Threshold

save others?”

“It’s the duty of every enlisted soldier.”

She looked back down at her desk, mumbling an affirmative but noncommittal “Mmm.”

“And what about her special needs?”

This brought a confused look to King’s face. The term “special needs” instantly made him think of people with developmental disabilities, but Fiona certainly didn’t fit in that category. She was brilliant, funny, and because she insisted on participating in many of the team’s training exercises, was more active than the average twelve-year-old girl. “Excuse me?”

The judge looked at a sheet of paper, head turned up, eyes looking down so she could read through the lower half of her bifocals. “It says here that she has type one diabetes.”

King tried to show no reaction and thought, Since when is diabetes a special need?

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said.

“Tell me about it.”

“Her diabetes?”

“Yes.”

“As you said, she has type one diabetes. It presented three years ago. While on the reservation she managed it with insulin shots. We now have her on an insulin pump.”

The judge nodded and made a note. “Last question, Mr. Sigler.”

He looked up at her, thankful that the experience was almost over. Accustomed to fatigues or T-shirt and jeans, the suit he wore—bought specifically for this occasion—was uncomfortable and hot. His black hair was neatly combed, rather than its typically slightly unkempt state. And the smooth skin of his face, usually covered in a thin layer of scruff, highlighted his strong jaw while revealing a few small scars.

She leaned over, looked him dead in the eyes, and asked, “Will you be a good father?”

King froze. It was not a question he’d been expecting. His own father had left when he was sixteen, three months after his sister, Julie, died in an air force training accident. And before he left the man had been far from a model father. As a result, King had never pictured himself having children of his own and dreaded the idea of being a father. If the rest of the team hadn’t backed out of the job, if someone else had recovered Fiona from Siletz, if she had not bonded to him so quickly, or if there were anyone else he felt could protect her as well, he would not be in this courtroom.

“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I will.”

The judge looked at him for another moment and then sat back. “Very well. The court finds that Mr. Sigler is fit to be the foster parent of Fiona Lane and grants him temporary custody of her, effective immediately.”

“Your Honor.” The child welfare representative stood up. “The state would like to request visiting rights so that we might be able to keep detailed progress notes on Ms. Lane’s education, home life, and an accurate appraisal of her safety inside the confines of Fort Bragg. When the powers that be determine that Fiona is safe to live outside the protection of Fort Bragg and Mr. Sigler, we would like to find her a permanent home with a stable adoptive family.”

The judge turned to King. “Is this acceptable to you?”

King nodded. “Yes.”

Two knocks sounded as the judge brought her gavel down twice. “Court adjourned. You’re free to go, Mr. Sigler.”

“All rise,” the bailiff said loudly.

As King was the only person seated, aside from the court reporter, he stood and watched the judge exit the room swiftly. When she was gone, he stepped down from the stand and walked toward the back of the courtroom, not looking anyone in the eye as he did so. If he had, they might have seen the guilt that took all his effort to hide from the judge.

He’d lied under oath.

He dreaded the idea of being a father and knew it was one job he was not qualified for. But there was no choice. Fiona had to be kept safe; not because he cared for her as a father should, but because she was the only lead they had in the investigation of an event that took thousands of American lives. Solving that problem was his job, which made Fiona his job as well.

For now, King thought.

*   *   *

KING HAD SEVERAL meetings after the hearing and then went out for a drink. He told himself he needed to think, but the truth was he was afraid to go home. King, leader of the most elite Special Ops team in the U.S. military, was afraid of a twelve-year-old girl. His mind was a tangle of thoughts as he tried to figure out how he would handle this new, very foreign responsibility. Could he raise a child, even for a short time? He could protect her, sure, but could he give her all the other things a kid needed? Education? Affection? Love?

As he sipped his Sam Adams he decided the first thing he’d do was have only one drink. Wanting to get his mind off his worries, he turned his attention to the TV. CNN was covering, as usual, the rants of one Senator Lance Marrs of Utah—who looked like a wrinkly Pillsbury Doughboy with slick hair and angry eyes. After losing the last election to Tom Duncan, Marrs had made a career out of spouting fear-based propaganda that blamed President Duncan for everything from 9/11 to the nation’s financial woes that began two administrations ago. And the cable networks ate it up, adding a thick dose of bias and regurgitating it for the masses. I’ll stick with PBS, King thought, before requesting the channel be changed. He nursed his beer for another hour, giving up on it when the brew reached room temperature. He left the glass half empty and headed home, knowing Rook, who was babysitting, would be eager to start his Friday night.

Good-bye Friday-night drinks, King thought, as he pulled up to his modest two- bedroom ranch home at Fort Bragg. Hello Saturday-morning cartoons.

King opened the front door. The air inside smelled of popcorn and spray paint, which was odd but not unexplainable. What bothered him was that all the lights were out. Why does Rook have the lights off?

Rook, who was a natural with Fiona thanks to his many sisters, usually had her in bed by nine and waited for King’s return in front of the TV. King looked into the open concept kitchen. Not even the microwave clock was on. A quick glance outside at the lit streetlights confirmed his fear. Only his power was out.

He closed the front door silently and then listened. He didn’t hear a thing, but he did feel a draft. In the dim light provided by the streetlamp outside he looked at the back door. It was wide open.

Something was definitely not right.

And he was unarmed. With a courtroom hearing and several meetings to attend, King hadn’t thought to bring his sidearm. He moved silently through the living room and into the kitchen. He kept a locked Sig Sauer above the fridge. He took out the metal case, punched in the code, and opened the lid. His weapon was gone.

Shit, he thought.

Moving faster, King headed for his bedroom, where he had an arsenal hidden in his closet. He stopped outside his bedroom door, which was open. He stuck his head into the room, taking a quick look. The mattress was on the floor and his single dresser was in its regular place. That’s when he saw a mound resting on top of the bed, silhouetted against the windows, which were lit from outside.

His mind flashed back to the horrors he had found at the Siletz Reservation. He could smell the smoke and rotting bodies. Homes destroyed. Fires burning. Electrical wires twitching. He saw Fiona’s grandmother, trampled and crushed. And everywhere, mounds of strange gray dust left like a calling card. Just like the mound he saw on his bed.

His chest began to ache as his heart pounded. “Fiona,” he whispered.

He moved into the room and crouched by the bed. He reached out to the mound expecting to feel the same granular dust, but instead felt fabric. King let out a sigh of relief. The mound was his blankets.

That’s when it happened.

Three rapid-fire clicks.

He was struck in the back.