a conversation. They heard 'em say 'Pouncing Dragon' a couple of times.'
'Well, that's something. Probably the code name for their operation. Maybe the intel people can trace it.'
'I hope so. We died out there trying to stop those bastards.'
'Your guys didn't die in vain — thanks to you.'
'I ain't no hero, Scott.'
'God, I hope not. You'd give us all a bad name.'
Rutang shook his head. 'Your cheering-up skills? You should work on those.'
Mitchell smiled. 'You work on getting better.'
FOURTEEN
Mitchell parked the rental car outside the old house, making sure he was at least six feet ahead of the mailbox. Then he got out and opened the trunk to fetch his duffel bag.
Dad's blood pressure would rise because Mitchell had rented a foreign car instead of a GM. Dad had spent thirty years at the General Motors Assembly Plant in Lordstown, working his way up to foreman. He had taught Mitchell his fierce sense of loyalty to people, products, and ideas.
But Mitchell had a coupon, and he was decidedly more loyal to his own wallet. While Ghosts did receive bonuses and special allowances for clothing and food, keeping the world safe from terror and destruction still paid less than 60K a year. Sure, he had few expenses and a nice nest egg and retirement, but being frugal in an unstable economy was just plain smart.
However, none of those arguments would work on Dad.
Mitchell shut the trunk and checked his watch: 16:30 hours. He was thirty minutes past his ETA. Blame it on the airline. He drew in a long breath through his nose. Clean air. It was good to be home.
He had made a quick stop back in '09 for the holidays, feeling good about seeing everyone and about his work in Eritrea, and then there had been Cuba in the following year, with missions against those narco-terrorist Colombians. Mitchell had earned himself yet another Silver Star and had chosen to remain a Ghost Team leader, despite being slated for promotion and the promise of more pay. He'd forgo the money and remain behind a weapon instead of a computer. And when it was time to step off the battlefield, he'd return to Fort Bragg to become an instructor. He'd already done a few stints of that, was scheduled to instruct again, and enjoyed paying it forward.
Earlier in the year his missions in North Korea and Kazakhstan had gone exceedingly well. While he continued to keep himself out of the politics that threatened the security and success of nearly every deployment, it still frustrated him when the Ghosts scored a win that could never be shared with the public.
He started up the long walkway toward the house, a two-story Colonial Revival-style home built in 1920 with white shingles and a large American flag flying beside the garage door. This was Mitchell's boyhood home, and the older he got, the smaller the house seemed. It did have four bedrooms, with that second bathroom that Dad had added over twenty years ago. And most recently, Dad had erected a white picket fence around the entire property. Dad was a small-town boy with small-town sensibilities that would never change. 'Now I'm living the dream,' he'd said, marveling over the fence.
Mitchell mounted the steps to the porch and, with his attention focused on the sounds of the TV coming from inside, he nearly fell on his rump as he tripped over a radio-controlled car that he assumed belong to his little nephew Brandon, who at seven was unaware of Dad's strict policy regarding guest parking.
Mitchell gently booted the car aside, yanked open the screen door, then pushed in the heavy wooden one and yelled, 'This is the United States Army. Put down your alcohol and come out with your hands up!'
He stepped into the entrance foyer, immediately accosted by the incessant ticking of Dad's tall grandfather clock and that smell, a cross between wood chips and wool, that always permeated the house.
His sister, Jennifer, who preferred Jenn, came rushing down the hall from the kitchen with her arms extended, crying, 'Scott!'
She was the youngest of the four children, only twenty-nine, and Mitchell recoiled as he saw how much weight she had lost. The last time he'd seen her, just after baby Lisa had been born, she was at least thirty pounds heavier. While growing up, she had always been a bit mousy, avoiding eye contact when she could, and at barely five feet tall, it was easy not to notice her. Yet after the baby had been born, it was as if a new mother had been born, one who was loud and outgoing.
Now she was even thinner than before getting pregnant, and he barely took her in before her bear hug threatened to expel the airline peanuts from his gut.
When she released him, she pulled back and traced a finger over his sideburn. 'Is that gray hair?'
'Ah, got some paint on me or something,' he muttered.
'You're getting old, Scott.'
'Thanks for the tip. Hey, uh, I almost killed myself out there on Brandon's car.'
'Oh, that's not Brandon's. It's Gerry's.'
Mitchell snorted. Gerry was Jenn's husband, a software designer who made serious money. They lived in Northern California in an 8,000-square-foot multimillion-dollar home. Despite his keen business sense and remarkable work ethic, Gerry obviously still liked his toys, big boy and little boy. 'So where is the geek?' Mitchell asked. 'I'll have him arrested for attempted murder.'
'Shut up, you idiot. Hey, everybody! Scott's here!'
He followed her into the kitchen, where, as he had expected, Tommy and Nicholas were seated at the long bar nursing beers while watching a Buckeyes game on Dad's little thirteen-inch TV because Dad had the new plasma screen mounted in his bedroom.
Nicholas, who was now sporting a pair of trendy, plastic-framed glasses, had earned his undergraduate and graduate degrees in mechanical engineering and had secured a tenure-track teaching position at the University of Central Florida.
Tommy was no good with the books and had always worked with his hands. For a while, he and Mitchell had both worked as assistants at the same auto repair shop in Youngstown, one now called Mitchell's Auto Body and Repair and owned by Tommy himself.
'Ten-hut,' shouted Nicholas, who was second oldest behind Mitchell. 'Knucklehead on deck!'
Mitchell came around the bar and gave his brother a firm handshake and what they liked to call a 'man hug,' not too close, buddy. 'And there he is,' Mitchell began as Tommy, just thirty-one years old, rose and offered his hand. 'The last American bachelor and grease monkey.'
'That was never me,' said Tommy, giving him a slap on the back. 'That's you.'
'I married the army.'
'Well, I have to tell you, Scott, my wife-to-be is a whole lot prettier than yours.'
'Yep, lured away into the world of diapers and mini-vans, and all it took was a woman who'd actually have sex with you!' Mitchell slapped Tommy's newly soft gut.
That drew a big laugh from Nicholas and Jenn as Tommy frowned and shook his head. 'Get a haircut,' was all he could say; then he returned to the game.
Mitchell's hair was high and tight, as always. 'Where's Dad?' he asked Jenn.
'He's out back in the shop.'
'Hey, what time do we have to be there tomorrow?'
Tommy snorted, interrupting Jenn. 'Why do you ask? You got plans? Too busy to see your brother get married?'
'If you want to know the truth, it was pretty hard to fit you into my schedule…' Mitchell's tone softened. 'But I wouldn't miss it for the world.'
'Well, best man, you need to be at the church by eight thirty.'
