Page 21 of Eight Years (The Trident Trilogy 1)

“And, I expect you to keep the rest of the team away from her, too,” Culver says.

Yeah, a hundred percent I can promise that. None of those assholes are even going to get near her. If I can’t have her, no one else can.

“Roger that,” I say. “So, her dad died?”

“Yeah. In Iraq. She was only a kid. Sixteen.”

“How many years ago was that?” I ask.

“Like eight years. She’s still not over it. She started tearing up when I mentioned him just now.”

“They were close?”

“Yeah. She lived down on the Outer Banks with her grandma, but Mack got down there every chance he got. He talked about her nonstop. At his funeral, man, she couldn’t even stand up. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was awful,” Culver says, looking down. “She ended up staying with Mack’s team leader and his wife for a while after, but then everyone lost touch with her—or, more specifically, she lost touch with all of us.”

“It’s maybe a little weird that she joined the agency after she took his death so hard,” I say. “Seems like she’d want to get away from all this.”

“Yeah, I have a bad feeling that she’s trying to avenge his death somehow,” Culver says.

“Like how? You mean just generally? Who was responsible for his death?”

“They think Al-Qaeda. Mack was clearing a building in Fallujah when it exploded. His team had to get out of the area before they could really determine what caused it.”

“Wait, Mack Marsh? I remember him. The name anyway,” I say.

I might have met him once. It seems like I did, but I definitely remember the word on him was that he was one of the toughest motherfuckers out there. It’s kind of hard imagining him being a dad.

“Yeah, he was getting close to retirement when you came in,” Culver says. “He was going to spend more time with Millie. He was buying a house for them. Just awful timing. But, I guess there’s never good timing.”

“So, you think she knows who was responsible for her dad’s death?”

“We’ll find out tomorrow what she knows. But the network she is specifically targeting is Yusef Hadzic’s network. He’s had ties to Al-Qaeda. The agency’s been looking for him for years, and Sayid Custovic before that. I was involved in missions for Custovic. They’re ghosts, man. If she could bring Hadzic in, it would be huge. I’m thinking Custovic has to be dead.”

“I read in her file that she’s fluent in Bosnian. All those guys are Bosnian, right? You think there’s some connection?” I ask.

“A lot of agents spoke Bosnian back in the eighties and nineties. It was more of a hot spot back then. Kind of rare for someone as young as her to have a focus in that area. But, you know, Custovic and Hadzic took up shop in Afghanistan after the war ended in Bosnia. So, who knows? Just keep a close eye on her in case she’s up to something.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to look at her.”

“Professionally, watch her back. Don’t let anything happen to her, but again, I swear to God, Mason, keep your hands off her.”

“Roger that.” Watch her, but don’t look at her. Have her back, but don’t touch her back. Clear as mud.

“Look, another thing—she doesn’t want anyone else to know that her dad was one of us,” Culver says.

“Why not? Just makes her part of our family.”

“I don’t think she wants any part of us. To her, all we did was take away her dad. I don’t think she’s that big a fan of the teams. But, she needs us to get this target. Probably better for all of us to get it done quickly, and get her back to D.C. Briefing at eight hundred tomorrow,” Culver says, standing up and indicating our meeting is over.

As I leave Culver’s office, my feet take me toward Raine’s office where I know Millie will be headquartered while she’s here. My brain tells me to turn around, but I don’t. She’s sitting at Raine’s desk, alone in the office. She looks up when she senses me at the door.

“Culver told me about your dad,” I say waiting for her to reply. She just stares at me blankly. “That he was a SEAL. That he died. I’m sorry.” The way she looks at me makes me wish I hadn’t said anything.

“Thank you.” Her eyes are getting glassy and she looks down. I see her hands grip the sides of the chair.

“Are you okay?” I walk closer to her. I’m a little concerned that she’s going to pass out. The color has left her face.

She looks up. Her beautiful eyes are now full of tears. “You’d think after eight years, it would get easier,” she says, trying to smile. “I’m so sorry. This is really unprofessional.”

---