Familiar Stranger. Sharon Sala
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though the second-story window beside his bed was open, there was little breeze stirring. It was unseasonably warm for the Colorado mountains this time of year, but the sweat on his body wasn’t from the heat of the night. It was from the hell in his dream. And even in that dream, he still couldn’t control his own warning.
He looked. And saw the dead gunrunners…and the money, now saturated with rain and mud and gasoline…and the blood pooling beneath his brother’s body.
A muscle twitched near Jonah’s mouth, a reflex to the scream echoing inside his mind as the match was struck. A word slipped from between his lips, too faint to be heard, although it hardly mattered. He’d been alone for so many years he wouldn’t have known how to share his thoughts if he’d had the chance.
In the space of one breath, the dream jumped from 1974 and Vietnam to two weeks ago in New York City, bringing with it the same sense of desperation and leaving Jonah writhing in torment.
From the air, New York City appeared as a vast but inanimate object, with only a small cluster of land and trees they called Central Park embedded within the mass of concrete and steel.
He banked the chopper toward the unwinding ribbon that was the East River, and as he did, his heart began to pound. Only a few more minutes and this hell would come to an end.
Below him was a dark blanket of land peppered with thousands and thousands of lights. Almost there. With the desperation in Del Rogers’s voice still ringing in his head, all he could think was, no more. Too many innocents have been caught in this crazy man’s revenge to bring me down. Please, God, just let Maggie and her baby still be alive. Let us get them out of all this still breathing and kicking.
Unconsciously, Jonah’s hands curled into fists, as he relived the descent of the black stealth helicopter he was piloting, all the while knowing that Simon was holding a woman and child between himself and destiny.
A faint breeze came through the open windows, blowing across his nude body, but Jonah was too deeply asleep to appreciate the sensation. The muscles in his legs twitched as he relived landing the chopper.
In the landing lights, the fear on Maggie’s face was vivid, overwhelming Jonah with a renewed sense of guilt.
The cowardly son of a bitch, using innocent people just to get to me.
The force of wind from the descending helicopter whipped Maggie’s hair and clothes and sent a shower of grit and dust into the air around them. He saw her trying to use her body as a shield for the hysterical baby in her arms, but the man holding her hostage gave her a yank, making sure she still stood between him and the guns aimed in his direction.
As the helicopter landed, Jonah could only imagine what was going through Maggie’s mind—all this hell—all the danger to her family—and for a man she didn’t even know. He slid open a door in the side of the chopper and flashed a bright light in Simon’s face.
In that moment, Jonah’s mind shut down. Before his senses could wrap around the truth of what he was seeing, Simon’s body jerked. He had been shot by Del Rogers.
After that, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.
SPEAR agents firing from surrounding rooftops.
Simon taking another bullet.
The play of emotions moving across Simon’s face—a face that was aged with hate as well as passing years, bearing scars both old and new.
The impact of the bullet as the shot tore through Simon’s body.
The desperate lunge Simon made toward the East River in a last-ditch effort to escape.
The way the water parted to let him in.
The knot of dismay in Jonah’s belly when he realized that Simon was gone.
Jonah woke with a grunt and sat straight up in bed. It had been two weeks, and he still hadn’t gotten over the shock of seeing Simon’s face. The guilt of all these years—of thinking he had killed his brother—had been for nothing.
“Ah, God…Frank. I thought you were dead.”
He shook his head and then massaged the tension in the back of his neck. As he did, the powerful muscles in his shoulders bunched and rolled. The misery of these nightmare-filled nights was getting to him. He needed to work it off, but not in the weight room, as he normally did. He wanted the air against his skin and the ground beneath his feet. He needed to run until he set his muscles on fire.
It was 5:10 A.M. as he rolled out of bed and strode to the bathroom. Even the shock of cold water on his face was not enough to wash away the horror of what he’d been dreaming. With a curse on his lips, he strode into his bedroom, moving through the darkness with the confidence of an animal that well knew its lair.
Every motion was deliberate as he dressed—grabbing a pair of shorts and a clean T-shirt from the top drawer of the dresser, then lacing his running shoes and fastening the holster of a small-caliber handgun at the waistband of his shorts. Five minutes later he paused at the kitchen table, fingering the single page of a letter he’d received less than twenty-four hours ago. Although the room was too dark to read the words again, he didn’t need to read them to remember.
I know who you are. Your time has come. I’ll be in touch. Frank.
Jonah shuddered. Ghosts. He’d never believed in them until now. He dropped the letter and moved onto the deck. Daybreak was less than an hour away, but he didn’t need light by which to see. He stretched a couple of times to ease tense muscles, then he stepped off the deck and began to walk toward the trees. Within moments, he’d moved to a jog, and by the time he disappeared into the tree line, he was running, only now there were no demons to outrun. He had a face and a name to go with it and only a short time left before the inevitable confrontation. Only God knew how it would end, and in a way, it almost didn’t matter.
Almost.
He wanted this over. All of it. Being Jonah. Hiding secrets. Telling lies. Just over. He wasn’t the first man to give up his identity for the good of his country and he wouldn’t be the last. But he’d given up more than an identity, and that was what dug at him in the wee hours of the mornings when sleep eluded him.
He’d given up Cara.
Unconsciously, he increased his speed as the memory of her face crept into his mind. So pretty. So young. And they’d been so much in love. Looking back, he would say crazy in love.
He ducked on the path to avoid a low-hanging branch and swiped his arm across his forehead, catching the sweat before it ran in his eyes. His calves were starting to burn. The pain felt good—a reminder that he was more than just a machine for Uncle Sam.
Cara.
My God, what had he been thinking? They were only sixteen years old and he’d begged her to run away with him. What had he thought they’d do? Better yet, where in hell would they have gone? The fact that she’d pleaded with him to wait until they were out of college said something for the theory that girls matured faster than boys. In their case, she certainly had. She’d known what he’d refused to consider, and because they’d fought and then been too stubborn to admit they were wrong, their lives had turned upside down.
A large bird flew across his line of vision, and he could tell by the absence of sound at its passing that it was an owl, probably on its way home from a night of hunting.
If only he’d had the sense to go home after their fight, but no, he’d had to show the world—and maybe himself—that he was a man. And what better way to do that than to go fight a war?
His older brother, Frank, had signed up months earlier and was already somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam. The family had gotten one letter from him in all that time, and their mother had cried herself to sleep when it came. But that hadn’t occurred to David then. All he’d wanted to do was prove that he was man enough for Cara to love.
When he told her he’d enlisted, he hadn’t expected her to like it, but he’d expected her to wait for him to