Ghost Recon

FOURTEEN

Mitchell parked the rental car outside the old house, making sure he was at least six feet ahead of the mailbox. Then he got out and opened the trunk to fetch his duffel bag.

Dad's blood pressure would rise because Mitchell had rented a foreign car instead of a GM. Dad had spent thirty years at the General Motors Assembly Plant in Lordstown, working his way up to foreman. He had taught Mitchell his fierce sense of loyalty to people, products, and ideas.

But Mitchell had a coupon, and he was decidedly more loyal to his own wallet. While Ghosts did receive bonuses and special allowances for clothing and food, keeping the world safe from terror and destruction still paid less than 60K a year. Sure, he had few expenses and a nice nest egg and retirement, but being frugal in an unstable economy was just plain smart.

However, none of those arguments would work on Dad.

Mitchell shut the trunk and checked his watch: 16:30 hours. He was thirty minutes past his ETA. Blame it on the airline. He drew in a long breath through his nose. Clean air. It was good to be home.

He had made a quick stop back in '09 for the holidays, feeling good about seeing everyone and about his work in Eritrea, and then there had been Cuba in the following year, with missions against those narco-terrorist Colombians. Mitchell had earned himself yet another Silver Star and had chosen to remain a Ghost Team leader, despite being slated for promotion and the promise of more pay. He'd forgo the money and remain behind a weapon instead of a computer. And when it was time to step off the battlefield, he'd return to Fort Bragg to become an instructor. He'd already done a few stints of that, was scheduled to instruct again, and enjoyed paying it forward.

Earlier in the year his missions in North Korea and Kazakhstan had gone exceedingly well. While he continued to keep himself out of the politics that threatened the security and success of nearly every deployment, it still frustrated him when the Ghosts scored a win that could never be shared with the public.

He started up the long walkway toward the house, a two-story Colonial Revival-style home built in 1920 with white shingles and a large American flag flying beside the garage door. This was Mitchell's boyhood home, and the older he got, the smaller the house seemed. It did have four bedrooms, with that second bathroom that Dad had added over twenty years ago. And most recently, Dad had erected a white picket fence around the entire property. Dad was a small-town boy with small-town sensibilities that would never change. "Now I'm living the dream," he'd said, marveling over the fence.

Mitchell mounted the steps to the porch and, with his attention focused on the sounds of the TV coming from inside, he nearly fell on his rump as he tripped over a radio-controlled car that he assumed belong to his little nephew Brandon, who at seven was unaware of Dad's strict policy regarding guest parking.

Mitchell gently booted the car aside, yanked open the screen door, then pushed in the heavy wooden one and yelled, "This is the United States Army. Put down your alcohol and come out with your hands up!"

He stepped into the entrance foyer, immediately accosted by the incessant ticking of Dad's tall grandfather clock and that smell, a cross between wood chips and wool, that always permeated the house.

His sister, Jennifer, who preferred Jenn, came rushing down the hall from the kitchen with her arms extended, crying, "Scott!"

She was the youngest of the four children, only twenty-nine, and Mitchell recoiled as he saw how much weight she had lost. The last time he'd seen her, just after baby Lisa had been born, she was at least thirty pounds heavier. While growing up, she had always been a bit mousy, avoiding eye contact when she could, and at barely five feet tall, it was easy not to notice her. Yet after the baby had been born, it was as if a new mother had been born, one who was loud and outgoing.

Now she was even thinner than before getting pregnant, and he barely took her in before her bear hug threatened to expel the airline peanuts from his gut.

When she released him, she pulled back and traced a finger over his sideburn. "Is that gray hair?"

"Ah, got some paint on me or something," he muttered.

"You're getting old, Scott."

"Thanks for the tip. Hey, uh, I almost killed myself out there on Brandon's car."

"Oh, that's not Brandon's. It's Gerry's."

Mitchell snorted. Gerry was Jenn's husband, a software designer who made serious money. They lived in Northern California in an 8,000-square-foot multimillion-dollar home. Despite his keen business sense and remarkable work ethic, Gerry obviously still liked his toys, big boy and little boy. "So where is the geek?" Mitchell asked. "I'll have him arrested for attempted murder."

"Shut up, you idiot. Hey, everybody! Scott's here!"

He followed her into the kitchen, where, as he had expected, Tommy and Nicholas were seated at the long bar nursing beers while watching a Buckeyes game on Dad's little thirteen-inch TV because Dad had the new plasma screen mounted in his bedroom.

Nicholas, who was now sporting a pair of trendy, plastic-framed glasses, had earned his undergraduate and graduate degrees in mechanical engineering and had secured a tenure-track teaching position at the University of Central Florida.

Tommy was no good with the books and had always worked with his hands. For a while, he and Mitchell had both worked as assistants at the same auto repair shop in Youngstown, one now called Mitchell's Auto Body and Repair and owned by Tommy himself.

"Ten-hut," shouted Nicholas, who was second oldest behind Mitchell. "Knucklehead on deck!"

Mitchell came around the bar and gave his brother a firm handshake and what they liked to call a "man hug," not too close, buddy. "And there he is," Mitchell began as Tommy, just thirty-one years old, rose and offered his hand. "The last American bachelor and grease monkey."

"That was never me," said Tommy, giving him a slap on the back. "That's you."

"I married the army."

"Well, I have to tell you, Scott, my wife-to-be is a whole lot prettier than yours."

"Yep, lured away into the world of diapers and mini-vans, and all it took was a woman who'd actually have sex with you!" Mitchell slapped Tommy's newly soft gut.

That drew a big laugh from Nicholas and Jenn as Tommy frowned and shook his head. "Get a haircut," was all he could say; then he returned to the game.

Mitchell's hair was high and tight, as always. "Where's Dad?" he asked Jenn.

"He's out back in the shop."

"Hey, what time do we have to be there tomorrow?"

Tommy snorted, interrupting Jenn. "Why do you ask? You got plans? Too busy to see your brother get married?"

"If you want to know the truth, it was pretty hard to fit you into my schedule…" Mitchell's tone softened. "But I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Well, best man, you need to be at the church by eight thirty."

"Oh eight thirty. I'll be there. So you didn't tell me where Gerry is. And where's Angela?" he asked, the latter being Nicholas's wife of five years, also a scholar who refused to answer questions about when they were having kids.

"Angela's cooking, so they went to get stuff for dinner while we waited for you. We're having pot roast."

"I thought you were vegan."

"I am — three hundred and sixty-four days a year."

"You're a trip." He grinned and turned as Nicholas pushed a beer into his hand.

"It's great to see you, Scott." Nicholas was getting choked up.

"You, too. I'm going to go say hi to Dad."

Nicholas snickered. "Good luck. He's kind of cranky today."

"Today?" Mitchell winked and headed out past the sliding glass doors. He walked across the long backyard, the brown, gold, and orange leaves crunching underfoot.

Dad's woodworking shop was actually a two-car garage he'd had built about a year after Mom had died. Dad had spent many weekends cutting, routing, sawing, and sanding, and everyone said it was good therapy for him. Mitchell was only fourteen when Mom had died, and her loss was devastating to them all. She had been born in Latvia, in the Saldus district, and Mitchell could still hear her thick accent: "You must do your homework. You must study. You must not throw away the great opportunities of your life!"

She had worked hard to become a pharmacist, and when she had passed, Mitchell had taken on the role of rearing his younger siblings because Dad worked overtime to support them. But Dad still managed to teach Mitchell a strong sense of leadership that he passed on to his brothers and sister.

Mitchell crossed around to the side door, which was cracked open. "Dad?" He pushed open the door.

His father, William David Mitchell, had donned a pair of denim overalls, and his sizable gut tented up the central pockets. He had a flat-sided carpenter's pencil behind his ear and was staring down the edge of a long piece of pine he had balanced on one of his tables. Dad glanced up, a thin layer of white stubble rising from his jaw. "Well, well, well, the prodigal son returns home in his foreign-made rental car."

"You haven't been here the whole time?"

"Nope. I saw you pull up."

"And then what? You came running out? You trying to avoid me?"

"You?" He chuckled under his breath. "You know I hate all that hello crap. Damn house is so noisy with everybody here."

"Nice to see you, too. What are you making?"

"A tortoise table."

Mitchell's mouth fell open. "A what?"

He grinned. "Just kidding. Your sister forwarded me a couple of your e-mails way back when. All those weekends out here with me, and you're not even building furniture anymore? Doghouses and turtle houses?"

"I just finished up a real nice piece for my company commander. It's a custom footlocker for stowing military mementos. I even engraved it."

"Yeah, well I'm working on a nice box myself. Figure I'll save you kids a lot of money once I croak."

"What do you mean? You're not… you're building your own coffin?"

His eyes widened. "Absolutely."

"Dad, is there something you want to tell me? I thought the stress test went okay."

"It did."

"So what are you doing? Tommy's getting married tomorrow. Does marriage make you think about—"

"No. It makes me think about your mother. About missing her. That's all. I'm happy for your brother."

"You don't think this is weird?"

"It's morbid, yeah. But weird? Nah. It's smart. We'll save a lot of money, and I'll go out in style, in a box I made. You can't beat that."

"Whatever you say." Mitchell shifted up to his father and gave him an awkward hug. "They're making a pot roast."

"I know. I say we eat, get drunk, and you can tell us all about your missions. You got any juicy stuff? You meet any beautiful frauleins who are double agents?"

Mitchell chuckled. "Dad, it's all pretty boring."

"Uh-huh. And speaking of frauleins, you know Tommy's fiancee just hired an accountant — and she got invited to the wedding."

"And I should care because…"

"It's Kristin."

Mitchell slumped. "Oh, man."

"You haven't seen her in a long time."

"And I don't think she'd mind a few more centuries."

"Whatever happened between you two is water under the bridge. She's still single, and she teaches one of those kick-step whatever classes at the gym, too."

"How do you know? You've been talking to her?"

"She did my taxes this year. Gave me a good deal."

"But Dad, you know how it is. It never works out."

"One day it will. And I guess I'm just selfish, Scott. What can I tell you? Maybe you can fall in love with her, quit the army, and come back home so your old man can enjoy a few more years with his firstborn son."

"That's your plan?"

Dad wiggled his brows, then he frowned as his gaze lowered to Mitchell's bottle. "You come all the way out here with just one beer?"

"Take a break, Dad. Come on. You can build your coffin another day."

"Okay, but at the wedding, just don't ignore Kristin. Dance with her. Talk to her."

Mitchell gave a reluctant nod. "I'll try. Hopefully she won't draw blood."