'The camp sprang to life in moments, more spotlights blinking on as the blare
of the alarms woke tired bodies and brought them stumbling from their warm beds.
Brodie heard the yells of Davis and Logan, ordering men to the perimeter and
making sure their well-rehearsed drill was in place in record time. By the time
Brodie and Tara were dressed the team was ready and waiting, and the alarms
suddenly cut off in mid-blast, the silence eerie in the artificial glare of
the floodlighting.
Tara headed for the hospital tent and was met at the entrance by a worried Dervla.
"What the hell's going on?" The Ulsterwoman's green eyes were wide with concern.
Tara grimaced.
"They're here, Dervla. I just know it. We should move the wounded to the ambulance … it's more easily defended - "
"Not bloody likely!" Pieter van Guelder's voice rasped out from inside the tent. "I can do my bit - just help me out of this damn bed and - "
"And you'll do nothing, you idiot!" Dervla was beside Pieter pushing him back down into the bed, the big South African ranting quietly as he struggled weakly against her grasp. "Stay put! You'll burst those stitches and undo all that good work I've put in on you and I don't take kindly to being buggered about, so stay right where you are!!!"
Pieter collapsed back onto the bed with a groan of pain. Dervla was right - he was too sore and battered to be much use, but he turned pain-filled eyes to the little nurse and caught her wrist in a big hand.
"All right, you Nazi - but get me a gun, d'you hear? I can at least have something to defend myself, hey?"
Dervla looked at Tara - then reached over to a small closet and dug around inside, bringing out Pieter's heavy .357 Service-Six Ruger. He grinned painfully as the butt nestled in the palm of his hand, and he checked the load. The big revolver had the stopping power he needed, and he gesticulated at Dervla to fetch him ammunition. Muttering, Dervla found Pieter's bag and hauled out a couple of boxes of rounds, and finally Pieter was satisfied. The big man levered himself upright with Dervla's help, and settled himself against the pile of pillows the two women propped behind his shoulders.
"Now, I'm set. Tara, you get the others into the ambulance … I'll be just fine here - now don't bloody argue!" He scowled as Tara and Dervla looked set to object to his decision. "I'm okay, right? I'll be fine." His face relaxed into a white grin. "Anyway, those poor bloody baboons haven't a chance at getting anywhere near me with Attila the Hun here standing guard over me!" He winked at Dervla.
Dervla was seething with anger, but knew Pieter was probably right - he wouldn't make it to the ambulance, and there had been no chance to air-lift him out until daylight came. The helicopters had been sent back to Santa Teresa and would not return until the morning, and the radio was still out of commission.
Tara left Dervla to argue her point with Pieter and headed towards the small ambulance, only to be stopped in her tracks by the four wounded men heading off to the perimeter, bandages white around the bites on their limbs. All of them were carrying weapons.
"Where the hell are you going?"
The men just grinned at her as they limped past, and Tara turned, looking for Brodie. There he was, standing with Davis beside the jeep carrying the big Browning machine-gun. Sylvester Logan, the small, Irish-dark ex-Navy radar operator was manning the heavy weapon. Davis was wearing night-vision goggles and pointing in amongst the tangle of undergrowth beyond the perimeter. Lopez, Pieter's second-in-command, was gesticulating at the men manning the spotlights and suddenly the trees were outlined in the blinding light, the slight breeze making the branches whisper ghost-like in the night.
Brodie turned at Tara's touch on his arm.
"I thought you were takin' care of the wounded?"
Tara smiled nervously. The silence after the blast of the alarms was disconcerting.
"Well, Dervla's trying to deal with Pieter and the rest of them have decided they're fit for duty. What's going on? I thought when the alarms went off - "
"Yeah, well, there's no sign of the sonsabitches!" Brodie was perturbed. " Listen …"
Tara did as she was told. It was a beautiful night, the stars clear in the blue-black of the heavens, and it seemed to her that the whole world was ensconced in velvet slumber. All she could hear was the rustle of leaves in the wind and the murmur of voices as the team settled into their predetermined places around the camp. She could even hear the dog panting quietly a few yards away as he gazed with obvious curiosity into the undergrowth.
Tara shrugged.
"Sounds all right to me. Nothing out there moving around, no noise … very quiet."
Brodie gave her his lop-sided grin.
"Yeah … too quiet." He fed rounds into his old Colt .44 magnum. "No insects … no small animal noises … nothing. Those bastards are out there, Tara. Waiting." He checked the safety mechanism and slid the revolver back into the shoulder holster. "The only reason the alarms went off is because Davis altered the range out to fifty yards. They ain't frightened of the noise any more because they heard it last night. Once is enough - they've figured out it can't hurt 'em. Now it's just a matter of waiting - "
The rest of Brodie's sentence was lost as a hail of rocks showered the camp, accompanied by shrieks of triumph from beyond the light.
Logan swung the heavy Browning around on its pivot and let loose a short burst of fire, the bullets streaming into the night like ack-ack. The .50mm shells tore the undergrowth to pieces and a scream of pain was heard.
"Got 'im." Logan's Liverpool accent was tight with satisfaction.
All hell broke loose on the other side of the camp.
The chatter of automatic fire filled the night air and screams and shouts of anger roared through the darkness.
"Shit!!" Brodie caught hold of his stick and headed in a loping limp towards the yells, leaving Davis to hold his section of the perimeter with a feral-looking Logan baring his teeth in grim delight as he sprayed the trees with more bullets. Tara followed him, pulling the Browning automatic from her belt holster and slipping off the safety, as Brodie had taught her to do when they decided to come back to the island all those weeks ago.
A lifetime ago …
Tara didn't have time to ponder the thought as one of the rocks smashed a spotlight. A twenty-yard spot of forest bordering the perimeter was plunged into darkness … and within seconds everything went crazy.
A blur of furry, huge bodies streaked into the camp, amber eyes glowing with lunatic ferocity. They were everywhere. Tara felt herself yanked bodily to one side as a baboon sprang for her, a bellow of anger roaring from the beast as it was knocked backwards by a burst of fire from an M16. Gasping and unsteady, Tara turned to see Petrowski, the big cook grinning with delight as he turned the automatic weapon on three more baboons heading his way.
"TARA!!"
She heard Brodie's voice yell over the din of screams and gunfire, and as she steadied herself she spotted him aiming at a huge old male barrelling towards him at frightening speed. The Colt boomed, and the heavy animal dropped soundlessly as the .44 calibre bullet punched into its head, sending a spray of blood two yards through the night air. Ignoring the dead animal, Brodie frantically searched the bedlam that was the compound for any sign of Tara, and when he spotted her beside the big cook he grinned with relief, white teeth flashing in the firelight.
Tara nodded to him, reassuring him that she was all right before turning her own weapon on two baboons that were busy trying to climb onto the hood of the jeep carrying the other Browning machine gun, now being fired into the jungle by the youngest member of the team, Robin MacCleod, a Scot from the Isle of Lewis who was swearing roundly in his native Gaelic. He sprayed bullets into a pack of baboons heading towards the tents containing ammo supplies and Pieter van Guelder. The Browning chunked steadily as Robin put the weapon through its paces, each round finding its mark in the powerful, muscular frame of one of the genetically modified primates.
Brodie worked his way steadily towards Tara and Petrowski, making each shot count, and when the Colt was empty he holstered it calmly and unslung his pump-action shotgun. From then on the slaughter increased.
When he managed finally to reach Tara he stumbled, his leg giving way under the strain, but Petrowski caught him before he fell.
"You all right, man?" Petrowski had to yell over the din as Tara gazed at Brodie with fear and concern.
"Yeah … leg just packed up workin' for a second. Its all right girl … I'm fine …" Brodie saw the terror on Tara's face, but he also noticed the set determination in her eyes. She wasn't going to let her fear get in the way of anything, that was for sure. "You okay, gal?"
Tara nodded, trying to catch her breath as the three of them took shelter beside Robin and the jeep.
"I'm … I'm all right, Frank. Just worried about Dervla and Pieter, that's all." Her voice was almost lost in the surrounding noise of gunfire. "The hospital tent's too near the ammo cache, and I think they're heading that way … they couldn't figure that out, surely … could they??"
Brodie winced as he heard the boom of the mortar on the other side of the camp. Davis must have decided to bring in the heavy weaponry. Then he caught the sound of a handgun firing methodically to his right, backed up by some distinctly Irish swearing.
"Monaghan!"
Brodie broke cover, his bad leg sending bolts of pain up into his hip and back, but he wasn't about to leave Dervla Monaghan and Pieter van Guelder without backup, and by the tone in Dervla's voice she was pretty pissed off. A blur of golden fur frightened the hell out of him for a second as it shot past him at high speed, a rumbling growl coming from a deep chest, but he had to grin despite his pain as the dog pelted towards the hospital tent at high speed … and came face to face with a huge young male baboon as it exited the tent.
Huge yellowed incisors gaped wide as the animal pulled back mobile lips in a grimace of pure hate. Blood stained the teeth, and Brodie's heart lurched, wondering what appalling mess he would find inside … what horror of blood and flesh lay scattered around the tent. But then the beast coughed, spilling bright, frothy blood from its throat, and Brodie saw with relief the gaping wound in its ribcage.
The dog skirted the wounded animal, raging at the beast with deep, chopping bays, teeth bared and hackles bristling.
"Get the fucker, Brodie!!"
Pieter's voice bellowed from the interior of the tent, and he heard Dervla bawl at him to lie still. Obviously the baboon had met its match as it came face to face with a thoroughly pissed-off Ulster nurse and a trigger-happy South African mercenary.
The dog risked taking a chunk out of the baboon's hamstring and darted in to catch hold of the muscular rear leg. He ripped a bloody gash in the muscle and leaped backwards, agile for such a big dog as the baboon sliced sideways with huge mouth wide, ready to rip the throat out of its assailant. Its yarring cry of anger and pain sent the dog skittering out of the way as Brodie took aim and fired. Nothing happened.
The shotgun was empty.
Cursing feverishly Brodie threw the weapon down, furious at himself for not counting his shots, and reached for the big knife at his belt. His fingers fumbled at the sheath, trying to undo the leather loop over the guard, but suddenly it was too late.
Badly wounded, the baboon charged. Covering twenty feet in seconds, its five-hundred pound frame rushed towards Brodie at an alarming rate. The big ex-soldier watched as everything seemed to slow down, and he noticed idly that the creature had one blue eye. How odd, he thought. He staggered backwards, but his leg wouldn't hold his weight. It folded beneath him and dumped him unceremoniously in the dirt on his side, and he heard, as though from a great distance, Tara's voice screaming his name.
But the cool, solid brass handle of his walking stick sent a thought sparking through his mind and without faltering he freed his other hand from under his body and grasped the ebony shaft of the stick. Instinctively he twisted his hand and he felt rather than heard a soft click as the body of the stick fell away in his hand, revealing the glitter of hard steel. The whisper as the razor-sharp blade slid free thrilled him, and without a thought he swept upwards and forwards, feeling a hard thump and then the sword was wrenched from his hand, fingers numbing with the shock of the blow.
A huge, heavy, stinking weight landed on his battered frame and he yelled, his ribs objecting as his vision was filled with teeth and blood and fur. The last thing he remembered as he slid into unconsciousness was that one blue eye, cold and chill as a winter sky, watching him, unblinking and unafraid. And then there was nothing.
*******************
"Frank …"
The voice was familiar, drifting into his consciousness from somewhere distant, muffled and foggy. Frank Brodie's head hurt. It hurt a lot, and he had absolutely no intention of taking any notice of whoever the hell it was playing a couple of war-drums in his head.
"C'mon, Frank … wakey, wakey … time to rise and shine and let me know you're in there …"
"Go away …"
His voice sounded funny. Hoarse and dry, as though he hadn't had a drink in a week.
Hell, I ain't had a decent drink in months …
He would have grinned if his head didn't hurt so much, but he felt a touch on his cheek, stroking his face gently, trying to get a response.
"Tara? Jeez … leave me alone … goddamn headache …"
"Good." There was a certain satisfaction in Tara's voice as she kissed him gently. "Means you're alive and responsive Frank, and that's just the way I like you."
Brodie finally plucked up the courage to open his eyes and instantly wished he hadn't.
"Shit …!" He winced, pain shooting into his head from the bright light hitting him full in the face. "Turn the goddamn light off, will ya?"
Tara's voice had a note of amusement in the reply.
"I can't turn it off - it's sunlight. It's nine in the morning and you've been out of it for quite a while. That baboon knocked the stuffing out of you when you skewered it with your stick - you were lucky it didn't do any more damage than that! You came around after a few minutes, but then you drifted off to sleep. Just a mild concussion - you're not dying, I can assure you."
Brodie scowled against the glare, and Tara's face resolved from the blur it had been moments ago.
"Sure as hell feels like I'm dyin' - what the hell happened? And why am I outside?"
Tara grinned at Brodie, lying recumbent on the bed in what was left of their tent.
"You're not outside - it's just the tent isn't there any more, Frank. The baboons wrecked it, but we stopped 'em before they could trash the inside, so just rest. I know you have a headache and I have your pain meds here. Whoa, now!"
She leaned over him and helped him ease his aching body upright so he could get a better look at what was going on. Squinting against the bright sunlight, he looked at the destruction around him as he swallowed two of his pills with a glass of water.
"Christ almighty …"
The camp was a wreck.
Most of the tents were in tatters, and there was a reeking stench of blood and burning flesh in the air. Looking to his left he could see men lifting huge carcasses of baboons and dumping them into a large fire, the oily smoke of the diesel used to light it roiling away into the blue sky. Others were busy trying to clear up the mess or packing away weapons and ammunition boxes.
Brodie frowned. The men looked relaxed, easy chatter coming from them as they worked.
"We won??"
Tara cupped Brodie's face in both hands and kissed him.
"Yeah, Brodie - we won. And we didn't lose a man."
Van Guelder … Monaghan … they're okay? They made it?"
Tara grinned.
"Alive and kicking, both of 'em. We're waiting for one of the choppers to arrive so we can medevac Pieter to Santa Teresa hospital, but yeah, he's fine."
Brodie let out a gusty sigh of relief.
"It's over. Tell me it's over, Tara …"
Tara nodded.
"It's over, Frank. All of it. We got just about all of them last night, Davis reckons. There might be one or two left scattered, but the team will get 'em sooner or later." She smiled with relief. "We did it."
Brodie couldn't believe what he was hearing. It was over. After ten
years of nightmares and heartache, after years of self-castigation and bitterness
and guilt … he could rest. It was done. All those friends and colleagues
that had died so needlessly, Brodie could now let them rest in peace. He had
paid his dues and done what he could to make it right. For the first time in
a 
decade
his chest didn't ache with the memory.
He was free.
Tara sat quietly on the edge of the bed and looked at the expression of wonderment on Brodie's face, and felt her heart swell with love for him. She had no idea what he would do with his life now, but at least he would be able to move on … to live at last, free from the pain of his past.
Both of their thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a helicopter in the distance, and within minutes one of the Sea Hawks hovered over the compound, sending up clouds of dust to confound the working men. Settling gently down in the centre of the compound, the side door slid open and two medics fought against the downdraft to unload a gurney and a large medical bag.
Dervla appeared out of the remnants of the hospital tent and waved at them, and the medics headed off to retrieve the wounded van Guelder.
Brodie levered himself off the bed and stood swaying for a moment, but Tara handed him his stick and he steadied himself, noticing for the first time the dog lying watching him at what used to be the entrance of the tent.
"Hey, moron. You made it, huh?"
The dog rose at Brodie's voice and wandered up to him, nudging at his free hand. Brodie's long fingers rubbed the soft ears for a second, both of them glad to see the other. But then Brodie's mind turned to the work in hand, and he could see Davis directing men as they worked in the destroyed compound.
With Tara's help he limped out of the tent and into the midst of the aftermath of the night's mayhem.
Davis spotted him and waved him over, but both of them were distracted by a large, bulky man in a dark suit and glasses decanting from the helicopter. He reached back into the body of the machine and with surprising ease unloaded a heavy wheelchair. Fully mechanised and with a lightweight battery to power it, the thing looked state-of-the-art. Brodie was even more surprised when the big man reached once more into the helicopter's innards and helped out an older man.
In his mid-sixties, the man wasn't tall - indeed, Brodie thought he was older from the sparse white hair and thin face, but he noticed the sharp intelligence firing the black eyes. Wearing an open-necked shirt and slacks, he was helped into his wheelchair by the bulky suited man who draped a plaid shawl over legs that were frail with under-use.
The change in Davis was instant. Leaving Lopez to organise the cleanup, he hastened over to the man in the wheelchair and shook his hand, a grin on his youthful face. The older man didn't smile, but said something to Davis, who turned once more to Brodie and waved him over.
As Brodie limped closer he could feel the man's dark eyes perusing him like a piece of meat on a plate. Tara was beside him, straight and tall, and he felt better with her beside him. Almost as thought having her there made him complete.
By the time they reached Davis the man in the wheelchair was in deep conversation with the young security chief, but they broke off as Brodie and Tara came to a halt beside them. The older man looked up at Brodie and squinted in the sunlight.
"You're Brodie."
The voice was firm, decisive, and Brodie could hear the strong New Jersey accent that had never been modified through the years. He nodded.
"Last time I looked."
Davis touched Brodie's arm.
"Frank, Tara, I want you to meet my boss, Charles Cunningham, and his aide, Tony Cologna."
Brodie glanced at the big suited man behind Cunningham and nodded, but received no response. His eyes returned to Cunningham. The man didn't waste time on introductions - he had things to do.
"I want to talk business, Brodie. Let's get down to it shall we? Is this your woman?"
Brodie mentally grinned as he sensed Tara bristle.
"I'm nobody's woman, Mister Cunningham. Brodie and I are together, but it's an equal deal."
Cunningham studied her for a moment and digested her words. He nodded.
"All right. Whatever. I'll want to talk to you too, young lady."
Without waiting for an answer from either of them he turned his chair, and they heard the hum of the motor as he headed off through the compound, skirting baboon corpses without a glance and looking for somewhere where they could discuss 'business'. Finding most of the chairs and tables next to the chow wagon intact, he settled himself beside a table and waited for them to catch up.
Petrowski had fired up the wagon to keep everyone supplied with hot coffee and food, and seeing Brodie, Tara and Davis sit down beside the man in the wheelchair he grinned with delight. Joe Petrowski sure liked to feed people, and he set out a pot of coffee and some mugs.
"You guys hungry? I got eggs any way you want 'em, plus ham, sausages … you name it, I got it."
Cunningham looked up at the big ex-marine.
"Scrambled eggs with peppers and ham, maybe a touch of oregano. A couple of bagels, Mr Petrowski, if you please."
Petrowski grinned.
"You got it! Anything else, folks?"
As Petrowski took orders Brodie wondered at the respect the big cook gave Cunningham. For Joe Petrowski was not the kind of man to give his loyalty easily, and he obviously both respected and liked Cunningham. Brodie stored away the information for further reference and gave Joe his order for an omelette.
Charles Cunningham set his mind to the matter in hand.
"Hmmm. Brodie. That's a 'mick' name. Where are you from?"
Brodie grinned. The man wanted to see his reaction. Okay, ol' man - if that's the way you want to play it …
"Lower East Side, New York. And my grandpappy was a Scot from Moray. Not Irish."
Cunningham waved a hand dismissively.
"Scotch. Irish. Same goddamn thing. Argumentative sonsabitches. So, Brodie - you're a mean, bad-tempered bastard, I'm told," Brodie looked at Davis, who gave him a cheeky grin, "And you don't suffer fools easily. I like that in a man."
Brodie snorted.
"When you grow up in the Lower East Side with a Scots name in amongst all those Jewish kids, you gotta learn to defend yourself. So sue me."
Cunningham's face crinkled in a cold smile.
"I know what you mean. I was born 'Carmine Calzone', Brodie, and you can guess what kind of neighbourhood I grew up in. I dabbled in one or two nefarious activities, but I decided to change it when I became involved in business - when you have a name like mine and you work outwith New Jersey, it can be a hindrance, believe me." He took a sip of hot coffee and sighed with pleasure as Joe placed a plate heaped with food in front of him. "One of life's little pleasures, Brodie. I like to eat."
As they started on their food, Cunningham continued.
"I have plans for this island, Brodie. Big plans. And I need good men, men who have balls."
Brodie almost choked on his omelette, but he recovered his composure quickly. Cunningham continued.
"Scott here," he indicated Davis, "Has plenty to do running my main business security, but I need a Security Chief for San Miguel Island when I get everything up and running. I'm giving you the job, Brodie."
Brodie's eyebrows hit his hairline. A job. The man had offered a crippled, no-good drunk of an ex-soldier a job.
"What kind of job? Security Chief for what, exactly?"
Cunningham swallowed a mouthful of bagel and smiled. Brodie thought for a moment that the man reminded him of a crocodile.
"I'm turning this place into an exclusive holiday home complex. No-one with less than an income of a couple of million bucks a year will be able to afford it. 'Way out of your league, Brodie. I'm also starting a wildlife captive-breeding programme - this place is ideal, I've been told, and it makes a great tax write-off, believe me. It'll off-set the cost of the building work. We'll have things like rhino, giraffes, tigers, all those rarer animals everyone gets so irate about. I can get 'em cheap from those zoos in Eastern Europe that can't afford to feed 'em. Don't worry, it's all legal and above-board. You know wild animals, and you're ex-military. So … I take it you'll do it?"
Brodie pondered. It sounded tempting, even though Cunningham's motives were a little questionable. He finished his omelette and thought for a moment.
"What's in it for me?"
Cunningham sensed victory.
"Good pay, a team to do all the hard work, and I'll even throw in a house. Oh, and there's a need for a medic too, so I expect Miss Matthews here will do quite nicely." Cunningham smirked. "Take the offer, Brodie - you'll never get another one like it, believe me."
Brodie looked over at Tara and saw the shine of hope in her eyes. It would be a new start … for both of them. A chance to make a life rather than just endure it. He took a deep breath.
"All right. I'm in, and so's Tara. But I choose the team, Cunningham, and what I say is law here, you understand? I won't take any interference from you. I'll do the job you ask me to do and I'll do it well, but just let me get on with it."
Cunningham nodded in satisfaction.
"Scott told me you were an independent bastard. That's fine with me, Brodie. I like to be able to leave things alone so I can get on with the important stuff, like makin' more money. I'll be in touch about the team - "
Brodie interrupted the man's train of thought.
"Don't bother. I got my team right here. They're good men, every one of 'em, and I want van Guelder as my second-in-command."
Tara's mouth dropped open. She wondered if that bang on the head had done something to Brodie's reason. Van Guelder?? Brodie thought the man was an arrogant shit-head!
Cunningham shook his head.
"No. Not van Guelder. He screwed up, and I don't like screw-ups. He took his men into danger despite your warnings - "
"He did exactly what I would have done, Cunningham, and don't you forget
it. He's a pain in the ass, but he knows what he's doing. He knows wild animals,
he's a good shot and his head's on straight. Without his quick actions most
of these men would have died, and that counts for something with me. You want
men with balls, Cunningham? Van Guelder's are as big as footballs. I trust him,
which is more than I can say for you. No van Guelder, no Brodie. It's as simple
as that."
Cunningham lifted the walking stick stuck in the side of his chair and prodded Brodie in the chest.
"You, Mister Brodie, are a wise-ass. I don't like wise-asses … but in your case I'll make an exception. If you want to have van Guelder, then I suppose I'll have to deal with it. I've dealt with worse. I'll see you in my office the day after tomorrow, and we'll talk."
Brodie looked down at the man in the wheelchair and saw the twinkle of amusement in the black eyes. The man was tough as hell and knew it, but Brodie respected that. Yes, working with Cunningham would be interesting.
"By the way, Brodie …"
Brodie frowned.
"Yeah?"
Cunningham pointed at Brodie's leopard swordstick.
"How much for the stick? It's a swordstick, right? African? German Solingen steel blade, if I'm not mistaken … probably mid-nineteenth century." He smiled. "I collect swordsticks."
Brodie shook his head.
"Ain't for sale."
Cunninham was thoughtful.
"Everything's for sale, Brodie, at the right price. Name it."
"Nope. I told you. It ain't for sale. You don't have enough money to buy it, Cunningham … it was given to me by someone real special."
Brodie sensed Tara's smile.
Cunningham looked up at the big ex-soldier.
"All right. But one day, Brodie, you'll sell me that stick."
Without another word he turned his chair and headed back across the compound towards the helicopter where Dervla was helping the medics load a protesting van Guelder. The big aide, Tony Colona, who hadn't said a word throughout, nodded goodbye to them and headed off after his boss. Within minutes the helicopter lifted off, taking van Guelder to hospital and returning Charles Cunningham back to civilization.
Brodie sat for a moment, feeling Tara's fingers link in his.
Just a few minutes ago he was unemployed and looking into a dark, unknown future.
Now he had a job, a home and responsibilities. He squeezed the hand nestling in his. And he had Tara. That, he realised, was the most important thing of all. He grinned.
"Well, girl. Looks like we got work to do."
Tara returned the squeeze of his hand.
"Yeah, Frank. It'll be fun. And we'll be together."
Brodie leaned over and kissed her, much to Davis' delight.
"Yeah," He said, breaking off the kiss for a moment. "Together. Sounds just right."
He kissed her again, and poured her another cup of coffee. Then they started making plans.
*******************