Chapter Five

Cord Romero gave Cal a pointed smile. "You don't want her to do this sort of thing?"

"She's only nineteen," Cal said, pushing back his own feelings. "Her grandfather would be outraged."

"Then why does she study chemistry?" he persisted.

Cal scowled. "I don't know. I should have asked."

"Plenty of time," the other man said lazily. "If she's that young, she's got years to decide on a profession. She might teach." He chuckled as he said it.

"What's funny?"

"I tried that. Teaching," he added. He shook his head. "It's not for everyone."

"What was your field of study?"

"Chemistry," Cord said. His eyes twinkled. "I taught high school chemistry for a year fresh out of college. Even then, I was drawn to demolition. It got me into trouble with the principal and the school board."

"Why?"

"They objected to my slight deviations from the curriculum," he replied.

"He was teaching the children how to blow things up," Cy Parks interjected with a chuckle.

"Only little things," Cord argued. "My God, it was just one little desk, not a building. I even offered to replace the desk!"

"So your principal was ordered to replace you," Micah Steele added with a grin.

"And that was our good fortune, because this man is a genius with explosives," Ramirez said with a dramatic sigh. "There should be a prize for such things."

"There is. I think it's called prison," Cal told them.

"Ex-cop," Cy Parks said, jerking a thumb at him. "Ignore him. It might be contagious."

"Ignore him," Ramirez said, indicating Cy. "I've been DEA on and off."

"The ‘heat,'" Cord muttered, jerking a thumb at Ramirez. "You can't even escape it here!"

"You were never arrested," Steele chuckled. "And you're FBI when you're not here, so don't crow so loud."

Cord gave him an international symbol of distaste.

Steele gave him one right back.

"And just imagine, nobody here has a straitjacket," Cal said under his breath.

Somebody threw a towel at him.

There was a young local boy named Juba who'd become a sort of mascot to the small group. He knew the area, having been brought up there, and he was a walking library on plants and animals.

Cy Parks was particularly fond of him. He had a young son and loved to show off photos of him on his cell phone. Of course, the phone stayed on the plane when the group was ready to go into combat. There, only satellite phones were of any use in the jungle.

It never ceased to amaze Cal that huge modern cities could cohabit with small rural villages. And the strangest thing was that the people in the villages were always laughing, always happy, in what seemed like inescapable poverty. While in the cities, people walked past each other without even a nod, frowning, lost in their own worries.

"This is an amazing place," Cal mused while they were waiting for a local militia leader to give them a situation report.

"It is?" Laremos asked.

"Look," Cal said, indicating laughing children amusing laughing adults. "Do you see anybody scowling and muttering about how hard life is?"

Laremos grinned. "Just us."

Cal laughed. "I live in a small town in Texas," he mused. "It's sort of like this. A lot of people are poor, but they always seem to find reasons to smile. In cities, you just don't really see that much."

"True," Laremos agreed. "I live in Guatemala. It's largely rural, in my area. Palm trees, sand, drug dealers..." He laughed. He glanced at one of the younger men in the group. "Still, at least we have groundwater, Gomez," he called to the man.

"Rub it in," Gomez called back. "But we have ancient Mayan ruins, as well!"

"So do we," Laremos countered. "And lovely streams and waterfalls..."

"Quintana Roo is abundantly blessed with water, thank you. It's just underground!"

"What, there's no surface water in the Yucatan Peninsula?" Cal asked. "Like our rivers in Texas that only run at certain times of the year?"

"I mean there aren't any rivers," Laremos corrected. "None at all."

"Good Lord! Why?"

"There was an impact thousands of years ago, a meteor called Chicxulub. It hit in the Gulf of Mexico and destroyed pretty much the surrounding area. I think that's why. Everybody has a theory. That's mine."

"I couldn't live in a place with no running water," Cy Parks murmured. "My place in Wyoming has plenty of it."

"He has a ranch the size of New Jersey," Dutch commented.

"You should move next door," Cy chuckled. "It's a great place to raise kids."

"Kids!" Dutch shivered. "Never in a million years! I break out in hives just thinking about it!"

"Woman-hater," Laremos said in a mock whisper.

"It goes beyond hate," Dutch said, and he didn't smile. He finished what he was doing. "Okay, there's our second IED. God, I hope we don't have to use any of them here," he added, looking around at the villagers.

"That I can't promise," Cy replied. "But we'll do our best." He smiled at Juba, who came running with an AK-47, a weapon that was old but still serviceable. Many of the young fighters still carried them.

"I need bullets!" Juba said with his big toothy smile. "And a candy bar...?"

Cy chuckled and got one out of his pack. "You're bankrupting me," he murmured as he handed it over.

"You have many. You are a rich American," Juba laughed, pulling the wrapper open. "The United States must be such a rich country to have so many sweet and wonderful things! I would like to go there!"

"And so you might, one day," Cy said, rubbing the boy's thick hair. He'd become very fond of Juba, who had been orphaned by the turmoil going on around him. He had a cousin in a distant village, but the cousin had five sons and didn't want him. So Juba hung around the village with his American friends, and some other nice soldiers who had come from overseas to help win the fight for liberation of his country.

"This is so good of you," Juba said, suddenly serious. "To help us, I mean."

"It helps us, too," Cy replied solemnly. "When we help to fight an evil that affects many lives, it gives us a feeling of, well, of purpose. Of doing something worthwhile."

Juba nodded. "Yes. It is what I would like to do also. Perhaps when I grow up, I will be a politician like our poor president who is in exile."

"If you do, we'll have your back."

Juba frowned, his black eyes questioning.

"We'll help protect you," he clarified.

"Ah." He grinned. "Just so!"

"Juba, can you take this to the French army over there?" Laremos called, raising a hand at one of the foreign fighters he knew.

"Legion-etrangere!"came the mocking reply.

"French Foreign Legion!" Laremos yelled back.

The Frenchman put a finger to his lips and went "Shh! Say ex-Legion, or I can't go home!"

Everybody laughed.

Cy Parks watched Juba run to do the errand. "I'd love to take Juba home with me," he said quietly. "This is no place for a child of promise, in a perpetual combat zone."

"Could you do it?" Laremos asked.

He nodded. "I have contacts. I'll use them."

Cal, listening, nodded, too. He liked being part of this incursion. He liked it a lot.

The group stayed a week, long enough to get a better picture of what would be needed for the upcoming offensive, including more weapons, more ammunition, the works. They'd worked out a battle plan with the other insurgents, all of them hoping to end this miserable standoff and get the country back to normal.

They flew home, just for a couple of weeks. Then it would be back into the fires of hell.

When Amelia saw Cal pull into his driveway, her heart flew. She had to grit her teeth to stop herself from running across the street and throwing herself into his arms. But that way lay disaster. He didn't know how she felt about him, and she didn't dare let it show. He'd already put up caution signs. No followers. He was free and he liked it that way.

He might change his mind one day. If he did, Amelia was going to be right there, waiting.

She cooked a huge dinner that night, anticipating that Cal would come over to visit. And he did.

She walked to the kitchen door as her grandfather let him in. "The prodigal returns!" she said dramatically.

He made a face at her and grinned. "Something smells nice."

"I saw your car pull in, so I made extra. You're welcome," she added pertly, and grinned before she went back to the stove.

At least, she saw no bullet holes or bandages, so he must not have been in any heavy fighting. Not yet, anyway. She sent up a mental thanks.

Supper was riotous. Cal had a dozen stories about his companions. Without giving anything tactical away, he described his friends.

"They're all pretty much misfits," he mused, "even though some of them came to merc work from law enforcement."

"Spec ops takes a different mindset," Harris commented. "It's a known fact that no man who can pass a standard psych profile is spec ops material." He chuckled.

"Is that true for you?" Cal asked.

He nodded. "I can't talk about it. Most of our missions were classified." He looked up. "But, believe me, I know the life. I'd be willing to bet that most of your crew is confirmed bachelors."

Cal nodded. "Only one has a family. That I know of. They don't talk about personal things much."

"I was the odd one out in my group, as well. It doesn't mix with family life." He glanced covertly at his granddaughter as he spoke, noting her lowered head, although he was certain she was hanging on every word.

"Still," Cal sighed, "it feels good to come home, even just for a couple of weeks. That reminds me. How about Fernando's Friday night?" he asked Amelia with a grin.

She looked up, her face flushing prettily. "Fernando's?" She was still hanging on what he'd said about most of the men being confirmed bachelors.

"The tango?" he reminded her. "Flan? Flamenco dancers...?"

"Oh!" She laughed self-consciously. "Yes. I'd like that."

"Me, too. I don't do much dancing in Africa," he added, tongue-in-cheek.

"Do you have to do martial arts, too?" she wanted to know. "Besides, you know, blowing up stuff?"

"Definitely," he replied. "Eb Scott has experts in every field. He's going to have the finest counterterrorism school on the planet before he's done. It will put Jacobsville on the map—even if it's just a small map." He finished his cake. "That was delicious," he told her with a smile.

She grinned. "Thanks. It's just basic chemistry," she added with a wicked grin.

They all laughed.

"How about coming out to the school with me tomorrow?" he asked Amelia. "Do you have early morning classes at college?"

She nodded. "One at eight that's two hours, and one at ten that's an hour. I'm not taking a full courseload this semester."

"So, how about one o'clock tomorrow? We'll go out to Eb's place and I'll teach you some basic self-defense."

Her eyes lit up. "That would be great! But won't you be too tired? I mean, you've just got home after a really long trip..."

He drew in a breath and laughed. "You're always one step ahead of me. Yes, I am tired, and I have to see a man in San Antonio in the morning. Maybe day after tomorrow? What's your class schedule?"

"It's the same, every Tuesday and Thursday."

"Day after tomorrow, then."

"Does Eb go with you on these missions?" she wondered.

He shook his head. "He's got too much responsibility here right now. He used to, though," he added, smiling.

"Probably too many injuries to be an asset on a fast-moving mission," Amelia's grandfather added with twinkling eyes. "That was why I had to give it up."

"Well, you got married, too," she pointed out.

He grimaced. "Your grandmother wasn't too enthusiastic about seeing me lining up to be a battle casualty," he confessed. "And I was too crazy about her to make a fuss. By and large," he added, finishing his coffee, "the decision I made was the right one."

"Not one I'll have to make," Cal said with a weary smile. "I've got enough excitement in my life without adding complications."

"Wise man," Amelia said, smiling at him. And she was lying through her teeth, but Cal didn't realize it.

He shoved back his chair and got up. "Thank you both for the lovely supper," he nodded at Amelia, "and the conversation. But I'm ready for bed." He stifled a yawn. "It's a long ride home from where we were."

"Get some rest," Harris said as they walked him to the door.

"Planning to," he replied. He smiled at Amelia. "Day after tomorrow. At one. Okay?"

"Okay!" She was beaming.

He threw up his hand and went home.

Amelia's grandfather closed and locked the door.

"You're setting yourself up for some heartache, you know," he said very gently. "He's not a settling sort of man."

"Neither were you," she pointed out.

"I agree. There's always the woman who can turn a man's priorities on their head. But you're very young and our friend across the street is savvy in a sophisticated way."

"You mean he knows his way around women, and I'm stuck in double dating," she translated, but with a grin.

"Exactly my point. So you watch your step. He's the sort of man who can enjoy a day and walk away from it with no regrets. That's not you, sugar. You're a forever sort of girl."

She felt the heaviness of sorrow as she listened. "You're right," she agreed. "But hope is the last thing we lose." Her eyes met his. "He's...the whole world," she faltered, and flushed.

He put his arms around her and hugged her tight. "I know that. It's why I warned you. I can't live your life for you but have a care. I know a train wreck when I see one."

"Maybe it will be just a small train wreck with no casualties."

"Sugar," he sighed, "all wrecks have casualties. Just...be careful."

She nodded against his shoulder. "I will. I promise."

Cal woke to the ringing of his cell phone playing the theme from a popular action film. He reached for it, knocked it off the table and almost fell out of bed retrieving it.

"Damn," he muttered as he fumbled it open. "Hello!" he said belligerently.

"Well," Edie's voice came over the phone. "If that isn't a happy welcome!"

"Sorry. I dropped the damned thing," he muttered. "What time is it?"

"Eleven o'clock. Where are you? Weren't we supposed to have lunch today?"

"Lunch." He scowled. Now he remembered. He'd almost stood her up by offering to take Amelia to Eb Scott's place today, until she'd remarked that he must need rest. Something Edie was never concerned about. She didn't like illness or hospitals and avoided both.

"Yes, lunch! How soon can you be here?" she wanted to know.

He blinked his eyes. Food had no place in his thoughts at the moment. "About an hour, I guess."

"I made the reservations for eleven thirty," she said tersely. "It will be an inconvenience if I have to cancel them and sweet-talk the ma?tre d' into holding our table."

"I don't frankly give a damn," he shot back. "Eat it yourself!" He hung up.

Edie was adversarial when she wanted something, and she made his life miserable if he didn't fall in with her wishes. He was getting tired of it. He didn't like having a woman try to lead him around by the nose.

He showered and shaved. The phone had been ringing constantly. He finally answered it.

"I'm sorry," Edie said in a wheedling tone. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to sound so horrible, and when you're only just back in the States."

He relented, a little. "One more time, and you can find another friend to take you out," he said coldly. "Understand?"

Her indrawn breath was audible. He could almost hear her teeth grinding.

"Okay," she choked. "I get it."

"Fine. I'll be there in thirty minutes. We can get a hamburger someplace."

"I changed the reservation. Half an hour will be fine. Really."

"All right."

He hung up. She was becoming a liability. He felt sorry for her, because she didn't mix well, and she had a drinking problem. But pity only carried a man so far. He preferred Amelia, who was gentle and kindhearted and fun to be around. She wasn't as sophisticated as Edie, or as pretty, but she was a far better companion, despite her age. Not that he had any serious thoughts about Amelia. She, like Edie, had to be just a friend. He had plans, and they didn't involve white picket fences.

"I really am sorry that I was so brash," Edie told him while they ate their way through late lunch at one of San Antonio's finest restaurants.

"We all have bad days," he remarked.

"I have lots of those," she said with a sigh. She was picking at a salmon salad without much enthusiasm.

"Why do you spend so much time alone?" he asked her. "Don't you have friends besides me?"

"Loads of them. Rich people with connections," she said, laughing. "The best kind."

He frowned. "Money doesn't buy character."

She made a gesture with her fork. "It pays bills, though, and gets you where you want to be in life. I wouldn't be poor for anything!"

He was remembering Juba in the Ngawan village, a kid who had nothing but who was always smiling.

Edie, never observant, still noted his changed expression. "What did I say?" she wanted to know.

He shrugged. "There's this kid. Juba," he added with a nostalgic smile. "His parents were killed in one of the incursions, and he has nobody of his own except a distant cousin. One of our group is thinking about bringing him over here..."

"Good God, what for?" she exploded, wide-eyed. "As if we don't already have so many parasitic poor people pouring in here!"

The waiter, who'd just stopped by to ask about dessert, had a closed and locked expression.

"Nada mas, gracias,"Cal told him. He added in a low tone, "Lo siento. Mi amiga sabe nada sobre el gente quien tiene nada sin que El Dios. Entiende?"

The waiter smiled at him. He nodded. "Mil gracias."

"La comida es muy sabroso,"he added, smiling. "Pero no nos gusta tener los pasteles. Pues, mas café, por favor?"

"At once," the waiter said in perfect English and went away.

"You speak that awful language?" Edie asked curtly. She was fidgeting in her chair, nervous and getting more unsettled by the minute. "People who work in this country should speak English!"

"The waiter is from the Yucatan," Cal said icily. "His first language is Mayan. His second language is Spanish. His third language is English."

She blinked. It wasn't registering. She had beads of sweat on her forehead. "Why is it so hot in here?" she muttered. "They need to fix the air-conditioning."

"It's cool," he said, puzzled. She was wearing a short-sleeved dress. There was no reason that she should be complaining about the heat.

She wiped her forehead. "Easy for you to say," she muttered.

The waiter was back with the coffee. He served it, took Cal's credit card back to pay the bill and returned promptly, leaving the ticket in its little book on the table with a smile at Cal and ignoring Edie entirely.

"No manners," she grumbled as the waiter left. "He didn't even wish me a good afternoon."

"You're the one with no manners," Cal snapped as he finished his coffee. "And this is very likely our last lunch together."

He got up, leaving her to follow.

Once they were outside, he was almost vibrating with anger. She'd shamed him with her behavior. It wasn't something he'd seen in her before. He didn't like it.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled as she joined him on the sidewalk. "I don't feel well. I need to go home."

He took a long breath. He led her to the car, drove her home, saw her to her door and started to leave.

"Don't you want to come in?" she asked. "And have a drink?"

He turned and looked at her with an expression that could have started fires. "I do not," he said coldly. "Goodbye."

"Cal, I'm sorry," she wailed. "I'm really sorry!"

"You're always sorry," he said icily. "But you never change."

She shifted restlessly. "I have problems."

"Everybody has damned problems," he shot back curtly. "But most people just endure and get on with their lives. You make everybody around you miserable because you can't live with yourself!"

She glared at him. "I'm going in now."

"Then go."

He went back to his car and drove away. He didn't even spin gravel getting onto the road.

Edie picked up a vase on a table beside the door and slammed it into the carpet, shattering it. She hated Cal. She hated people who weren't in her social class. She hated the world.

She poured herself a large whiskey and sat down to drink it. She hated herself, she thought miserably. But drinking helped. It helped a lot. When she drank enough, she could forget her problems.

Cal would come back, she told herself. He always did, no matter how mad she made him. He was just tired. Sure. That was it. She had another swallow of her drink. She was already feeling much better.

Cal picked up Amelia at her house the next day. She was wearing sweats, neat gray ones.

He chuckled. "You dressed the part, I see," he teased.

"Well, I don't have a karate kit or anything," she replied, smiling. "This was the next best thing. Will it be okay, you think?"

He sighed. "It will be fine," he assured her, mentally comparing her behavior with Edie's. They were polar opposites.

"Is it karate or tae kwon do or tai chi that we'll do?" she asked. "I've been reading up," she added with a grin.

He chuckled. "Eb teaches all three. But mostly it's tae kwon do." He glanced at her. "What we learn for combat is pretty different."

"Different how?" she wanted to know.

"What Eb teaches at the school is defensive martial arts. In the military, or in merc work, you learn killing techniques."

"Oh."

"Don't tell me, you're squeamish," he teased.

She shrugged. "I can't even kill a mouse," she confessed sheepishly. "I caught one in the kitchen once, in a mason jar. Granddaddy said to kill it. I just couldn't. When he went to take his nap, I took it out to the back garden and let it go."

"It probably made its way right back into the house," he pointed out.

She laughed. "There were all sorts of delicious vegetables in the garden that year," she recalled. "Plus, I kept sneaking crackers and guinea pig pellets out to him."

"Amelia, you're hopeless," he groaned.

She chuckled. "I like animals. What can I say? I'd have loved a cat or a dog. I wish Granddaddy wasn't allergic. But I'd rather have him than a dozen pets."

"He's a sweet man," he agreed.

She sighed. "I wish his sister was," she groaned. "There aren't enough bad words to describe her."

"Where does she live?"

"Victoria, thank goodness, but she's coming to visit next week for a few days. She'll complain about her room and the food and the temperature in the house and then she'll mention all the things I need to correct about my looks and my behavior..."

"What's wrong with your looks?" he asked curtly, glancing at her. "And your behavior is great."

She flushed. "Wow. Thanks."

He shrugged. "You're not like a lot of women, who think they should have every wish granted, every complaint seen to at once."

"That sounds as if you know one," she fished.

"I do. She embarrassed the hell out of me at a restaurant, making nasty remarks about immigrants."

Her face softened as she looked at him. "We have this couple down the street, the Gomezes. They have three kids. They're some of the nicest people you'd ever want to know. Mrs. Gomez has been teaching me Spanish. I babysit her kids when she has to take her husband to the doctor. He's diabetic and he won't eat right, so he goes into comas periodically."

His heart melted. He compared that behavior with Edie's and just shook his head. "We have some Hispanic operatives in our group. Fine men." His face tautened. "That friend of mine remarked about how everyone living here should speak our language. I talked to our waiter, who was Mayan. He spoke three languages."

"That's impressive," she said softly. "People who put them down just don't know them, Cal," she added quietly. "A lot of the problem is they only learn about immigrants from what they hear on the so-called news."

He chuckled. "So-called news?"

"Try getting any real news out of them," she grumbled. "They're so busy not offending anyone that they're scared to tell the real news. They're an entertainment, not a source of information. Granddaddy says that reporters he used to know would refuse to work for any of the TV news stations, because they had integrity, and the TV news has none."

"I have to confess that I feel exactly that way." He pulled into a huge compound near a towering Victorian house, surrounded by quonset huts. "And we're here," he said, as a tall, rangy man in boots and jeans and a Stetson noted their arrival and started toward them as they got out of the car.

"Hi, Eb," Cal greeted him, shaking hands. "Remember Amelia?" he asked wickedly. He leaned forward. "She knows how to blow up stuff!"