all.
“Don’t confuse happy to be alive with taking pleasure in someone’s death.” He looked her in the eyes. “Death is never fun.”
For a moment King thought Fiona was going to cry. Her eyes grew wet and a slight quiver shook her lip, but she fought it down and tightened her jaw. King fought a grin. The kid was growing a thick skin.
Before the following silence grew awkward, King’s cell phone rang. He walked away and flipped it open. “Jack Sigler,” he said into the phone. The person on the other end spoke for ten seconds. What was said in that short time stopped King in his tracks. After five more seconds, his head hung low.
King offered a quiet, “Thanks for letting me know,” and closed the phone, slipping it into his pocket. When he turned around, the others were waiting, standing around him in a silent semicircle. They knew something dire had happened when they saw a completely foreign emotion on his face: defeat.
“What happened?” Bishop asked.
King looked at each of them, knowing they wouldn’t judge him for weeping. But he fought the growing wetness in his eyes, until his eyes met Fiona’s. His foster daughter hadn’t met her yet. Now she never would. Twin pairs of tears broke free and rolled down King’s cheeks. He turned away from the team and said, “My mother is dead.”
Three Days Later
“C’mon, Stan, you know this.”
Rook leaned back in the yellow leather chair and pushed his legs into the floor to keep his body from sliding out. “Knight, these chairs have got to go. They’re like frikken Slip ’n Slides.”
“Watch the language, Rook,” Queen said. “There are virgin ears in the room.”
“The pip-squeak has heard everything there is to hear out of my mouth at this point,” Rook said.
“Doesn’t mean you should repeat it until she starts talking like a mini-Rook.” Knight entered the small living room from the kitchen of his modest on-base home with an apron around his waist and flour covering his black designer shirt. He smiled, which turned his almond-shaped brown eyes, courtesy of his Korean heritage, to thin slits. “I think you’re just trying to squirm your way out of the question.”
Knight headed back into the kitchen. “We’re a go for dinner in five.”
Rook rubbed a hand through his blond hair, which was two inches shorter than his long goatee, and closed his eyes, rerunning a year’s worth of history lessons through his mind. After the last two years of run-ins with creatures straight out of mankind’s darkest history and wildest mythology, coupled with advanced genetics, microbiology, and linguistics, it was clear the team needed an educational upgrade. The team’s handler, Tom Duncan, call sign Deep Blue, whose true identity as the president of the United States was known only to the team and a handful of others, had arranged for their highly advanced adult learning schedule.
Professors from Harvard and Yale taught history and language, while professors from MIT taught physics, astronomy, and robotics. George Pierce, lifelong friend of the team’s leader, King, who’d been rescued by the team after being abducted two years previous, taught mythology. Sara Fogg, from the CDC, who also happened to be King’s current girlfriend and a former Pawn (temporary team member) on the mission to Vietnam, taught genetics and microbiology. They were now the most highly educated team in the U.S. military, and as they threw themselves into learning just as readily as they threw themselves into battle, they were beginning to develop notoriety as nerds. Not that anyone dared say that to their faces. The Chess Team’s battle-hardened reputation preceded them with tales of their exploits becoming as modern myths among the other Delta teams.
And their education would continue until a situation requiring their unique experience and knowledge developed. Either that or a lead in the Siletz Reservation investigation that had brought them the team’s newest, shortest, and feistiest addition.
“Any day now, big guy,” came the high-pitched voice again.
Bishop laughed as he sat cross-legged on the floor, which was impressive for a man of his size. Not that he was fat. Quite the opposite. He sported two hundred fifty pounds of Iranian-born, American-raised muscle. And while Queen wore her battle scars on the outside, for all to see, Bishop’s were hidden. Internal. Thanks to some genetic tinkering at the hands of Richard Ridley and Manifold Genetics, Bishop’s body could heal any wound, but at the expense of his sanity. Only the crystal hanging around his neck, found in the ancient Neanderthal city of Meru, kept his mind in balance. Without it he’d become a raving mad, endlessly hungry “regen” who would only stop killing when his head was removed. But with his mind kept at peace by the crystal, he could sit on a living room floor, enjoy his friends, and hold a thirteen-year-old girl in his lap.
Fiona, call sign Pip-squeak, if you asked Rook—had come to call the Chess Team her family. Over the past year she had spent every day with them, watching them spar, study, shoot at the range—absorbing every detail of their lives and attempting to apply the lessons of valor and discipline to her tutored schoolwork. But she found the Chess Team much more interesting and the subjects of their study far less boring than Algebra I. “Okay, Rook. There is a plane with a bomb on it. When it explodes, the plane will crash into a train full of pregnant women on their way to a lactation conference. The answer is the code to defuse the bomb.”
Rook looked at the black-haired, brown-eyed girl and couldn’t help but smile. “That’s twisted.”
She shrugged. “Ten seconds. The unborn lives of countless children are counting on you.”
He cleared his mind and focused, playing along, but not wanting the kid, who’d become their weekly quizmaster, to gain teasing rights.
“Five seconds.”
The phone rang and Rook’s eyes popped open. “Djet! Djet Horus was the third pharaoh of the first Egyptian dynasty from 2970 B.C. to 2960 B.C.”
Fiona formed her hands into two guns and shot them at Rook complete with gunshot sound effects. As she spun the imaginary weapons and holstered them, she said, “Way to go cowboy. You got—”
She cocked her head and looked into the kitchen.
Rook noticed her attention on Knight as he spoke on the phone. “You can’t hear him can you.”
Fiona nodded. “Good ears.” She looked at Rook. “Something’s wrong.”
“What’s—”
Fiona shook her hands at him, her mood growing serious. “I want to hear if it’s about King!”
King had left three days ago after receiving word of his mother’s death. They’d all attended the wake and funeral, but she didn’t get to see him much as he greeted long-lost relatives and family friends. She knew he was supposed to be gone for another week, settling things with the estate, but she hoped he would be back sooner.
Before she could hear what was being said, Knight hung up the phone, shut off the stovetop, and returned to the living room. “Dinner’s off. Keasling wants us asap.”
Fiona frowned.
“Did he mention why?” Queen asked.
Knight glanced at Fiona and it was all she needed. She stood up quickly. “Is it King?” When Knight didn’t answer in the affirmative, she asked, “They found something?”
Knight shook his head. “Apparently, something found us.”
“Is Dad coming back?”
For a moment, no one responded. They were still getting used to King being referred to as “Dad.” In fact, he’d requested several times that she
Knight frowned for the girl. They all had come to adore her and loathed watching her endure the emotional roller coaster that had become her life. “King needs more time off.”
Bishop stood, towering over Fiona. With his similarly colored brown skin, eyes, and dark black hair, he looked the most like Fiona’s biological father, but his angular nose and low brow revealed his genetics as Middle Eastern rather than Native American. He plucked the girl up and put her on his shoulders. “Hey, you’ve still got us.”
Fiona rubbed his shaved head. “I know. I just wish I could be with him.” Her smile faded. “I know what it’s like to bury family.”
