Mike Maden - River of Gods

“I thought you looked more dashing in the blue one,” Myers joked.

Pearce rubbed his shaved face. “I seem to be missing a beard.”

“Came free with the haircut. Dr. Paolini said it was medically necessary.”

“She always hated my beard.”

“Can’t say I disagree with her.”

Pearce glanced around the room. Mossa’s prized gift, the tagelmust , was nowhere to be found.

“I’m sorry. It was bloody and one of the techs tossed it into a biohazard burn bag before anyone noticed.”

Pearce shrugged. “Inshallah.”

“Do you know what happened to you?”

“The last thing I remember was picking up Early.”

“You took a pretty good lick on that noggin of yours.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“Full recovery expected. But you might have to start parting your hair on the other side of your head once it all grows back in.”

“You’re assuming I actually comb my hair.”

Myers explained what had happened to him. How the bullet had only grazed his head but opened up his scalp, which bled furiously. The best guess was that the speeding bullet had hit him just hard enough to knock him down, but slamming his head on the tarmac had knocked him out cold.

Myers described in great detail Judy’s masterful handling of the Aviocar and saving all of their lives. She didn’t tell him the ride in back was like sitting inside of a tumbling clothes dryer.

She went on to describe how Cella stanched the bleeding with a pressure bandage and cradled Pearce’s head in her lap in the back of the plane as Judy fought to maintain control of the Aviocar. How Cella’s clothes were soaked in blood by the time they landed at Karem, and how Cella had pushed the base medic aside and sewed Pearce up herself, cleaning and dressing the wound with skill.

The door knocked lightly and swung open. It was Cella. She saw Pearce was awake. She beamed. Approached the bed. She wore clean Air Force hospital scrubs. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Back from the dead, I see.”

“Call me Lazarus.” He pointed at her scrubs. “You get drafted?”

“The Versace store was closed when we got here.” Cella pinched Pearce’s wrist, feeling for his pulse, counting the seconds on her watch. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, I feel shitty, but not too shitty. Headache. Vision a little blurry.”

“That’s to be expected. You have suffered a severe concussion, but fortunately no brain bleeding.”

“We have to get you out of here. You need better medical attention than the base can provide,” Myers said.

“Where am I going?”

Cella grinned. “With me.”

Paolini estate

Lake Como, Italy

6 June

Pearce stood by the floor-to-ceiling picture window, watching Ian and Dorotea play soccer. The Scotsman and the girl laughed and jostled like two old friends.

“Both are artificial legs?” Cella asked.

“Yes. Robotic legs, technically.” Pearce tapped his skull. “He has a wireless BMI implant that drives them.”

“He moves quite well.”

“The legs feature miniature gyroscopes and accelerometers embedded on semiconductor chips, rare earth magnets, brushless electric motors, advanced software, you name it. He’s the project manager for it, so it only seemed fair to let him have the first pair.”

“Fantastico.”

Ian bounced the soccer ball on his forehead like a trained seal, barking like one, too. Dorotea howled with laughter.

Pearce squeezed Cella’s hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the last month. You gave me back my health. And more.”

After Pearce woke up in the clinic at Karem AFB, Myers and Holliday arranged for Cella’s father to charter another jet and secretly bring the two of them back to Italy, where Cella could tend to Pearce’s medical needs and her father could provide them both security.

At first, Pearce continued to suffer blurred vision and nausea, along with frequent headaches. But a consulting neurologist prescribed medications, and over the course of the following weeks Pearce went from bed rest to walking and then finally light exercise.

But the best part of his recovery had been learning how to play again. Under the watchful eye of Renzo Sforza and his security team, the three of them hiked and rode horses around the estate and, later, sailed and swam around the less populated areas of the lake. Pearce and Dorotea formed an instant bond, despite the fact the child spoke virtually no English and Pearce spoke neither Italian nor Tamasheq. Within days, the precocious little girl had taught herself a few phrases in English from an online language program. She also insisted on cooking for him, brushing aside the kitchen’s gourmet chef with a flurry of hands and florid Italian. Dorotea’s culinary repertoire was limited to scrambled eggs and butter pasta, which Pearce ate lustily in her presence to her squealing delight, and that made her love him all the more.

She had Pearce’s eyes, no doubt. But Pearce hadn’t raised the issue of the girl’s paternity. Pearce didn’t think it was fair to the child, nor to Mossa’s son, nor Mossa, either, who had protected both Cella and Dorotea with his life. Dorotea was who she was no matter who the biological father might be, and Pearce loved her for that. If the girl wasn’t his, would she be any less beautiful or brilliant?

Cella leaned against Pearce, happier than she’d ever been.

Pearce whispered in her ear. “We need to talk.”

Cella glanced at him. What was in his eyes? She couldn’t tell. She didn’t dare hope, but still. A future together. Maybe more.

“What is it?”

“I’m heading back home,” Pearce said.

Cella paled. “For how long?”

He shrugged. “Forever, I guess.”

“That’s a long time.”

“I belong there. It’s who I am.”

“I don’t understand. You belong with us.”

“I know. Just not here. Come with me.”

Cella’s eyes flared. “Why should we? Our home is here. My father is here.”

“But this isn’t my country. These aren’t my people.”

“Dorotea and I, we are your people.”

“It’s not the same. You heard Mossa. I am what I am, an American and a soldier. My job is to defend my country.”

“You know how I feel about war.”

“I know. I hate it, too. So does every thinking person who has ever fought in one. I hope I never have to fight another one again.”

“You’re a liar. You love it. Why else choose it over us?”

“You know how I feel about you and Dorotea. That’s why I want you to come with me.”

Cella’s face hardened. She turned away from him, arms crossed. She stared at her daughter outside, playing with Ian.

“Her blue eyes are mine, not yours.”

“Blue is blue.”

“She is not your daughter.”

“I don’t believe you. Not that it matters.”

“She was born ten months after Lisbon. I can show you the birth certificate. She is Rassoul’s.”

“You knew all along?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You wanted to believe it, so I let you.”

“Why tell me now?”

“I wanted you to know the truth. Now you are free.”

“How does that make me free?”

“I won’t go with you, not for war. But I can’t have you stay for a lie, either.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “I don’t care that she isn’t mine.”