Chapter 2 #2
The next babysitter, to use Operator Rose’s word, let us get familiar with the schoolhouse on the first floor. We saw the classrooms, most of which were on the small side since they didn’t take in many recruits at once. There were some large ones as well, though. After seeing our dorms, it was clear they were used to accepting bigger groups of people too. Operator Hyatt said they often took in government personnel that were sent here for advanced training for whatever reason.
That led to some of the recruits asking why the government would send employees to Hillcroft, and Operator Hyatt replied absently while checking his watch.
“We train security escorts and drivers, for instance. We teach them how to handle certain situations like riots, assaults, protests, terrorist attacks…”
I tuned him out and wandered into one of the classrooms.
Nine seats, one teacher’s desk, one big-ass whiteboard. Nothing whatsoever on the walls.
It made me curious to find out how individualized our schedules were. Had they already profiled us enough to customize our lists of classes? Would someone take history but not a second language? Were there any classes they’d taken off my list?
“Listen up, everyone!” That sounded like Beckett.
I ducked out of the room and looked down the hall, and both Beckett and Coach were coming in hot.
“Thank fuck,” Operator Hyatt muttered. “I’m out. It was nice, uh…” He glanced at the recruits and changed his mind. “Never mind.” He left. “Don’t do this to me again, Coach.”
I smirked.
“Love you too, sunshine,” was Coach’s reply.
I folded my arms over my chest as our hot teachers reached us.
“It looks like we have a water leak on our hands, so dormitory units one, two, and three will be moved,” Beckett announced. “Don’t worry, your shit hasn’t been damaged, but we gotta get plumbers in there. And depending on the damage, unit four might also need to be transferred, but we’ll know more tomorrow.”
Well, fuck. I was in unit four. I’d started clocking out mentally when he’d only mentioned the other units.
“For the affected units, congrats, you’re grabbin’ your shit and moving in to the condos across the street,” Coach announced.
Damn. The recruits in those units suddenly perked up, and I hoped they found a fucking flood in our room. I hated bunk beds.
Beckett spoke up again. “As Coach mentioned earlier outside the dorms, all Hillcroft operators are entitled to a home close to work, whether it’s temporary or a permanent residence. Hence, Lincoln Towers across the street, where several of our operators live in between deployments.”
“And we’re tellin’ you this now because you gotta keep your mouths shut,” Coach said pointedly. “There are still primarily civilians livin’ in that building, so you better not treat the place like the barracks. You can pair up right now, and each duo will share a studio unit until we know more about the leak.”
Come on, water. Turn my dorm into a swamp. You can do it.
* * *
August 7th, 2024
My eyes flashed open.
4:30.
I turned off my alarm and sat up to scrub my hands over my face.
Wednesday. Deprogramming at oh-eight, introduction to secret communication in the field at ten… Lunch, followed by target practice. We were being assigned sidearms today, and I was looking forward to it. Rumor had it recruits were given Glock 19s.
I hadn’t been to a shooting range in over a month, and it was an obsession of mine. Target practice had gotten me through training rotations, dumb-fuck NCOs, power-hungry Shirts, and my transfer from active duty to reservist. Lastly, one semester of a class in business economics with a professor who hated his job.
I put on my workout clothes, ignoring the stuff we’d been given with the Hillcroft brand, then went to the bathroom. I wasn’t the only one who set his alarm this early, but there were few enough to grant us a moment’s peace in the shitter.
Once I was done, I headed down to the basement and the gym.
It still didn’t feel natural to work out with earbuds and music, but I’d come to terms with it inside a gym. Music was the only thing that prevented me from hearing Army cadences in my brain.
I refilled my water bottle and found a playlist, and I stretched a little on my way to the rowing machine.
Another day, another mindless chase toward the unknown.
Halfway through my set on the rowing machine, two men came in to work out. I didn’t recognize them, and they didn’t talk.
I turned back to the mirrored wall in front of me and pushed harder.
It was surreal staring at your own reflection and not having a clue who that person was.
I was no longer the scrawny scaredy-cat my mom had sheltered from truths and dangers. I’d killed him. And Mom’s voice was almost gone. I’d sort of forgotten what she’d sounded like. I remembered the slight accent, just a soft drawl that had come out when she was tired. That’d been her Georgia childhood coming up for air. But the voice itself—I couldn’t recreate it in my head.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I blew out a harsh breath and screwed my eyes shut.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
I pulled harder along the beam and felt my knees crackle a little.
What had my dad’s voice sounded like? Had it been similar to Ethan’s voice? Or Ryan’s? Actually, they sounded similar to each other, so maybe Dad had shared that same low timbre.
It’d been a while since I’d stalked Ethan’s Instagram.
To be fair, he mostly posted gym selfies and workout videos. And some updates were dedicated to his family…
One, coward.
Two, coward.
Three, coward.
I gnashed my teeth. I wasn’t a fucking coward. I was just… I didn’t see the point in reaching out to a dead man’s family anymore.
When I was finished, I wiped down the machine and brought my water bottle over to the racks of dumbbells. I grabbed two ten-kilos to take with me to the bench press and wondered if Ethan would call that weak. He ran his own fitness center and all. But I’d never wanted to build a bunch of muscle. I wanted to stay trim and fast.
I still remembered the moment I’d found him. Aunt Laura had sent me the details we’d been given from Jake’s records, and all of a sudden, the search became so simple. I’d found the whole damn Quinn family in a small town in northern Washington. Well, almost the whole family. I’d found most of Dad’s siblings on social media. Ethan, Ryan, Lias, and Elise. It’d taken me months to discover two more. There was a second sister whose name I still didn’t know, but I’d learned the last brother was named Darius Quinn. I only knew because he owned a restaurant, and his name was there on the website. He just very clearly avoided social media, along with the unnamed sister.
I leaned back on the bench and began lifting the dumbbells, and a blanket of heat fell on my chest. One. Two. Three … There he’d been, Ethan Quinn, on Instagram. Flashing his abs and sweating under bright spotlights.
I could see the similarities. Those were kind of undeniable—except I hadn’t been blessed in the height and body mass department. The men in the Quinn family were all ridiculously tall and built strong. But the features. The eyes, the jawline, the hair color.
The biggest surprise had probably been Lias. He was clearly the youngest brother by quite a lot, so I’d seen way more similarities between him and me. He wasn’t as big either. Unfortunately, he didn’t post frequently, so…
One thing that hadn’t surprised me was that my dad hadn’t been the only soldier. One time, Ryan’s wife had posted a photo of him and his dad—my grandfather. Some game had been on, and Ryan had worn a USMC tee and a big smirk, while his pop had held up a Go Army tee. He hadn’t actually worn it. Perhaps it didn’t go with his flannel fashion.
No matter which family member put their picture out there, they all had one thing in common. They were expressive. Their moods jumped off the screen. Memories frozen mid-laughter or mock-rage.
Sometimes, it became too much, and I took a break for several months before looking them up again.
The Quinns were a tight-knit family, and based on their privacy settings, they didn’t enjoy having others trying to look in. Only Ethan and Ryan’s wife had their accounts fully open. Elise was on Facebook and Instagram, but I only saw her in the comments. She spoke of her sister and kids and plans and… She updated her profile photo often too.
I bet they all missed Jake.
* * *
At six thirty, I crossed the big lobby and headed out. I’d gotten my gym hour, and now I needed my run. More operators and recruits had come into the gym anyway, so it was practically crowded by now.
The sun was rising.
I took a deep breath.
ID card attached to my shorts and tucked into the waistband, timer set on my watch, I’d drained a bottle of water—I was ready to go. I started running on the nearest bike path, and I had my sights set on the cemetery.
One of these days, I’d find the balls to visit my dad’s headstone there. The location had been included in the information we’d gotten, along with a list of his medals. Which might have contributed to whatever shutdown I’d felt in the Army. My dad had actually accomplished good things during his time in the service. A life wasted, for fucking sure, but he’d died a hero. Meanwhile, I was part of the peacetime generation, and our ribbons and acknowledgments were bullshit.
I’d joined right at the tail end of the long war, and I’d obviously never been deployed properly. I’d never seen combat. I’d never risked anything for anyone.
My breathing picked up as I ran alongside the cemetery. Death on one side, the start of rush-hour traffic on the other.
Run me now. Run me now. Run me some more.
Run me now. Run me now. Run me some more.
Motherfucker. Of all the cadences…
By the time I reached Memorial Bridge, my lungs were burning, my heart was pounding, and sweat had drenched my T-shirt.
One mile, no good.
Two miles, no sweat.
Three miles, better yet.
Four miles, all the way.
Five miles, every day.
Upon reaching the Lincoln Memorial, the sun was climbing higher, and I had to head back the same way. I yanked my tee over my head and clutched it tightly, then picked up the pace and ran past one cyclist after another.
This was my favorite part of my morning run, when shit started to hurt. I had the best rhythm, my breaths in sync with my footfalls, my blood pumping, the sun beaming down on my exposed torso. I welcomed every ounce of heat.
One, two, three, four, hey.
One, two, three, four, hey.
I clenched my jaw and crossed the road, and I zigzagged between someone on a fucking scooter and two women with strollers.
One, two, run some more ? —
Fucking hell. I was ready for the deprogramming.
The last bit, I pushed myself to the point where I tasted blood, and each breath was like the driest, sharpest punch in my throat. I needed water, stat. But soon enough, I reached Hobbs Circle. The plaza in front of Hillcroft came into view, and I didn’t stop until I was ten feet away from the entrance.
“Christ,” I panted. I checked my watch and stopped the timer, and I nodded once to myself. Thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds, good enough.
I dropped my tee on the ground and bent over to rest my hands on my thighs, and I just focused on my breathing. And the sun on my back. Fuck me, fuck me. I swallowed dryly and waited for my heart rate to come down.
Deep breaths.
“I see we’re both accomplishing greatness in the morning.” That sounded like Beckett. “You went running, and I had a donut.”
I heaved a breath and straightened up, and fuck him for looking so damn hot.
“I went to the gym too,” I mentioned, out of breath.
He eyed me up and down, lingering a second extra around my stomach. “And I actually had two donuts.” He extended a Post-it to me. “I was gonna give this to you yesterday, but my last class ran late. It’s your first counseling session with Doc.”
What? I eyed the note. Tomorrow at 16:00. The fuck?
“It’s mandatory,” Beckett said.
I let out a labored breath and picked up my tee. “For everyone?”
“No, just you. For now. Everyone’s being assessed.”
Sure, sure. Fuck. Goddammit. “And since I ran my mouth about my indifference, I now need a head doctor.”
He smiled. “Think of it as a reward for good behavior.”
I huffed.
“I’m assuming you’re off to the showers,” he went on. “Meet me in the cafeteria in twenty minutes for breakfast.”
So I could run my mouth some more and get another reward? No thanks.
“Yessir,” I said instead.
* * *
The cafeteria was crowded when I got there, and I spotted Beckett at a table toward the back. Breakfast was clearly a busy time here. I estimated some forty people were eating.
It was a fast-moving line, thankfully, and I grabbed a tray. One bowl of oatmeal and an apple, before I eyed the selection of eggs and bacon on the hot-plate station.
“Can I get two over-easy, please?” I asked.
“Sure thing.” The lady extended a small plate with two eggs.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I piled on some bacon too, then went to get my water and coffee.
I appreciated real creamer, not the powdered one I’d gotten used to. And three sugars… I hesitated. Oh, whatever. I only had one cup a day. Four sugars.
When I reached Beckett’s table, I sat down across from him and saw he was making notes in the binder he and Coach were always carrying around.
“You’re getting moved today too,” he said without looking up. “All the recruit dorms need to be inspected for water damage.”
Suh-weet.
“Okay.” I started shoveling oatmeal into my mouth.
“Unfortunately, we’re running out of studio units, so three of you will share a one-bedroom, and you will stay at my place.”
Uh, say again? I knitted my brows. Had I heard that right?
He glanced over at me. “I won’t be there,” he clarified. “I’m staying at my mother’s at the moment anyway.”
Oh. Now, why was that disappointing?
“Is she sick or something?” I wondered, biting into my apple.
“That’s one way of putting it.” He made one more note in the binder before closing it. “After these two intro weeks are over, do you have a place to stay?”
I shrugged and chewed. “I have a guest room at my aunt’s place.” And only two fucking ferrets left, so yay. The other two had died of old age. Sadly, Biter wasn’t one of them. “I was kinda hoping to stay here a while longer, though.” Despite the bunk beds.
He waved that off, dismissive. “That’s no problem. You can have my place until the plumbers are happy with the dorms again. Some recruits stay throughout their training, and some don’t wanna be here outside school hours at all.”
I belonged in the former category. It helped me stay focused. In the Army, I’d heard of so many buddies who’d itched to get married so they could move in to a house on base with their spouse, and I’d never seen the appeal. I actually hadn’t minded the barracks, aside from when some assholes couldn’t keep quiet in the middle of the night.
“Did you stay here when you went through your training?” I asked curiously.
He finished the last of his scrambled eggs. “No, I, uh…I crashed with my brother.”
“Oh, right. He’s an operator here too. Is he hiding on some secret floor, or will I get to meet him?”
He blew out a breath and leaned back in his seat, and he folded his arms over his chest. He and Operator Rose had definitely been deprogrammed over the years. Like, they could whip it out if the situation called for it, but just by looking at them, nobody could guess they had military careers in their background.
“He was killed last year.”
Oh shit. Oh fuck. “Oh damn. I’m sorry, man.” That fucking sucked. “I’m sorry for bringing it up. I won’t ask.” Even though I wondered.
He shook his head and rubbed the side of his neck. “I’m supposed to talk about it. It’s just rough.”
Yeah, no shit. “I get it. Took me a while to open up about my mom.” It’d taken a surprisingly nice NCO to convince me. Plus, remembering Beckett’s advice about talking to my chaplain. “I used to walk around with one of my mom’s collector’s coins from a national park to feel closer to her. I also chucked it at the wall whenever I got mad at her for being dead.” And for lying to me. “It was much easier than talking about her.”
Beckett grinned faintly. “I walk around with a pack of smokes because of my brother. He smoked that brand. I stole maybe one or two here and there but never bought my own. And now I can’t leave the house without the pack.”
I got it. It was the little things that brought comfort when we tried to move on.
I folded a strip of bacon and crammed it into my mouth.
“Hey, did you ever find your dad’s family?”
Aw, man. We didn’t have to talk about that, did we?
“Kinda.” The bacon went down like a lead balloon. “I mean…yeah. Yeah—I know who they are. I just… I haven’t reached out or anything.”
He furrowed his brow. “Why not? I thought that was the point.”
Yeah, well. I cleared my throat. “I don’t wanna stir up problems. They seem like a happy family.”
“Why would it stir up problems? Was your dad married to someone else or something?”
I shook my head. “Not that I know of. I mean, he wasn’t married—I would’ve known—but I don’t think he was dating anyone else either. But who knows? What if he was? And I’d go there and introduce myself, and the grieving girlfriend would be like, what the fuck?”
He nodded slowly and picked up his coffee. “Makes sense. On the off chance that your dad had a girlfriend almost twenty-five years ago, it’s best you don’t reach out to your actual family for fear of offending the person who might not exist.”
I shot him a look. That was unnecessary!
He took a swig, mirth flashing in his eyes. Dick. “What information did you get from the Archives? I’m guessing that’s where you got his records.”
Aunt Laura had done most of the work, but yes, the National Archives, with some extra details she’d gotten from another veteran who’d once served with my dad.
“Name, date of birth, rank, service number, medals… His last known address and… Um, his parents—they were listed as next of kin,” I replied. “I looked them up online and found his mother on Facebook, but her account is private. Except, like, I could see comments on her profile picture, which turned me into a stalker of the rest of the family.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I’d be curious too. So, who are they? What have you learned?”
Did he really care?
“Um…if my guesses are correct, my dad was the eldest in an army of seven kids.”
Beckett let out a low whistle.
“I know, right? I couldn’t even get my mom to give me one brother,” I went on. “But yeah, so five brothers and two sisters. They’re from Washington state. One of the sisters runs a pastry shop, and one of the brothers has a seafood restaurant. Most of them are private on social—which is another reason I don’t wanna contact them. I don’t think they’d be happy to learn that someone’s been stalking them every couple of months for the past few years.”
In my weak defense, I’d sat on the information from my dad’s records for a long time before I’d mustered the courage to Google his parents.
“See, from my perspective, I’d definitely wanna know if my brother had another kid out there somewhere,” Beckett pointed out. “You’re not a stranger, Leighton. Hell, maybe the mom would be thrilled to see her eldest live on in the next generation?”
Ugh, he sounded like Aunt Laura now.
Beckett sat forward a bit and clasped his hands loosely on the table. “You want my two cents?”
Not really.
“Shoot.”
“When we met, you thanked me for just talking to you,” he murmured. “You’d recently lost your ma, and you were pretty much on your own. I’m thinking the real reason you haven’t made contact with them is because you’re afraid to get rejected. Because when you’re already alone, rejection—particularly from potential family—is essentially death by a thousand cuts. It was much easier to stay in the Army where social interaction and being part of a squad is forced upon you.”
What time was it? Class was about to start, wasn’t it? I wanted to leave. Maybe do some pull-ups before my next deprogramming.
Fuck , he made me uncomfortable. Eye contact wasn’t happening anytime soon, so I had to force myself to eat and focus on my coffee.
“Good job. You know how to profile,” I said stiffly.
He leaned back again. “That one didn’t require any skills in profiling. I’m more interested in finding out why you let Operator Rose believe you don’t know how to use a handgun. Unlike him, I remember your application. You have plenty of experience.”
What? I set down my apple again.
“A buddy of mine was in the gym and overheard Rose’s speech to you about military programming the other day,” he said. “Most of us have been the recipient of a Rose Rambling over the years, especially when it comes to replacing the soldier with the gray man who becomes an operator here. He takes notes on everything—and Coach and I are privy to them.”
What, so Operator Rose had written an assessment based on that brief talk? “He couldn’t have learned that much. He did most of the talking.”
Beckett shrugged. “We gotta start somewhere, and he shares the responsibility for the deprogramming class with Operator Riggs. By the end of your first year, you’ll have your own binder with notes.”
How fun.
Christ.
I took another bite of my apple, and it was my turn to shrug. “A lieutenant once caught me trying to convince a buddy not to get a tattoo, and the old man just walked by and said, ‘Don’t advertise all there is to know about you.’ I guess it stuck. I didn’t lie to Operator Rose…”
That made Beckett smile. “You just didn’t advertise it. Gray-man thinking. That’s good. You sure as hell won’t find anyone encouraging you to get tattoos at Hillcroft.”
But they weren’t exactly prohibited either, according to the operator regs. They just couldn’t include personal information or leads that could identify you. Therefore, it was best to keep them hidden and cryptic.
“I saw an operator the other day who had a visible tattoo,” I mentioned.
“They exist,” he conceded. “Depending on when they joined, the regulations have changed several times. In the beginning, there were hardly any regs at all. When I joined, they were banned altogether. Now it’s more relaxed again.”
That made sense. “I’ve actually wanted to get one myself,” I admitted. “I’m not gonna, but…” I lifted a shoulder.
“Something in particular?”
I chewed on my lip and shifted in my seat. He asked questions, and I immediately knew I was going to answer, whether I wanted to or not. The thought of deflecting or declaring something too personal didn’t exist in my mind. It was a little unnerving.
“When I was a kid, my mom would make up stories for me about my dad,” I said. “Apparently, he’d once told her he couldn’t wait to have kids, and he wanted a little wingman. So, in the stories, I was his wingman.” I swallowed. “I walked past a tattoo place one time, and I saw a photo of a woman who had a pair of wings on her back, and it made me want something similar, except…I’d want them wrapped around me from the front.”
“So that the inked wings are hugging you,” he murmured. “That’s sweet.”
I broke eye contact again. The way he said it made me feel embarrassed, like I’d revealed too much. I didn’t need to be fucking hugged, man. Whatever.
It was a dumb idea.
I’d gone over six years without a hug, unless I counted the awkward pats on the back I gave Aunt Laura when she greeted me. I was fine. I wasn’t getting a damn tattoo.
Maybe Beckett sensed my discomfort, because he finally let me go. “You should get to class. And think about getting a new watch.” He nodded at mine.
I frowned. “What’s wrong with this one?”
“A desert sand G-shock? It screams soldier and that you wish you were born a few years earlier so you could’ve seen combat.”
I scowled at him. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”
“Anyone can read an open book, recruit.”
I better fucking close mine, then.