J Saint - Collateral Damage

The collection of butterfly and flower themed wind chimes lining the front porch hung in tatters, peppered with bullets, still and quiet. Amid the silence and the damage lay remnants of Neil's life. His and Mari's wedding picture. NASCAR memorabilia. An autographed picture of Marilyn Monroe posed on a 1957 Chevy Bel Air Convertible, an exact replica of Neil's car, his pride and joy. Neil's football trophies from little league games and from high school. The big screen TV and the circle of sofas where the team would gather for Super Bowl and World Series showdowns, maybe even a fight night or two, depending on who was in the ring. Roger could almost hear Neil laughing, smell the Doritos, pizza and beer, and see him relaxed in the recliner with the remote in his hand.

This was the result of Menendez and Collins's act. This was the ghost Mari had been living with since Neil's death. Roger's heart kicked hard and his soul tied into knots. He moved toward the bedroom at the end of the hallway, practically blinded by emotion.

The wind chimes on the porch clamored and Roger froze then quickly registered the fact that something was pressing his shin through the material of his jeans. He wouldn't have felt it had he not come to a complete standstill at the sound of the chimes.

Looking down, he saw a trip wire had been rigged across the hallway. From the set-up, Roger had no doubt that he stood in the blast zone of an IED.

Trouble was, he had no idea just how sensitive the triggering device was. Would it blow if he backed away from the line?

The chill that scraped down his spine was followed by a full body sweat of terror. He barely breathed as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called Officer Cain, who could assure nobody came barreling into Neil's house. God only knew what else might be rigged.

"Officer Cain," the policeman said.

"Lt. Colonel Weston here. We have a situation."

"Sir?"

"I'm at Neil Dalton's house. I'm alone. I'm in the hallway to the bedrooms to be exact. The place has been booby trapped. I have likely partially triggered a bomb. How many more there are here is anyone's guess. I need the bomb squad. And nobody but a fucking expert had better come near this place. If my ass is going to blow up, I'm going to be the one to do it, and not some idiot. Clear the perimeter and proceed with caution. The wind chimes outside went haywire just a minute ago and there was hardly a breeze when I arrived, so somebody may be lurking in the shadows. I'm calling my superior. They may send help as well. Any questions?"

"No."

"Hurry." Roger disconnected. Sweat trickled down every groove and dent, making him itch places he hadn't felt since stranded behind enemy lines and under fire. His body, heart and soul screamed at him to move. To get the hell out of there as fast as he could.

His mind even rationalized that he'd be quick enough and would likely even escape death if he were to thrust himself back down the hall. But he forced himself to stay put. To wait. To sweat. And to relive his life in a flash. There were few regrets and they boiled down to Lebanon, his men-Neil, DT, Beck, Rico, Pecos-and Mari.

He called General Alex Dekker next, prepared for an ass chewing because this would be the second situation to-ha-blow up in Roger's face that he'd yet to appraise Dekker about. The first being DT's involvement with Lauren Collins, the CIA, her terrorist dead husband, and the case's connection with the whole Lebanon cover up. Roger hadn't made that call until this morning when he had proof in hand. He'd purposely kept his mouth closed about Mari's ordeal as well. He hadn't wanted any strangers butting in. Mari wasn't dealing well with strangers since the attack and she was already pushed to the edge.

The general answered.

"Houston," Roger said. "We have a problem." Roger went on to explain his current predicament in Neil Dalton's house and what had transpired with Mari Dalton over the past forty-eight hours. "Bomb squad is on its way."

"I'll have men there inside of ten minutes," General Dekker said. "Meanwhile, shit, Roger, keep your ass intact, will you?"

"Planning on it. But do me a favor, if things don't go as planned, would you…"

"Son of a bitch. Anything, just tell me. You're in for one hell of an ass chewing."

"Would you personally see that Neil's wife and his baby are protected and provided for? And my men, DT, Rico, Beck, Pecos, see that they end up good. They've given their all for the team and deserve no less."

"Yeah. Make it a double ass chewing. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir." Roger disconnected and dialed Mari's number.

"Mr. Wes- Uh, Roger, are you all right? You've been gone a long time."

He cleared his throat, thinking her voice sounded like an angel's, something every man on death's doorstep craved to hear. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just…just delayed. I had a few extra minutes and thought I would check on you. Is Holly still with you?"

"Yes. She has been very kind."

"Good. Humor me a minute. There's been so much happening that I never got the chance to ask. Tell me about the baby. What your and Neil's plans were for the little one. Names, hopes, dreams. I'd like to know." Roger shut his eyes as Mari spoke. The flood of things he'd yearned for from the bottom of his soul, but had never found the time to make happen, was overwhelming considering he might be living the last minutes of his life.

1600 Hours

"What other clues or discrepancies can you point out?" the man called Rash asked as he handed her Bill's letter. They'd changed their interrogation room from an office to the kitchen, likely hoping the cozier atmosphere would get them better results. The only two things that had changed was the once welcoming scent of coffee now turned her stomach and she'd come to the realization that these men didn't make a move without calculating it first. Cold. Methodical. Relentless.

All the men surrounding her in her cozy little prison-Rash, two guards outside the front door, maybe more on the grounds, and Jack-were strong, capable, trained fighters. Men whose mere existence made her want to shake them and scream because they were completely equipped in every way to rescue her sons. They had the skill do it. The force of the government behind them. And they were DOING NOTHING to rescue Matt and Mitch and Angie. They just sat here asking HER questions.

She scrubbed her face with her hands, staving off the tears that kept clawing to the surface. Were she to give into them, she wouldn't be able to stop. Couldn't these men see she was bleeding all over the floor as if someone had slit her spiritual wrists? Her sons. Dear God, her sons and her best friend were in the hands of a murderer. Angie wouldn't be in danger now if Lauren hadn't brought her into this mess.

Several deep breaths helped Lauren gather enough calm to survive-for another few moments at least. She could only think about making it through one minute at a time, telling herself to breathe, telling herself that Matt and Mitch would be all right, telling herself that at any minute she'd be able to hold them in her arms and never let them go.

She had long passed the point of being able to tell the authorities anything new or significant about Bill. And since learning about Matt and Mitch, she'd answered all of their questions the same. "Until you bring me Matt and Mitch, I have nothing else to say."

THAT was the only relevant or important point at the moment.

Everything around her was filtered through the thick fog of pain that her sons had been taken, and she couldn't seem to think or feel about anything else. Even what happened with Jack yesterday and this morning was removed from her by layers of hurt, anger, fear, terror and frustration. She had to get to her sons. She had to get to Andreas Miles, but how?