Chelsea
The war room empties, with most scattering in different directions. I hang back with Bash, Sadie, and Aaron to discuss the coming chaos. “What do you think, ? You’re the resident expert in being falsely accused.”
Aaron cocks his head my way and glares. “Really, ?”
I shrug. “Sorry. It’s a personality flaw.”
Bash ignores us both. “Who benefits from Iron Strike going down?”
“That’s only relevant if Iron Strike is the only target. Knot seems to think it’s all of us,” I answer.
“Okay, so who benefits if we all go down?”
Tugging on my ear, I think about it for a second but come up empty. “I don’t know. Harding must have a big stake in the movement since he’s so vocal about it. Maybe if he’s successful, he’ll look like a Washington powerhouse and secure his place for the next thirty years.”
“Maybe,” Sadie ponders, “but there’s no way he’s doing this alone. I doubt a baby representative is sitting in on meetings with the joint chiefs. Who could be helping him?”
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the question,” I declare.
The mystery lingers for a bit before Alpha and Beta’s leaders split off to join their respective teams. Our guys should be at the range, so Bash and I head there. “What do you think our role will be in this?”
The man runs a hand over his dark hair and sighs. “God only knows. I plan on asking Birdie her thoughts after work.”
“I would love to sit in on that conversation,” I mumble. Birdie may be the mousy type, but she becomes a tiger when someone threatens her friends.
“Fine. Let’s meet at our usual place tonight. Say about eight.”
“See you there.”
Over the next hour, our team of eight runs drills on the moving range and closes the session with target practice.
My workday ends at three, and I plan to go home to catch up on some laundry and cleaning. I slide into my Accord, swearing when my hand touches something sticky. “Ugh. But first, to clean out this damned car.”
After going through a car wash and cleaning the inside, I figure I’ve accomplished enough to blow off the rest of the day. I shower, address my long hair, put on some makeup, and dress like a civilian. My legs shove into my favorite jeans, and I complete the fit with cute sandals and a flirty top. I’m not looking to impress anyone. I just needed a confidence boost after waking up looking like a train wreck.
Since I’m already dressed and made up, I figure I’ll get to the bar early and eat instead of risking my clothes by cooking dinner for myself.
The parking lot of the Taphouse is full, which I find odd for a Wednesday night. Then again, for all I know, this place is always busy. As I approach the entrance, I spot a lot of US Navy stickers on the parked cars and trucks. Now, I understand why Bash comes here and why he avoided it for so long after joining our ranks.
I pull open the door and walk in, scanning the place for an empty table for Bash, Birdie, and me, even though they won’t be here for another hour. The place is a portrait of American patriotism. The floor is concrete and cobblestone, and multicolored wood slats make up the walls with a band of blue at the top. Military-themed artwork hangs all around, and various military pins and challenge coins are fixed into the resin tabletops.
A busser cleans a table near the bar, so I head that way, freezing when someone calls my name. Cringing, I turn toward the wall and spot a familiar face sitting in a booth with three other men. His dirty-blond hair is mussed, and dark stubble lines his jaw. God, save me. You can even send Rush the Rocker to do it. I wouldn’t care.
Jackson wears a surprised and amused expression when he stands from his seat. “Good to see you again, .”
The devilishly sexy man peers around me before focusing on my face once again. And, of course, he’s standing way too close. “You here alone?”
“I…uh…no.”
Jackson smirks. “No, you’re not alone, or?”
Come on, brain, dammit. Work! “They…uh…Bash and Birdie are coming later. I got here early to get food.” Realizing how that sounded, I rush to explain so he doesn’t think I’m a closet eater. “Dinner. I came early to get some dinner. The others are only coming for drinks, not dinner.”
“Okay. Would you like to join my group? We could pull up a chair.”
My eyes unwittingly shift to the table where the three strangers sit. All three are seriously fit and hot. I don’t stand a chance. “I think I left my phone in the car. I’d better run and get it.”
I turn on my heel and stride for the door, praying Jackson doesn’t notice the device in my back pocket. Of course, as I reach the door, I feel like slamming my face into it. After my earlier reaction to Jackson, there is no way I could sit at a table with him and his three friends. Not without appearing neurotic, which I am.
I fumble to open the door when I reach my car, flop into the seat, and lean my head against the steering wheel. What the hell are you doing, ? I thought you preferred to not look like a lunatic. “That guy fries my brain. I’m already weird around new people, but he activates a whole other level of dysfunction.”
More than enough time passes for someone to collect their phone, as long as they’ve parked in the same zip code. Still, I haven’t moved. I can’t go back in there. Doing so now would result in even more questions and awkward answers. Dinner will have to come from somewhere else.
I start the car and drive away, hoping those men will be gone by eight. If not, I’ll make up some excuse and leave. Yeah, because that will seem totally normal.
My favorite deli is only a few blocks away. In just a few minutes, I’m sitting at a table in the back, abusing the bag of chips I picked to go with my club sandwich. By the time my food arrives, they are only crumbs in the bag. I don’t need them anyway. I take an angry bite of the sandwich, berating myself as I chew.
I don’t get why I have to be such a mutant. Meeting new people at work, not a problem. Meeting new people in social settings, not my favorite. Meeting a hot man who melts my insides with just a look, complete cranial meltdown. I can’t even fake it around Jackson like I can with others. It’s annoying. He’s annoying. And he’s probably messing with me on purpose.
At ten ‘til eight, I walk out the door after picking at my sandwich for half an hour. The bar’s parking lot is no less full than before, but at least Bash’s truck is here when I pull in.
I walk inside but only far enough to scan the room and rule out Jackson’s presence. Finding my friends and no threats to my sanity, I head straight for their table and sit. “You look like somebody’s after you,” Birdie says, giggling.
Pasting on my best jester’s face, I wave off her concern. “I’m fine. Weird day.”
Bastien scoffs, turning his ball cap backward. “You ain’t lying.”
A waiter stops by to take our order. I don’t have the energy to act for anyone tonight, so I order a Coke instead of the beer I’d pretend to drink. I’m mildly surprised when Bastien doesn’t comment, but I let it lie since I don’t want to talk about it. “So, Birdie…”
My unspoken question lingers, and Birdie sighs. “Yes, I know everything. No, I don’t have any theories yet. I won’t know anything until I get Iron_”
Bastien clears his throat loudly, and Birdie’s cheeks redden. Continuing in a whisper, she says, “I won’t know anything until I have a chance to look through all the files.”
If what Roman Cargill says is true, there’s something to find, and Birdie will uncover it. Keeping my voice low, I begin working out a theory. “Okay, so let’s assume you find proof this was a setup. There’s no way Harding is manipulating these military operations. And I doubt he has the connections to coordinate with the various enemy combatants.”
Bash pulls his hat from his head, and his dark hazel eyes narrow. “Do you understand what you’re suggesting? That someone in the US government is_on purpose_setting up members of our military for slaughter just to hurt private military companies?”
I lean across the table. “Look. I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking who might benefit from the complete shutdown of military contracting and how they might accomplish it.”
Bash takes a long pull of his beer, and Birdie spins her glass around. No one speaks for several seconds, absorbing the frightening possibility.
Eventually, Birdie sighs. “She’s right. If we find evidence proving Cargill is telling the truth, ’s theory is the only one that makes any sense. We have to focus on motive in order to find who’s doing this.”
My partner’s hat goes back on, turned forward again. He still doesn’t say anything, though.
An itch on my neck makes me worry we weren’t quiet enough. I turn around to see who could be listening in on our postulating. Finding no one watching, I dismiss the sensation and turn back around, catching on a pair of dark blue eyes boring into mine from a few feet away.
Jackson. He never left.