Chapter 6 - Pride Has a PriceSelah slapped me.
For once, I was grateful for the spectacle.
Whoever had entered my home was gone.
Noah sat inside Owen’s truck wrapped in a blanket despite the July heat.
I opened the door.
He launched himself at me.
I held him so tightly he complained.
“Mom.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re crushing me.”
“Good.”
He pulled back.
His face was pale.
“Someone broke our window.”
“I know.”
“Uncle Briggs said it was probably kids.”
I looked toward Briggs.
He stood near my porch talking to a police officer as if the whole situation was a mildly annoying neighborhood dispute.
Selah saw me.
“What the hell, Claire?”
I stood slowly.
“What the hell?”
“You have cops everywhere!”
“Why did you take my son?”
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
“Mrs. Patel said—”
“I told Mrs. Patel you were authorized for emergencies. I did not tell you to pick him up.”
“You weren’t answering.”
“I was busy.”
“With your secret soldier friends?”
“Selah.”
She crossed her arms.
“Briggs wanted to talk. We thought it would be easier if everyone sat down.”
“You brought my child into a confrontation I explicitly left yesterday?”
“He’s family!”
“So family gets to override his mother?”
Briggs approached.
“Enough.”
I looked at him.
He had changed clothes but not attitude.
“You stay away from my son.”
His face tightened.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I was protecting him while your house was getting robbed.”
“You brought him to the house.”
“I didn’t know somebody was going to break in.”
“And now you understand why I told you yesterday there could be a security problem.”
Briggs lowered his voice.
“This is because of your past.”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe you’re the one who shouldn’t be around him.”
The words landed precisely where he intended.
I stared at him.
Selah whispered, “Briggs.”
He continued.
“Think about it. Whoever did this came for you. They wrote some terrorist crap on your wall. Noah gets caught in the middle because Mom used to play operator.”
Owen moved closer.
“Briggs.”
“What? Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Of course you’d say that.”
“No. I’d say you’re being an ass because you are.”
One of the officers glanced over.
I kept my voice level.
“Briggs, leave.”
“It’s a free street.”
“My property isn’t.”
“You really want to do this?”
“Yes.”
He laughed.
“You know what your problem is?”
“Currently?”
“You think because you have some mysterious classified past, nobody gets to question you.”
“No. I think when a man refuses to respect the word no, he stops being someone I want near my child.”
His face changed.
That hit.
Because everyone nearby heard it.
He took one step toward me.
Owen immediately moved between us.
Not aggressively.
Just enough.
Briggs stared at him.
“You picking her over me?”
“This isn’t a team room.”
“You were my team sergeant.”
“Which is why I know exactly what pride looks like when it starts making a man stupid.”
Briggs looked as if Owen had slapped him.
“Get out of my way.”
“No.”
The officer approached.
“Gentlemen.”
I touched Owen’s arm.
“Enough.”
He stepped back.
Briggs pointed at me.
“This whole thing started because you couldn’t take a joke.”
“No,” Owen said.
“It started because she told you no.”
Briggs turned away.
Selah followed him.
Halfway to their vehicle, she looked back at me.
There were tears in her eyes.
I almost called her name.
Then she got into the passenger seat.
They left.
Noah whispered, “Is Uncle Briggs bad?”
Children prefer people to fit simple categories.
Good.
Bad.
Hero.
Villain.
Adults know better.
“No.”
“Then why is he acting like that?”
“Because good people can act badly when their pride gets hurt.”
Noah considered that.
“Does being a soldier make people mean?”
I looked toward Owen.
He pretended not to listen.
“No. But sometimes people get used to being respected for what they did. If they start needing that respect too much, they can forget respect is supposed to go both directions.”
The lead officer approached.
“Ms. Holloway?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing appears stolen.”
“I figured.”
“You know what the writing means?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
He waited.
“A threat against my child.”
His expression sharpened.
“Do you know who might have done this?”
“I know who may have ordered it.”
“Name?”
I looked at Mara.
She nodded.
“Abdul Qadir Safi.”
The officer typed.
“How do you spell that?”
By eleven, federal agents were involved.
By midnight, my living room was full of people who had once belonged to a life I thought I had escaped.
Mara.
Owen.
Two men from a federal counterterrorism task force.
A Homeland Security investigator.
A woman from the FBI named Special Agent Elena Reyes.
She had calm eyes and no patience for drama.
I liked her immediately.
“You’re certain Qadir is alive?”
“No.”
“Then why give us his name?”
“Because the message on my wall is connected to him.”
“How?”
“He used that phrase.”
“Once?”
“More than once.”
She studied me.
“Your file is unusual.”
“I know.”
“Parts are sealed.”
“I know.”
“You were Marine Corps?”
“Yes.”
“Intelligence?”
“Yes.”
“Then joint special operations support.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“I’m not discussing that without counsel.”
One corner of her mouth moved.
“Good.”
She closed the folder.
“We have reason to believe Qadir Safi entered the United States illegally last month.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“You already knew.”
“We were looking for him.”
“You lost him.”
“We didn’t have him to lose.”
“Semantics.”
Her gaze hardened.
“You want to help?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop treating us as if we’re incompetent.”
“I’ve met the government before.”
Owen coughed to hide a laugh.
Reyes looked at him.
“You find something funny?”
“No, ma’am.”
She turned back.
“Qadir may be connected to an international financial network under investigation for sanctions evasion and weapons trafficking. If he’s here, your viral video may have given him something we didn’t know he had.”
“My location.”
“And leverage.”
I looked upstairs.
Noah was sleeping in my bedroom with the door locked.
“Can you protect him?”
“We can arrange temporary relocation.”
“No.”
Reyes blinked.
“No?”
“I’m not handing my son to strangers.”
“Ms. Holloway—”
“I’ll relocate with him.”
“That is more complicated.”
“Make it less complicated.”
Mara smiled faintly.
Reyes did not.
Twenty minutes later, they agreed.
For the next few days, Noah and I would stay at an undisclosed federal safe property.
I packed quickly.
Clothes.
Medication.
Documents.
Laptop.
Noah’s stuffed wolf, which he had stopped admitting he slept with at age ten but still somehow needed whenever life went sideways.
As I zipped the bag, he stood in my doorway.
“Are we running?”
“No.”
“It feels like running.”
“Relocating.”
“That’s running with a nicer word.”
I looked at him.
“When did you get sarcastic?”
“You.”
Fair.
We left at 1:40 a.m.
Mara followed separately.
Owen remained behind to answer questions.
As our vehicle turned off my street, I looked back at the broken kitchen window.
Thirteen years earlier, I had believed the hardest thing I would ever do was survive war.
I had been wrong.
Surviving was simple compared with building a peaceful life afterward.
Because peace made you vulnerable in ways combat never did.
It gave you routines.
Addresses.
People you loved.
Things someone could take.
At the safe house, Noah fell asleep just before dawn.
I didn’t.
At six-fifteen, my phone rang.
My father.
I considered ignoring him.
Then answered.
“Claire?”
His voice sounded older.
“Yes.”
“I found something.”
“What?”
“After you left the barbecue yesterday… Briggs went through some boxes in the garage.”
My spine stiffened.
“What boxes?”
“Your old things.”
I had stored two sealed containers at my parents’ house when I separated.
Nothing classified.
Mostly uniforms, photographs, books.
“Why?”
“He said he wanted proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That Owen was exaggerating.”
I closed my eyes.
“Dad.”
“There was a photo.”
My heart stopped.
“What photo?”
“You. Three other people. Afghanistan, I think.”
I knew the photograph.
God.
I had forgotten it existed.
A team photograph taken before an operation.
Faces.
Names written on the back.
Including my call sign.
Including Samira’s first name.
“Where is it?”
Silence.
“Dad?”
“I thought Briggs put everything back.”
A cold wave moved through me.
“But?”
“I checked this morning.”
His voice broke.
“The photo is gone.”
I stood.
“Call the police officer who gave you his card.”
“Claire—”
“Now.”
“But why would Briggs take—”
“I don’t know that he did.”
I ended the call and called Reyes.
She answered.
“Tell me you slept.”
“No.”
“Of course not.”
“A photograph is missing from my parents’ house.”
“What photograph?”
I explained.
Silence.
Then Reyes said something that changed the direction of the entire investigation.
“Claire, Briggs Calder contacted our task force at 4:17 this morning.”
My throat tightened.
“Why?”
“He says he has information about Qadir.”
“What information?”
“He claims someone approached him online.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Before or after my house was entered?”
“Before.”
I gripped the phone.
“And he didn’t tell anyone?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Reyes exhaled.
“Because whoever contacted him told him they could help prove you were lying about your military record.”
For several seconds I couldn’t speak.
Briggs had been humiliated.
Angry.
Desperate to prove the tiny woman who dropped him in six seconds was a fraud.
And someone had known exactly which wound to press.
“What did he send them?”
“We’re trying to determine that.”
I looked toward the bedroom where Noah slept.
“Find him.”
“We are.”
“No. You don’t understand.”
“I do.”
“No, Agent Reyes. Briggs may be arrogant, but he isn’t stupid. If he realized he was manipulated, he’ll try to fix it himself.”
Reyes went silent.
She knew I was right.
I closed my eyes.
“And if Briggs thinks this is now a mission…”
I remembered the man on the mat.
The wounded pride.
The need to restore his own idea of himself.
“He won’t wait for permission.”
Two hours later, we learned Briggs’s truck had been found abandoned beside the Potomac.
His phone was inside.
The driver’s door stood open.
May you like
There was blood on the steering wheel.
And my missing photograph lay on the passenger seat.
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