someone who was in her thirties, not barely twenty, as he had assumed. The delightful lines around her eyes and the soft contours around her lips were of a woman and not the girl he had told himself she was.
Besides her age, Max had two revelations about Magdalena right then, sitting with her on his sofa. She didn’t really look like Fatima. Magdalena looked like her own person: strong, wise and beautiful in her own way. He also realized at that moment that he could love her.
He was beaming, feeling the warm glow of the happiness that could be his.
Then the burden of his thoughts crashed back on him, crushing his momentary joy. He would have to worry about one more person at a time and place where he had little control.
Like a reflection of his mood, the sun hid behind a giant cloud, and just as quickly, the brightness faded from the room and from him.
She fidgeted in her seat, breaking his thoughts. She had something to say but seemed hesitant to speak.
“Are you okay?” she asked as she watched him drink another shot down as if it were water.
He didn't answer. Okay? Of course he wasn't okay. He had just executed a man and then gunned down two more innocents, all in the name of safety for Cicada and the people he cared about. He was again becoming that same person he had been in Basra. Yet, if he didn't do what he had to do, Cicada would eventually fall into the hands of the barbarians outside, who were receiving military-grade equipment from some outside source. Tom and he confirmed this when they swung by the split aspen and found the package of explosives waiting for the man who would never use them.
No, he was not okay. Worse, he was beginning to believe that this was his penance for past misdeeds; he had to be the protector of this place, regardless of what the future held. And he certainly couldn’t open himself to the love of another woman.
“Yeah, I'm fine.” He poured himself another drink.
There was a rapid bang on the doorframe followed by “Mr. Thompson, are you in?” through the wide-open door.
She put her glass down and bounded up. “I'm going to go. Thanks for the drink.”
A different voice called from the blazing doorway, the raging morning light still pouring through in torrents. “Mr. Thompson, sorry to bother you, but we really need to talk to you.”
“I'll be right there,” he yelled. To her, he spoke softly. “Please don't go.”
“I think I have to,” she faltered. “I don't want to see what happens next. I care about you too much.” At the doorway, she stopped and turned to him. “I know you think you need to do whatever it takes to keep everyone safe, but consider the costs. The man I left in Mexico took the time to save several people, even though it meant he’d be delayed in meeting up with his friends and maybe helping them further. I'm not sure what happened to that man. I'd love to sit and talk with him for a while.” She vanished into the light as the two men burst in.
Max was frozen in place, his shot glass poised at his lips. He held it there; for the first time since opening this old treasured bottle, the tequila’s sweetness danced on his nostrils, never fully there, like her. But her words bit harder than the tequila’s burn. He had had too much of both.
“Sorry, Mr. Thompson, but this is real important,” one of them said. Max put the glass down and looked up at the outlines of two men in lab coats. His thoughts were already muddy from the alcohol and his fatigue made it hard to focus on them in the bright sunlight.
The older and shorter of the two said, “We’ve figured out why the CMEs never stop!”
15.
Bios-2
Westerling had stolen everything he needed from Cicada: the idea and plans for the Cicada complex, courtesy of one of his most senior people; then some of Thompson’s land—seizing it by using a federal statute on grazing; and then just before and after the Event, many of their scientists. Now he wanted the prize, too. He
Besides her age, Max had two revelations about Magdalena right then, sitting with her on his sofa. She didn’t really look like Fatima. Magdalena looked like her own person: strong, wise and beautiful in her own way. He also realized at that moment that he could love her.
He was beaming, feeling the warm glow of the happiness that could be his.
Then the burden of his thoughts crashed back on him, crushing his momentary joy. He would have to worry about one more person at a time and place where he had little control.
Like a reflection of his mood, the sun hid behind a giant cloud, and just as quickly, the brightness faded from the room and from him.
She fidgeted in her seat, breaking his thoughts. She had something to say but seemed hesitant to speak.
“Are you okay?” she asked as she watched him drink another shot down as if it were water.
He didn't answer. Okay? Of course he wasn't okay. He had just executed a man and then gunned down two more innocents, all in the name of safety for Cicada and the people he cared about. He was again becoming that same person he had been in Basra. Yet, if he didn't do what he had to do, Cicada would eventually fall into the hands of the barbarians outside, who were receiving military-grade equipment from some outside source. Tom and he confirmed this when they swung by the split aspen and found the package of explosives waiting for the man who would never use them.
No, he was not okay. Worse, he was beginning to believe that this was his penance for past misdeeds; he had to be the protector of this place, regardless of what the future held. And he certainly couldn’t open himself to the love of another woman.
“Yeah, I'm fine.” He poured himself another drink.
There was a rapid bang on the doorframe followed by “Mr. Thompson, are you in?” through the wide-open door.
She put her glass down and bounded up. “I'm going to go. Thanks for the drink.”
A different voice called from the blazing doorway, the raging morning light still pouring through in torrents. “Mr. Thompson, sorry to bother you, but we really need to talk to you.”
“I'll be right there,” he yelled. To her, he spoke softly. “Please don't go.”
“I think I have to,” she faltered. “I don't want to see what happens next. I care about you too much.” At the doorway, she stopped and turned to him. “I know you think you need to do whatever it takes to keep everyone safe, but consider the costs. The man I left in Mexico took the time to save several people, even though it meant he’d be delayed in meeting up with his friends and maybe helping them further. I'm not sure what happened to that man. I'd love to sit and talk with him for a while.” She vanished into the light as the two men burst in.
Max was frozen in place, his shot glass poised at his lips. He held it there; for the first time since opening this old treasured bottle, the tequila’s sweetness danced on his nostrils, never fully there, like her. But her words bit harder than the tequila’s burn. He had had too much of both.
“Sorry, Mr. Thompson, but this is real important,” one of them said. Max put the glass down and looked up at the outlines of two men in lab coats. His thoughts were already muddy from the alcohol and his fatigue made it hard to focus on them in the bright sunlight.
The older and shorter of the two said, “We’ve figured out why the CMEs never stop!”
15.
Bios-2
Westerling had stolen everything he needed from Cicada: the idea and plans for the Cicada complex, courtesy of one of his most senior people; then some of Thompson’s land—seizing it by using a federal statute on grazing; and then just before and after the Event, many of their scientists. Now he wanted the prize, too. He
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