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Shit! He was a fucking general.
Tanner slammed his heels together, stood straight as an arrow, and saluted.
“Sir!”
The general nodded. He was in his late fifties, maybe a little older than that, streaks of silver at his temples, but he was still vigorous-looking and handsome, a recruiting poster come to life.
Tanner recognized him. Why wouldn’t he? The world was not overflowing with four-star generals. He just couldn’t come up with the name.
“At ease, Lieutenant.”
A command to give, Tanner thought, but not to obey when he had no idea in hell what was happening here.
“I understand you’re recovering from a pretty bad wound.”
Talk about rotten timing… His leg was throbbing like a bad tooth.
“Not really very bad at all, sir,” Tanner said quickly.
“And that you got that wound in a firefight in Afghanistan.”
Tanner shot a glance at his captain. The captain nodded. Tanner looked at the general again.
“Yessir. That’s correct.”
“I understand, too, that you sustained your injury when you went after one of your men who’d been hit and was pinned down by fire from half a dozen insurgents.” The general raised his eyebrows. “It was a brave thing to do, Lieutenant, and it almost cost you your life.”
“I was nearest to him, sir, that’s all.”
“Of course.”
Tanner glanced at his captain again. Blake looked away from him. There it was again, that bad feeling in Tanner’s gut. He took a breath, let it out, and looked straight at the general.
“Sir. Why am I here? Begging your pardon, but I don’t get what this is all about.”
The general nodded. “No. How could you?” He extended his hand. “I’m John Hamilton Wilde.”
Of course. John Wilde. General John Wilde. Distinguished military career. D.C. hotshot. And the owner of a Texas ranch the size of a small kingdom. A man of money as well as power. And here he was, offering a handshake. Just one average Joe greeting another.
Tanner’s survival instincts went on full alert as he took the outstretched hand and shook it.
“You mean, you’re General John Hamilton Wilde,” he said. “U.S. Army.”
Wilde laughed. “They told me you were direct and to the point, Akecheta. I like that in a man.”
“I’m happy to hear it, sir, but I’d still like to know what’s going on here.”
“Akecheta. That’s Lakota Sioux, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir. It is.”
“Means warrior, if I’m not mistaken.”
Tanner didn’t answer. What was the point? The general had it right.
“We just might share some blood, Akecheta. There’s Native American in my DNA, too.”
Tanner didn’t answer that time, either. What in hell would be an appropriate response? I’m Sioux; what are you? Did our ancestors maybe slaughter each other in the glory days of the American West?
