Bloch sighed, and seemed to relax. She put her hand on his shoulder.
“Well done, Shep. You did good.”
CHAPTER 8
Andover, December 28
Morgan pulled up to his house and eased his 1967 Pontiac GTO into the driveway as gently as he could, crushing the unshoveled snow beneath the tires, fitting it into the snug space in his garage. He got out of the car to the whir of the garage door closing and shivered in the chilly night air. As he swung the car door shut, pain shot up his right shoulder. It had been hurt in his run-in with Novokoff—no long-term damage, but it was sore and raw, and the cold seemed to make the pain well up again. Morgan had yearned for the warmth of his bed, with Jenny by his side, the whole way back. Right now, it seemed like the cure for all his troubles.
As the garage door whirred, he unlocked the door that led into the kitchen and pushed it open. Neika was already waiting on the other side of the door, panting, wagging her tail and nudging his hand with her black snout. Morgan ran his fingers through the soft fur on her head and back. He walked into the kitchen, and his skin tingled from the sudden warmth. The familiar environment enveloped him—the simply ornamented white cupboards with brass pulls that his wife, the home decorator, called “old New England style,” the tan pinstripe wallpaper and copper pots hanging on the wall—the decorative elements that blended with the things that made it home, like the looming shapes of kichen appliances, the stained and warped cast iron skillet that had once belonged to Jenny’s mother, the faint smell of garlic from the night’s cooking. It felt good to be back.
Neika was still whimpering in excitement at his arrival. He ran his hand vigorously down her back a few times. “Shh, that’s right, nice and quiet, girl.” Morgan left her to chase her own tail as he opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk. As he closed it, he saw a new picture had been put up. It was Alex standing proudly in her Junior ROTC uniform. This made him smile. For many years, he had felt her slip away from him. As much as he respected that her choices were her own, he couldn’t help rejoicing in this latest one as something that had brought them together. They had started reconnecting recently, and now they were closer than ever.
That picture was also a reminder of his other side—the other side of Cobra, the ruthless killer. Others in his position had not been so lucky. Some, like Novokoff, had become out-and-out monsters. Others, like his friend and longtime partner Peter Conley, had become lifelong loners, with a woman in every port but never someone to come home to and share their lives with. Morgan’s family preserved the side of him that made him feel human, and gave a meaning to the things that he did that was deeper than any abstract duty to protect the innocent. He might even call it his soul, if there was such a thing. It made him whole, having Alex and—
“Dan ? Is that you?” Jenny’s voice was composed of that middle-of-the-night mixture of drowsiness and concern. Morgan turned to see her in her faded blue bathrobe, squinting, her face lined from sleep.
“Hey,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said tenderly.
“I was awake. Nightmares again.” She had been having them since the Atlanta attack—dreams of terrorist attacks, of their neighborhood destroyed, of everybody she knew dying.
“Every night?”
“Every night you’re not here.” She slid her head onto his shoulder, gently squeezing what turned out to be bruised, raw flesh. He flinched despite himself, wincing.
“Jesus, Dan,” she said, drawing her hand away. “Are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing.” He shrugged.
“What happened?” she insisted, suspicion creeping into her voice. “Let me take a look.”
“No, Jenny, it’s fine.”
“Dan,” she said, the concern in her voice turning into stern insistence, “let me see your shoulder.”
He sighed as he unbuttoned his shirt. There was no way to hide it, not anymore. He pulled it off, exposing his shoulder to the cool air inside. Jenny gasped. He knew it was bad—even though the doctor had taken a look at it, it was still a nasty purplish black.
“It looks worse than it is,” he said.
“How—” she started, then stopped herself, and began again in a weary, resigned tone, her lips pursed, her eyes disapproving. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”
Morgan opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him before he could make a sound.
“Don’t lie to me,” she warned, index finger outstretched. “Not about this. Not now.”