Page 75 of Sigma
Anselm is stretched out on one of the twin beds, hands folded across his middle, eyes closed, a gargantuan military-grade sniper rifle beside him like a lover. Where he got a rifle like that in the middle of the night I don’t know—but this is Anselm. He very well could be asleep, but I know he’s not.
“They’ll be here soon,” Anselm says without opening his eyes. “You need to try to rest. I don’t say sleep, I know you will not. But at least rest. You will need it in the hours to come.”
“How can I rest when my daughter is in danger?”
“It is, perhaps, counter-indicative, but resting is the best thing you can do for Rinna right now, Kyrie. When it is time to act, you must be at full operating capacity. If you are too exhausted to function because you haven’t taken care of yourself, you will be no good to your daughter when the time comes.”
“Ican’t,” I sigh, perching on the edge of the bed. “I don’t have your training.”
“It is not easy for me, even now.” He turns his head to look at me. “Lay down, like I am. On your back, hands folded on your belly. It is not a posture of sleep, but of mindful rest.”
Moving slowly, begrudgingly, I do as he says. “I’ll last about thirty seconds like this, Anselm.”
“Now you must assume a mental posture to match your physical. Tell yourself you are not attempting to fall asleep. You are allowing your body to recharge, that is all. You cannot sustain high-alert status all the time. We who have served in combat or other such modalities are forced to learn this—combat is long, long stretches of boredom followed by a few brief moments of brutal intensity, and you simply cannot be at full alert all the time. When you can rest, you must. It is not sleep, but rest. An important mental distinction.”
I try—slow my mind, tell myself that I am not sleeping. I’m not wasting time. Just rest. Not relaxing, not sleeping, just resting.
“Now, if you have ever attempted mindfulness meditation, this will be similar. Do not attempt to fight the activity of your mind. It will wander back to the problem at hand, perhaps obsessively. Let it. But begin attempting to bring it back to rest. To quietude. Slow, steady heartbeats—count them. Or your breaths, if you prefer. Something rhythmic and consistent. Now, start at your toes. Let them relax. The arches of your feet, now.” His voice is soothing, hypnotic. “Your calves, and then your whole leg. Allow your belly to soften. Allow your spine to soften—let it mold to the bed. Your shoulders, next—let them melt. Your neck. Let your eyes weigh down into your head. Let your mouth go slack.”
As he speaks, I follow his instructions, and I do feel a slowness wash over me. I couldn’t fall asleep short of chemical assistance, but I do feel a sense of rest steal through me.
“Now, consider the face of your daughter. Envision your reunion. See yourself hugging her, both of you well and safe. Put that picture into your mind, and down into your soul. It will be the truth.”
Slowly, I find a space in the madness, a bubble of something like calm in the swirling vortex of anger and fear and worry. I huddle there, mentally, in the small still bubble of rest.
I see my Rinna rushing to hug me, and I see myself hugging her back and kissing her. I see us wrapped up in Valentine’s arms, all of us together.
* * *
The soundof a keycard in the lock and the door handle moving rouses me—I’m up on my feet and fully alert in an eye blink, and yet I feel strangely refreshed.
The first body through the door is my husband, crossing the room in a few long strides. His hands pull me to him, lifting me as I leap into his arms, and he clutches me against himself and his nose goes into my hair.
Safe in my beloved’s embrace, I allow myself a moment of weakness. I shake all over, and a sob bursts out of me.
“I’ve got you, my love,” he whispers, and even after all these years, he still has a faint trace of a British accent, especially when emotions run high. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
I give in to it, just a for a moment. Let myself finally feel afraid and small and weak, let myself feel disgusted at what I did, angry that I was put in this position. I let myself cry, just for a moment.
“It’s all right, love,” he murmurs. “It’s all right. You’re all right. Rinna will be all right.”
I let it all wash over me, let myself wallow in it—but it’s not over yet. In a way, it’s just beginning. I push the sobs back in, shove the fear and the smallness and the worry and the weakness back inside, back in the box. I wiggle out of his embrace and find my feet, wipe my eyes, catch my breath. Slow my breathing. I focus on the anger and the hardness of doing what must be done. I hold onto Valentine’s huge strong familiar hands and I settle myself back into a place of strength and equilibrium.
“All right, now?” he says, his voice a tender caress.
I nod. Smile up at him. “I am now. Mostly. I won’t be all right until we have our girl back, but now that you’re here, I’m better.”
The room is full, suddenly, crammed wall to wall with massive, angry, armed and armored male.
They’re all here, the whole A1S core gang: Harris, Anselm, Duke, Puck, Thresh, and Lear.
Sasha is here as well, a man who has been as much a constant fixture in our lives as the others. His face is troubled as he crosses to me.
“Kyrie…Mrs. Roth…” he stands in front of me, eyes haunted, his Russian accent pronounced. “I failed to protect your family. I have no apology for this.”
His hands are thick and scarred and gnarled as I squeeze them. “Sasha, it’s not your fault. I don’t blame you.”
“I was on guard myself that night. He walked right past me with your daughter.” Anger clouds his features. “I blame myself.”