Page 101 of Agency
“Over here,” I said, grabbing the lukewarm tray of well-seasoned steaks. Spinning to face Jericho, I presented the platter of meat and looked him right in the eye for the first time since our morning argument.
“I think they’re ready,” I continued with raised eyebrow, “if the chef is.”
Hours before, I’d followed Andrew’s instructions to a T while handling the centerpiece of the meal. And, oh my God, was I trusting him to be right, especially since Jericho’s skeptical eyes were now falling on the tray!
First, I’d crumpled a lengthy sheet of aluminum foil into a ball, before roughly unfurling the span of metal into something that had more in common with a topographical map of the Rocky Mountains, than with one of the Great Plains. Ridges and hills had popped up all over, which Andrew had assured me was a good thing. Next, I had used wads of paper towels to blot dry crimson moisture from the steaks’ surfaces, removing as much as possible. And then, the simple seasoning had come. Heavy amounts of salt, along with plenty of freshly cracked black pepper, massaged into the meat, till my hands had been literally as bloody and red as I imagined them to be after my career as a contract killer.
Back onto the fridge’s bottom shelf the steaks had gone, so as to not contaminate anything if they dripped. There, the chilly air would circulate all around to further dry their meaty surfaces, and, according to Andrew at least, ensure a proper crust when grilled.
“Look fine to me,” Jericho said with a laborious sigh. He clearly wasn’t into this Family Dinner idea anymore than I was.
“Yeah? Well I put strychnine on one.”
A flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth, then.
“It’ll be like a lottery,” I continued.
“Or Russian steak roulette,” he replied. Obviously taking the joke in stride, Jericho grinned wider. “Can’t wait for the bitter flavor to really hit, then.”
“Only if you’re lucky,” I said with a smile.
As he took the steaks back outside into the dying light of day, I could see the way he limp-walked. His pace was a little faster, a bit more jovial.
“Seriously?” Morgan asked. “Making jokes about poisoning us, now?”
“Whatever,” I grumbled in reply as I leaned back against the counter with arms crossed. “Jericho thought it was funny.” I again glanced out the kitchen’s back window, to Jericho.
I’d been trying to think of a way to get him alone. Of a way to find the time to explain that I understood what he was going through, and that I appreciated him for it. That this whole thing must have felt like he was experiencing the death, and re-death, of his own family unit over and over again, and the only way I could imagine feeling that same way would be if I’d brought my friends to the scene of the car accident which killed my parents all those years ago.
Not that I exactlyhadany friends. The time I’d spent with these guys was probably the most I’d spent with anyone in years. Probably the most time I’d spent with anyone since I’d left the military, or finished my training at the CIA. Who did I know from my before-time that actually understood me on any kind of a deeper level? Certainly not anyone from school.
Probably only my Aunt Val.
Jesus, that was a depressing thought.
“Shit,” Andrew said, more anger and surprise in his voice than I ever remembered hearing from him in the few days we’d known each other. He was a sudden scramble of activity.
“What?” I asked, a mild panic creeping into my chest. “What’s wrong?”
“The rosemary butter! I forgot to set up the cast iron for the rosemary butter, so he could keep basting the steaks while they grilled! Son of a bitch!”
???
Okay, I had to admit, the balsamic-glazed carrots were amazing. The vinegary tang countered the sweetness of the dish, while also managing to bring enough acidity to cut through the fatty richness of everything else on the plate.
And, my God, was there fatty richness on the plate, even with the side salads Morgan had insisted on. The spread they’d laid out was a feast compared to the fast food, gas station snacks, and MREs we’d been eating for the last couple days. Hell, the spread was practically a feast compared to most restaurant meals.
We ate at the dining room table. We ate with gusto, and camaraderie, and with the kind of joy you seldom found. For our short reprieve, the guys had brought back cases of the best wine and beer they could find. We drank down the fermented grapes and wheat from mason jars, not caring about finery or class.
And, as we drank more and more, we talked more and more about life, and less about work.
Instead, we shared stories.
“So, we bring this guy Bashir in,” I began. “He swears up and down he’s not the bomb maker we’ve been hunting high and low for, and definitely not the guy our surveillance drone caught planting IEDs. But we get one look at his right hand, and I’m just asking in Dari, ‘Bashir, how’d you lose two of your fingers, huh?’”
“What’d he say?” Jericho asked.
“In Dari, or English?”
