Page 86 of What Remains

Which made him wonder about where the others were now and what they were up to. Mac had been whisked away by the medevac Driver had called before they set off for Sarbaz’s mine. As luck would have it, the mine’s staging area also made for a makeshift helipad and so the choppers had come in, one after the after. A couple for Shahida and all those orphans still leftat the mine going in one direction. Driver, Meeks, and Flowers, leaving in another. There had been no extended goodbyes, just handshakes, hugs, thumps on the back, and then their helo was rising and John had to swallow back a lump.

And, damn, if he hadn’t thoughtWait, I don’t wanttoneversee your ugly mugs again.

But then theyweregone, leaving Amu with his son and the clan’s other boys, and John and Roni with Poya: a kid with secrets and, in that way, so very much like John. The last he’d seen, the kid was being ushered into a medical transport. When John had objected, Poya’s escort said, only,Sir, Mac’s awake and he will tear me a new one if I don’t bring this kid back. At ease, Captain. We got this.

That escort had addressed him by his rank. As if John was still in the fight.

Was he? Was this Mac’s way of hinting he could be, again, if he chose?

“Why are you smiling?”

“What? Oh.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing.” He craned his head over a shoulder for a quick peek. The last yak was just stepping off the bridge. This seemed to be the signal for the backpackers to start surging forward like shoppers at a Wal-Mart on Black Friday. Maybe they’d just hang here for a few more minutes, let that gaggle get across.

“So, do you want thatnow?” Roni asked. “That nice fire at night in the mountains?”

“It’s got its appeal, but I don’t know. I mean, it is possible to build a fire anywhere. Just so long as I share that fire with you, I almost don’t care.”

Which was his cue, he thought.

“Come on now.” Getting down on a knee, he carefully tweezed out the top tissue from a packet in a side pocket. “Here,blow your nose before you get your snot all over the place. Don’t worry, the tissue’s not used or anything.”

“Thanks.” Letting go of a watery laugh, she unfolded the tissue. “That is probably the most romantic thing you’ve ever?—”

She stopped.

He waited, and then when she didn’t say anything more, he thought,Oh, crap.“I…you know, we were in Phakding, and I saw a bazaar and I remembered, you know, your sister…what you said about her fiancé proposing on top of a mountain and then I saw that and the color, it’s like your eyes, and so I thought?—”

“Yes.” She slipped the gold band onto her left finger then turned her hand, so the rosette of emeralds caught the sun and glowed a deep rich green. “Yes, John.”

Oh, God, thank you, thank you for this.Every bit of him ached to kiss her, to hold her, and shouldn’t there be a swell of movie-music, schmalzy violins?Tonight, when we rest. We have plenty of time.Pushing to his feet, he held out a hand. “Then, come on, hon. Let’s get going.”

There was no crowd at the bridge now. The last of the group before them was just stepping off on the opposite side of the valley. No yaks, in sight either.

The Dudhkoshi River churned five hundred feet. The valley seemed impossibly wide, an expanse that, like life, they had to cross if they were to keep on keeping on. A leap of a faith, perhaps, but her hand was in his, his heart was in her keeping, and that beat Indiana Jones by a mile.

Okay, almost. Because what he wouldn’t give for a fedora.

“Before we cross, can I ask you a question?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Shoot.”

“Do you remember what Mac said way back in Kabul, when we were going to go AWOL, and you asked what we were supposed to tell Command?”

“Yes.” He was glad they were both wearing sunglasses. “He said we should lie.”

“He said more than that. He said lying should be something at which you excelled because you’d had years of experience.” She let a moment go by. “John, what did he mean?”

Mac knew,of course. Then, again, so did Ustinov. The hints Ustinov dropped hadn’t clicked until just now, when he’d been thinking about himself as a fifteen-year-old boy.

The Russian had planted the hints in the first few minutes when he’d handed John and Davila their passports and papers. When he’d told John—whose alias wasMr. Child—how very much he’d likedDie Trying. His favorite novel by Mr. King—Davila’s alias—wasDesperation.

The code was so easy, a blind person could see it with a cane.Die Tryingfeatured a woman with guts and brains, a real fighter—whowas being held captive.

A woman like Roni. In that book, too, John thought the lead character had taken an impossible shot. Just like John.

But the clincher? The lead character inDesperation, the true hero, was a boy of faith. A boy who beat the monsters. A boy who did what was right—andstilllost everything.

That boy’s name had been John’s, too, once upon a time.

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