From the Ashes (13 page)

Through an emissary, Harrison Greer, director of a mysterious extra-governmental organization known simply as the Division, contacted Wayne. Greer had expressed admiration at Wayne’s exceptional mission success rate – and killing prowess. He wanted Wayne for a top-secret mission, one that would last the rest of his career, would have him stationed in his hometown of New York City, and would require him to sever all personal relationships – of which Wayne had none of any consequence at this point. A mission that was of the utmost importance to the nation’s future.

Wayne had mulled over the proposal long enough for Greer to send another message, following up on the first. On one hand, he had a lot of questions about this long-term mission, questions that would likely remain unanswered unless and until he officially accepted the assignment. It would mean moving back to the States, to his hometown, no less, the site of the happier days of his life. Where dreams were once born, and where they had died in a noxious cloud of asbestos and screams.

On the other hand, it was a change, a change in a method that very much was not doing anything to ease the pain, to heal the wound he had been trying to salve with the blood of insurgents for the better part of a decade. Perhaps here he would find the answer to his big unanswerable
whys,
to finally being able to put his parents’ ghosts to rest, and his insatiable guilt along with them.

He had chosen the path less traveled, and almost immediately it had made a difference. The deaths of four good men, three of whom he had been as close to as he had been to anyone in recent years, were required in order to plausibly kill him for the official record. Even his superiors in the military didn’t know the true story behind what had happened that day. Price, Sedaris, and Jenkins. All dead. All because of him. And their screams, echoing up the valley to his benumbed ears, still rang loud in his dreams.

“Jameson” had been an English-speaking Iraqi who Greer had recruited off the radar and away from any scrutiny. The military had no record of Jameson existing, of him getting in the Humvee, of Wilkins getting out. Only the Division, and the select few who were aware of its internal workings, had any idea that Wayne Wilkins was not only still alive, but had also returned to his old stomping grounds. The extensive facial reconstruction surgery he had undergone as part of his training eliminated the chances of his being recognized by anyone from his old life, while his acquaintance with the city itself would prove an invaluable asset when carrying out his missions. But those were far from the only changes he was forced to endure.

Immediately after Iraq, he had been brought back to the States, to the Division’s secure facility in Virginia, officially just an annex of the CIA, but with security so tight that even the director of that more well-known agency didn’t even have access to the building or knowledge of what went on behind its doors. Wayne’s training program commenced immediately upon his admittance to the facility. Wayne already knew how to infiltrate almost any sort of building, how to remain undetected in all sorts of situations and surroundings, and, of course, how to kill effectively and without reservation. The vast majority of his training was psychological, impressing upon him the importance of keeping a certain government secret a secret. The necessity of killing one man to preserve the lives of a million. Pruning the bushes, controlled burning, a dozen metaphors were used to illustrate the importance of their mission.

Wayne had listened, learned, and absorbed the lessons they fed him. Externally, he was the obedient soldier he had always been. Inside, however, something didn’t click. Or rather, something that hadn’t clicked in a long while, but perhaps should have, finally did. He had killed in Afghanistan and Iraq because
they
were the people who had killed his parents.
They
were the ones who threatened to destroy the country he loved, the life his forefathers had died for. To him,
they
were all the same. Middle Easterners, Muslims,
they
all hated America,
they
all were part of the problem that had stolen his family from him and wanted to steal everything else he held dear. But now, hearing his new assignment, the targets being people who he actually considered people, his fellow Americans, he paused, privately of course, to reconsider. He had joined the military partly out of anger. Anger at the Middle East, that backward region
over there
that was the embodiment of everything he thought he hated, the people who were all alike, who had all conspired to kill three thousand innocent civilians on September 11
^th
. This aimless and blinded anger was honed by the military to make him more effective in his role. After all, his job wasn’t to rescue or assist innocent Afghani or Iraqi civilians, those people whose liberty and well-being had ostensibly been the military’s goal in the invasions. No, his job was to blow up what he was told to blow up, steal what he was told to steal, kill who he was told to kill. And he had done that beautifully.

But there was something else that had inspired him to join the fight. The anger had been tapped far more often during those past years, keeping it fresh and well-fed, constantly on the surface. But below the anger, another element lay dormant, but alive: love. Love for his parents, love for his country, love for greater humanity, a love that had been a large part of his life right through September 10
^th
, 2001. And in his new training, in hearing the argument for killing his neighbors and fellow countrymen, it finally rose to the surface in protest.

One night after training, lying in his bed at the Division’s complex, he reflected on the past nine years, something he had never done during that whole chapter of his life. They had all been dedicated to killing people. But he had never really thought of them as people.
They
were targets.
They
were the enemy.
They
were terrorists who would kill him, would slaughter millions of innocent Americans, would try to bring America to its knees. It was kill or be killed, a thousand times over. At least, so he was told. But who were
they,
really? As he lay on his mattress, a flood of images came back to him, images he didn’t consciously remember, but saw nonetheless: a child’s doll, discarded among the rubble; a photograph of a smiling Iraqi family, singed and fluttering through the bomb-riddled streets like an autumn leaf; the shriek of a little Afghani boy as he saw Wayne kill his father, a Taliban general, then turn the blade on the young witness, the boy’s shriek ending in a gurgle of blood. That night in his bed, years after the fact, Wayne was hit with the implications of all he’d done, and for the first time since the ceremonies honoring his father’s sacrifice, he cried. Emotions, not just anger and hate, had come back to him, riding on the wings of his rediscovered humanity, his love for his fellow man, his sense of right and wrong.

Truly, the old Wayne
had
died in Iraq, not inside the burning Humvee, but while watching it. And the new Wayne had arisen from the smoldering ashes of that horrific attack, much as the smoke and fire of the falling towers had forged the hardened soldier that he had become. Only time would tell, though, time and trials that were sure to come in the near future, what form this new Wayne would take, and what destiny he would choose. There were still far too many questions swarming in his head, like a kettle of vultures circling over the corpse of his former life, deciding what to do with the carrion, and how, and when. Questions about his mission, about his government, about humanity, about his parents’ legacy, about national security and terrorism, about himself, about his past, his present, and his future.

As though on cue, his cell phone beeped in his pocket, signaling a received text message. Reluctant to be drawn from his musings, he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the message. Unknown number. Not good.

Report to HQ. 0900. Tomorrow.

Wayne stared at the message for a moment after he’d finished reading it, his lips pressed tightly together in resignation. He took a deep breath, deleted the text message as per protocol, repocketed his phone, and, with a final longing glance toward Ground Zero, turned his back on his parents’ unmarked gravesite, beginning the long walk back to his apartment to pack his day bag for the trip.
The
trip.

And so it begins, he thought as he trudged northward. But the question remained: how would it end?

Wayne was still figuring that one out.

Washington, D.C.

“This is nuts,” Jon said staring out the window of the corner cafe. He and Mara were eating an early dinner, trying to make some sense of everything that had happened thus far. Mara’s apartment had made Jon feel claustrophobic, so they went out to eat. But even the change of scenery didn’t seem to be helping much.

“Which part?” Mara asked wryly.

Jon turned from the window and met her gaze. “All of it. Michael’s death, the police calling it a suicide, the guy in the apartment, and the police again being useless.”

Mara tilted her head and swallowed a bite of her pastrami sandwich. “They’re not
useless.
The police just... Well, would you believe it? I mean if you were one of those cops, would you have reacted much differently to your story than they did?”

Jon, with a mouth full of a turkey club, stopped chewing mid-bite, furrowed his brow thoughtfully, then started chewing again. “I guess you’re right,” he admitted after swallowing his food. He looked at the ceiling, then back at Mara. “What in heaven’s name have we gotten ourselves into?”

“I don’t think heaven has anything to do with what happened to Michael,” Mara said with a frown. “So what do we do now?”

“What now?” Jon’s mind flashed back to the disbelieving face of Sergeant Mabry. “With or without the authorities’ help, I’m gonna get to the bottom of this whole screwed-up mess, that’s what.”

Mara knew his angry tone was not directed at her, but she winced nonetheless. “I meant
how.
What’s our next step?”

Our.
The word was a comfort in itself. Jon sat in silence for a moment, looking pensive. “His research,” he said suddenly, lifting his eyes to meet Mara’s. “The laptop was what the guy took from the apartment. What he was presumably after in the first place. He must’ve been after the ‘world-changing’ research Michael was working on for his dissertation. Unless you can think of some other reason why a trained professional would be after his laptop?”

“No, none,” she replied after a few seconds of probing her memory. “He wouldn’t even hook that computer up to the Internet. Afraid of hackers getting in and stealing his work. Or sabotaging it.”

“I’d say someone’s sabotaged it pretty badly now.” The pair sat quietly, immune to the Sunday evening commotion in the restaurant around them.

“I miss him,” Mara sighed. “So freaking much.”

“Me too. I guess you’re just about the only person who understands just how badly.”

“Probably.” Mara allowed herself a small smile. “I swear, you two were closer than any brothers, heck, any friends, I’ve ever known.”

Jon grimaced. “Michael and I traveled all over the world together. All our lives. I imagine I am who I am today largely because of him. After Mom died and Dad drew within himself and his research, Michael kind of stepped in. He helped me get a date with the first girl I think I ever loved – this French beauty named Martine – in Marseilles back when we were both teenagers. He saved my life on multiple occasions – from spear-wielding natives in Papua New Guinea, from drug lords in Colombia, from a particularly angry hippo in the Congo. We challenged each other to bigger and better things – not just in the one-upmanship of most guys, but also in becoming better people. He was the one who led me to my Christian faith when I was a boy. And he was the one who helped me remain in the faith during the turmoil of Mom’s death. His inspiration, his mentorship, his companionship, his encouragement...” His voice drifted off, and he pressed his lips tightly together, breathing heavily through his nose, wishing once again that he could rewind time and do the last couple of years a little differently.

“It’s okay,” Mara said, her eyes sympathetic. “We’re in the same boat here. He was an anchor for me, too. After my parents’ divorce when I was in high school, my Disney-inspired dreams of a dream come true with my own personal Prince Charming were all but shattered. I figured I’d seen enough of the dysfunctions of marriage to last me a lifetime. If I ever found myself able to give my heart away to someone, to ever trust someone that much, I wouldn’t marry them. Maybe a long-time boyfriend or something, but marriage just ruins things. It was great for other people, maybe, but not for me. Or so I thought until I met Michael. My Prince Charming who came along even after I’d stopped believing in such things.”

She stopped, absentmindedly rubbing her cross pendant again. “We met at church. A young professionals’ Bible study. Michael already told you this before, I’m sure, but he couldn’t have told you the way he made me feel. His eyes were full of warmth and understanding and... It was as close to love at first sight as I imagine exists outside of Hollywood. And I don’t mean that Michael was perfect or anything, as I’m sure you well know he wasn’t.”

Across the table, Jon’s lips curved in a private smile. “I can’t tell you how many pairs of earplugs I went through bunking or sharing a tent with Michael over the years. The man snored like a grizzly bear with a head cold.”

Mara smiled sadly. “But the love he had for me,” she continued, “and for you, and for those he cared deeply about; the passion he had for learning; the zeal for squeezing as much out of life as he possibly could; all that was as real and as genuine as they come. He was truly a gentleman and a scholar in every sense of the phrase, and he was about to be my husband. My husband...”

She broke down into sobs, holding her head in her hands as her hair fell into her eyes. Jon started to reach out and put his hand on her shoulder, but then realized that sometimes you just needed to cry. He just wished – privately of course – that she had chosen a less public venue to do so. After a few moments she calmed down, wiped her eyes dry with a corner of her napkin, and forced a weak smile. She was going to make it. They both were. Somehow.