The Project 05 - The Tesla Secret

broke apart. "Let's not change that," he said.
    She looked into his eyes. Gray eyes, with flecks of gold.
    They went into the bedroom and undressed. She pressed against him and wrapped her arms around him. She ran her hands over his body, feeling the geography that told his history. His right side was stippled with scars from the calf to the shoulder, the result of a grenade in Afghanistan. A puckered ridge marked where a round had passed through his upper chest. The scars were familiar to her touch. She took in his scent, tried to inhale him. She pushed him down on the bed and straddled him.
    "Tell me you love me," she said. "Tell me."
    "You know I do."
    "Tell me."
    "Yes. Yes, I love you."
    She was ready for him. She guided him in and they began moving together. Afterward, they lay for a long time in each other's arms.
    Nick fell asleep. He dreamed the dream.

    They come in low and fast over the ridge, the rotors hammering out the hard heartbeat of war.
    The village sits in a sandy valley between sharp, barren hills under a relentless sun. He's first out of the bird, his Marines fast behind. They hit the street running. On the right, low, flat roofed houses. On the left, more houses and the market. The shoddy bins of the market are made from old crates, the walls of hanging cloth. Flies swarm on meat hanging in the open air of the butcher’s stall.
    A baby is crying somewhere. The street is empty.
    Bearded figures spring up like dragon's teeth on the rooftops and open fire. The market stalls turn into a storm of splinters. Plaster and rock explodes from the sides of the buildings.
    He ducks into a shallow doorway. From one of the houses, a child runs toward him with a grenade, screaming about Allah. Nick hesitates, a second too long. The boy throws as Nick shoots him. The child's head turns into a red mist of blood and bone. The grenade floats through the air in slow motion...everything goes white...

    Nick shouted and sat up in the bed, slick with sweat.
    "It's all right, Nick. It's just a dream." Selena waited until she was sure he was awake before she touched him.
    He rubbed his face. "Try and go back to sleep," she said.
    "There's no point."
    He got up and waited for daylight.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    Endgame Development was housed in a concrete and brick building off Brighton Beach Avenue. The area was a zoning nightmare. Apartment buildings and row houses butted up against commercial shops and services. Most of the business signs were in Russian and Ukrainian. Brighton Beach was known locally as "Little Odessa". It was the base for the Russian and Ukrainian Mafia in the US.
    The August day was hot and humid. Nick and Lamont sat at a grungy sidewalk cafe down the block from the building, eating Russian pastries and drinking black coffee. Sport jackets concealed their weapons. Nick had a brought a .45 caliber Sig-Sauer P229 designed for concealed carry. He was thinking about changing over from his H-K. The Sig was smaller, less obvious. It sat snugly in a holster at his side.
    No one would think they belonged in this neighborhood. They'd probably be taken for cops. Nick didn't like it, but there was no way around it.
    There was little to see at the Endgame building. A long, dull yellow wall scrawled with graffiti. A large closed metal garage door at one end. Above and to the right of the garage, a door on the second floor opened out onto a black iron walkway running along the front. The building was four stories high. Two thirds of the way across, the walkway rose in a series of steps and landings to exits on the third and fourth floors. A few small windows, dirty and closed, looked out from the second story. At the other end was another garage.
    "Doesn't look like much, " Lamont said, "for a high tech production company."
    "Not very friendly. Like the architect was inspired by the Berlin Wall."
    "Some of these guys around here probably helped build the Wall back in the good old days."
    "I don't see any cameras." Nick sipped his coffee. The coffee was old. The pastry was new. "No obvious street surveillance."
    "Neighborhood like this, there has to be something."
    "Could be an agreement with the local mob boss. Plenty of security that way."
    "Let's take a walk." Lamont tossed a few bills on the table and they got up. Inside the cafe, a rat-faced man watched them go and made a telephone call.
    In this neighborhood Lamont's skin stood out like a neon sign. People passing by gave them hard looks. A small sign in English