Page 78 of Down and Dirty

Not in a million years! Sammy is screwed up enough. “Thanks, but he stays with me.”

After his grandfather was gone, making arrangements to drop by the house before leaving town, Zach and Delaney got down to business. He signed legal documents giving the lawyer power of attorney to access his confidential files and act on his behalf in legal matters where privacy laws prevailed.

“Arsallah wants to arrange a meeting between himself and your son.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Not even in a secure setting?”

“No. It can serve no purpose other than to intimidate Sammy and give Arsallah information about how to access the boy.”

“The courts might say he has a grandfather’s right to visitation.”

“Then he’ll have to fight for it in the courts. And that means he’ll have to explain some of the scars on the boy’s body and some of the things Sammy has inadvertently revealed about his treatment in the mullah’s camps.”

“None of this is going to be easy.”

“I know that.”

“And not just because of Arsallah’s threats. The State Department has Lebanon and Iran breathing down its neck. They’re urging diplomacy.”

“Bullshit! What they’re urging is that we sacrifice the boy for the sake of goodwill with a bunch of terrorist nations.”

Delaney shrugged. “That’s the way the world works.”

“It’s not the way I work.”

“The Vortex Security guy talked with you today, right?”

He nodded.

“They think you should find a safe house for Sammy and yourself for the short term.”

He shook his head. “Sammy’s lived with nothing but turmoil practically since he was born. I have to give him as close to a normal life as I can. And, yeah, I know my home is no Brady Bunch paradise, but it’s better than he’s ever known before.”

Delaney reached across the table and squeezed his forearm. “You don’t have to convince me, Zach.”

After his meeting with the lawyer, it was past noon, and he decided to catch up with the WEALS class in the chow hall. When he got there, he saw a bunch of ragtag women who looked as if they’d been put through the ringer. It was hard to tell whether they were eating or sleeping as they sat on the benches. Wet, scrawny hair from the pool. Sweaty bodies. Grimy clothing. Exhaustion and pain etched on their faces. But wait, there was a group of women who weren’t sitting down, and in the middle of that bunch, he saw Britta holding center court. She was holding something up to the women who surrounded her. Whatever it was, it caused the other women to laugh. Even some of the instructors standing nearby were smiling.

When she saw him, despite all the military protocol to the contrary, she stomped up to him and held out a dish. “Do you know what this is?” she demanded.

“Uh, chocolate pudding?”

“Covered with?”

“Whipped cream?”

“And how does one eat whipped cream, pray tell?”

“With a spoon?” Uh-oh! He knew where this conversation was going.

“Do not dare to smirk at me, lout. You told me there was only one way to eat whipping cream. By licking. And, for a certainty, it was not on a bowl of pudding, either, you son of a codsucking camel.”

He couldn’t help himself from joining the crowd. Everybody was laughing.

Except Britta. She tossed the dish of pudding in his face.

MEMO