Chuck Logan - Homefront

December 17, Stillwater, Minnesota

Broker was looking at women’s long underwear in the J. P. Asch Outfitters store in downtown Stillwater when he got the call.

Outside, at the curb, a seven-foot spruce was encased in plastic netting in the bed of his Toyota Tundra. Last night Nina and their daughter, Kit, had raided the local Target store for a cart full of lights to string on the house and the tree. The boxes of decorations had been dusted off, opened, and laid out in the living room. It was going to be the first real Christmas together in four years that didn’t involve Nina or Nina and Kit flying in from Europe.

He was debating which color lightweight Capilene to buy; the Red Chili Heather or the Purple Sage Heather. Either color would complement Nina’s ruddy freckled complexion, her green eyes and amber-red hair. She had been making steady progress with the rehabilitation on her shoulder, and he had purchased new cross-country ski gear for the family. Nina thought her shoulder might be good enough to lightly hit the trails up north by the middle of January. His eyes drifted out the window at the black iron girders of the old railroad lift bridge that spanned the St. Croix River. The top of the structure feathered off in the haze of an unseasonably warm drizzle.

Hopefully the snow would hold up north, he was thinking.

Then the phone rang. He flipped it open and hit answer.

“Mr. Broker. This is Brenda from the office at Stonebridge Elementary. Your daughter has been waiting for someone to pick her up for over forty minutes…”

Huh? “I’m on my way. Be right there.”

What the hell? Rain, shine, or snow, Nina walked Kit to school and then ran five miles every morning. Every afternoon she trekked the six blocks to the school and walked Kit back home. Hadn’t missed a day since they’d enrolled her in September.

Broker jumped in his truck, fought his way through the congested downtown traffic, drove past the festive streetlights hung with wreaths and Christmas decorations, half heard the carols piped from the busy storefronts. He drove up the North Hill, and when he wheeled into the deserted parking circle in front of the one-story school building, Kit was waiting at the front door with a teacher’s aide.

“Hey. Where’s Mom?” she asked, as she hopped in the backseat of the extended cab. Tallish, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, and cougar-cub lean at eight years old, she’d learned to be a stickler about punctuality. From her mother. She also had Nina’s hair, freckles, and deep green eyes.

“Let’s go find out,” Broker said as he drove home faster than usual. He’d purchased the house on North Third as an investment; a large white duplex on the bluff overlooking the river. His address of record remained the Broker’s Beach Resort in Devil’s Rock, north of Grand Marais, on the Lake Superior shore. The needs of his reconstituted family had obliged him to migrate from the remote north woods. Nina insisted on dance lessons, piano, and most of all, access to a fifty-meter pool; her daughter would be a competitive swimmer.

Like her mom.

Broker pulled up the long driveway and parked his truck in back of a rusted Honda Civic. A square, powerfully built man with a graying ponytail and a Pistol Pete mustache squatted behind the car, replacing the license tabs. As Broker and Kit got out of the truck, Kit called to the guy, “Dooley, you seen Mom?”

Dooley stood up and shook his head. Kit jogged toward the back door. Following her, Broker yelled over his shoulder to Dooley, “Could you take the tree outa the truck, strip the plastic sleeve, and lean it against the garage?”

Dooley nodded and headed for the truck. He was a steady excon who’d helped Broker out of a few jams back when Broker was in law enforcement. Broker gave him an efficiency apartment in exchange for yard work, maintenance, and general watchdog duties. He was a good man to have around, except for his tendency to talk up born-again Christianity to Kit…

“Daaaddddd!!!”

Galvanized by Kit’s shrill yell, Broker sprinted over to the door. “What?”

Kit stood in the open door, glowering, clamping her nostrils together with a thumb and index finger. She pointed with her other hand into the all-season porch. Broker went in and immediately saw and smelled a thick stratum of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

Broker had been off tobacco for three months. Nina had agreed never to indulge her cigarettes inside the house, a rule she hadn’t violated since they took up residence in late August, when she cleared the base hospital at Fort Bragg. He followed the smoke to where it was thickest, through the open door into the kitchen.

Major Nina Pryce, U.S. Army, nominally “retired” and on extended sick leave from government service, sat at the table, still in the sweat suit and New Balance shoes she wore on her morning run. She leaned forward, elbow braced like someone arm-wrestling an invisible opponent. An inch of ash dangled from the end of the American Spirit jammed in the corner of her mouth. A breakfast bowl on the table held four or five butts mashed into the Total cereal and milk. Another cigarette butt floated in a coffee cup.

And then he saw it, in her right hand.

Broker reacted instantly. He gently shoved Kit back into the porch, closed the door in one swift movement, and lunged into the room. Nina, staring straight ahead, seemingly unaware of his presence, was raising and lowering her right arm, in the manner prescribed to strengthen the damaged muscles. But instead of the two-pound weight she always used, this afternoon she was raising and lowering her.45-caliber Colt semiautomatic-in which he saw no vacant cavity in the handgrip.

Jesus! The pistol had a magazine in it.

Immediately Broker snatched the weapon from her hand and dropped out the magazine, which smacked down on the polished maple tabletop like an exclamation point. For a fraction of a second he stared at the top stumpy bullet spring loaded in the magazine like a fat round tombstone. Then he racked the slide. No round in the chamber. Locked, not loaded. He exhaled audibly, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath.

“For the weight,” she said in a thick, labored voice.

Broker reached for the breakaway hideout holster on the table and was about to slide the pistol into it when he saw the unfolded note tucked inside:

“Went out for coffee with Janey. Be back soon.” A sensual openmouthed lipstick blot marked the note by way of signature.

Broker took a step back and placed the pistol on the counter next to the stove. Deep breath in. Shaky coming out.

She drilled him with a look that spiraled with palpable self-loathing and hair-trigger rage. With difficulty, he held her fierce gaze as he mentally tracked back five months to that North Dakota morning.

She’d left the note for Broker on the table in their room at the Langdon Motor Inn next to her holstered pistol. She’d decided not to take the gun when she went out with her partner, Janey Singer, for coffee. Then they’d taken a detour to the Missile Park Bar. Northern Route, their undercover mission to Langdon, North Dakota, had apparently been based on faulty intelligence. They had selected the wrong smuggler. Nina felt an obligation to say good-bye to her target in the misguided sting, Ace Shuster.

Broker gauged the turmoil in Nina’s eyes, glanced at the note on the table, and instinctively understood the source of her despair. She’d torn her shoulder to shreds fighting for her life. But that wasn’t it. That was later. No, it was leaving her weapon behind that morning.

She had become imprisoned in three seconds of her life…