Ashes on the Wind

Chapter 1

…

A delicate wildflower sprouted at the edge of the ash heap. He kept his eyes focused on it as long ago memories exploded in his head. The smell of his own fear hit him in the chest just as it had all those years ago when he had run toward his grandfather's burn pile. He felt the same prickly heat under his arms and at the base of his neck as his throat constricted, his breath suspended. He recalled the quivering beat of his heart and how the palms of his hands had tingled with shock at the sight of the huge gray rat eating the garbage he had been sent out to burn. That remembered rat had reared up to confront him and he had become frozen to the earth, his mouth going dry like it was now as he stared at the charred bones that lay in front of him. The edges of his vision flared once again with shock, multicolored auras flashing out a warning that he had gotten too close, just as he had when he'd been a young boy on an innocent errand. His errand today was not an innocent one, and the rat he thought he would confront here had already made his escape, leaving only the shattered remains of one of his victims.

"Maybe it's not..."

His own uncompleted whisper had voiced what he could only hope. They were the only words he was able to utter. His vision blurred, and he cleared his throat and raked his fingers through his tangled hair. He wanted to turn away from the ugly scene, but couldn't. He tried to concentrate on the facts, to let his childhood memory fade along with the fear that he had lost someone important to him, but both lingered. He had checked all the other bodies, and this was the only one he couldn't identify. That there was just one unrecognizable body was the only note of hope he could cling to until he knew for sure who these remains had been before the black heart of a traitor had led him to his death.

They had just made it to the eastern Ukrainian border when the attack came out of nowhere. Warnings had been shouted, but it had been too late, and the team had splintered. The small militia group they were with scattered, and Callen and Sam had disappeared, along with their NATO counterparts, in the chaos of exploding shells and automatic weapons fire that surrounded them. For the first time he was grateful Kensi had been denied any part in this black op. He remembered her anger when she was told she wasn't needed, and his own feeling of vulnerability knowing she wouldn't be along to back him up. Sam had teased him about it on the flight over, and Callen had told him his feelings were hurt by his dismissal of their skills. They eventually made him smile, and the easygoing banter had tempered some of his concerns, but now those memories were painful to recall.

He had woken up alone in a deadfall of trees where he had taken cover during the attack, with no recollection of the explosion that had knocked him unconscious. As he took stock of his injuries, the air had once again become filled with the chattering of birds instead of bullets. It was the smell of the dead that had dragged him to his feet, and the fear that the two men he had grown to think of as brothers might be among them.

They had been sent into this conflict because of a promised meeting with a Russian agent. He wanted to defect, offering intel about Russia's plans for a imminent military incursion into Ukrainian territory. Callen had known the agent through Arkady. The man insisted that Callen was the only one he would surrender to, and they'd been sent into the country to bring him out. Hetty was adamant that Callen not go in alone, which is why he and Sam were on this assignment. Then their guide, a man supposedly vetted by the CIA, someone they were told they could trust, had led them into an ambush.

"Sonofabitch."

A girl stood just beyond the field of dead holding part of her sweater over her nose and mouth. Her pale hair blew wildly in the gusty wind, and she wiped at her eyes made teary by the lingering smoke from the burned out vehicles that had brought them here. She looked scared, but determined all the same, lifting her chin defiantly as she watched him. He wondered if she had come to rob the bodies, and he shifted uneasily on his feet, hissing at the sharp pain from the shrapnel embedded in his calf. He quickly scanned the surrounding landscape for any others who might be with her. He stumbled back when she started moving toward him, and he quickly pulled his weapon. She stopped and looked uncertain, finally calling out to him in what he hoped was Ukrainian. He knew he was close to the Russian border, and if she came from the wrong side of that border then he'd be in even deeper trouble than he was already.

"You Ukrainian?" He kept his voice low as he checked the surrounding woods.

She nodded, and he released the breath he was holding.

"You speak English?"

"Little," she said. "You are American."

"What gave it away?" He offered a soft grin to ease her concern.

"We knew you were coming."

Her answer freaked him out, and he swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat. "How? Who gave you that information?"

She ignored his questions and began looking from one body to the next until finally letting out a soft cry of anguish. She collapsed to her knees and began keening, setting Deeks' teeth on edge. She knew one of the dead militiamen, and his heart went out to her. As he moved toward her, two men stepped out from behind the bombed out building that had been the team's shelter before the attack. They were holding Russian rifles, which were now pointed at him. Their clothes were worn, their boots muddy, and he thought they could be farmers, except for the weapons they held. One was an old man with a rough white beard and wispy gray hair that spouted from beneath a blue and orange knitted watch cap, his body sturdy as a fireplug. He was anxious, his eyes flicking between him and the young girl. The other man looked formidable, broad chested with muscled forearms, and eyes that were a piercing blue. He remained focused on Deeks as he held his weapon steady, speaking quietly to the old man before calling out something he didn't understand. He knew it was a warning, and he didn't doubt the man would shoot him if he made any sort of move.

"I'm American," Deeks said, and lowered his weapon. "We came in with NATO and a local militia. We were attacked by… To be honest, I actually don't know who attacked us."

He suddenly felt weak and lightheaded, but didn't want them to know that, still unsure which side they were on. The initial intel they'd received had made it clear that figuring out which militias supported which side in these border skirmishes would be murky at best. Who these locals might be aligned with was only one of the unknowns he was facing. He remained frozen in place until the old man draped his rifle across his arm and pushed the other man's weapon down, speaking gruffly to him.

"Yakiv will not shoot you," the old man said. "Too many have died today…too many young men...gone forever. Now I must comfort my granddaughter. She has lost the man she would marry."

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said automatically.

Yavik spit on the ground and grumbled out harsh words Deeks interpreted as either a rebuke or swear words. Both seemed appropriate and he nodded at the man.

"Pro-Russian separatist pigs. That's who attacked you," Yavik said. "They kiss Russia's ass and kill their own Ukrainian people for them. Now they kill Mykola. My brother. He was good, brave man."

Deeks looked away and then back down at the charred remains at his feet. His vision blurred as he once again wondered if it was Sam or Callen who lay dead at his feet.

"Your friend?" The man asked softly, suddenly appearing beside him.

"I don't know," Deeks replied.

The man said something he couldn't understand, but it sounded sympathetic.

"Have you seen any others...like me? Americans?" Deeks asked. "One would have been a black man."

"No. We come only to look for Myko," he replied. "If your friend was not killed, he would be caught. A prisoner now. For ransom, maybe. For information? Not so good. It would be better for him if he die here."

Deeks was shaken by the man's blunt assessment. "Where do they take prisoners?"

Yakiv shrugged and moved off toward the girl and her grandfather who stood over the dead man she was to have married. The man picked up his brother's body easily and stopped to look at him before walking back the way he came. His expression showed some sympathy, but his eyes held a hint of judgment, as if he blamed his presence for his brother's death. He could find no fault with him on that, but it made him recall what the girl had said earlier. These people knew they were coming, and he wouldn't be surprised if it had been this man's brother who had told them.

"You come," the old man said. "Our village is close. We will help you."

It was his only option, and he limped along behind them as they wound their way through a sparse copse of trees and out onto a fallow field. He moved doggedly along, thankful that the pace was slow. His mind drifted to the damaged satellite phone he had discovered between the two dead NATO intelligence officers who had introduced them to the militia group. NATO wasn't even supposed to be in this part of Ukraine, but then neither were they. Hopefully, the phone could be made workable again. He needed to contact Hetty and make her aware of what had happened and to get help. If Sam and Callen were alive, he knew they would continue the operation and try to make contact with the defecting Russian agent. If they had been killed, then it fell on him to make their deaths, and the deaths of all these others, mean something.

He was exhausted by the time they hit a dirt track between fields, and when the pace slowed he raised his head and saw the village, a string of low-slung buildings set in amongst a sparse woodland. A few had no roofs, some only a couple of partially collapsed walls. The village looked weather-beaten and obviously war torn. It blended into the landscape and appeared to have been bombed some time ago, the more heavily damaged houses never rebuilt. He had read up on some of the country's history on the plane ride in. From what he could tell from the looks of this village, it had probably come under attack five years earlier, when Russia made a push to retake some of the country that used to be part of the Soviet Union. A sense of sadness hung about the place, but people were moving along the narrow road that split the center. A pack of skinny dogs announced their arrival, and people stopped to stare as they walked by, calling out what he assumed were words of sympathy. That sympathy stopped when they saw him. All he got were cold, curious stares, and he felt the sting of guilt.

The old man turned down a muddy lane that led to a squat, pale pink stucco house with a bright green door. It sat behind a wire fence that held a couple of inquisitive goats tethered to stakes in the ground. A few pots with newly planted flowers sat on the broken concrete steps that led up to the front door. A large tree with broken limbs spread its surviving branches over an adjacent, ramshackle garage, its doors painted the same shocking green. Deeks shut the wire gate behind him and stopped, uncertain he would be invited in. The woman who opened the door looked younger than he expected. She wore a flowered dress under a grey wool sweater, and laced up hiking boots. Her blond hair was partially hidden beneath a flowered scarf, and there were worry lines around her pale blue eyes. She reminded him of a Ukrainian woman who had once cooked a massive lunch for him when he was a rookie cop. The only difference was, this woman wasn't smiling. She eyed him suspiciously as she held the door open to allow Yavik to carry the dead body of his brother inside. She hugged the girl and ushered her into the house, but turned to scold the old man, pointing at him as she did. Their conversation was short, ending when the old man pulled the woman to him and kissed the top of her head. He held her face in his hands and spoke softly to her and Deeks knew he was pleading his case. Finally, the woman nodded and swiftly turned and went inside.

"Come, boy," the old man said. "Ivanna is always suspicious of a lone man. I told her you lost someone too. She will see to your wounds. She was a nurse in Kiev before she married."

"I appreciate the help," Deeks said as he walked past the old man and into the darkness of the warm house.

An electric heater glowed in the opening of what used to be a fireplace. A fantasy like religious painting of the Trinity hung over the mantel, which was covered in old photos in silver frames. The room smelled of cabbage and fresh baked bread, and his stomach growled in response. Yavik and the girl had gone into another room and the older woman was banging around in the kitchen and talking to herself in her own language.

"She is upset," the old man said. "She had planned for big wedding. Now she must prepare for funeral."

"I'm sorry," Deeks said weakly, badly needing to sit down, but not wanting to be rude.

"You cannot blame yourself. Sit now. You are hurt," he replied. "Ivanna? Come help this poor boy. He is bleeding."

Her reply was in Ukrainian and sounded rushed, and not very friendly. He looked around at the overstuffed furniture, the backs draped with crisp white doilies embroidered with geometric flower patterns in red and orange. He was filthy and bleeding, with no desire to dirty what the woman had created, so he remained standing. The old man smiled as if he understood, taking his arm and leading him into the small kitchen where the woman stood staring at him. She rattled off what sounded like instructions to the old man, who looked at him sympathetically and shrugged his shoulders as if to apologize.

"She wants to know your name," he said.

"Marty Deeks," he replied, and collapsed into one of the straight-backed wooden chairs at the table.

"I am Borysko Zyma, but please...you call me Boro," the old man said. "Ivanna is my daughter."

The woman slammed a first aid kit with NATO markings down on the table and spoke to him as if he understood.

"She wants you to take off your clothes," the old man said.

"Seriously? That might prove a little embarrassing for all of us."

The woman shook her head dismissively and came around the table and began pulling on his jacket.

"You understand English, don't you?" He said, grabbing both of her arms to stop her frantic movements. "Probably speak it too."

"You are in shock," she said angrily with a light accent. "You can't see how terrible you look. If I am going to help you, then I need to see how badly you are hurt. Now take off your shirts and pants. You are bleeding on my floor."

"But you don't want me here, do you?" He said.

"No. I don't," she spit out, angry again. "You will bring trouble down on this house. And I am very tired of crying over the dead, even if that's you."

"I promise not to die," he said, offering a soft smile as he shed his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Men. You all promise not to die, but you do," she snapped. "You are arrogant. All of you. Always fighting. Always killing. For what? For power? Politics? For another piece of this poor, tired land? When is it ever enough? When does it stop?"

"Listen, I can tell this is very personal for you, and I'm sorry about that, but we came here to try and help your country," he said, getting angry himself. "Do you think I want to be here? To be ambushed. To worry that two men I care about might be dead or captured and maybe tortured? I would rather be home with my new wife, but instead I'm here trying to stop an attack in a war I know nothing about. But it's my job, and I'm sorry your family is in the middle of it...but so is mine. As soon as it's dark, I'll leave. I need to find them one way or another."

They stared at each other for a moment, and he saw pain in her eyes along with tears. She gathered herself and her expression became stoic, her emotions now under tight control. It made him sad, and sorry he had let his own emotions get away from him. She was silent as she helped him take off his tee shirt, drawing in a quick breath as she looked him over. He was embarrassed by how badly he smelled, but she made no comment. She gave her father more orders, and the old man did as he was told, filling a small plastic tub with water and setting it down in front of him. Deeks smiled when Ivanna handed him a cloth and a bar of soap. The hot water felt good as he cleaned the dirt and streaks of blood from his face and body with the soft cloth.

"Good. Now take off your pants," she ordered, and it made him smile and let go of his anger.

"This is the part I won't tell my wife about," he said. "She always says I have a thing for nurses."

"She would be jealous?"

"Absolutely."

She blushed then and her face softened as he kicked off his shoes and struggled out of his socks. He braced himself against the table and stood up and undid his belt, letting his pants fall down around his ankles, leaving him in his jockey shorts. When he stepped out of his pants they caught on the piece of shrapnel and a sudden slice of pain seared through his leg causing him sit down hard and grip the edge of the table as a bout of nausea hit him. He rode it out as best he could, not wanting to vomit all over her floor. Her hand was warm on his bare back and she spoke urgently to her father as the world went gray for a moment. When his head cleared, the two of them helped him to his feet and walked him slowly into a small room off the kitchen. They sat him down on a narrow bed and Boro lifted his legs and he fell back, grateful to be off his feet. Ivanna pressed a towel beneath his bleeding leg and then quickly pulled a blanket over him.

"I have to cut the shrapnel out or it will become infected," she said. "But all I have for the pain is aspirin and Horilka...it's like vodka."

"Only better," Boro said. "Take both, boy. Horilka is best. Very strong."

"No. I need to leave when it gets dark," he mumbled. "I won't be able to find my way around if I'm drunk."

"You will get lost in the dark whether you are drunk or not," Ivanna said. "You can stay till morning."

"Seriously?"

"Why would I not be?"

"Yeah...no. Thank you."

After their exchange she was all business, propping his foot up on pillows so she could clean the area around the nasty wound in his calf. Boro joined him in drinking the local liquor until Ivanna scolded him. The stuff was fiery, and he coughed loudly at first, making both of them smile. When he finally thought he was feeling no pain, Boro stuck a rolled up cloth between his teeth, surprising him.

"Your screams could bring visitors," he explained. "Not good ones."

That news sobered him somewhat. This town wasn't completely safe after all, and he wondered if some of the men who attacked them might not be looking for him. He'd been seen by quite a few people out on the street. He pulled the cloth from his mouth and tried to get up.

"I should go," he murmured, slurring his words. "I'll bring trouble...like you said."

Ivanna spoke sharply to her father and the man grabbed his shoulders and pinned him down. He struggled briefly, but the old man was strong while he was most definitely drunk, and unable to resist for long.

"Okay, okay. Do what you have to do," he said and shoved the course cloth back in his mouth, and waited for the pain.

"Papa. Hold his leg still," she said, and gripped his calf with a strong hand. "You are tough guy, right? The piece of metal is in very deep. This will hurt no matter how much Horilka you drink."

He let out a muffled scream when she poured the alcohol over the wound, gripping the sides of the narrow bed with both hands. A cold sweat coated his body and he began to tremble as she probed for the fragment. He felt himself drifting as the pain intensified until he felt nothing at all as darkness closed in around him.

...

He woke when a hand was pressed down over his mouth. He started to fight until he saw it was Ivanna, who shushed him quickly. He could barely see in the darkened room, but he knew she was afraid. Harsh voices from outside the house brought him fully alert, and he gingerly swung his legs over the edge of the bed. She shoved his pants into his lap and he quickly pulled them on, along with his shoes, which someone had cleaned. The dark shirt she handed him wasn't his, but he didn't question, sliding into it as she peeked out the tiny window that looked out on the front yard.

"Pro-Russian militia outside," she whispered. "Papa is talking to them, but we must hide you. If they find you here they will kill us all."

He took his weapon from the small table where they'd placed it and stood up. His head exploded in pain and the room spun until Ivanna grabbed his arm and steadied him.

"Too much...whatever you call that stuff I drank," he said with a lopsided grin.

"And from all the blood you lost," she whispered. "Come. You must hide in the closet."

"Seriously?"

"Why do you always ask that?"

"Seems like the first place they'd look," Deeks said.

"They will not," she replied as she went to the door.

She opened it slowly, and Deeks could see that the kitchen was dark. Heavy footsteps made him raise his gun, but he understood the plan as soon as Yavik filled the doorway with his dead brother cradled in his arms. They had prepared Mykola's body for burial, and he was clad only in his underwear. Yavik moved quickly inside, laying the young man down gently on the narrow bed. Someone had cleaned his face and washed away the grime of his last moments, but the damage to his body was brutally obvious. Ivanna hurriedly unfolded a sheet and the two of them spread it over the dead young man. Yavik placed his hand on his brother's head for a moment, but then straightened to his full height and motioned to Deeks.

"The closet has hidden space," he whispered. "You must stay quiet."

Deeks entered the dark closet hung with musty smelling coats. Ivanna pulled them back and pointed at a handle in the sidewall. Deeks pulled it open, and instantly felt claustrophobic, but he swallowed hard and squeezed inside. It was cold and smelled damp with only enough space for him to stand. When the door closed, panic rose in his chest. He blew out his breath a couple of times to calm himself, focusing his thoughts on Kensi. That didn't work for long. Angry voices erupted outside before he heard several men noisily tromp in through the front door. He couldn't understand what they were shouting, but he knew they were searching for him and he froze. He raised his gun and clasped it to his chest, sliding a bullet into the chamber, and barely breathing as he waited to be discovered. He flinched when the door to the small bedroom slammed open. He heard Ivanna and then her daughter plead with them, and then there was silence. Mumbled words were spoken, but then a harsh order that sent men out into the rest of the house. No one opened the door to the closet, and he slumped against the back wall when he heard them finally leave.

"They are gone," Ivanna whispered through the door to his hiding place.

He pushed out of the enclosed space and took a deep breath before limping out into the bedroom.

"Thank you," he said gratefully as they all gathered around the bed. "That was a helluva plan. Glad it worked."

"We told them blood in kitchen was my brother's," Yavik said as he stared down at the body. "When they see him, they believe."

"They have one of your friends," Boro said.

Deeks was suddenly energized and hopeful. "Did they say where they're holding him?"

"I could not ask them that," he replied.

"No...no, of course not."

"I am so sorry to tell you, but they laugh about what they do to him," he said very softly. "They knew there were three Americans. They kill black man, took other one prisoner, and now search for you."

Deeks felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. He couldn't breathe and reached back to the wall for support. He couldn't picture Sam dead. He couldn't and wouldn't accept that.

"No."

"I don't understand," Boro said. "I do not lie."

"It might be what they told you, but it can't be true," he replied. "Sam isn't dead. He just isn't."

They all looked at him in disbelief, but in his heart he knew Sam was alive. He had to be.

"Militia leader tell me he shot him," the old man said. "Saw him fall in Oskil River."

The realization hit him that he knew nothing about these people. They had helped him, but would that last if they were threatened? If he told them why he believed Sam had survived, it might get back to the militiamen. If pro-Russian forces knew they could get their hands on a former Navy SEAL, even a dead one, this covert op would be compromised and they would all be disavowed and on their own. Captured American operatives would be valuable for propaganda purposes, and he had no doubt Callen was being tortured for intel about why they were here and for any information they could use to embarrass both countries.

"Deeks? I am sorry about your friend," Ivanna said. "What will you do now?"

"Find him."

...

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