shape than this. How had two and a half months off the job turned him into such a wimp? He ignored the voice in his head that told him his weakness had a lot more to do with two bullets and three surgeries than it did the time he’d been forced to take off work.
He loosened his tie and headed into the kitchen for a glass of iced tea. Grimacing as he took a sip of the too-sweet liquid, he tried to appreciate the drink that was a hallmark of his newly adopted city. It was difficult, though, especially considering he much preferred a cold beer at the end of a long day. But, ostensibly, he was still on pain medication. The little white pills he’d been prescribed did not react well with alcohol.
Not that he was actually taking them regularly anymore. Though his doctor, his physical therapist and his own medical training all told him that he needed to keep a steady supply of the anti-inflammatory and pain medication in his bloodstream if he expected it to do its job, he couldn’t force himself to keep up with them anymore. It was stupid, he knew, but he hated the crutch. Hated the need to depend on something else—even a pill—to make himself feel better. He’d gotten through his entire adult life without having to rely on anyone or anything and damn it, he would get through this, too. Even if it killed him.
Which it wouldn’t, he assured himself as he took another long swallow of the sweet tea. After all, he didn’t completely ignore his doctor’ orders. He took the pills when he really needed them—mainly on nights when insomnia struck, because if there was one thing he hated more than depending on the medication, it was lying in bed and staring at the still unfamiliar ceiling, wondering how in the hell he had gotten himself here, to this point.
Opening the fridge, he tried to drum up some enthusiasm as he stared at the fresh produce filling nearly all the available shelves. Amanda had come over the other day, loaded down with bags from her garden and the local farmer’s market, and stocked him up. Which he appreciated. He really did. He hadn’t been very hungry lately.
Grabbing an apple, he made his way slowly through the house to the back porch. It was what had sold him on the place to begin with. Most of the house was pretty non-descript—typical rental property—except for the backyard. There was a huge porch that ran the length of the house and looked out over a garden that would fit better at a country estate than a small, city property.
Lush plants and flowers took up nearly every square inch, their eminent domain broken only by small walking paths that twisted and turned throughout the backyard. He’d explored them all his first couple of days in the house, had found a rose garden with a bench and the remnants of a vegetable garden. Maybe, if his hand came back enough, he’d start his own vegetable garden this spring.
If he was still here, that was. He might be long gone by then. Back to Boston, maybe. Or more likely, back to Somalia. Or some other war-torn country that was in such desperate need of doctors that they didn’t mind broken ones.
Uneasiness twisted in his stomach at the idea of going back to For the Children, back to another war zone where anything could happen. But Jack ignored it and settled himself on the big, comfy swing. He didn’t need to think about that now, or about anything, really. He could just sit here and relax for a while. Eat his apple and contemplate nothing more difficult than what vegetables he would plant if he was still around in a few months. Maybe some carrots. Tomatoes. He liked red peppers—
A steady stream of water came out of nowhere, hitting him square in the face before dropping a foot to scatter across his blue T-shirt, as well. It stopped for a moment, than a second stream hit him, followed so closely by a third and fourth that he was soaked before he had time to react. Jumping to his feet, he glanced around, trying to figure out where the attack was coming from. Had his sprinkler system gone insane? Was he sitting directly under a rain gutter?
He investigated the roof of the porch, then the empty blue sky above, then looked carefully around his yard.
But there was nothing, no one.
Dropping his apple core on the table next to the swing, he started to jump off the porch but then remembered his bum leg. More annoyed by that than by the fact that he was soaked, he took the steps two at a time instead. Then headed in the direction the water had come from.
He heard them before he saw them, two young voices laughing and whispering and hushing each other even as they rustled the hedge that separated his yard from his next-door neighbor’s. “Hey!” he called, making a beeline for the bushes. “Can I help you?”
At that moment, two towheaded little boys peeked their heads out of the foliage, their expressions steely and determined. It was a look reinforced by the huge water guns in their hands, though the bright colors of the guns tempered the effect. “We don’t need help from the enemy,” one told him in a tough guy voice that matched his soldier act.
“Yeah,” said the other, who was clearly younger by a few years, “We’re special forces and we’ve come to bring you in.” As he spoke, the first one leveled his water gun straight at Jack’s chest.
“The way I see it,” the boy continued. “We can do this two ways.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jack cocked an eyebrow, and decided what the hell. He could play along. Better than sitting around whining to himself about his pathetic excuse for a life. “And which two ways are those?” he asked in his own tough-guy voice. He even added a little sneer, to keep things interesting.
The boys’ eyes grew round with delight and they exchanged a quick look of triumph. But it only took the older one a second to regain his composure and add a snarl of his own to the mix. “Easy. My way or the highway.”
“Our way,” the younger one corrected him.
“Right. Our way.”
Jack grinned. He couldn’t help himself. They were adorable. Plus, it was nice to see two healthy, happy, well-nourished kids. So much better than the children he was used to interacting with. And these two were loaded with confidence, especially the older one. Jack liked it.
“You think this is funny, Punk?” the oldest one demanded, obviously taking his role seriously.
“No. Not at all.” Jack forced the smile from his face—and his voice. “I do have a question, though.”
His two assailants looked at each other, wide-eyed. Obviously, their plan hadn’t included the hostage engaging them in conversation.
It took a minute, but the younger one finally spoke. “Spit it out, scumbag. It can be your last request.”
“Well,” he said slowly, as if considering his options, even as he geared up for the fight of his life. “Can I have a few minutes? I’d like to say goodbye.” He pulled out his cell phone. “It won’t take long.”
“Geez, mister.” The older one looked disgusted as he stepped closer, gesturing emphatically with his gun. “What kind of hostage situation do you think this is? Get moving!”
“The kind where the hostage doesn’t go willingly.” Jack spun on his good leg, made a mad dash for cover at the closest tree. Then made a beeline for the water tap at the side of the house, regretting bitterly the fact that he hadn’t gotten around to buying a hose yet. But at least there was a bucket beneath it.
Using the house for cover, he twisted the tap with his good hand and waited impatiently for the bucket to fill up. When the two little dictators whipped around the corner, he was going to have a surprise waiting for them. One that, hopefully, got them as wet as they had gotten him.
* * *
HER SONS’ SHRIEKS split the air as Sophie Connors yanked the last weed out of the vegetable garden she and the boys had planted a few months before. It was doing nicely, she thought, as she sat back on her heels and surveyed the neat rows of greenery beginning to peek out of the dirt. In a couple more months they’d have a pretty good harvest to show for all the hours of planning and planting, watering and fertilizing, discussing and dreaming, that had already gone into it.
Which meant it was time for her to get a new project to work on. Nothing sprang to mind, but she knew one would