Threshold

“Listen guys,” Deep Blue said, “we all know what happened to the Siletz Reservation last year, so we have to assume that these people are in danger, too.”

“Why not just call some government blokes in Australia and have them pick up the people?” Fiona asked Deep Blue, tinging the words “blokes in Australia” with an Australian accent.

He smiled. He hadn’t had much time to see Fiona, but the regular reports he got from the team included updates on the girl. He knew she was intelligent, straightforward, and genuine. He would try to be the same for her. “Given the identity of the person sending the message—”

“Hercules,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Riiight.”

Deep Blue cleared his throat. “And the unusual circumstances surrounding the destruction of the reservation, not to mention the amount of red tape and time it would take to interview the survivors, who may be in grave danger, would bring our investigation to a standstill. Good enough?”

Fiona grinned. It wasn’t lost on her that the president, the man her grandmother had voted for, had just answered her question very seriously. “Quite,” she said.

“Any more questions?” Keasling said.

Aleman raised his long arm. “I didn’t receive any briefing on this and there seems to be no relevant tech in need of explanation.”

“And…”

“Why, exactly, am I here?”

Keasling raised his hands toward Fiona. “Babysitting duty.”

Aleman sighed. “Ahh. Right.”

“It’s dangerous work, I know,” said Keasling. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

The smiles around the room were impossible to hide. Lewis Aleman was a dangerous man in his time. But since an injury took him off field work he’d spent most of his time behind a computer. Watching Fiona was a welcome change. He turned to Fiona. “We’ll bust out the Master Sergeant and kill us some aliens.”

She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Adorable,” Keasling grumbled, then raised his voice. “Wheels up in thirty minutes. Night is falling on the other side of the planet and we want you back in the air and on your way home by sunrise.”

SIX

Richmond, Virgina

KING’S EGGS WERE cold, not to mention runny. The burnt toast chewed up as well as a slab of cardboard. The orange juice was watered down. And the sausage, cheap as it was, encased more cartilage than pork. But the breakfast, courtesy of his father’s favorite hometown diner, was like heaven coated in maple syrup compared to the silence between King and his father.

What could be said to a son you deserted? To a father you’d put out of your mind? A lot, King knew, but he wasn’t ready. Not by a long shot.

After ten minutes and one forced-down sausage, King had had enough. He’d faced down the world’s most dangerous terrorists, the mythical Hydra reborn, and a horde of Neanderthal women. He could handle his father. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Did you make it to the funeral?”

His father looked up briefly, met King’s eyes, and then returned his gaze to his rubbery pancakes, which still held two miniature ice cream scoops of butter. “Nope.” He squished the butter with his fork, oozing the congealed paste through the tines. “I only found out two days ago and the bus was slow.”

“Where were you coming from?”

“Butner.”

King sat up straighter. “North Carolina?”

“Yeah, you know it?”

King chuckled and shook his head. “I’m stationed at Fort Bragg. You’ve been living two hours from me. Butner … Must have been one slow bus.”

The diner door slammed shut as a patron left. Peter jumped, looking at the door and then taking a quick look around the room. He relaxed again and squinted. “What?” When King’s statement registered, he took a deep breath and found the courage to ignore the subject. “How’s that working out for you? The military?”

“It’s a living.”

“Deployed?”

“A few times.”

“Anywhere interesting?”

“Haven’t left the planet yet.” King didn’t want to talk about himself, so he quickly U-turned the conversation back to his father. “I thought you went to California.”

“It didn’t take.”

“Couldn’t find any of those California girls to take care of you?” King inwardly winced at his low blow. He had no idea what the temperament of his father was like now. As a child, the man wouldn’t have stood for King’s “flack,” but now …

“You’re not going to turn this into a soap opera, are you?” his father said without a hint of humor.

The man hadn’t changed a bit.

But King had. He didn’t have to sit and listen to his father. “Nice seeing you, Pop.” He placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table and stood. He stopped briefly to admire the diner’s Elvis clock and headed for the exit.

“Jack, hold on,” his father said.

King hadn’t had a father since his teen years and he’d long ago grown accustomed to that fact. No father was better than a bad father. He continued toward the exit. Seeing the man had only reinforced his fears about caring for Fiona. The man’s blood was his own. If fatherhood was hereditary, he would eventually fail the girl. When he knew she was safe again, he’d make sure she found a good family to take care of her.

“Jack. Stop.”

King paused for a moment, but not because of his father’s voice. Something deep within had struck home. A pang of guilt, only a quiet whisper before, had been revealed for what it was. Without even realizing it, King was planning to do exactly what his father had done. He was going to give her up. He was going to leave her.

Feeling sick to his stomach, King reached for the door.

“King, wait!”

He stopped, his fist gripping the door’s push-bar, the bells just starting to jingle. He turned back to his father. “What did you just say?”

His father looked stunned by the incredulous look in King’s eyes and fidgeted uncomfortably as King pounded back toward him.

Waitresses, expecting a fight, stepped behind the long counter. Patrons swiveled in their chairs, turning their backs to the pair, not wanting to be involved. King stopped at the table, placed his fists on its surface, and leaned over his father. “How do you know that name?”

His father gave an awkward smile. “I named you, Jack.”

King reached under his coat, pulled out his handgun, and placed it on the table. It was the second time that day he’d threatened his father with the gun, but this time it was not an accident. “You … called … me … King.”

“Must have heard the nickname from your mother.”

“Mom didn’t know it.”

“Well, I—”

Without raising the gun, King cocked the hammer. “Who are you?”

“I’m your father.”

“Who else are you?”

King’s father cleared his throat. He stared at the table like he was in shock, but then all his fear and worry melted away. An act. A smile crept onto his face. “You know what, you’re right. The time for games is over. Why don’t we go back to the house? Have a glass of your mother’s lemonade.”