Mission Improbable

MISSION: IMPROBABLE

OCTOBER 2023

"I'm not your guy," John Worthy said. His tone was a razor, edgy and sharp. How many more times and different ways could he say it? He wasn't in the Army anymore, and Hank Patterson wasn't his CO. "That guy is gone. Even if he wasn't and I was still that guy? I don't have the training or the inclination. Why do you think I'm here?" He swept his arm in an all-encompassing gesture that took in the lake, the mountains, his horse tied to a nearby tree. "I came to Brighter Days to get away from all that. I mean, for God's sake, I still have nightmares."

"Join the club." Plucking a blade of feathery wild grass from a tuft at the lake's edge, Patterson stuck the tough stem in a corner of his mouth. Outfitted in chambray, worn jeans, dusty cowboy hat, and scuffed boots, Patterson looked like a harmless, middle-aged poke in need of company and a good jaw. A guy who'd just happened to seek out the same mountain lake at the same time. At least Patterson had done him the favor of not playing all sheepish and surprised and going all folksy with some story like, Whoa, didn't know anyone was up here, bucko. Sure is a purty day, though, ain't it? Say, mind if I rest mah dogs and set a spell ? Well, all right, Patterson had said set a spell.

"We all have memories we can't shake, John." Patterson shrugged. "This is a chance for you to put some of that to rest."

"By going back to Afghanistan?" Of all the harebrained, half-baked… "I'm leaving Brighter Days next week and putting all this in my rear-view."

"Perfect timing then, isn't it? To pick up the threads of your life again?"

"We're not talking about mending a sweater, Patterson. You're talking about a mission . About me becoming one of your…whatchamacallits."

"Brotherhood Protectors."

"Yeah, them . Except you're not asking me to protect anyone. You're asking me to potentially take out someone."

"To protect others. To save lives." Patterson paused. "I hear you're an excellent shot. In fact, from the scuttlebutt, I'm surprised you never competed for the Wimbledon Cup."

John opened his mouth to reply then closed it. He knew the competition. The Wimbledon Cup was awarded annually for really long-range rifle shooting, as in a thousand yards. Probably the most famous guy to win that award was the same make-believe ex-Army guy from the thriller novels Roni's dad loved so much. John wondered if her father had seen the TV series based on the same novels. Because talk about muscle-bound. The actor was like the Incredible Hulk, only better looking and not green.

How did Patterson have any information on what John could do with a rifle? Yeah, yeah, there was his time at DCC, but he couldn't believe Patterson would canvas every shooting range around Fort Benning…well, Fort Moore now.

The only other possibility was that Patterson knew about what had happened when he was fourteen—and in the blink of an eye, he was there, again, huddling with the other kids as his teacher whispered, frantically, Everyone, stay calm. Everyone be still. Be quiet, kids. Sshh, sshh. Don't let him hear... Then, the rattle of the knob as whoever was out there tried the door. And then that horrible moment when the thumb lock failed—a thumb lock to keep out a killer, because no one could have imagined such a thing like this could happen. This happened to other kids in other places, not?—

"You okay there, John?"

"Yes." He ground out the word. "I'm fine."

Patterson didn't know. The records were sealed. Even his therapist at Brighter Days didn't know. The boy John had been no longer existed. The man he was—the guy named John Worthy who stared from the mirror every morning—wasn't on anyone's radar, much less their memory. There was no link. Do a search for what had happened back then now , and you'd have to look really, really, really hard.

Still, he'd been so paranoid, he didn't believe when Stan, the federal marshal assigned to his case, said Uncle Sam would take care of the military and med school. Don't you worry about any of that, Stan once had said . Lean and lanky, Stan had a soft, easy drawl that was more Kentucky than Texas. John always wondered if the other marshals in the Wisconsin office maybe joshed Stan about channeling Timothy Olyphant .

You did the only thing you could, Stan had said. There was no one to help, no one to call. You had to act, and you did. Uncle Sam's got your back, kid. Depend on it.

"So, how come?" Patterson asked.

"How come what?" Relaxing his fists, he saw the ruby crescents where his nails had scored flesh. He had to think. "You mean, how come I never competed for the Cup? You know what they say. Doctors shoot about as well as they can march." Patterson opened his mouth to respond, but John bulled on. "Back to your main point, Patterson, I'm just not interested in a mission. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. And I don't need any brothers, blood or otherwise. I'm fine on my own."

"Uh-huh. You were doing real fine, John." Patterson slid him a sidelong glance. "So fine you ended up at Brighter Days."

"That," he said, "was pretty damned low. I'm not the first vet to have problems." Patterson was trying to get his fingernails under his skin was all, trying to find a magic formula that would get John to agree. He couldn't possibly know what had happened when John walked into a crowded grocery store four months back. Just thinking about it made John's skin go pebbly with gooseflesh. There'd been a lot of people in the store that Thursday when he'd elbowed his way over to pick up a melon. But then the walls closed in, the gabble of voices got loud, and then John couldn't breathe, felt boxed in, and heard a panicky voice from his past: Sshh, sshh, don't cry, kids, please, be quiet, please, please, please, he'll find us...

That was when he started picking out targets. Decided who he'd have to kill first then second then third to make it back to the exit.

Old lady in red at ten o'clock. Guy with the beer gut at noon. Mom with the kid in the cart, left of the cashier… pop-pop-pop.

As soon as he was out, he'd sprint to his car, dive into the front seat, grab the Glock from the holster he'd attached with Velcro to the underside of the dash because Glocks didn't have safeties, which meant all he had to do was point and shoot?—

Right then and there, still clutching a ripe cantaloupe so hard it should've burst the way the bullet from an AR-15 obliterates a man's skull, John had decided: Brighter Days, or wind up as a statistic, a one-minute segment on the evening news about yet another veteran who'd decided he liked the taste of gunmetal more than living.

When he was pretty sure he wasn't going to throttle Patterson, he said, "I came here because I had to."

"You could've chosen a different path. Eaten your gun, run your car off a cliff, put your head in a noose."

This clown was Captain Obvious. "Yeah but think of the mess."

"What I mean is, coming here was brave. Working through pain takes guts because you've got to tear yourself down and build yourself up until you become a person you can believe in again. Someone who knows that no matter what the world throws at him, he can take it."

"Is this when we go all mano a mano , roll up our sleeves for a nice friendly arm-wrestle and then pop a beer? Or do we just compare muscles? I got to tell ya, when it comes to abs, I'm about four cans shy of a six-pack. Save the he-man psychobabble for someone else, Patterson. You've known me for exactly—" John gave his watch a pointed look. "Twenty minutes. Which, in my book, is about nineteen minutes and thirty seconds too long."

"I know enough." Patterson paused. "And I've seen all your files."

Crap. John's gut iced. The way Patterson said that… He knows. No matter what Stan said, Patterson... He had to calm down. Breathe, be cool. Just breathe. He wasn't fourteen anymore. John Worthy knew how to handle questions and innuendo.

"And?" he said. "So?"

" So , I've talked to some people. They all agree you're the man for the job. In fact, they requested you."

"Who's they ?"

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that information before you agree. Do that, and then I'll read you in as much as I'm able."

Which, John figured, translated into no promises.

"I don't care who requested me." He pushed to his feet. "I'd say it's been a pleasure, but it hasn't. It's getting on three, and dark comes early in Montana at this time of year. I don't want to be caught on the trail. No good for me. Not good for my horse. We're done here."

"Really?" Patterson didn't move, just kept chewing his damn grass as John headed for his horse. "You're done with Afghanistan?"

"Yup." John yanked on a thief knot to free his horse's reins. " Especially there."

"I see." Patterson waited until John slotted his left foot into a stirrup then said, "Does that mean you're done with Captain Keller?"

What? John froze. His hands fisted in his horse's mane, but he'd be damned if he turned around. He dragged his voice up from the pit of a gut gone suddenly icy. "What does that mean, Patterson?"

"Exactly what I said."

"Which is a lot of nothing." Now, he did turn. "Roni's dead."

Patterson fired off an imaginary bullet with a forefinger. "And that's the nub, right there."

"Nub," John echoed. "You mean the nub of a problem?"

"About what you're being asked to do. When it comes to a soldier we've been forced to leave behind, there's rescue, there's extraction."

"None of which we got. No one even mounted so much as a simple recon to try and locate much less get her back."

"I don't suppose it does any good to remind you that this happened during the Kabul evac and that your mission, as it were, wasn't sanctioned."

Did he detect a note of criticism? Sarcasm in the emphasis on mission ? "I believe what you meant to say was that it was covert, maybe black ops, maybe CIA, but who's keeping score—and not a military operation. Either way, what difference would that make? We're not supposed to leave anyone behind."

"And yet, we did."

"So, what do you want me to do about that?"

"Like I said, there's rescue. There are times we extract a team or soldier in trouble." Slotting a palm into either hip pocket, Patterson cleared his throat. "And there's retrieval."

A beat. Then two—and John's brain finally caught up. "Oh my God." His knees wobbled, and he had to grab onto his mare's saddle. "You found..." He forced the words past a hard knuckle in his throat. "You're talking about Roni's remains ."

"Yes, John," Patterson said. "And Captain Keller needs you to bring her home."