Free After the Rain by Chuck Logan

outside Nina’s open window jumped up so black and shot with stars it took her breath. “God- damn .”
    Stars like she’d seen on night patrols in remote stretches of Bosnia. But more of them here. More sky.
    “Welcome to the prairie, gateway to the Great Plains,” Ace said.
    But then the grandeur plummeted as she looked north. Anything could come across the border and filter down through the empty grid of back roads, run this deserted highway. The interstate just an hour away. Then she looked at Ace Shuster, who was good with women, but who might do anything for money. Him and his pal Gordy.
    He switched the lights back on and drove into town, slowed in front of the Motor Inn, and turned to her.
    “You want to see your daughter? Say anything?”
    Nina shook her head.
    “You sure?”
    “Look. I thought about this a lot. I need a clean break or it’ll be a tar baby, I’ll get stuck in it all over again. Jane. My old man probably coming to pick up Kit. I mean, I took her and didn’t tell him face-to-face. Just left a note, for Christ’s sake. I just need some…time.”
    “Okay, okay,” Ace slowly accelerated past the motel and continued west on 5 toward the Missile Park.
    They found Gordy rolling a dolly, wheeling four cases of booze at a time off the loading dock onto a truck bed. He scowled at Nina and went back to work, hairy and furious. Nina turned to Ace and said, “Maybe you’re right. He doesn’t like me.”
    They went inside and Nina pointed to the cases of booze stacked along the wall by the basement stairway.
    “You got a lot of booze for a bar that’s out of business,” she said.
    Ace scratched his head. “Long story. Tell you all about it in the morning.”
    Nina gathered herself and followed him up the stairs into the apartment. And—hello—it was much cleaner than she expected. Dishes washed and put away, the drainboard in the kitchen clean. And lots and lots of books. A beat-up, old-fashioned desk and a swivel chair. Another well-worn armchair with an ottoman and a lamp.
    No televison.
    One whole wall was a blowup photomural of grazing buffalo.
    “Moved in here when I split with my wife,” he said as he stripped the bed and put on fresh sheets. She watched him make the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles, folding and tucking in tight hospital corners.
    “You sure you weren’t in the Army, the way you make a bed?” she said.
    “Prison,” he said.
    He took the old sheets out to the couch. Then he handed her a T-shirt and showed her the bathroom. She took the toothbrush from its cellophane wrapper, used his Sensodyne and brushed her teeth, undressed, and put on the shirt. The shirt was an extra-large maroon cotton number that came down to mid-thigh. The sleeves and neck had been cut out way down the side so the shadowed dents and curves along her ribs peeked out.
    She folded her clothing and came back into the living room.
    Ace smiled and looked her over. “Picked the shirt to go with your hair and eyes.” They stood a foot apart, watching each other.
    “Another one of your little touches, huh?” Nina said as she hugged herself. Her word touches turned slowly in the close space between them like a silky scarf, slowly descending. “Now what?” she said, too abruptly, awkward, clearly on edge.
    “Good night,” he said simply.
    Nina, wary, went into the dark bedroom almost on tiptoe, walking a plumb line to the bed, not wanting to disturb or touch anything, fearing sexual trip wires strung in the dark.
    Alert. She braced for him coming through the door.

Chapter Eight
    The first moment of truth came in Detroit two days ago, just after they broke Rashid. They’d had a real quick sit-down with the Colonel, who’d provided the intell that located Rashid. One of the “Squirrels,” a pure intelligence network so spooky nobody knew its origin, the Colonel was their unofficial link to the databases back at the Pentagon. He could not say yea or nay to their preemptive mission. He could