Drone

“Oh. So this is emotional for you, is it?” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

“You’re such a girl.”

“Some girls,” he said with a playful smile. “But I wasn’t looking for it.”

“Me neither,” she said.

“But I’m glad we found it. Found each other.”

“Me, too.”

Pearce kissed the back of her head, relieved.

“So what should we do about this?” she asked.

“I dunno. Go steady? By the way, you never told me how you can afford this place.”

“My dad owns it.” She slipped out beneath his embrace and headed for the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you tell me your dad was rich?” Pearce followed her into the kitchen. The tile was cold on his bare feet.

“I’m a spy, remember? I’m supposed to keep secrets, not give them away.”

“Since when do trust-fund babies go to war?” Pearce meant it as a joke, but it came off as flippant.

“Rich people love their country too, asshole.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… unusual, that’s all.”

“Coffee?” That was easier for her to say than you’re forgiven.

“Sounds great. And eggs, bacon, and toast while you’re at it. So you’re loaded and you can cook, too?”

“And I bang it like a porn star, in case you hadn’t noticed. But I was thinking more like room service,” she said. “Right now I’m just grabbing some water. Want some?” She yanked open the big Viking refrigerator door.

Pearce admired the view. She was buck naked, bent at the waist, reaching into the refrigerator for a bottled water, her breasts swaying with the effort. She was utterly comfortable in her own marvelous skin, even the patches of it laced with small shrapnel scars.

“Yeah, I want some,” Pearce said. He was getting hard.

“I meant water.”

“That, too. I’m a little dehydrated, if you catch my drift.”

A bottle of water sailed toward his head. He caught it at the last second.

“Drink up. You’re gonna need it later,” she promised as she cracked open her bottle. He did the same. They both took a long pull, just like they were back in the field.

“So, seriously. What do we do about this?” she asked again.

“‘This’? You mean ‘us.’ I like ‘us.’ Don’t you?”

“Is this enough?” she asked.

“For now.”

“And later”? She finished her water and crushed the bottle. Tossed it into the empty sink.

“What do you want me to say, Annie?”

“It’s what I don’t want you to say.”

“What don’t you want me to say?”

“Don’t say you’d give it all up for me.”

“I would.”

“You don’t listen very well, do you?”

“But it’s true.”

“We can’t just stop doing what we’re doing and play house.”

“Why not?” Suddenly he wasn’t hard anymore. Not even close.

Annie padded back toward the bedroom. Pearce right behind her. She reached for her pair of jeans on the floor and pulled them on. No panties. Commando.

Pearce reached for his underwear. “Why not? That’s what grown-up people do, you know.”

She buttoned up her fly and stared at him. Her breasts bunched beneath her crossed arms.

Pearce’s heart melted. Again. Could she be any more beautiful?

“Look, I don’t mean to go all Bogart on you here, but there’s something a helluva lot more important than us going on in the world right now. More important than what you and I want, no matter how badly we want it.” She grabbed her T-shirt and pulled it on. No bra.

Thank you, Jesus.

“So you do want it?” Pearce asked, distracted.

“I’m crazy about you, numbnuts. But I signed up with the Agency, not eHarmony. I’m supposed to be killing guys, not marrying them.”

She approached him, wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re the best man I know, Troy, and that’s saying a lot because I know a lot of really great guys, Early included. But this isn’t our time. At least not right now.”

“There aren’t many people who have what we have.”

“And even fewer people who can do what we do. That means we have a responsibility. Maybe we get to have what we want later.”

“When’s that?”

“When the war’s over, I guess.”

Pearce gazed into her sparkling blue eyes. “And when’s that going to happen?”

She leaned her head against his chest and held on tight, listening to his heartbeat. It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was all she had.

15

Coeur d’Alene, Idaho

It was one-thirty in the morning but the place was packed with locals. It was a sea of pierced noses, sleeve tattoos, and black T-shirts—and that was just the women. A girl in the corner with unwashed hair in her eyes played Alanis Morissette on a rosewood mandolin. Behind her, moose heads, snowshoes, and salmon trophies were nailed on the rough timbered walls.

Early fell into the booth at the back of the crowded hipster café, away from the picture windows. Pearce was already there. He was wearing a red and white Stanford University T-shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of Ropers. A ranch coat lay on the bench seat next to him, and a small iron pot of herbal tea steeped on the table.