The Blood of Patriots

Chapter 4: The Spark

Oz wakes me up well before dawn. She's already showered and is digging through her duffle. I watch as she dresses in green cargo pants, black army boots and a black turtleneck. She goes through my closet and selects blue jeans, work boots, and an olive green long-sleeve shirt.

It's very domestic. I like it.

"These will do for you," she says, laying the selected wardrobe on the bed. She's careful to stay out of my reach. "Hurry up. You're going to love it."

She jumps forward quickly and pulls the covers off of me. She laughs and runs downstairs.

When I get downstairs I find that my father is already up, which is unusual. He's is still in his bathrobe, which is not. It's a dark blue fuzzy thing that needs a good wash. His light brown hair is a mess and his brown eyes are blood-shot. That's also normal.

"But she's still in army intelligence?" Dad asks Oz.

Two not-so-strange men sit in my kitchen with him. Both are dressed like Oz—black shirts, green pants, and heavy boots.

"Yeah. She's a major general now."

"Is she still single?"

I clear my throat and stare at the two men. One is a dark-skinned black man with long dreadlocks. The other is that ginger-haired soldier. The black guy smiles at me and raises a coffee mug. The expression on the other is blank and unreadable.

"She works too hard, but I think she's winding down her schedule. She's been making noises about settling down."

She winks at me. She stands on her toes and whispers something in Dad's ear. They laugh together as I plop down on the couch and tie my boots.

"Really?" he asks. "That would be fun."

I groan and lay my head back on the couch. It's like a broken record with him:

—When you going to call Maria and ask her about Oz again?

—I don't know, Dad. Why don't you call her?

—Well, when you do, tell her I said 'Hey.'

—Sure, Dad.

My eyeballs hurt from the rum.

Oz hands me a travel mug filled with coffee and says to her friends, "Saddle up."

Chair legs scrape on the kitchen floor. Dishes then rattle as if they're cleaning up after themselves.

"I can get that," Dad says.

"Thanks, Mr. Taylor."

"Thank you, sir."

I'm never going to hear the end of this.

"Anytime," Dad says.

"I'll have him back sometime this afternoon," Oz says.

"Don't bother. Keep him as long as you like."

She hands me my camouflage hunting coat. I grumble at her and stumble out the front door. A black van is warming up at the curb. At least it's still dark outside. Red-head gets behind the wheel and Oz climbs into the front. Dreadlocks has a full communication station in the back with a swivel bucket seat and multiple video screens.

I roll up my coat for a pillow and stretch out on the bench seat.

"Are we there yet?" I mumble.