Monica couldn't contain the snort this time.
"What?"
"At least somebody found a use for those pictures." She shoved the bag toward her younger sister.
"You weren't proud of your accomplishment?" Yasmine took the bag, clutched it to her stomach.
When had a trip for toothpaste turned into a gory gut-spilling? Monica sidled past to find a sleep shirt for Yasmine. "I did it for the money. I needed it for college."
"But Mother sent you money, very much."
"I gave it all to the American Cancer Society." Prideful, sure, when it well could have cost her an education. But at the time it had seemed symbolic of cutting cancerous emotions from her life. She simply couldn't accept her mother's money. Not even her mother's actually, but from the man she'd married. The man who'd stolen another man's wife.
"That was really impractical."
"You're so damned young." Monica dropped an Atlanta Braves' T-shirt on the office chair beside her sister.
"So I keep hearing quite often these days," Yasmine mumbled, scooping up the overlong shirt.
"I understand what you're trying to do here with mending fences, and it's...nice." As much as she resented admitting it. "But you are not helping. I don't hate her, but she made a decision not to be an active part of my life a long time ago. Collecting pictures and taking a kid to the mall once a year does not make a person a parent. I respect that you love her. But you really need to back off on this subject if we're going to have any kind of civil discussions."
Snooty Yasmine returned in full force. "Am I free to go now?"
So much for the sister sharefest. Monica tried not to think of how she and Sydney would have sat cross-legged on either end of the cot sharing a bowl of popcorn while they talked about man troubles.
Monica waved her sister by without answering. Yasmine walked past, so damned quietly it was spooky sometimes. The tail end of her turquoise scarf fluttered gently.
Memories, unwelcome but persistent, nudged through of Yasmine as a child running down the airplane gangplank, whipping off her scarf and trailing it behind her like a kite.
"Yasmine?"
Her half sister turned. Waited. The scarf settled along with memories. "Yes?"
"I want to believe you about why you're here. Really I do." God, she was already in danger of losing one sister and Sydney would tell her to be kinder. Of course, Sydney always had been the bleeding heart in their family. "But I don't want it bad enough to close my eyes."
"Is that supposed to frighten me?''
Regret nicked that walls were so high between them. Yet as much as she wished they could be closer, wished they could cry together for Sydney, Monica couldn't risk doing anything that might expose the rescue mission. "It's not like we have that much history for some deep bond or sisterly trust. I don't know you. You don't know me. As long as you're straight up, there's not a problem."
Yasmine tucked the bag and shirt closer to her chest. "I guess that means I will not be bunking at your place when I get to the United States."
A scary thought. Regret scratched deeper. "Did you plan to?"
"No. After I arrive, I will call Sydney." Yasmine turned and left, scarf fluttering defiantly behind her.
Monica accepted the emotional stab delivered with Sydney's name as a reminder of priorities. And dealing with emotional baggage from Yasmine just couldn't be a priority with life-and-death stakes in the balance.
Blake drew heavy hits off the oxygen mask plugged into the C-17 cruising at high altitude out over the gulf. Chuted up and ready to roll, he regulated his breathing in time with the steady drone of engines. His fifteen SEAL buddies sat in file beside him.
Red lights bathed the metal tunnel with a hellish glow. Figures blotted the image. Dark. Moldy. Like in the countless caves in Afghanistan where he'd worked SSE—sensitive site exploitation. Then the endless tunnels under Baghdad. Constant risk of cave-ins and booby traps whittled away at nerves until a man finally figured out how to shut down feeling altogether.
A skill he longed for now.
The metal walls threatened to close in on him, to fill his brain and nose with cobwebs until it shut off air. He forced oxygen in. Out. Routine.
How many times had he done this? Flown in countless cargo holds of C-17s, C-130s, even dropping out of the bomb bay of a B-52 once for a HALO.
Today's agenda: a HAHO—high altitude, high opening, on oxygen while they cruised. Guide the chute for over an hour for a covert insertion. Land a couple miles shy of the terrorist compound.