Jack Du Brul - Deep Fire Rising

She turned back to Mercer, barely able to see his features in the darkness. “I’m sorry,” she said, and touched his cheek. “This is the only way. He won’t hurt me.”

“What are you-?”

“Luc,” Tisa shouted. “I’m here. Please. I love you.” She pushed away from the tanker and began swimming before Mercer could stop her. “I’m here, Luc. It’s Tisa.” She paused in the water, looking back at him. Her face was a pale oval hovering just above the black water. “Oh my God! Leper Alma, Mercer. Watch for Leper Alma.”

The speedboat knifed across to where she struggled, deliberately running over two survivors clinging to a single life jacket. The craft circled around, and when it reached Tisa, Donny Randall lifted her from the water as easily as a kitten. From where he clutched the tanker truck, Mercer watched horrified as she fell into the waiting arms of her brother.

In the few moments the speedboat had idled, it had attracted dozens of swimmers brave enough, or desperate enough, to chance getting aboard. Donny and another crewman armed themselves with oars once again, but despite their best efforts they were becoming overwhelmed by the press of struggling humanity. Tisa spoke a few words to her brother. Luc ordered the boat’s driver to get them back to the yacht before they were swamped.

Mercer watched it all, unable to believe what he was seeing. Tisa had willingly sacrificed herself to save him. She’d gone to convince her brother that she alone had survived and he was dead in the hold of the ferry. He had no idea what Luc would do to her. She hadn’t told him much about her brother — he felt deliberately — but the impression he had was that their problems went far, far beyond the ideological split within their Order.

He didn’t know what to think, what to do. He was at a complete loss. Even maintaining his grip on the tanker truck didn’t seem worth the effort. He’d barely found her and now she was gone.

Someone knocked into him, bringing him back to his situation. It was a boy of about eight, wide-eyed and frightened, his skinny shoulders nearly slipping through his life jacket. Mercer grabbed the boy and held him close. The child hugged him fiercely, crying in Greek, calling out for his mother in such a clear voice that Mercer felt his heart’s ache deepen further.

In moments two dozen other swimmers were clustered around the tanker and it fell on Mercer to distribute them around the truck to keep the rig from upending. Soon overloaded lifeboats had rafted alongside and the truck became the center of the survivors’ universe. Men gave up their spaces in the boats for women and children while ship’s officers gave their spots to tourists.

Two hours later a ferry from Santorini reached the floating atoll of boats to take on those left alive and commence the grim task of collecting the corpses. Many people would later recall how terrorists in a speedboat had clubbed survivors in the water and kidnapped a young woman, though no one could give an accurate description of the men or their vessel or how they’d escaped. Nor could anyone describe the American who’d miraculously popped up from the depths in the tanker truck to organize the rescue effort and save countless lives.

The dream diverged from reality at the same place for the last three nights. Holding tightly to each other against the truck, Tisa and Mercer waited in the dark for Donny and Luc Nguyen to give up their search. In the dream, Tisa didn’t call out to her brother and swim away. In the dream, she stayed by Mercer’s side. In the dream Mercer was happy.

Reality came with the discreet chime of a Tiffany alarm clock. Mercer woke with an emptiness the past few days of activity had been unable to fill. The light filtering through the skylight above his bed was sodden and gray. The third straight day of rain matched his mood perfectly.

He turned to disable the alarm and came face-to-face with a long muzzle and red droopy eyes. Drag had been awaiting his chance. Now that Mercer was awake, the basset hound began to lick at his face, his tail thumping against the blankets like a sluggish metronome. Since Mercer’s return from Greece, the mangy dog had forgone his master, asleep on the barroom couch, and settled on the king-sized bed. Each morning he’d waited for the alarm before adding his own wet affection to prod Mercer out of bed.

“Those aren’t the kisses I wanted,” Mercer said as he scratched the hound’s floppy ears, “but I appreciate the gesture.” Drag wormed his way partially under the covers and presented his substantial belly for a little attention.

The dream always left Mercer bathed in sweat, so while Drag burrowed deeper into the warm spot on the bed and snored blissfully, Mercer took a quick shower and dressed, putting on jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. Down at the bar getting coffee from the automatic machine he looked fondly at Harry White asleep on the couch, his prosthetic leg on the floor next to him, his mouth slack. Harry had slept over ever since Mercer had returned. Although they hadn’t talked much beyond the bare facts of the past few weeks, Harry recognized that Mercer was hurting and refused to leave him alone. He’d wait until hell froze over for Mercer to be ready to discuss what he was feeling.

Drag sauntered down the spiral stairs, passed the bar and continued to the foyer, his nails clicking against the tile until he reached the front door. He woofed softly, demanding to go out.

By the time Mercer returned from the walk around the block, Harry was sitting on his customary stool with a cigarette between his lips. He’d poured himself a cup of Mercer’s tarry coffee rather than make his own pot and had a pen ready to do the Washington Post crossword puzzle. Mercer slid the paper to his friend and stepped behind the bar to turn on the room’s industrial air filter.

“You know,” Harry rasped, then cleared his throat. His voice didn’t improve. “Drag got used to sleeping in your bed when you were gone. If you let me have it back, he wouldn’t bother you in the morning.”

“It’s not the bed, Harry — it’s the fact you get up to take a leak a dozen times a night.”

“What can I say? I’ve always had a small bladder.”

“Small bladder, enlarged prostate, tomato, tomahto.”

“Potato, potahto, let’s call the whole thing off.” Harry sipped at his coffee and made a face. “You got any Bloody Mary mix back there?”

“Yeah. It’s that crap Tiny pawned off on me. You won’t like it.”

Harry dismissed Mercer’s warning with a wave. “You think I’m drinking it for the mix? Just use good vodka.”

Mercer snorted, thinking that Harry White should be added to death and taxes as life’s inevitabilities. He fixed the drink and placed it next to Harry’s ashtray.

“So are you spending your day on the computer again?” Harry asked, wrapping his long fingers around the glass.

Mercer had spent the first twelve hours after his arrival at Dulles Airport three days ago being debriefed by Ira Lasko and a joint team of CIA and FBI agents. He told them everything he knew about Tisa, her organization, the attack on the ferry, and her cryptic final words, which he still didn’t understand. He’d been through such meetings before and was able to keep his temper in check as they went over the same information again and again, trying to coax more out of him. At the end of the debrief, the agents had packed up their recorders, cameras, and notebooks and left the conference room near Ira’s office without comment.

Mercer and Ira were alone. “Now what?” Mercer had asked.

“Now nothing,” Ira said. “They’ll write up their report and fill in any gaps they can. I’ll go over it and forward it to my boss, who might or might not pass it to the president.”