Disclaimer: Everything in the Twilight universe belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

AN: Much thanks to edward-bella-harry-ginny for her usual pre-reading, beta-work and hand-holding. And thanks to all you readers, reviewers, favorite-ers, and alerters; I appreciate your patience.

I stood, stretched, and replaced his blanket while maintaining as much distance as I could. Before leaving him, I turned and impulsively asked him one more question. "What's the real reason you joined?"

Edward's golden eyes blazed as he looked into mine. He seemed to be looking for something in me that was just out of his sight, and I was lost for a moment or two. I decided he wasn't going to answer, and I turned away to leave, pulling away from his magnetic gaze.

As I entered the hallway, I thought I heard his voice murmur one word.

"Penance."

Ch. 7. Trail

Bagram Airfield was no different from my memories, what little I could see through the porthole. It was plain and functional and ugly as sin. The air was dry, giving me a mild headache and sinus pain. Through the magic of Colonel McCarty, there was only one other aircraft near ours, and it contained the three vehicles we needed. These were offloaded as we waited on the plane, and then the personnel jumped on a transport and disappeared amongst the huge cargo boxes littering this part of the base.

Colonel McCarty addressed the entire team, Edward included, before we deplaned. I never saw when Col. McCarty released him, but he stood with the rest of us, listening with a grim countenance. "You all know what we're up against. Time is the biggest enemy, for us and for 2nd Lt. Jonathan Trace. Don't make Trace our first failure."

"No sir!" shouted the rest of the team, followed by a clap. I would have been a beat or two behind had I joined in, so I refrained. I was interested to see that Edward, so isolated since I had been observing the team, participated with fervor equal to Rodney's. His demeanor was radically different as he clapped a few of the guys on the back, and said a few words to Frankie and Shannon. He even had a short conversation with Col. McCarty. The only ones who escaped his encouragement were Maj. Heinz and me. But then again, I was about to spend a possible 20-30 hours in an ambulance with him.

The team deplaned and split into four groups. Col. McCarty, Maj. Heinz, and Shannon split off for the US headquarters at Bagram. They wouldn't follow us into the field, but would work behind the scenes and follow the mission by radio. Frankie, Brock, and Rodney took the lead humvee, Edward and I were assigned to the ambulance, and Jack, Rick, and Mitch took the rear in the second humvee. We had all spent an hour or so on the plane checking out our weapons, although the Four K's had taken considerably more time with the small arsenal they each lugged. I was comfortable with my M-16. Edward had a pistol and a sniper's rifle, which he stowed carefully behind the seat in the ambulance.

"Who's driving?" I asked, hoping to elicit a humorous response from Edward. He scowled.

"I'm driving, of course. I think my reflexes are slightly better than yours."

"It was a joke." I rolled my eyes. It was going to be a very long day. I climbed into the passenger side of the ambulance, and was struck by a wave of memories from my first tour.

We didn't have far to go to get to Kabul, but the road conditions slowed us somewhat. I watched the familiar landscape go by, as Edward seemed disinclined to speak. If I didn't know better, I would have guessed he was holding his breath. The plains of Afghanistan were the flattest place I had ever been. Other than the snow-streaked mountains that rose majestically in the distance, the terrain surrounding the road was flat and yellow-brown. I had learned to hate this color when I had been here before.

"Do you ever talk about how you…got this way?" I asked. I winced at my own awkwardness. My job was talking to people about things which made them uncomfortable and getting them to talk back to me. Edward was a whole new level of difficulty, worse than an enigma wrapped in a mystery. I would feel free to let it go – therapy didn't work on people who didn't want it – but some of his actions suggested he wanted help. I suspected that I was on this team for one reason only, and that reason was Edward. If only I knew who wanted me to know Edward and why. If it was Col. McCarty and his superiors, then I was doing exactly the right thing in getting Edward to open up to me. The more I knew about him, the more I could help him. If I was here because someone else was concerned about Edward and his stability, for example, oh, say, Mystery Man and whoever he represented, then perhaps it was better if I knew nothing.

There was a third possibility, I realized. In my quest to understand Edward, I could learn secrets which could be valuable to other people and very harmful to him.

Edward shot me a cryptic glance. His eyes had been trained solely on the road as we bounced along behind the lead humvee. He rolled down his window a crack, and motioned for me to do the same. The outside air wasn't exactly a comfortable 75 degrees, but I humored him.

"Never."

Well, there was a conversation-ender if I ever heard one. Possibility four was that I would not learn anything about Edward for any reason. "I was impressed by how you bolstered everyone's confidence before we left the plane."

Silence.

"Because you're relatively isolated from the rest of the team. They don't see you day-to-day like they do each other."

Silence.

"One would think you'd be less committed to the missions after you've been treated so harshly."

This time I let the silence tick on. I watched the monotonous landscape roll by as I was bounced in my seat.

He finally honored me with his quiet comment. "The fact that some bureaucrat has decided to punish me doesn't mean I want the team to fail."

The radio kicked in at that moment.

"Mama Bear calling for her babies. Check in, babies." Shannon's voice came through the speaker with a slight hiss of static.

"Goldilocks calling Mama Bear. Still on target." Frankie was answering from the lead car.

Edward sighed and picked up the radio. "Red Riding Hood here." My eyebrows went up. Goldilocks was perfect for the blonde Frankie. I supposed that Edward's bronze hair could be called red. Maybe he should switch his moniker to Doc Savage, the Man of Bronze. I had known someone who collected those pulp fiction novels from the thirties (along with every comic book known to man. Or woman).

"Jolly Green Giant checking in." Mitch had answered from the rear vehicle. Mitch was huge; I liked Mr. Clean better as a description, but Jolly Green Giant would work.

"Mama Bear loves you all. Papa Bear is sending his love."

"That's code," Edward said unnecessarily. "Check the sat phone in my bag." I pulled the phone out of the duffel on the seat between us.

"There's a new message. It's coordinates." I handed him the phone when he put out his hand. He read the message, but maintained an exact distance from the bumper of the lead humvee and perfect placement in our lane of the road. I knew this because I panicked a little when he took his eyes off the road. I could add "excellent driver" to the list of Edward's many talents.

"This is the last known location of our package," he said, handing back the phone. "It's a few blocks from Chicken Street, but not a usual place for Americans." Edward frowned. "I can't imagine what he was doing there." I couldn't imagine how Edward had converted a set of coordinates into a street location, but his accomplishments were losing the element of surprise.

"Do you need to tell everyone else where we're going?" I asked.

"They have GPS units on the humvees," he told me.

I was relieved Edward was driving once we entered Kabul. I wasn't sure how I'd forgotten the traffic and its complete lack of regulation, but Edward and the other drivers had no trouble forcing their way through the chaos. Lane markers were nonexistent, and entering an intersection was something like death match. Our mini convoy struggled along valiantly under apparent radio silence.

"There's no radio chatter," I said, speaking my thoughts aloud.

"We're disciplined."

I wanted to sigh. We were back to curt.

We stuck to larger streets until the lead humvee turned off into a much smaller one. I assumed we were getting close. I wished Edward would say so rather than me asking. Perhaps he was used to having his own vehicle on missions?

"Who would be in the ambulance with you if I hadn't been conscripted?" I asked.

"Rick."

I thought of the Asian fighter, comparing him to Jack and Brock. I couldn't decide why Edward would prefer one over the other. "Any particular reason?"

"He doesn't talk," Edward answered, stressing each word.

I couldn't help myself; I snorted just a little from a suppressed giggle.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're like a grumpy old man." The shocked look he shot me at that statement got my shoulders shaking with the laughter I was trying to tamp down. "Sorry. I think I might be a little giddy from the jet lag, sleep deprivation, and the general sense that I may be about to die, and you're acting like Grandpa Joe before he gets out of bed."

"I'm acting like who?"

"Never mind."

I watched the passing houses and street vendors. The cracked windows let in smells of car exhaust, cooking food, and the less pleasant smells of a large city in a third world country. We slowed and parked. Edward flipped the mike on his helmet down.

"Rodney, start at the shop with the red door. Ask the usual. Stay for at least five minutes, then continue door-to-door down the left side of the street."

I heard Rodney's response through my ear piece. "Have the other units already been through?" He and Brock were already exiting the humvee and heading toward the shop.

"Yes, and they made a mess of things. The reception will not be very pleasant, but I'm sure you're up to the task."

The whole team (I was sure) listened as Rodney spoke with the first shop owner (I assumed). He sounded apologetic while the shop owner sounded terse. I flipped up my mike. "What language are they speaking?"

"Pashto. Rodney is very clever with languages."

"Do you know what they're saying?" I asked, guessing I already knew the answer.

"Yes."

After about five minutes of questions and short answers, Rodney and Brock exited the shop and entered the next. The same scene was played out three times, but on the fourth stop, Edward became involved again. The discussion had begun similarly to the first three, with Rodney behaving politely during his questioning and the shop owner responding with displeasure.

"Offer him fifty dollars for the woman's portrait on the left," Edward told Rodney. I looked at him in surprise. We couldn't see into the shop. Rodney had launched into a new discussion, one which didn't sound like a question. I figured he was following Edward's orders.

"Now offer him two hundred dollars for the portrait," Edward said, after a clearly negative response from the shop owner. The shop owner declined a second time. "Tell him you're sorry, but you find her smile reminds you of the sunset over the Pacific Ocean." There was a brief silence, and then I heard the shop owner speak in quiet German to Rodney. The discussion was hushed and quick. "Now give him that two hundred dollars, Rodney, and proceed to the next shop."

Rodney visited a total of nine shops, and then he and Brock returned to the humvee. Edward had only intervened at the one stop.

"All right. Head for the southern fuel depot." Edward put the vehicle into gear, and followed Frankie as she drove cautiously down the narrow street. The humvee wasn't made for negotiating side streets.

"RRH calling MB," Edward intoned into the radio. I quirked an eyebrow at him, but he ignored me.

"Mother Bear here, Red Riding Hood," answered Shannon. I thought I could hear amusement in her tone.

"The package was taken by bandits to Nangarhar province." I knew enough to know this was bad. Parts of Nangarhar were crawling with bandits eking out a living from the peasants cultivating opium.

"Any further details?" asked Shannon.

"Sending my love, MB," he responded. He was driving with one hand, and furiously typing with his other into his satellite phone.

"Love is a wonderful thing. Stand by. Mother Bear out."

Edward hung up the radio and continued to drive. Silently. I checked my microphone, which was still up.

"When exactly did you get all this information?" I asked quietly.

"One of the shop owners is an informant. I used him once before."

"The one who spoke German?"

"Yes."

"If you knew him, why send Rodney to do all those other interrogations?"

"Lt. Jones was doing his job. And the reason we don't single out our informant is to prevent him from being found floating in a river with his tongue cut out tomorrow. We were just another group of dumb soldiers looking for the kidnap victim."


The special ops tactical center at Bagram was full when I slipped in. There was a heated debate going on about the missing 2nd Lt. Trace, and I was able to slip in without too much notice. It gave me time to survey the room. I recognized the faces of most of the major players. There were some assorted techies working on computers around the room, and a few people observing like me. I estimated that all but one were assistants to the big players. The last man was, I guessed, CIA. I deduced this from his lack of uniform. There were no embedded journalists in the SOTC. His eyes came up to mine, and then narrowed. He didn't recognize me, of that I was sure, but he recognized what I was.

It wasn't long before I learned the exact location of Trace's disappearance, which I relayed to Heinz to pass on to the field team. I looked up at the big monitors. One was showing the nearly empty special ops tactical center in DC, our cleaner, better-equipped counterpart. There was a tech in DC communicating with one of the techs here; while the image was on-screen, the audio was private. Another screen was showing a satellite image of Kabul, and the third was showing satellite images from a mountainous area. Apparently, there was unusual activity at the site and someone was putting eyes on it.

"So, visiting from Washington, Colonel?" My interrogator was athletic, but average in every way, including looks. Wavy brown hair, brown eyes, and six feet in height, he looked like he was designed specifically to blend in wherever he was. He had pegged me for military intelligence and a Pentagon liaison.

"I assume you're visiting from Langley," I parried back. He didn't respond, but he smirked a bit. I hated the civilian spooks. If I heard one more joke about military intelligence, I was going to go postal.

"Any insights about Trace's disappearance?" CIA guy asked coyly. He seemed smarter than the average bear; he had checked out the whole room and decided I was his best bet. Or else the most talkative.

"None here. Why? Are you offering a trade?" His very presence was highly suggestive. Sure, Trace's mother the senator guaranteed his disappearance would receive high priority, but CIA guy made me think there was more behind this than a random Taliban kidnapping.

"I can't trade if you've got nothing to share." He wandered away, clearly disappointed by our interaction. I was unfazed since I had found the content of the conversation boring – his value to me was in his presence here.

I filed those thoughts away for another time as the meeting of the minds was beginning to break up. I moved forward to introduce myself to General John McClellan. I saluted the leader of the Joint Special Operations Task Force in Afghanistan. "Colonel McCarty, Pentagon liaison." It wasn't entirely accurate, but it was my authorized persona for this mission.

"Colonel," he barked back. "I don't like the Pentagon reading over my shoulder and butting in like this." General McClellan was well-known for his blunt style. He was older than I was by about ten years, and carried himself like the confident, experienced leader that he was. He was still physically intimidating, the same height as I was if not as burly, and very fit.

"No, sir," I agreed. Didn't mean I would accommodate his prurient interest in my team's activities.

"What do your bosses expect to find here?" he demanded.

"Your command is not under attack, sir," I tried to assure him. "As you might imagine, they're under a certain amount of pressure in these delicate circumstances."

"So, they send you over on a cargo plane which has to unload in secret." This last was spoken quietly enough that the lingering (eavesdropping) underlings and CIA guy couldn't quite hear.

"I'm not authorized to discuss that with you, sir," I offered apologetically.

"And your aides get a private work area," he added in a hissing undertone, his anger palpable. "What exactly should I be thinking now, Colonel? A high-ranking Pentagon Special Ops commander is sent out to watch me and gets a private work area which is, apparently, not under my command."

"Sir, I can't tell you what to think. For my part, I hope that in 24 hours I'm on my way out the door and 2nd Lt. Trace is back in your capable hands." I gazed at him with a level look. Trace was our main priority here. Gen. McClellan was surely more aware than I was that the clock was ticking.

McClellan laughed once, a sharp burst of noise. "You'll do, Colonel. If only everyone from the Pentagon had as much sense. And you're a damn sight more pleasant than our friend from Langley. Now, get to work and try not to disrupt my people from their jobs."

I saluted again at dismissal, and went out to visit Heinz.


We sat at the fuel depot for nearly an hour. Much of that time was spent waiting for our turn at refueling. I could feel Edward's tension ratcheting up by the minute. His outward facial expression was the same slightly hostile scowl he had been wearing since we were told to stand by, but he was alternately fidgeting by beating time on the steering wheel or else freezing into a motionless statue. I, in turn, tried my best to ignore him. I looked everywhere but at his face. With nothing to do but wait, my thoughts had been going into disturbing directions. My initial reaction to Edward back at the facility had been shock at his other-worldly beauty and the way he exuded power. Now that the initial shock of flying around the world for an unknown and dangerous mission was beginning to wear off, I was becoming very aware of the powerful male body in the cab with me. I reminded myself that he was a patient. Close proximity had brought another revelation about Edward: he smelled amazing. Even though I was actively avoiding the open scrutiny of his features, I could still smell him. I wanted to lean over and bury my nose in his neck. I reminded myself again that he was a patient.

"How much longer, do you think?" I finally asked. We'd both been silent since he'd painted such a colorful picture of what would happen to an informant if discovered.

"It depends on how quickly Heinz can get access to the satellite imagery from the area I think the bandit hideout may be. The informant wasn't very clear on those points." Edward continued scowling out the windshield. Apparently, there was something fascinating on the back of Frankie's humvee.

"I know you like music," I said. Surely this topic was safe. "Any reason you've got so much vinyl in this day of CDs and downloads?"

"Are we seriously discussing this now?" he asked in irritation.

"You don't like to talk about yourself or your past or previous assignments if you can avoid it. This seemed safe."

Edward sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I don't like the sound of the digitized music."

"What? Really?" I tried to imagine why.

"Digital sampling misses certain frequencies, and I can tell the difference when I listen. There are a lot of vinyl aficionados out there," he added, somewhat defensively. "Of course, I prefer a live performance, but I haven't had many opportunities for that recently."

And suddenly the topic had twisted back around to his situation. I had to wonder, if Edward was so dangerous, why would Heinz and McCarty stick me in this tiny cab with him? Suddenly, something about Edward's comments struck me.

"Just how good is your hearing, Edward?" I asked in a strangled tone. I noticed his hands stilled on the wheel, and his body appeared to get more rigid, if that was possible.

"It's excellent, like all my senses," he answered, nearly in a whisper.

"Oh." Had he heard me crying in the bathroom on the plane? It had been so noisy. I snuck a look at him, and found his golden eyes on me. We shared a look for several moments; I couldn't tear my eyes from his expressive eyes. I'm not sure what emotion was on my face, but his held…compassion? Concern? He began to open his mouth to speak, when the radio buzzed.

"Papa Bear says wait until twilight and then look for the mailbox. Sending our love." The moment was broken, and I could see Edward retreat back into himself, his face hardening as he picked up the sat phone and returned to his contemplation of the humvee before us.

AN2: Next chapter will see our intrepid team in Nangarhar province searching for…traces of Trace. I had to do it once; just be glad it was in the AN and not the story.

I've been working on AoA (yeah, sure, Gleena), and that next chapter is nearing completion – it's a complete draft, but not quite ready for posting. I had to give it a little space, and that space resulted in this chapter.

The Cold War made it to the final round at the Indies (only five in each category in the final round)! I encourage everyone to visit their website, theindietwificawards dot com. You can vote for whomever you like from 3/15 until 3/24/2010.