The Lance

CHAPTER FOUR

Selena and Ronnie Peete were in the basement pistol range of the Project building outside of Washington. Ronnie was Navajo, born on the Rez. He was a tough man, yet Selena had seen him reciting a sacred Navajo ritual just before the three of them were about to parachute into the highest mountains on earth.

She thought it an odd mix, a man who could hold on to something sacred or an MP-5 with equal ease. He'd been in Nick's Recon unit in Afghanistan and Iraq, and, she thought, a few other places people didn't usually hear about. Sometimes she felt a little jealous of the bond between the two men.

Ronnie was broad shouldered and narrow hipped. He had sleepy brown eyes that looked out past a large, Roman nose and strong arms that bulged under the short sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt. His skin was the color of the desert on a summer day, light brown blended with a subtle undertone of red.

She watched him lay out two Beretta nine millimeter automatics on the shooting bench.

"How was Arizona?" she said.

"It was great. You been down there?"

"Monument Valley and Four Corners. I've never seen colors like that, the way the light paints the rocks and the desert."

Ronnie nodded. "You can let your mind go in all that space. When the rains come and the clouds build up over the Sacred Mountains, it's one of the most beautiful sights in the world."

He reached in his pocket, took a picture from his wallet. He handed it to Selena. It showed a stout, older woman in front of a low building of wood capped with an earthen roof. A deep red velvet dress, almost purple, reached to her ankles. Around her neck and on her arms and hands she wore heavy jewelry of silver and turquoise. Next to her stood a man in jeans, a plaid shirt and a flat brimmed black Stetson sporting a silver Concho hat band.

"This is my Auntie and Uncle. They're both traditional Navajo. He's a Singer."

"A singer? You mean like rock and roll?"

Ronnie laughed, a deep, belly laugh. "No, a Singer is…like a doctor. Only he's a doctor for restoring harmony, not a doctor with pills. When something bad happens, like sickness or if you break one of the traditional taboos, you call in a Singer. He helps you restore personal harmony. Then everyone feels better."

"Are you traditional?"

"No. It's mostly the old people. But I speak the language and keep the stories in my mind. So I guess I am, in some ways."

He put the picture away and picked up one of the Berettas.

"I don't like these much," he said. "You find them everywhere, so you need to be familiar with them. Our troops carry them and some of our allies."

"Why don't you like them?"

"It takes three or four rounds from one of these to put down someone doped up and ready to die for Allah. Not enough punch with nine mil. Nick likes his H-K. I like Glocks, like the one you've got. They're light, they're reliable and the .40mm will stop anyone."

They shot for a while. Ronnie showed her how to field strip, clean and reassemble the pistol. He had her practice until it felt familiar to her. He timed her and made her increase her speed. Then he blindfolded her and had her practice some more. After another hour he began packing up.

"How long have you known Nick?" Selena asked.

"Eight years. We were in Recon together. Special Ops. He was the best officer I ever served with. Never asked us to do anything he wouldn't."

"Were you there when he got hit? With that grenade?"

Something flickered across Ronnie's face, was gone.

"Yeah, I was there. But I don't really want to talk about it."

"Sorry."

"No, it's not like that." He smiled at her. "I just don't want to talk about it."

"Neither does Nick," she said.

Ronnie picked up a pistol, set it down again.

"You serious about him?"

Selena picked up one of her targets. Round holes in the black.

"He's still in love with Megan," she said.