J Ward - Crave

“See for yourself,” he said.

Mrs. Alonzo pulled her Lexus in front of the black-on-black car and got out, her high heels making pony-clopping sounds on the road. “Okay, enough, boys. Get in and I’ll drive you the rest of the way to school. You’re going to be late.” She held out her phone to Joey. “Call your mother and tell her I’m taking you in. Again.”

This did happen a lot. Mrs. Alonzo was a business lady whose office was not far from school, and they were late a lot and she did drive them a lot. But this morning was different.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You have to look in the window.”

“Joey-”

“Please.” Another grown-up thing: the please-and-thank-you stuff.

“Fine. But get in my car.”

Mrs. Alonzo marched over while grouching something about being a taxi service. And Tony, who always followed the rules, took his book into the front seat of her SUV-except he was still interested in what was happening because he didn’t shut the door and Diary of a Wimpy Kid Dog Days remained against his chest.

Joey stayed put.

Normally, he would have gotten upset about Tony taking the better seat: older brothers rode in the front; younger babies went in the back. But there were things more important than that right now, so he stayed where he was on the sidewalk, the phone unused in his hand.

He was wondering what he’d seen-

Mrs. Alonzo leaped back so far, she nearly ended up in traffic, a minivan honking its horn as it barely missed her.

She ran over and snatched the phone as well as his arm. “Get in the car, Joey-”

“What is it? Is it a dead guy?” Jeez, what if it was a pirate-holy shit!

Mrs. Alonzo put her phone to her ear as she dragged him to her Lexus. “Yes, this is an emergency. There’s a man in a car in front of the McCready Funeral Home on St. Francis. I don’t know if there’s something wrong with him, but he’s behind the wheel and he doesn’t seem to be moving… I have small children with me and I don’t want to open the door-right…”

Small children. God, he hated that small-children stuff. He was the one who’d found the guy, after all. How many grown-ups had tooled by on their way to work and not seen it? Biked by? Run by?

It was his dead guy.

“My name is Margarita Alonzo. Yes, I’ll stay until the paramedics and police get here.”

Okay. This was officially the best morning in the history of his life, Joey thought as he jumped into the backseat-which had the best view, as it turned out.

As Mrs. Alonzo got in and locked all the doors, he imagined the three of them being here until noon, one o’clock. Maybe they’d get a Happy Meal for lunch. He really hoped the police didn’t rush-

The bummer of all bummers hit him when he heard Mrs. Alonzo say, “Sarah? I have your boys, and they’re okay. But there’s a little problem and I need you to come pick them up.”

Joey put his head down on his arm.

Knowing his luck, his mother would zoom to the scene and get here before he found out about the dead pirate in the front seat of that car.

Ruined. Just ruined.

And they were probably going to get to school right in time for the assembly.

As Matthias slept behind the wheel of his car, he dreamed of the night Jim Heron had saved his life over and over again. The events that had led up to the bomb and the long, painful trek back to relative health played and replayed in an endless loop through his mind, as if the needle on his old-fashioned mental record player was stuck.

Matthias had lured Jim Heron to that abandoned, dusty hut as a witness because there was nobody else in the XOps community whose word held more weight and credibility. The idea had been for the soldier to leave the body parts in the sand and go home to tell the others there had been a terrible accident: If anyone else had filed a report like that, the assumption would have been that they had done the killing. Not in Jim’s case, though-he was a straight shooter in a world full of curves, and he’d never had any problem copping to what he’d done, right or wrong.

Which was proof there was a little bit of good in Matthias, after all-at least he wasn’t dumping his suicide on the head of another guy.

And yeah, of course he could have just blown his own head off in a bathroom somewhere, but although he was suicidal, he had his pride. Taking a self-administered lead injection was just too fucking weak-much better to spackle the crap out of a few stone walls and be mourned as the strong fighter he’d always been.

Pride, however, had had its costs: instead of leaving him in the sand, that cocksucker Heron had saved him-and figured out his little secret. The explosive device had been the tip-off. As Matthias had lain there bleeding like a stuck pig, Jim had found remnants of the bomb and recognized them for what they were. Namely, one of their own.

The SOB had taken the fragments, put them in his pocket, and slipped off his belt. Then he’d thrown a tourniquet on Matthias’s leg, picked him up, and started hauling ass. He’d been royally pissed off, and his savior routine had clearly been part punishment, part leverage-and all consuming. The bastard had walked and walked and walked… until sometime later, Isaac Rothe had showed up among the dunes with a Land Rover.

Jim’s demands had come weeks afterward, at a hospital in Germany. By that point, Matthias’s head had been nothing but a huge hot-air balloon of agony, and he was having to get used to only one eye working. Heron had sat at the bedside and laid down his terms: Out. Free and clear. Or he took what was left of the bomb and all of the story to the only person who could have done anything about it.

Hello, Mr. President.

Irony of ironies, had it been any other soldier, any other human with a beating heart and a trigger finger, Matthias wouldn’t have worried about the threat. But again, Jim Heron-good ol’ Zacharias-was one of those motherfuckers people believed in. Bomb fragments could be fabricated; the believability of a worthy guy? Pretty damn indisputable.

And there was no surviving as boss if people didn’t think you had the balls for the job anymore.

At that point, Matthias had felt like there was no other choice, and told the man to go along his merry way.

In the aftermath, the suicidal thing had come back and he had considered it seriously. But then his second in command had shown up just in time-sure as if the guy had seen where he was headed.

Very persuasive man, that one. And as it had turned out, Jim had saved his body, but that second in command had somehow brought him back to life.

Although there had been consequences to the renewal: almost immediately, Matthias had opened his eyes-or one eye, as it were-to the mistake of letting Heron go: that soldier was out in the world with too much information, and the exposure wasn’t acceptable.

His second in command had agreed, and they had been about to set the wheels in motion for an “accident” when Jim had called looking for information on one Marie-Terese Boudreau. Perfect. Timing. The plan had been to have Jim take out Isaac in exchange for the intel he wanted-and then to murder Jim.

Except someone had gotten to Heron first.

Dead. Jim was dead. Matthias had seen the body with his own eyes. And yet… somehow he felt as though he’d spoken to the guy. Yes, he had dreamed that he had talked with Jim Heron-

Matthias came awake with his gun in his hand, the safety off the weapon and the muzzle pointed at a white guy in a navy blue uniform-who had, going by the jimmy in his hand, just pried the lock and opened the car door.

The paramedic froze and put his hands up. “I just want to help you, man.”

Probably true enough. But damn it to hell, the guy’s partner was undoubtedly calling in the police right now, and p.s., doing any kind of face-to-face with a civilian wasn’t a bene in Matthias’s book.