Chapter 26 #2
The very next day, hell came calling again.
Within 12 hours, the plan was laid out for them.
They had to locate and retrieve the mark they’d lost. They’d fucked up and now they needed to make up for it.
It was the kind of mission that looked no better on paper than it did in practice.
It was ballsy, stupid, and borderline impossible.
All three things Aberlour very happily shared with his superiors.
Major General Baron would hear none of it.
He stared Aberlour down, only too glad to remind him of his breach of protocol when he refused to leave the hospital and sent Marcus in his stead.
He was a large man, with small, beady, dark eyes that reminded Aberlour of a cockroach.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. He always wore the same stone-cold expression of ironclad control.
He was condescending and rude, and when Aberlour pointed out all the flaws in his plan, Major General Baron had said that he had two options: go on the mission or be court-martialed.
No one had been surprised by the threat, or the total apathy with which he’d delivered it.
But it had taken both Marcus’ steadying hand on his shoulder, and JD’s arm thrown across his chest to keep Aberlour from jumping the bastard.
Instead, he’d squared his jaw and given his most sardonic salute before exiting the briefing room.
As far as Aberlour was concerned going to prison was better than being dead, but the others had vehemently disagreed.
They’d shut him down. Refused to disobey.
There had been words of revenge, probabilities, and discussions regarding their futures.
Marcus had reminded them they were too close to getting out of the military to fuck up now.
Besides, JD, Ghost, and Marcus had pointed out that they’d rather not raise their children from the inside of a jail cell.
It had been on the tip of Aberlour’s tongue to mention it was easier to manage that from jail than it was from six feet under, but he’d refrained.
It wouldn’t change anything. Team Specter would go on the fucking mission as ordered.
They didn’t have a say in the matter. They’d signed their lives away at the Marine Corps enlistment office, and right now, that meant Major General Baron owned their asses.
And so, here they were, four hours away from take-off, packing enough ammunition to take down a small village.
Aberlour whispered to his sniper rifle as he always did.
It wasn’t necessary, of course. His aim would be as sure as ever.
It was a habit he’d picked up from other snipers. A gesture of reassurance almost.
JD had once said it made him seem more human.
He didn’t think being human would be enough. This mission was too stupid. If he was merely human tomorrow, they wouldn’t make it back.
As they prepared to ship out, his men’s morale was predictably high.
They were the kind of nutjobs who got an adrenaline rush out of the idea that they’d get to shoot something.
Anything really. As long as they got to shoot.
They’d been kept inside too long. They had pent up frustration and worry to unleash, and there was nothing better than revenge to do so.
They were also the kind of nutjobs that could pretend the adrenaline would be enough to squash their underlying fear.
Aberlour hadn’t missed them sneaking away to call their loved ones. He knew them too well.
An old song was playing on JD’s phone as they packed. It had most guys singing along and soothing the anxiety thrumming in their blood. It was loud enough that Abe didn’t hear the sound of crutches on the linoleum floors until it was too late.
“Darling, my man!” JD shouted, his booming laugh barely loud enough to be heard over the thumping beat of the music.
Aberlour turned like he’d been electrocuted, embarrassed by the rapid flutter of his heartbeat.
Dave, Marcus, and JD were now surrounding Oli, gently prodding and poking at the white bandage peeking out from under his shirt.
“What’s with the crutches?” Ghost asked, his keen eyes narrowed with concern.
“Bullet tore through my abs. Standing is still a little difficult. Don’t worry, Ghost, I’ll be back to kicking your ass in no time,” Oli promised, his smile cheeky, even as it contrasted sharply with the dark circles under his eyes.
“’Just being dramatic so he can get paid leave,” Marcus teased.
Oliver jabbed him in the stomach, and all of them laughed.
“Actually,” Oliver said, clearing his throat, he turned just enough that Aberlour caught him in his peripheral vision. “I’ll be in the operations room. They’ve asked me to sit in on the mission since I know you guys inside and out.”
There were raucous shouts and laughter at that. All of his men were bouncing around and heckling each other like overgrown puppies incapable of reining in their excitement.
Aberlour turned away from the conversation, walked towards the back of the room and pretended to assess their supply of ammunition. Unsurprisingly, Oliver found him there a few minutes later.
“It’s impolite to run away from a cripple,” he teased. That got him no reaction.
Oliver dropped a folded piece of paper with Aberlour’s name scribbled on the top.
Aberlour looked at it but didn’t pick it up.
“Could have at least dropped by to say hi,” Oliver said, and although Aberlour knew the expression of hurt and sadness was genuine, Aberlour had trouble summoning any sympathy.
“Why? So Abby could talk my ear off? No thanks.”
“We’re friends. Friends check-in on each other.”
“Are we?” Aberlour shot back before he could really think it through. He dared to stand in front of Oliver then. His eyes were cold as he stared him down.
“Are we friends? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, I’m about the same as a used sock on your nightstand.”
He might have said it a tad too loud, or it might have been the fact that JD’s music suddenly stopped. Regardless of the cause, everyone stopped moving, staring at Oliver and Aberlour like it was a showdown at high noon.
It wasn’t a secret. Not really. Not anymore.
Aberlour wasn’t sure it had ever been a secret.
They hadn’t exactly been coy or subtle, but apart from Marcus, none of the guys had ever said they knew anything outright.
JD had alluded to it, but he’d said himself he didn’t want to know anything more.
Now though, it was hard for anyone to pretend otherwise. Aberlour had made it abundantly clear.
Oliver was the colour of a freshly boiled Maine lobster.
His head pivoted to stare at his friends, who were all gawking at Aberlour. He spun back around, his eyes wide with terror and confusion. There was anger simmering underneath, and Aberlour wondered if Oli would punch him just as he’d punched that sailor who’d called him a fag so long ago.
“Grow the fuck up, Oli,” Aberlour said, rolling his eyes at how dramatic Oliver’s reaction was.
“Right, you’re the one having a fucking hissy fit, but I should grow up,” Oliver snarled, positively livid.
If he knew Oliver—and Abe hated just how well he knew him—it was most likely the embarrassment of realizing the team knew the truth about their relationship that was making Oliver angry, and not Aberlour’s behaviour.
There were so many things Abe could have said.
So many possible responses. Each one nastier and harsher than the one before.
However, as he watched Oli’s shoulders tense up and his face redden, Aberlour felt nothing but pity for him.
Pity did not typically lead to harsh words and anger.
There was nothing Aberlour could say that would outweigh the simple notion of his contempt.
He picked up the piece of folded paper Oliver had dropped and held it out for Oliver to take back.
“I’m glad you’re better,” he said, because he meant it. Losing Oliver would have been like losing a piece of himself, and that was true no matter what. “Your bedside was occupied. I busied myself elsewhere. I don’t know what else there is to say.”
It was oddly mature of him, and Oliver must have agreed because his anger seemed to drain away.
“Abby is probably looking for you,” Aberlour said, before Oliver could add anything else. He wouldn’t walk away. Wouldn’t turn, he’d simply wait and stare Oliver down. It was his turn to walk away.
Oliver looked like he wanted to argue, like he wasn’t quite done with the conversation.
Aberlour hitched an eyebrow, waiting for Oliver’s move.
It took a while.
“I thought—” Oliver shook his head and broke off. “I’m not sure how it went so wrong,” he said, barely above a whisper. Leaning forward on his crutches, he appeared reluctant to end their conversation.
“You chose to end us, Oli. There’s nothing I can do about that. I’m sorry you got shot. I’m glad you’re better,” he said, finding the repetition of words like a calming mantra.
Aberlour dragged his gaze away from Oli’s by sheer force of will and found Marcus smiling at him. A small, pained smile that conveyed warmth and understanding.
“That’s not what I did though—” Oliver protested, still whispering. “Just read it, please,” he insisted, shoving the paper back towards Aberlour, but Abe shook his head.
“I’m done with empty words, Darling. Either tell me or walk away.”
It was another ultimatum. He knew that, but this time, Aberlour was sure about what Oliver would choose.
Oli looked down at the piece of paper they kept trading back and forth but didn’t pull it back. Instead, he let it go, and Aberlour automatically reached for it. Then, Oli did exactly as Abe had expected: he turned and left.
“I hate it when mommy and daddy fight,” Carlos said, though the joke fell flat.
The mood in the room was extremely tense.
“I think you broke him,” JD finally said, staring at the open doorway Oliver had just limped through.
“He can join the club, then,” Aberlour said, concluding the discussion.