing over at Connor every now and then.
No, dude, that’s not suspicious at all.
Connor drew out his cell phone, pretended he was looking at something on the screen while trying to snap a shot of the man’s face.
Turn your head this way. A little more. Got it.
He sent the image to Shields. “Cobra, Team One. We’ve got a fighting-age male, maybe five-foot-four, wearing a maroon shirt and a gray sarong hanging out in front of the hospital. He had eyes on the asset when we arrived and moved off when I positioned myself at the entrance. I just sent you a shot. How copy?”
“Team One, this is Cobra. Good copy. We’ll run it through the database.”
Another body was brought in—an old man. His relatives walked beside the makeshift gurney, the women looking too worn down by grief to weep for him.
What a damned mess it all was.
His thoughts turned to the little boy. He’d been far too young to die.
About the same age as the boy in Syria.
Fuck.
Connor couldn’t think about that. He had a job to do, and it didn’t involve dwelling on shit he couldn’t change.
The morning wore on, the clouds growing thicker and darker overhead.
They took turns making trips to the latrine. Connor dug into his pack for something to eat but ended up giving his trail mix and an energy bar to a couple of skinny kids. They needed the nutrition more than he did.
It was early afternoon when Jones’ voice came over Connor’s earpiece. “Her next appointment hasn’t shown up, and she needs to hit the head.”
“Copy that.” Connor and Cruz met Jones at the back door and escorted Shanti to the bank of latrines set aside for hospital staff.
Shanti gave the three of them an awkward smile. “An armed escort to pee. I feel embarrassed.”
Jones grinned. “You wouldn’t last in the military, ma’am. Sometimes you just have to drop trou and squat down right next to…”
Jones caught Connor’s expression and coughed, his oversharing at an end.