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It had been so long since she made the decision, sometimes she couldn’t remember either. She toyed with a bead bracelet Khaali had made in art class and given to her as a gift. “How does anyone land a job? You pursue what you want to do with your life.”
“You just walked up to the CIA and asked to be an operative?”
Memories started flooding back. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about these things in so long. In the beginning, it had been a matter of survival. Eventually, it had become habit.
“Freelancer. Off the books.” At first, but once she’d gotten a taste, she wanted in deeper, envisioned herself changing the world. “I was already active in the area. The aide work was real, not a cover, not in the beginning. After my husband and I graduated from college, we joined the Peace Corps. When our oldest son was born, we tried to keep up the lifestyle, the work. And we managed pretty well even through the birth of our second child—both were born here in Africa.”
Her heart ached with memories—the visions of their infant faces, the smell of baby shampoo, the feel of a tiny cheek resting against her chest. She’d tried so hard to be a good mother in spite of feeling ripped in two by a call to action against injustice.
“We had only been back in the States for a few months when the CIA approached us, just a short-term freelancing assignment. My parents helped with the children. And God, we enjoyed it, the adrenaline rush of making a difference in what felt like an even bigger way.” Although in the end she’d felt like such a fool for not realizing the mammoth gift of a sticky hug from her child. She’d learned too late to appreciate what she’d lost.
“What changed?” he asked, even though he had to know from her file.
Still, it felt good to talk about the past, not to guard every word out of her mouth. “We found out I was pregnant again. My husband said he wasn’t into the whole ‘Kumbaya’ lifestyle anymore. He wanted a regular roof over our heads and meals at a family table.”
“So you relocated back to the States permanently.”
“We did. I went back to work in the classroom, had another child, our only girl. And I tried, I really tried to tell myself I could wait until the children grew up to help over here…”
An air crewman walked by on his way to the back and she paused until he passed.
“Until one day,” she continued, “during a parent-teacher conference, I was talking to a student’s mother and she mentioned her husband’s work overseas. He was in the Army. For weeks I thought about that father fulfilling his call to serve, and I couldn’t deny the strong desire I felt to go back again. I needed to make a difference in the world.”>“And you’ve been sober every day since.”
He nodded, his fingers closing around hers. He turned to face her full-on for the first time since he’d started talking about his sister. His brown eyes darkened with intensity. “But I can’t do it, Stella. I can’t have children. I won’t.” His voice rang with conviction. “I know I would never be abusive, but damn it all, look at what neglect can do? I can’t risk a family, Stella. I just can’t.”
She did the only thing she could. She wrapped her arms around him and held him, stroking his hair until he stopped shaking. She loved him so damn much, but she felt her dream dying in that moment. Saying good-bye was only a formality. He didn’t want marriage. Didn’t want a family. Wasn’t ready to share in the things that meant so much to her.
She understood now. When he left Africa, he would be leaving her for good…
***
Stella traced circles on the windowpane overlooking the Mogadishu International Airport, the past and present wrapping around her as tightly as the wrap Jose had bought her a month ago in Kenya, the weekend they’d broken up.
After he told her about his nephew’s tragic accident, they’d gone through the motions of finishing out their weekend together. They’d even made love. They’d almost made it back to their quarters before an argument broke out. They’d quarreled over something silly and inconsequential. She couldn’t even remember exactly what now, other than it had to do with directions and getting lost for five minutes.
They’d fought, snapping out hurtful words as if that would somehow make it easier to say good-bye. Yet, here they were again, right back in the same painful place with her cocooned in the same wrap, having even fewer answers than before.
Her cell phone vibrated on the bedside table.
She reached behind her quickly, not wanting the sound to wake Jose. Only numbers flashed on the screen, numbers that were code for Agent Smith. Thumbing the on button, she shot to her feet, her legs tangling in the trailing fabric as she made her way to the bathroom.
“Yes?”
“We need you to report back, now,” Mr. Smith said with a tense edge that sent a bolt of fear straight through her. This man never lost his cool. Never. “Sutton Harper committed suicide in his holding cell…”
“What? Repeat that, please?” Shock iced through her—and surprise. She’d been trained to look for signs and Sutton had seemed more the type who would shout his ideology from a jail cell for years to come…
“Harper cut the femoral artery in his thigh. He bled out before anyone noticed.”
An injury like that would kill in about five minutes. Her head reeled with the image as she grappled with the need to make sense…
“Carson, we’ll deal with the ramification of that later. There’s more. Top priority and the primary reason for my call? The list is on the move. We have less than twelve hours to stop the transfer and find those responsible so this kind of leak doesn’t happen again. I repeat…”
“Got it. I’m on my way.” She disconnected, forcing her training to assume control, an icy focus sliding into place.
They had a lead—and twelve hours to stop the exposure of American agents across Africa and the Middle East. Twelve hours to catch those responsible in the act so every agent wasn’t compromised. Twelve hours to protect an intelligence network decades in the making—a network that had somehow failed her mother. Stella pushed that thought aside as she slid back into the hotel room, trying to decide whether to wake Jose or leave him a note.
Moot point. He already sat on the edge of the bed, his phone at his ear and from the narrowed look in his eyes, he’d just gotten the same recall.
