Gratitude
Part Two
Blood. There�s blood everywhere. Where is it coming from? Whose is it? Is it Clay�s? The missionaries? The terrorists? Mac�s eyes strayed from the blurred words in the file to her hands. Hands that were still covered in blood. Blood that had been there from the moment she had looked into the eyes of Saddiq Faad. She had thought it would wash away in the soothing bubbles of a hotel bathtub in Paraguay, under the burning gaze of the only man who mattered, who still thought she was beautiful. But even as she had grabbed the towel to cover herself when Hardy showed up, she had seen the blood lingering on her palms. It never left her sight for long. Most of the time there was only a trace, but there were moments she could practically see it dripping from her fingers. This was one of those moments. She perched on the edge of her chair, frozen, trying desperately to remind herself that her hands were clean, that she was free of Saddiq and that room with its metal cuffs and steel wool and Clayton Webb�s blood. But as the mere thought of Webb�s blood crossed her mind, the rest of her waking nightmare slammed through her in waves. Because now sound had been added to sight. Now she could hear the screams.
Not again! Please, Clay, please stop screaming. I promise I�ll do anything you want, just please stop. I�m sorry, I tried, I know it�s my fault but please, Please, PLEASE stop! But even as she begged the phantom Clay to be quiet, a more logical portion of her brain questioned what she was hearing. Slowly that portion of her mind took over, dampening the sound until she could bring her full mind to bear on the problem. That doesn�t sound like Clay. I remember what Clay sounded like. I�ll never forget it. This is higher pitched. A woman. That�s it. A woman�s voice. A woman�s scream. Her�s? No, she didn�t think so. Even in her thoughts she didn�t let herself show the kind of terror she heard in that voice. So whose voice was it? The missionary woman�s? Had she screamed when they pushed her to the ground? When the gun had been aimed at her head? Was that the voice she was hearing? Then suddenly, as her mind was still trying to put together the puzzle, the voice changed. It became louder once again. And now it was calling to her.
�Colonel?�
Why is she calling me Colonel? How does she even know I�m in the military? Clay only ever called me Sarah.
�Colonel Mackenzie?"
Oh, God. How does she know my name? What else does she know? What�s happening? What�s happening to me?!
Where....
�Colonel Mackenzie!�
Mac�s head snapped up as a familiar and most definitely masculine voice cut through the noise in her head. Her gaze immediately fixed on the stern, annoyed face of her commanding officer. As she leapt to attention she felt the slightest tremble begin in her hands and, dropping the file, clenched them painfully in front of her. Forcing herself back into her stoic Marine facade, she focused herself on the Admiral.
�Sir, I�m sorry. I didn�t hear you come in.�
The Admiral�s gaze narrowed.
�And did you also not hear Petty Officer Coates calling your name for the past five minutes?�
At this Mac�s eyes registered the blur standing behind and slightly to the side as Jennifer Coates. Jen was looking at her with the same mixture of confusion and annoyance that everyone seemed to feel whenever they looked at JAG�s Chief of Staff. Mac�s eyes darted back to the Admiral as her face flushed with embarrassment.
�No, sir. I�m sorry but I didn�t,� Mac�s voice remained remarkably calm and even considering the current state of her nerves, �What can I do for you, sir?�
As the Admiral opened his mouth to answer her, she saw the look of annoyance slowly morphing into full-fledged anger. And her ragged nerves threatened to shred completely at his response.
�You can start by telling me what the hell is wrong with you!�
JAG Headquarters
0852 EST
If anyone were to look into Sarah Mackenzie�s office at that moment they would see the very image of a hardworking lawyer engrossed in a case. Only someone looking very closely, or who knew her very well, would notice that the white knuckled hands were not holding the file so much as clutching it like a life preserver. Or that her entire body was rigid with tension, and her eyes were actually fixed on some point far away. But no one at JAG was looking closely at Sarah Mackenzie these days and the only person who knew her well enough to see through her careful facade was gone from JAG. And from the looks of it, he wasn�t coming back.