Chapter Eight

Stryker

The next morning was crisp and cool as he and John pulled into the driveway at the lake house and parked among the row of vehicles the team owned. Last night's conversation had left more questions in Stryker's mind than he had to begin with, and he didn't like that.

"Do you think Brick will have any answers about who's supposedly after me?" John asked from the passenger seat.

"I don't think; I know he will. Brick isn't a person who deals with ambiguities. Facts matter to him, and he's definitely the man who gets the facts."

"You have a lot of faith in him."

Stryker snorted. "Trust me, it's not blind faith. Brick has proven himself over and over again to me and many other people. If there's one person I can always count on, it's him."

"I hope you're right and he's found some answers. I want this to be over once and for all."

Stryker could hear the frustration in John's voice. "If I have anything to say about it, it will be. I promise you that."

John glanced over at Stryker, looking as if he wanted to say something, then quickly looked away. Stryker wasn't the type of guy to force anyone to do anything they didn't want, so he let it go. John would say what was on his mind when he was good and ready.

They walked into the lake house, which was a hive of activity. Ben and Sammie were playing with their Lego blocks on the living room floor while Rick and Julia were cooking. Brick, Roman, Gunner, Jason, and Gator sat around the kitchen table, working on their laptops or reading the paper. It was just another typical family day for the Fire Lake team.

"Morning, guys," Julia said. "You want some breakfast?"

Stryker was never one to say no to food. "That'd be great, thank you."

They sat at the kitchen table, and Rick brought them two cups of coffee.

"Thanks," John said.

"No problem. Plenty more where that came from," Rick said, pointing over at Julia's coffeemaker extraordinaire. The thing had more bells and whistles than the first human-crewed space flight to the moon.

"What do we have?" Stryker asked.

Brick turned his laptop so that they could see the screen.

"Looks like who's ever behind the initial shooting still has a few irons in the fire today," Brick said.

"Irons in the fire?" John asked.

"Means whoever it is, is still in the game. They're out there, and there's something they're looking for," Stryker explained. "Any idea who or what it is?"

John shook his head in bemusement. "Not a clue."

Brick nodded. "Okay. I'd like to show you a picture of someone and see if you recognize him, John."

Brick hit a button on the keyboard and up popped the picture of a dark-haired man with a full beard and a scar that ran across his forehead.

Stryker heard John's quick intake of breath.

"That's the guy that used to come over to our house for dinner on the weekends," John said excitedly. "I was young when he started visiting, right up until they were shot when I was sixteen. My dad and he would barbecue, and I always wondered where his family was because he never brought anybody else with him."

"I'd like you to meet the Russian operative your father had helped defect from the former Soviet Union. This is Aleksandr Popov."

"Did you ever see him after your parents were shot?" Gunner asked.

"Yes. He stopped by my aunt's home, where I went to stay a couple of times over the years afterward, to give his condolences and stay in touch. I never thought anything of it because he was a friend of my dad's for as long as I could remember. I think the last time I saw him was at the lake the summer I turned twenty-one. It was July fourth, and my family, or what was left of them, we were having a barbecue."

"And you didn't see him after that?" Brick asked.

"No, he never stopped by again. I thought maybe he moved away. Were my parents killed because of this guy?"

"I'm not one hundred percent convinced of that just yet," answered Brick. "But we've only just scratched the surface of this case. We've reviewed the previous police records and found a lot of redacted text."

"What the hell?"

"Yeah, they redacted a shitload of stuff. Likely military," Jason said. "Anything remotely sensitive got blacked out or removed."

"How come no one ever mentioned this to us before?" John asked.

Jason shrugged. "It could've been your age, or the fact it involved military secrets. We don't know at this point. However, whatever this man and your father were working on before the shooting must have been pretty high level for us to be getting the roadblocks we're getting."

"Roadblocks? Are you saying we won't be able to find the truth because the powers that be won't allow it?" John asked.

"Not entirely," Brick said. "I've never been one to follow customary channels or chains of command. And I've found if you shake a tree hard enough, something always falls out. Until we have more answers, Stryker will be your shadow."

"You honestly believe my father and this man were working on something that got us shot and that there's a threat to me after two decades? He was a pilot. And if so, why wasn't this Aleksandr shot as well?"

"Maybe they needed him for something," Stryker added.

"Not only do I believe there's a threat, I'm counting on it," Brick answered.

"What?" John coughed out. "You want the threat to be real?"

"The only way we're going to get some answers may be by flushing out the enemy, and the only way to flush out the enemy is for them to come after you."

"Hey, I may have wanted to cash in my chips over twenty years ago when my parents were shot and killed, but I'm not in a hurry to die just yet," John stated.

Brick smiled. "You're family now. We'd never allow that to happen." He stared meaningfully at Stryker. "And Stryker here would certainly fight tooth and nail to keep you safe."

Stryker nodded in agreement with the other men at the table. He ignored Brick's sly comment. "Damn right."

***

John

Family. The word kept rattling around in his brain. Brick said he was family. It warmed John's heart even though he'd left the lake house with more questions than answers. Was his father working on something with the Russian? And if they'd been working on something, what could that be? His father had been a pilot in the Air Force. But what if there was more to his father than John even knew? Could his father have been involved in something shady?

The moment the thought entered his mind, John shoved it away. His father had been a good man, a loyal friend, and passionate about his service to this country. He'd never do anything that could be construed as less than honorable.

"Are you okay?" Stryker asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"Because we've been parked outside the grocery store for the last five minutes, and you haven't even noticed."

John looked around and finally realized they'd stopped moving and were parked outside the grocery store in the middle of Marshall.

"Okay, so maybe I'm not all right. I'd hoped to come away from that meeting with more answers; instead, I'm questioning who my father was. There were things going on behind the scenes I had no idea about."

Stryker sighed. "You were very young. You'd never have noticed anything odd happening or assumed this friend of your father was anyone other than who they said he was. Perhaps they were protecting you from the truth, or they may not have even known what danger they were in."

"Yeah, you're right. But it's still not stopping me from rethinking every conversation we had and everything he did and said."

"How about we go in and pick up some groceries, and I'll make you dinner tonight. Maybe it'll help you take your mind off this for a little while. I make one hell of a chili, or at least that's what the team has told me, and I don't think they'd bullshit me."

John couldn't help but smile. "That sounds good. I can make garlic bread to go with it.".

"For sure. Let's go."

They were in and out of the store in under fifteen minutes. As John expected, Stryker was very efficient. It was a military operation being executed with precise movements and timing. There was no lollygagging, zigzagging, or pondering to consider which tomato paste to use. He just seemed to know exactly what he needed and picked it out.

John wished he could be so decisive. He'd debate, analyze, overanalyze, make a pros and cons list, and do more research before deciding anything. He needed to be more confident—surer of himself and what he wanted in life. It was time for him to take control of his life, make it his mission.

Maybe Stryker could help him with that.

***

"You weren't kidding when you said you cook a mean chili," John stated. "That's the best damn chili I've ever had, and I've eaten in a lot of diners in my day."

Stryker leaned back in his chair, and John wasn't positive, but he swore the big man blushed.

"Thanks. I've had a lot of years to perfect the recipe, considering the team were always willing guinea pigs."

"Well, I'll be your guinea pig any day if you keep cooking like that."

"Maybe you won't have to visit the diner as much as you do."

"Maybe." John laughed.

Stryker stood and began clearing the dishes.

"Hold on, you cooked, I'll clean," John said as he took the dishes from Stryker's hand. "Go sit down and watch television or something. You need a break."

Stryker smiled and did as he was told. Soon enough, John did his chores and grabbed some beers from the fridge before joining Stryker in the living room.

"Who's playing?"

"The Houston Astros and the Toronto Blue Jays. The Astros are up by two."

John handed him one of the beers and sat in the second La-Z-Boy chair. He had to admit Gator's apartment was decked out comfortably. There were two La-Z-Boy recliners, a large couch, a coffee table, and a big-screen TV. It was all a man could ever ask for.

They sat in amicable silence as the game continued. John didn't know a whole lot about baseball, but he wasn't a newbie either. It seemed like Stryker, though, was really into the game—talking back to the TV and arguing with some of the umpire's calls. It was great fun watching him be so animated, considering he was always such a stoic person.

"Why do they call you Stryker?" John asked.

"Because I hit everything I aim at," Stryker answered without taking his eyes off the game.

"Seriously? That has to be a talent."

"It comes in handy on the battlefield, that's for sure."

"I imagine it does. Has it always been that way?"

"I never really noticed it as a kid, but when I hit boot camp, and they began training us on how to use a gun, it came up pretty fast. I'd hit the mark every time."

"I bet that caught people's attention."

"Oh yeah, but Gunner's better at longer distances than I am; that's why he's the team sniper. Anything over a couple thousand yards is his area of expertise."

"It's cool how each of you has your specialties. Things you're good at."

"It's better to have a well-rounded team. Spencer can find and do anything with a computer system. I can take out incoming hostiles without missing. Jason can fly almost anything; Gator is the explosive specialist. Fletcher has the most stamina and can keep going when the rest of us can barely move; Shaw has a knack for convincing people of things and getting us into places. And Conor, well, you know about his gifts, and he's become indispensable to the team. Brick is the man who holds us all together and brings out the best in all of us. Without him, there'd be no team."

Stryker spoke with such conviction that John didn't doubt his words. He reclined back to watch the game. It was nice not being alone. Eventually, he supposed, this arrangement would end, and he'd be on his own again. So he'd soak in as much companionship as possible.

A while later, Stryker turned to him. "Do you play the violin often?"

"Now and again. Not much recently with being so busy with the new store. Why?"

"I haven't heard you play it since the Christmas party. I wondered when you'd ever play again."

John remembered that embarrassing moment well, and Stryker must have sensed something was off.

"Are you still worried about having an asthma attack again? Does it happen often when you play the violin?"

"No. Just that one time," John said.

Yeah, the one time a gorgeous, intense Navy SEAL was staring at me like he could read my soul.

"Good, because you're amazing. It would be a shame for you not to play."

"I am?"

"Of course," Stryker said in surprise. "You don't know that?"

"Elias asked me as a favor. He wanted it to be special for Fletcher's engagement. I don't usually play in front of people." His mother used to say he had a gift, but after her death, he'd stopped playing for years.

"Oh, that's too bad."

John had the distinct impression that Stryker was disappointed. He didn't like that. He was finding he cared more and more about how the big guy felt.

"Would you like me to play for you?"

Stryker's eyes went wide. "Would you?"

"Sure."

John stood and went to his bedroom. He'd be fine if he didn't look at Stryker while he played. He grabbed his violin case and brought it out to the living room.

"Anything special you'd like to hear?" John asked.

"You choose for me."

John thought about it for a moment and went with a classic.

"The Lark Ascendingwas inspired by a poem by George Meredith and composed by Ralph Vaughan Williams. I always imagine a bird flying when I play it, which makes sense, I guess," John said, his cheeks heating up. Why was he acting like he'd never played in front of someone before?

He shook out his arms and picked up his violin. He loved playing. It had been one of his mother's hobbies and left an indelible mark on John. As he ran the bow over the strings, air filled his lungs, and soon he was lost in the melody, imagining the bird wings fluttering ever faster, higher, before soaring free and diving low among the trees.

This happened to him every time he played. The music would take him on a journey of emotions that fed through him and out his violin. As the notes floated in the air, he felt electrified and more full of life than at any other time. This was his solace, his reprieve from a world that could be cold and lonely.

John remembered his mother's joy when she played and his father's captivated stare that took them into their own private world. They'd had a language of their own, and John would never forget the look on his father's face as he'd close his eyes, letting his mother's music flow over him, and was at peace. That was love. A great love.

As the melody wound down, John opened his eyes and was struck by the man sitting before him with his eyes closed and that same familiar look on his face. Peace.

Perhaps this was the way to the man's friendship—perhaps even his heart. Because John was beginning to think more about Stryker in a way that wasn't exactly only friendship.