The Project 01 - White Jade

Afghan village again. At least it wasn't that kid again.
    Carter's Irish Grandmother sometimes dream ed of things to come . He'd i nherited the ability from her, a psychic quirk that open ed doors he wished would stay closed . The dreams always foreshadowed something that ha d n ' t happened yet . It was never anything pleasant. She'd called it a gift. He thought it a curse.
    This dream was one of those, but he couldn ' t figure out what it meant . Those black animals weren't cows, or anything like that. If it was like the other dreams he wouldn't know what it meant until h e ran into it headfirst .

Chapter Eight een

    Selena had dressed in black running shorts with yellow stripes down the sides , a yellow sport bra with a black Nike swoosh on it and running shoes. A bright yellow headband kept the hair off her forehead. The only signs of yesterday were the shadows under her eyes and the scratches on her face.
    The outfit showed off her trim body. " Good morning, " she said. " How are you feeling? Want some coffee? "
    " Morning. Yeah, coffee's good. I feel like I went ten rounds with the wrong guy. "
    She brought him a cup . Black and hot.
    " I thought I ' d go for a run and work out some of that mine. "
    " If you wait twenty minutes, I ' ll get cleaned up and go with you. There ' s a good trail nearby. "
    " You like to run? "
    " It ' s just something I do to stay in shape. "
    Nick felt his brain begin to function again. He was still wearing his holster and ruined jacket. He took them off, laid the rig on the coffee table. He took the H-K from the holster, pulled the slide partway back, still a round in the chamber. He dropped the magazine and inserted a fresh one , set it back on the table .
    He went into the other room. She ' d made the bed. He stripped and went into the bathroom. The hot water soothed the aches and bruises and he started feeling human again. He thought about Selena. She looked good in that outfit. He felt the beginning of an erection, turned the water to cold.
    He toweled off, wiped the steam off the mirror and shaved . He went back into the bedroom and pulled on shorts and a tee, put on his running shoes.
    He thought about yesterday. It seemed there was always someone with a gun waiting for him, somewhere. H e thought about people who would cut the finger off an old man. Someone had to do something about people like that. It was what kept him going.
    He got a Colt .380 auto from the safe and tucked it out of sight under the tee. It was a lot lighter and smaller than the .45 . Good for a run. A fter yesterday he wasn ' t going anywhere without something to make holes.
    He came out of the bedroom.
    " What happened to your leg? " she asked.
    His leg looked like someone had run a cheese grater on steroids over the thigh and then t aken a few digs at the calf for good measure. The scars were colorful, red, white and blue, very patriotic. Under his clothes t here were puckered ridges of scar tissue on the side of his hip and ribcage.
    " Afghanistan happened. A little kid threw a grenade at me. I shot him. "
    She looked at him. He thought he saw unspoken accusation.
    " I didn ' t have a choice. T he fragments missed the knee and the groin. Still a couple in the leg. It bothers me sometimes, but not bad. One reason I run is it keeps the leg strong. "
    " Let ' s run, then. "
    They headed out the door and up the hill . T he morning was cool, perfect for a run before the heat built up. The trail was shady and soft underfoot. Birds darted in and out of the branches and leaves. A doe bounded across the trail in front of them . In the cool elevation and shade of the foothills, purple and yellow wildflowers still bloomed along the edge of the trail.
    Carter's b reathing settled into an easy rhythm, the sounds of the run and the feel of the path under his feet fill ing his thoughts . He felt yesterday begin to slip away. Then he remembered the man shooting at him and screaming as he went down.
    The man he'd shot had tried to kill them . He'd failed, and Nick had survived. Maybe there was meaning in it, maybe not . T hat was a question for people who found value in probing theological and metaphysical mysteries. He wasn't one of them.
    He didn't look for meaning anymore. When it came right down to it, it was all about survival. The way he dealt with it was one day at a time. It had been one day at a time for the last fifteen years . I t didn't do any good to think about it. It was what he did, a job. Someone had