Second Shot

“I thought you were supposed to be concerned for my daughter’s welfare,” my father bit out. His voice was uncharacteristically harsh, as though there might be some danger of cracks appearing in that famously unemotional facade. “She nearly died, for God’s sake! It’s bad enough that she’s chosen to throw in her lot with you, Meyer, but I will not have you jeopardizing her recovery by exhausting her like this — do you understand me?”

“Yes sir,” Sean said. I could hear the tension in his voice, the holding himself in check, and I wondered if my father really comprehended what was likely to happen if that control broke.

“I still can hardly believe she would willingly come back to America again-not after what happened the last time.”

“It was supposed to be a low-risk job, or I wouldn’t have sent her,” Sean said with an attempt at patience. “We thought-”

“Did you?” my father snapped. “Did you really think about what you were doing? She went through months of therapy to try and get over what she went through in Florida. Wasn’t that supposed to be a low-risk job, too, hm? Months of therapy,” he repeated, “to try and salvage my daughter out of the psychopath you helped create! And now what?”

For a moment Sean was silent. I felt sure the pair of them must be able to hear the sudden acceleration of my heartbeat and I was glad I wasn’t still wired up to the heart-rate monitors, or my pulse would have been setting sprint records. I wasn’t sure what was worse-listening to them bickering over me, or the prospect of being caught eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Maybe that’s the cause of the trouble,” Sean said. “Charlie was a damned good soldier. And it wasn’t just that she had enormous natural talent-it had to do with mind-set. She had the right mind-set for the job. Her ability to kill-which scares the shit out of you so much-was always there. You may have hated it, but she was perfect for Special Forces.”

“So perfect that the army allowed four of her colleagues to rape her and halfway beat her to death before she’d even finished her training, and then conspired against her to ruin her reputation,” my father said, his voice so contorted with anger that I hardly recognized it. “But she came back from that. It took years, but she came back from it. And yes, I know we were wrong, her mother and I, to keep you away from her afterwards, but we felt she needed a clean break from the past. You were still in the army, part of the machine that had let her down so badly. Besides, what future did she have as some kind of camp follower?”

“Is that how you think of her?” Sean said with a deadly softness drawling through his tone. “How very flattering.”

I heard rather than saw my father make a gesture of impatience. “We were making progress with her,” he said. “And then you arrive back in her life and suddenly all that careful work is destroyed.”

“Have you ever thought,” Sean said, still ominously quiet, “that your interference might have brought her to this?”

“Oh no, don’t try to lay the blame for this on me, Meyer! We both know who’s responsible.”

“Do we?” Sean said. He paused, as if picking his next words with great care. “She hesitated. She had the guy … and she hesitated.”

“You’re talking about taking a life, for heaven’s sake. Any normal person would hesitate.”

“But Charlie’s not a normal person. She’s a bodyguard. And in this job, you can’t afford to let your emotions take over. Losing a principal is bad enough under any circumstances. Trust me, I know But as soon as you begin to doubt yourself-or others begin to doubt you-you’re finished.”

‘And you doubt her because of this?” My father’s voice was suddenly very serious, very intent and almost hopeful.

“I think Charlie doubts herself,” Sean said at last, “and the worst thing is that I think she started doing so long before she was shot.”

Sixteen

The next day they got me out of bed and tried to work out some kind of a system so that I could move about under my own steam. My right arm had finally started to show some signs of life, which was a good thing. The downside was that it showed these signs of life in the form of a buzzing in my fingertips, extreme sensitivity that meant I couldn’t bear anything to touch my skin, and spasms like cramp in every muscle from my elbow downwards.

The wound to the back of my shoulder was such that I had very little control over my trapezius muscles. Gripping anything in my right hand was dubious, and raising my arm in any kind of lateral movement was out altogether.

My back around the site of the wound was stretched and tender, although the skin itself was numb. It made me fearful to overstress any of it, in case it all pulled apart. There was an odd feeling of tension and restriction under the surface, like a shirt that hasn’t quite been buttoned up in the right holes. The thought of having to use my back muscles to operate a pair of crutches actually made me feel faint.