Threshold, Page 2

  It was turning out to be his lucky day after all.

  He turned the key and the old engine roared to life. Smiling, he reached up and hit the garage-door button attached to the sun visor. The door rumbled open, filling the garage with daylight. He put the car in gear, rolled out into the driveway, and pushed the garage-door button once again.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror, watching as the door closed completely. He wanted to leave no obvious trace of his being here. He looked out the driver’s side window, searching the pavement for drops of blood, but his wounds had long since stopped bleeding and his clothes had dried. Unfortunately, there was not time to change from the rancid clothes, but he would find something on the road before long, when he was free of his enemies.

  Not remembering if he’d closed the side door to the garage, he adjusted the rearview mirror, but moved it too far, catching the side of his face in its view. He leaned in close to inspect the bloody marks on his face and grinned as he found no wound marring the surface.

  As he leaned back, an awkward pressure pushed against his back, like a clump of clothing or a wrapped-up towel had fallen between him and the seat. As he turned to look, the rearview mirror caught his attention once again. Not only could he see his face, but a second rising up behind him.

  Had the man’s baritone scream not been contained by the thick metal and glass of the classic car, anyone who heard it might have mistaken the cry for that of a local moose. As it was, no one heard the man, or saw him, again.

  TWO

  2010

  “JACK SIGLER, PLEASE take the stand.”

  Jack Sigler, call sign King, sat down on the stand next to the Honorable Judge Samantha Heinz, who had been staring at him with distrust since he walked into the courtroom. It was an unfortunate circumstance that most military child-custody cases involved the active-duty father losing his family for one unsavory reason or another. Ultimately, King knew most of the soldiers were not to blame—combat tended to do awful things to those not wired for it. And most people weren’t. He looked at the judge as she stared down at him over her thick glasses.

  As the bailiff swore him in, King thought about the path that had brought him, one of the world’s most elite soldiers, to a custody hearing. Six months earlier he had been summoned to the Siletz Reservation in Oregon by, he believed, his lifelong friend and the former fiancé of his deceased sister, George Pierce. But the message turned out to be phony, and when King arrived at the reservation he had found it in ruins. The town was in flames. Thousands of people were dead. And mysteriously, a little girl appeared in the backseat of his car with a note pinned to her:

  King—this one is for you. I’ve gone after the rest.

  The symbol belonged to Alexander Diotrephes, a man King believed to be the historical, and living, Hercules. His team had first encountered the man two years previous while searching for a way to stop the Hydra—one of Hercules’s ancient foes reborn by modern genetics. Alexander had been aloof and mysterious, commanding a loyal following he called the Herculean Society and strange creatures they deemed wraiths. Before disappearing he had provided them with the means to stop the Hydra’s ability to regenerate its body and to kill it. But he hadn’t been seen since, and all efforts to track him down led to dead ends. The symbol on the note was the only proof they had that the man still existed.

  Believing the girl was in grave danger, he took her to Fort Bragg where she could be under constant supervision and protection, not just by the team, but also by the thousands of Special Forces troops stationed at Bragg. Short of a nuclear missile strike, there was no safer place on earth. But that did not satisfy North Carolina’s Division of Social Services office, who could not accept that a twelve-year-old orphan could be raised successfully by a team of Delta operators.

  King looked around the oak courtroom, smelling the dry, dusty air. The room was essentially devoid of people, with only a child welfare representative, the bailiff, court reporter, and judge present.

  The judge cleared her throat. “Mr. Sigler, as you know, this hearing is really just a formality. You have the support of some very impressive people, not the least of which is the president of the United States. That you will receive temporary custody of Fiona Lane is a foregone conclusion. However, I do not lack resources of my own, so if I feel for a moment that you are being facetious or dishonest with me, I will make such a stink that even you will beg for mercy.”

  She didn’t know exactly who King was, but she knew his line of work, that he was close to the president, and that all other details of his professional life were classified.

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Good.” She straightened some papers on her desk and stared at them for a moment. “Then I have a few simple questions for you and you can be on your way.”

  King nodded.

  The judge smiled. “You know, almost every single time I’ve said that to a soldier, the response has been ‘fire away.’”

  “Happy to disappoint.”

  “Fiona Lane. Interesting name for a Native American.”

  There was no question in the statement, but King thought the woman might be testing his knowledge of Fiona’s past. “Many Native Americans adopted more English-sounding names. Her grandfather renamed himself George Lane. Her grandmother became Delores Lane. Her father was also named George and her mother was Elizabeth. But Fiona’s middle name is more traditional. Apserkahar. It means Horse Rider.”

  She gave him a good squint and then asked, “Is Fiona Lane in danger?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied.

  “From whom?”

  “That’s classified, ma’am.”

  “‘Your Honor,’ thank you. Is she safe?”

  “As safe as she can be, Your Honor.”

  “Is she safe with you?”

  “I would give my life to protect hers.”

  The judge’s eyes widened a bit. “I’m not sure I buy that.”

  “It’s what I do, Your Honor. I would give my life to protect yours as well.”

  That got a genuine smile from the judge. “Is this what you do in your line of work, Mr. Sigler? Risk your life to save others?”

  “It’s the duty of every enlisted soldier.”

  She looked back down at her desk, mumbling an affirmative but noncommittal “Mmm.”

  “And what about her special needs?”

  This brought a confused look to King’s face. The term “special needs” instantly made him think of people with developmental disabilities, but Fiona certainly didn’t fit in that category. She was brilliant, funny, and because she insisted on participating in many of the team’s training exercises, was more active than the average twelve-year-old girl. “Excuse me?”

  The judge looked at a sheet of paper, head turned up, eyes looking down so she could read through the lower half of her bifocals. “It says here that she has type one diabetes.”

  King tried to show no reaction and thought, Since when is diabetes a special need?

  “Yes, Your Honor,” he said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Her diabetes?”

  “Yes.”

  “As you said, she has type one diabetes. It presented three years ago. While on the reservation she managed it with insulin shots. We now have her on an insulin pump.”

  The judge nodded and made a note. “Last question, Mr. Sigler.”

  He looked up at her, thankful that the experience was almost over. Accustomed to fatigues or T-shirt and jeans, the suit he wore—bought specifically for this occasion—was uncomfortable and hot. His black hair was neatly combed, rather than its typically slightly unkempt state. And the smooth skin of his face, usually covered in a thin layer of scruff, highlighted his strong jaw while revealing a few small scars.

  She leaned over, looked him dead in the eyes, and asked, “Will you be a good father?”

  King froze. It was not a question he’d been expecting. His own father had left when he was sixteen, three months
after his sister, Julie, died in an air force training accident. And before he left the man had been far from a model father. As a result, King had never pictured himself having children of his own and dreaded the idea of being a father. If the rest of the team hadn’t backed out of the job, if someone else had recovered Fiona from Siletz, if she had not bonded to him so quickly, or if there were anyone else he felt could protect her as well, he would not be in this courtroom.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I will.”

  The judge looked at him for another moment and then sat back. “Very well. The court finds that Mr. Sigler is fit to be the foster parent of Fiona Lane and grants him temporary custody of her, effective immediately.”

  “Your Honor.” The child welfare representative stood up. “The state would like to request visiting rights so that we might be able to keep detailed progress notes on Ms. Lane’s education, home life, and an accurate appraisal of her safety inside the confines of Fort Bragg. When the powers that be determine that Fiona is safe to live outside the protection of Fort Bragg and Mr. Sigler, we would like to find her a permanent home with a stable adoptive family.”

  The judge turned to King. “Is this acceptable to you?”

  King nodded. “Yes.”

  Two knocks sounded as the judge brought her gavel down twice. “Court adjourned. You’re free to go, Mr. Sigler.”

  “All rise,” the bailiff said loudly.

  As King was the only person seated, aside from the court reporter, he stood and watched the judge exit the room swiftly. When she was gone, he stepped down from the stand and walked toward the back of the courtroom, not looking anyone in the eye as he did so. If he had, they might have seen the guilt that took all his effort to hide from the judge.

  He’d lied under oath.

  He dreaded the idea of being a father and knew it was one job he was not qualified for. But there was no choice. Fiona had to be kept safe; not because he cared for her as a father should, but because she was the only lead they had in the investigation of an event that took thousands of American lives. Solving that problem was his job, which made Fiona his job as well.

  For now, King thought.

  * * *

  KING HAD SEVERAL meetings after the hearing and then went out for a drink. He told himself he needed to think, but the truth was he was afraid to go home. King, leader of the most elite Special Ops team in the U.S. military, was afraid of a twelve-year-old girl. His mind was a tangle of thoughts as he tried to figure out how he would handle this new, very foreign responsibility. Could he raise a child, even for a short time? He could protect her, sure, but could he give her all the other things a kid needed? Education? Affection? Love?

  As he sipped his Sam Adams he decided the first thing he’d do was have only one drink. Wanting to get his mind off his worries, he turned his attention to the TV. CNN was covering, as usual, the rants of one Senator Lance Marrs of Utah—who looked like a wrinkly Pillsbury Doughboy with slick hair and angry eyes. After losing the last election to Tom Duncan, Marrs had made a career out of spouting fear-based propaganda that blamed President Duncan for everything from 9/11 to the nation’s financial woes that began two administrations ago. And the cable networks ate it up, adding a thick dose of bias and regurgitating it for the masses. I’ll stick with PBS, King thought, before requesting the channel be changed. He nursed his beer for another hour, giving up on it when the brew reached room temperature. He left the glass half empty and headed home, knowing Rook, who was babysitting, would be eager to start his Friday night.

  Good-bye Friday-night drinks, King thought, as he pulled up to his modest two-bedroom ranch home at Fort Bragg. Hello Saturday-morning cartoons.

  King opened the front door. The air inside smelled of popcorn and spray paint, which was odd but not unexplainable. What bothered him was that all the lights were out. Why does Rook have the lights off?

  Rook, who was a natural with Fiona thanks to his many sisters, usually had her in bed by nine and waited for King’s return in front of the TV. King looked into the open concept kitchen. Not even the microwave clock was on. A quick glance outside at the lit streetlights confirmed his fear. Only his power was out.

  He closed the front door silently and then listened. He didn’t hear a thing, but he did feel a draft. In the dim light provided by the streetlamp outside he looked at the back door. It was wide open.

  Something was definitely not right.

  And he was unarmed. With a courtroom hearing and several meetings to attend, King hadn’t thought to bring his sidearm. He moved silently through the living room and into the kitchen. He kept a locked Sig Sauer above the fridge. He took out the metal case, punched in the code, and opened the lid. His weapon was gone.

  Shit, he thought.

  Moving faster, King headed for his bedroom, where he had an arsenal hidden in his closet. He stopped outside his bedroom door, which was open. He stuck his head into the room, taking a quick look. The mattress was on the floor and his single dresser was in its regular place. That’s when he saw a mound resting on top of the bed, silhouetted against the windows, which were lit from outside.

  His mind flashed back to the horrors he had found at the Siletz Reservation. He could smell the smoke and rotting bodies. Homes destroyed. Fires burning. Electrical wires twitching. He saw Fiona’s grandmother, trampled and crushed. And everywhere, mounds of strange gray dust left like a calling card. Just like the mound he saw on his bed.

  His chest began to ache as his heart pounded. “Fiona,” he whispered.

  He moved into the room and crouched by the bed. He reached out to the mound expecting to feel the same granular dust, but instead felt fabric. King let out a sigh of relief. The mound was his blankets.

  That’s when it happened.

  Three rapid-fire clicks.

  He was struck in the back.

  Then, as he spun, something hit his neck.

  The third hit his forehead and stuck.

  He reached up expecting to find some kind of hypodermic dart, but clenched his fingers around something soft and rubbery. As his fingers felt the suction cup tip, a high-pitch voice shouted from within the room, “I got him, Rook!”

  The lights switched on, filling every room of the home with one-hundred-watt warmth. King squinted in the light and as he searched the room for the source of the voice. He didn’t see her.

  “Up here,” Fiona said.

  King turned toward the bedroom door. Fiona, dressed in her black pajamas and black socks, stood on top of it, her back pressed into the upper corner of the room. Her black hair had been pulled back into a tight bun and she wore a black bandanna over her mouth. She held a dart gun in her hands. He recognized it as one of two bright-orange dart guns they had bought, but it had been painted black.

  Stan Tremblay, call sign Rook, shouted from the living room. “Sorry, King. Couldn’t stop her. I’m out!”

  “Where’s my gun?” King asked.

  “In the closet with the rest,” Rook replied.

  “Bye, Rook!” Fiona shouted.

  “Later, kid! Oh, and sorry about the kitchen floor, King.” The front door opened and closed a moment later.

  There were a thousand parental things King knew he should say at that moment. You could have broken your neck if you’d fallen from the door. You had me worried sick. We don’t aim guns at people. And there were just as many nonstandard chew-outs. What if I was armed? I could have shot you. I could have shot Rook.

  But he didn’t say any of that. Instead he said what he really thought. “That was pretty good.”

  “Pretty good?” Fiona said, her voice full of mischief. “You just got taken out by a girl. And I’m not even a teenager yet. I’d say it was amazing.”

  He could see her smiling with pride behind the mask. It was an infectious smile, which he was grateful for because it hid his true feelings. He had just been taken out by a twelve-year-old girl. The very girl he’d sworn to protect. Was he so distracted by Fiona’s presence in h
is life that he might actually fail to protect her?

  She saw his distraction and brought him back to the current situation. “So, are you going to get me down or what?”

  “You’re the ninja,” King said. “You get down on your own.”

  He started to leave the room. “Rook put me up here.”

  King gave a shrug, his smile spreading wider. “Taking out a target is useless if you haven’t planned your escape.” Halfway out the door, King felt a tug on his hair. A sudden weight on his back followed. Fiona had leaped from the door onto his back. She clung to him sideways with one arm and one leg wrapped over his shoulders. His protest was drowned out by her wild laughter.

  King held on to her limbs and stepped back into the bedroom. He fell back onto the bed, careful to keep most of his weight off of her. He held her there, pinned and laughing. “King is awesome,” he said.

  “What?” she asked between laughs.

  “King is awesome. Say it.”

  “Keep dreaming, Dad!”

  That’s when the laughter faded. She knew he didn’t like to be called “dad,” but she’d also been unable to fall asleep that night because she knew about the court hearing. She had yet to learn the results.

  With her grip on King relaxed, he sat up knowing full well what she was about to ask.

  “So,” she said, “what’s the verdict?”

  He turned to her slowly, suddenly uncomfortable. He couldn’t find the words. Luckily for him, Fiona was never slow at providing them for him. “Are you my foster father or not?”

  He grinned. “I am.”

  She sat still for a moment, eyes glossing over, lips pinched tight. Seeing her like that, glowing with joy, desperate for affection, and totally vulnerable, put a crack in King’s defenses. He let out a small laugh and held his arms out to her. She dove into his embrace and squeezed him tighter than he thought the little girl capable.

  He lowered his head onto her small shoulder and repeated the words he knew she needed to hear. “I am.”