More Than a Soldier: Forever a Soldier, #2

CHAPTER 1

Hank Fleming peeled off his cold, wet T-shirt and tossed it aside in the dark. The nightmare clung to his psyche even as he stood at his hotel room window staring into the night illuminated by only a stingy sliver of moon. Whitecaps danced like ghostly apparitions across the pitch-black ocean surface, adding to his uneasiness.

Was this reality, here, now, with his toes deep in the plush carpeting of a resort hotel in Miami Beach with the air conditioner humming? Or was the real Hank Fleming still lying on the ground in Afghanistan, a soldier bleeding from multiple wounds with his left eye dangling off his cheekbone by a few threads of nerves?

If only he could erase the images. The sounds. The RPG blast. The roaring fire consuming what was left of the truck he’d been driving with four men inside. But most of all their horrible deaths.

Hank willed his breaths to an even cadence and reined in his galloping heart. The rat-a-tat of M4 rifles, acrid smell of burning rubber, and the unit medic’s face started to dissolve as if being sucked, particle-by-particle, feature-by-feature, back into another realm.

Hank brought his fingers to the eyepatch that covered his left eye socket and pressed the fabric into the hidden void. Reality, harsh and merciless, stung him to the core. He’d lost an eye, hearing in one ear, and bore fading scars where the explosion had hurled shrapnel into his flesh. But, he’d survived while four of his fellow soldiers perished.

Hank lifted his gaze to the crescent moon. Why, God? Why?

Cindy Giordano hurried across the parking lot, threw open the door to Wallis and Jameson Architectural Designs, and stepped inside. A glance at the wall clock brought a sigh of relief. Even with traffic nearly gridlocked, she’d managed to arrive at work a few minutes early.

The receptionist didn’t return her smile.

Good morning, Chloe. I thought I’d be late for sure. A tractor trailer was overturned on Parkview and⁠—

The usually cheerful and perky Chloe sat chewing her bottom lip, and worry lines creased the area between her brows. She strangled a No. 2 pencil with a nervous twisting motion as she rose to her feet.

Is something wrong?

Ricky said to send you to his office as soon as you got here.

Next to Chloe’s desk, a corridor passed through cubicle city to the far wall where the passageway split into a T. The table that held the coffee urn, stacks of Styrofoam cups, and fixings stood strangely silent. A man peeked over a white partition in her direction but turtled his head back into concealment when their gazes met.

What’s going on? Why is it so quiet back there?

Chloe’s pencil snapped in half with a pop. She flinched. You’d better go see Ricky.

Okay, I’ll do that now.

Rick Jameson’s door stood slightly ajar. Cindy gave a light rap with her knuckle and pushed it open more. You wanted to see me?

Yes, please come in, close the door, and have a seat. He motioned to a leather armchair.

Cindy sat with hands folded atop her purse. What’s up, Ricky? Why the hangdog look, and why’s everyone so quiet this morning? It’s like a tomb out there in the cubes.

The boss ran a hand over his salt and pepper hair. There’s no decent way to segue into this, so I’ll just come out with it. You’re a good kid, and I like you. But, I’ve got to cut back on staff, and I’m going to have to let you go. Sorry, kiddo.

Have I done something wrong?

This has nothing to do with your performance. I couldn’t be more pleased. We’re in a bit of a slump and not making enough money right now. We decided to lay off the person with the least seniority. Unfortunately, that happens to be you. Let me know if you need a reference for your next job. He slid an envelope across the table.

Cindy picked it up. What’s this?

It’s your final paycheck and a little something extra to let you know how sorry I am.

She tucked the envelope into her purse, stood and extended an arm across the desk.

Sadness filled her boss’s eyes as he cupped her hand between his.

Thanks for giving me a job, Ricky. It’s been nice working for you. You’re a good man.

His lips lifted into a frail smile. Right now, I don’t feel like such a good guy.

Well, you are. Cindy went to the door, opened it and looked back before stepping through. Take care.

Punishing rays of sun forced Hank to move from one narrow strip of shade to the next as he examined the explosive charges attached to the framework of the abandoned Sailfish South Hotel. Precision positioning was crucial if the building was to implode on itself rather than damage one or more of the neighboring resorts.

Clipboard in hand, Hank added another item to his long list of discrepancies. There was no way the hotel was coming down in two days. No way at all. Bingham Whitehall wasn’t going to be happy with his report. More than likely, he’d regret hiring Hank for the consultation. But happy or not, the fact remained that more preps were needed for the job to be done in a safe and efficient manner.

Hank leaned against an I beam, guzzled a half-liter bottle of water, and mopped his head with an already-soaked bandana from his pocket. Beyond the fence surrounding the demolition site, vacationers lazed in the shade of palms, walked the sandy beach, or splashed in the crystal waters in the shallows. Except for the rusty bones of the Sailfish, the shoreline made a picture-perfect representation of paradise.

A bikini-clad beauty strode by on the beach strand’s promenade. Tall, slender, and tanned to perfection, she moved with the grace of a well-lubricated perpetual motion machine. Smooth. Fluid. Everything in sync.

A man with washboard abs walking from the opposite direction spread his arms wide, and the flaxen-haired goddess sprinted into his embrace. Their marathon kiss garnered the attention of several passersby.

Hank turned his back to the lovers with a sigh. Maybe if he wore his prosthetic eye, shaved more often, and got a haircut he’d have a better chance of a tall delicious babe jumping into his open arms. The idea deserved serious consideration. He’d start his mini-makeover as soon as the job was finished and he got back to New York. Right now, he had work to do. He slipped his glasses back on and returned for one last look at the lower part of what had once been an elevator shaft.

How’s it looking, ol’ chap? Think she’s ready for us to take her down? Mr. Whitehall approached from the direction of the worksite’s temporary office building, his British lilt coloring his words with hopeful expectation. Rubber boots slip-slapped against bird-thin calves until he came to a stop at the threshold of Hank's sliver of shade. Sunlight penetrated the weave of Whitehall’s pith helmet and painted a crisscross pattern across his nose and cheeks. His teeth appeared as nuggets of white-hot coals as his lips parted and stretched into a smile.

Sweat drizzled down Hank’s temple and marched into his beard like an army of ants. He scratched his chin against his shoulder. I know you’re the site manager, but it’s not safe to be out here without a hard hat, safety glasses and sturdy work boots.

Right you are. Sorry about that. I suppose this does set a bad example for the rest of the crew. Shall we go into the office where it’s nice and cool to discuss your findings?

Sounds good to me. Hank fell into a slow walk beside the boss. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like an hour or two to go over my data before giving you an official report. I’d also like to run it through a couple of computer simulations for verification.

I wouldn’t mind at all. In fact, I appreciate your thoroughness.

The initial chill of cool air inside the building caused the skin on the back of Hank’s neck to tingle, bringing immediate relief from the sweltering heat. At the open door to the first office, he paused and nodded a hello to the Bracket brothers, who stood hunched over a plywood table looking at a set of blueprints. Three of their associates sat near the window sipping soft drinks. The London-based team acknowledged him with a flick of their eyes and nothing more. Their less-than-enthusiastic response came as no surprise. They’d made it clear Hank’s so-called expertise wasn’t needed or welcome.

Bunch of no-accounts, Hank mumbled. Who cares what they think.

What’s that you say, my good man? I’m afraid my hearing is getting a bit squidgy these days, Whitehall said from behind Hank.

Just talking to myself, that’s all. He entered the next room and nudged the door closed with his foot.

The silver hatchback’s tires crunched through the gravel as Cindy pulled up to the duplex she shared with her neighbor, Mrs. Baker. The older woman rose from the wooden rocking chair on her side of the porch, set her knitting aside, and stood with a quizzical look on her face.

Cindy tossed up her hands as she climbed the steps. I lost my job, Mrs. B. Saying it out loud made the reality of the loss even worse.

They fired you?

No, nothing like that. She sat on the porch rail. They aren’t doing well, so they had to give someone the ax. I just happened to be the last one hired, so my neck ended up on the chopping block.

Mrs. Baker wagged her head. You should have kept your secretarial job with the police department. Security, benefits, pension plan. I don’t know why you ever⁠—

If I’d stayed with the P.D., I would’ve had to look at that ex-fiancé of mine every day and be reminded of how he— The pain was still too deep and raw. Talking about it would only bring on the familiar feeling of suffocation. It makes me mad just to think about it.

It’s been what, four months now? Isn’t it time for you to let go of the anger?

Let it go? Mrs. B, are you forgetting that Eric cheated on me? With my sister, no less.

She was a foster sister, wasn’t she?

Foster, biological, it made no difference to me. Belinda and I had been together since before we started school. I loved her.

You still do. Even with the mountain of anger hiding it from view, you still love her. But you need to forgive her for what she did. The Lord would want that, you know.

Easier said than done. More like impossible for a betrayal of that magnitude. I’d better go inside and change out of my work clothes. Besides, I don’t want to ruin your day with my problems. See you later, Mrs. B. Keys in hand, she started for her door.

Maybe you should take a look at the bright side of your situation, dearest.

Bright side? Was she kidding? Cindy made an abrupt about-face. My fiancé got my sister pregnant, I left a job I loved because of it, and now I’ve joined the ranks of the unemployed. I wouldn’t be surprised if lightning struck my car right this red-hot minute. I’m sorry, Mrs. B, but I fail to see the silver lining in my cloudy life.

Eric did find the information you wanted so you could track down that brother of yours, the one you never met, didn’t he?

Oh my gosh. You’re right, he did.

Chin held high, Mrs. Baker pressed her lips into a smug smile. Now do you see the silver lining?

Mrs. B, you’re a genius.

Mrs. Baker buffed her fingernails on her blouse. I know.

Now I can afford to devote some time to finding Edward. Why not? I paid September’s rent a few days early, and the utilities are up to date. If I absolutely have to, I can tap into the money I’ve been saving for a new car if it takes a while to find another job. I might even be able to receive unemployment benefits. Oh, Mrs. Baker, you just made my day. Come in. I’ll brew us some fresh java.

Finding Edward would mean so much to her. Not that she’d been unhappy with her foster parents. They’d loved her as their own. But a blood relation could open up a whole new world for her. Edward could be married. With kids. Cindy could already be a sister-in-law, maybe even an aunt, and not even know it.

She snatched the large manila envelope Eric had given her from the top of the fridge and slid it onto the bar. Hurrying, she set up a pot of coffee then sat on a stool next to Mrs. Baker.

Mrs. B turned the envelope over. This package is still sealed. You mean to tell me you never bothered to open it?

Eric gave it to me the day I found out about him and Belinda. I was upset, and for a long while I didn’t even want to touch anything he had his hands on. Afterwards, in the funk I was in, I was so stressed out I couldn’t concentrate on anything but living from day to day.

Today your funk is officially over. Open this, and let’s take the first steps in finding your big brother.

Cindy pried the envelope open, and slid the contents onto the countertop. Here, you take half, and I’ll take the other. Let me know when you see something interesting.

Half-glasses sat perched near the tip of Mrs. Baker’s nose as she hunched over a stack of papers. Elbow to elbow, Cindy sat with her and started examining another pile. Across the kitchen, the coffeemaker bubbled and hissed, filling the air with enticing aromas while pages crinkled and swooshed with every turn.

Listen to this, Cindy said. It says Mom gave birth to Edward on December thirty-first, and then threw him in a trashcan in an alley. Poor baby, how terrible.

Oh, my. Was he okay? Did somebody find⁠—?

Hold on, let me read ahead. Cindy read the rest of the page, flipped it over and finished a short paragraph on the reverse side. Unbelievable.

What’s unbelievable? What happened?

By the time he was found and brought to the hospital, Edward had frostbite and had to have the little toe on his left foot amputated.

Good heavens. What about his mother? I mean, your mother. Oh, you know what I mean. What happened to her?

Says here she started hemorrhaging shortly after giving birth and ended up at the same hospital as Edward. Then, let’s see... She turned the page. Mom named him Edward Levi, gave him her last name, Giordano, and refused to identify Edward’s father, just like she did when I was born.

You mean you don’t know who your father is?

Nope. No idea.

Mrs. Baker rubbed Cindy’s back. I’m sorry, sweetie.

It’s okay. I may never know who my father is, but at least I have hopes of finding my brother. Let’s move on and see if we can uncover a clue as to how to find his present whereabouts, shall we?

I’ll pour us some coffee, and we’ll sit here until we dig up the answers you’re looking for. Mugs clinked as Mrs. Baker pulled them from the cabinet. Cream and sugar, Cindy?

Yes to both, Mrs. B. Oh, and there are cookies in the narrow cabinet next to the fridge if you’d like some. I’m going to get a couple of pens and pads so we can take notes. I’ll be right back.

Cindy found two lined yellow pads in the nightstand drawer. For a few moments, she sat on the edge of the bed with them clutched to her chest.

If a social worker hadn’t slipped and mentioned Edward, she would have never known he existed. How angry she’d been, almost eighteen years old and suddenly finding out she had a biologically connected brother.

It was for your own good. Her foster parents parroted the social worker’s reason for keeping Edward a secret as if they really believed it.

The manila envelope had stayed sealed, just like the records she’d tried to get from the courthouse. Sealed. As if she didn’t have a right to know her real parents. Or her brother. Things that normal people take for granted.

With a deep sigh, Cindy got up and started back to the kitchen. As she passed the dresser, she did a double take and paused for a look in the mirror. Would Edward have steely blue eyes and dark brown hair like her, or would they look nothing alike? With a little luck, she’d soon find out.

CHAPTER 2

The barrage of angry voices penetrated the paper-thin wall as easily as spaghetti through a sieve of chicken wire. Hank had expected a negative response to his report, but the red-faced hostility and military-grade cursing took him aback. The only one not ready to pounce and tear him to shreds was the gentlemanly Mr. Whitehall.

Hank dropped his six-four frame onto the tattered leather office chair, plopped his mud-crusted boots on the windowsill with a thud, and palmed his cell phone. His brother would be awake, dressed in his uniform, and ready to report for duty at Fort Bragg. He pressed Edward’s number.

Hey Hank, how’s it going? Still in Miami Beach?

Yup. Should be wrapping up this job in⁠—

What’s the racket I hear in the background? Sounds like you’re in the middle of a barroom brawl.

Hank sniggered. Nah. The consultation report I just delivered went over like a cement cloud. One guy is heating up a bucket of tar, and another is plucking a couple of chickens. It might get ugly down here.

The problems you found were that serious, eh?

According to my calculations, the southwest corner of the building has a ninety percent chance of ending up as a jungle gym of twisted steel on top of the fancy-schmancy water park in front of the resort next door, and— Hold on a sec, you’ve got to hear some of this. Hank rolled the chair close to the shared wall and held the phone toward it.

I’m sick of him, Fredrick Bracket spewed. The one-eyed Wookie knows nothing about demolition. I say we send the oversized, hairy buffoon back to whatever cave he crawled out of and take the Sailfish down as planned.

I’m with you, Freddo. We were doing fine without the Yank. He’s quite daft if you ask me, and I don’t like him one bit. Whitehall was crazy to hire him. I think we should...

Hank pulled the phone back to his ear, pushed off the wall, and zoomed back to the window. Did you hear any of that? He laughed despite the insults.

Oversized hairy buffoon, one-eyed Wookie? Edward chuckled. I’ll give them an A-plus for originality.

I’ve been called worse.

I know. What was it Major Greco used to call you? Oh yeah, he⁠—

Don’t go there, bro. If your lovely bride were to overhear, she’d be scarred for life. By the way, how is Audra, and how’s married life treating you?

Audra’s fine, and marriage is better than I’d ever imagined. She’s sleeping in today. I’m meeting Greco and the guys for breakfast at the little greasy spoon down the road from Dexter’s house.

A gravelly moan slid up Hank’s throat. Man, I wish I was back in the unit with you and the boys.

So do we. Your replacement is a decent enough demo man, but personality-wise, he’s duller than a fencepost. I’m not sure he’s ever cracked a joke in his entire life.

The shouting in the next room came to an abrupt halt, and a knock landed on Hank’s door.

I’ve got to go, Eddie. I think I’m about to be summoned for an inquisition. See ya.

Hey, hey. One last thing before you go.

What’s that?

You’re going to be at Mom and Dad’s this weekend, aren’t you?

I wouldn’t miss it for the world. If someone had told me six months ago that I’d live to see the day my brother got baptized, I’d have thought they were joking.

Well, it’s not a joke, Hank, and if you can manage to survive a few more days without getting tarred and feathered or drawn and quartered, you’ll live to see it.

I think I can manage that. And— Another string of knocks rattled the flimsy door. I’ll see you in a few days, Eddie. Bye.

Whitehall stood facing Hank across the threshold. The island officials have given permission to proceed. The Sailfish is coming down the morning after next. If the site manager had any feelings one way or another about proceeding with the demolition, it didn’t show.

Hank hung his head and breathed a sigh of resignation.

Cheer up. Whitehall rocked heel to toe. I’ve given our accountant the go-ahead to wire the second half of your fee and told him to upgrade your flight arrangements to first class as my way of showing appreciation for your coming all this way.

All this way for nothing, you mean.

Whitehall’s minuscule smile vanished. Your observations were duly noted.

And ignored.

With a lift of the chin, Bingham Whitehall assumed his former pleasant expression and straightened his posture. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Florida, Mr. Fleming. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. He started for the front door.

I’d call my insurance agent and raise my coverage if I were you. Hank called to the man’s back. Whitehall tipped his pith helmet and continued on his way.

A throng of onlookers stood behind the sawhorse safety barriers with gazes glued on the Sailfish Hotel. Their faces radiated with the excitement of eager kids waiting for a glimpse of Santa at the end of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Five more minutes and the countdown would begin.

Hank followed a familiar voice to a big-screen TV on the side of the Rendezvous Hotel. Frederick Bracket spoke into a mic held by a smiling female reporter. That’s right, Marsha, everything—the concrete floors and all structural steel—will collapse into a manageable pile in the center of the hotel’s footprint like this. Bracket’s twinkle-finger hand demonstration made it seem as though the task was as easy as knocking down a house of cards, and the manageable pile could be swept into a dustpan with a whisk broom.

Bracket picked up a box-and-plunger style detonator. Are we ready?

The showmanship was worthy of applause and made Hank laugh out loud. Somewhere in an undisclosed location, skilled professionals operated a sophisticated detonating device that made Bracket’s bogus contraption look like a prop from Bugs Bunny.

The Sailfish Hotel took center stage on the big screen. Bracket shrank to the lower left-hand corner, and a digital timer appeared on the lower right. The crowd chanted along, Five, four, three, two, one!

A series of explosions shook the ground. The Sailfish’s concrete floors crumbled. I-beams leaned inward. A cloud of dust burst into the air and descended over the site like a curtain around the stage of a magic act.

Lord, Hank prayed silently, this is one of those times I wouldn’t mind being wrong when the smoke clears.

A woman next to him pointed with an outstretched arm and cried out. Look!

Hank glanced at the TV. Off-screen, a voice yelled, Cut the live feed. A hand shot in front of the camera lens. The screen switched to a commercial break, but not before Hank captured the image of Sailfish wreckage lying on the neighboring hotel’s property, exactly as he’d predicted. With a shake of his head, he turned and wended through the tangle of people.

Time to go home.

Hank toggled through the in-flight menu on his personal monitor and settled on a screen that displayed the flight’s travel path between Miami and New York. A small icon in the shape of a plane fixed their position somewhere above South Carolina.

A petite flight attendant stopped in the aisle and smiled at Hank as he sat with his legs stretched as far as he could in his first-class seat. Is there anything I can get for you, sir? Something to drink, a snack, or perhaps an extra pillow or blanket?

Another bottle of water would be nice, thank you.

Anything else? Are you comfortable enough?

Comfortable enough? Hank patted the arms of his chair and chuckled. This is fantastic. Last time I flew in coach and was folded like an accordion with my knees wedged in the seatback in front of me. Thought I’d need help dislodging myself when we landed.

I’m happy you’re pleased with your accommodations. Her eyes sparkled. I’ll bring your water right away.

Hank combed through his shaggy hair with forked fingers, kicked back, and closed his eyes. His sixth sense detected the attendant’s return and the soundless delivery of the promised bottle of water. He didn’t look, but smiled and whispered, Thank you.

Mild turbulence rocked the plane like a baby’s cradle. Hank pulled a blanket over his upper half and relaxed as embers of warmth kindled in his chest and spread through his limbs. The drone of the engines started to fade.

So, Hank, Audra materialized in his semi-dream state, do you have a special someone in your life—a girlfriend hidden in the woods somewhere? A pretty little Sasquatch with lipstick, perhaps?

Hank took a deep breath and drifted further into the fog of sleep.

Very funny. He shook his head. Nah. I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for.

And that is?

Someone tall and sassy.

Sir.

Someone jostled Hank’s shoulder. The flight attendant smiled down at him. The captain has turned on the fasten-your-seatbelt sign. Would you mind strapping in for me?

Sure. He pulled his seatbelt together with a click and closed his eyes again. With any luck, he’d meet a tall, sassy girl in his dreams.

Empty coffee cups and cookie crumbs lay scattered across the kitchen bar. Cindy dropped the pen onto the yellow pad in front of her and stretched her arms toward the ceiling with grunts and groans. My eyes are about to bug out of my head, but I’ve gleaned all I could from my half of the papers. How’d you make out?

Why don’t you go first, since you’ve got the earlier part of the file? Mrs. Baker rose and took the cups to the sink.

"Okay, here’s what