Chapter Eleven

After she’d secured the chain to Zoe’s ankle, Fetch returned to the fire. Most of the rebels had gone to bed, while the evening shift took their lookout positions around the camp. It would be her turn tomorrow, so she hoped to get a good night’s sleep.

Though she’d been rough with the Brit, she was left with little to no alternative. She had enough on her plate keeping the hostages she was appointed to safe, without having to add the wild Brit to the mix. Zoe was not her problem, Fetch kept repeating to herself. And that irritating delinquent had no right to make her feel guiltier about Sam’s death than she already did. Fetch had lived with those torturous ghosts since that dreadful day, and no amount of therapy had helped her find redemption. She would sacrifice her own life if it meant bringing Sam back, so who was this woman to judge her? Fetch didn’t know why the Brit had gotten to her so much. It was like everything that came out of her mouth was an inaccurate truth.

She was lost in her thoughts when she heard Zoe yell, “Bloody fucking spiders!” from her nearby hut. Fetch had to smile, but not long after, Zoe shouted again. “Gun-toting maniacs!” At this, a soldier sitting on the other side of the fire pit jumped up, rifle at the ready. Fetch defused the situation by laughing and shaking it off with her hand. She told him to go get some rest and forget about the crazy hostage.

The Brit had no idea what thin ice she was skating on. New hostages usually rebelled in some way against their predicament, and many exhibited unpredictable behavior, varying from outrage to catatonic sadness. But Zoe’s recklessness was something she hadn’t encountered yet. Granted, they had pushed and smacked her around. The rebel who’d brought her in even boasted he’d chained her like a dog out in the cold. They’d given her ample reason to feel terrified. Nonetheless, this woman refused to show any signs of submission or even caution.

Fetch didn’t know if she should be annoyed by or applaud Zoe’s tenacity. Sure, the woman was gambling with her life, even after Fetch had warned her about how irrelevant her existence was to these people. But Zoe became even more arrogant, instead of afraid. She was either spoiled to the point of dim-witted denial or had a very twisted code of survival, one Fetch was not familiar or comfortable with.

Her own code consisted of strict military conduct. Fetch never swayed, rewrote, or argued her orders. The Brit’s remark about her being a good obedient soldier was spot-on. It was not Fetch’s place to question what was expected of her. Her strategy for survival was to endure long enough to get the job done. And that was fine with her.

It wasn’t like she didn’t care if she lived or died, but her own life was irrelevant when compared to saving hundreds or thousands of others. For a brief moment in her controlled life, Sam had made her feel that she was just as necessary to one individual as she was to one thousand, that it wasn’t selfish to put her life first if that meant making someone she loved look forward to tomorrow.

But Sam was no more. No one waited for Fetch at the end of the day, but plenty depended on her to do her job. She would never let herself become necessary to one person again. For whatever reason, which she couldn’t understand and was against everything she’d been taught, losing one person hurt more than the loss of many. If that was what love was about, it was no longer an option.

Fetch looked up at the sky to find the brightest star, as she always did when the memory of Sam was inescapable. The brightness of that star could be Sam’s doing, telling her that she wasn’t alone. But it was cloudy and dark and not one star was visible.

She sighed and stood up. After extinguishing the fire with a bucket of water, she stood listening. The camp was quiet except for the guards, who were congregated, sharing a bottle. Fetch went to her tent and retrieved her cell phone and hand-crank charger, then snuck outside the perimeter a good distance to check in with headquarters.

“Fetch,” she said in a low voice as soon as Montgomery Pierce came on the line.

“What’s your status?” he asked.

“Finally at ground zero,” she replied. “All targets are alive, but one is very ill. Still gathering intel. Not going to be easy, but I should have something for you within a week or two.”

“Roger. I have an amendment, if possible,” Pierce said. “Assess location and status of Zoe Anderson-Howe. British.”

“She’s here as well,” Fetch said. “Just arrived. Good condition.”

“Excellent. Add her to Boomerang,” Pierce said. “Check back when you can.”

“Yes, sir.” Fetch disconnected. So Zoe’s father had been pulling some strings and somehow got the EOO involved. Not that she would have left Zoe behind on any rescue mission, but it might complicate things a bit to include the combative, unpredictable Brit.

She headed back to her tent, but paused just outside Zoe’s hut when she heard a noise. Zoe was humming what sounded like a lullaby.

Fetch stood there for a while, listening. She was about to move on when the humming turned to crying. Though she didn’t even know this woman, she did recognize the sound of hope being ripped away. It didn’t matter who you were, where you’d been, or where you were going. No one was equipped to deal with the loss of hope.

“Good night, Zoe,” Fetch whispered, before departing.

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 676