Chapter 14
Fourteen
August watches me from the other side of the campsite.
Even with a hat on, his copper hair is unruly as it sticks out from beneath the band.
Like so many operatives I’ve worked with in the past, August is unusually nondescript.
Average height, fair skin, clean-shaven, pale blue eyes, not attractive or unattractive . . . perfectly forgettable.
Something tells me I should apologize to the undoubtedly dangerous spy I just punched in the nuts, but at the same time, I think I should give him a wide berth.
I’ve taken a moment to study each of them, though.
The one named William, with a rifle slung over his shoulder and medium-length, shaggy brown hair, has a few days of growth on his face and sharp brown eyes.
Like York, he isn’t very excitable and always speaks in a flat tone, but he sounds like a Texan. He’s the tallest.
The last one, Carter, sports short but messy dirty-blond hair with a full beard and navy eyes. He’s got a thicker build and is roughly the same height as York, but he sounds like he’s from the West Coast. All his words are carefully chosen and precisely spoken; he’s likely quite educated.
I roll a damp log across the site lazily with my foot and then stand it on one end and sit beside the fire. Watching these men together tells me a bit about them, but not much. None of them seem to really relax, and even among friends, which is apparently the wrong term, they don’t seem calm.
“So, how are things?” York asks William as they make their way toward me.
“Good, just been relaxing lately. Passed up a few jobs to tinker around in the shop on my bike a bit. It’s been nice. You all right?” William asks York as he gestures to me and shifts his weight awkwardly to one side. My eyes fall to his leg.
“Fine,” York says.
“Miss.” William nods at me. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I nod back. “Call me Trip.”
“Now, come on, my name’s really William, and I doubt your mama named a flower like you Trip.”
“It’s short for Tripoli.” I smile brightly, and he returns it.
“That sounds exotic. Very pretty.”
William is a charmer, and it’s hard to tell if it’s real or part of his schtick. I glance around at them all again. Chances are, I’m not the only actor here.
“Quid pro quo?” I ask him.
“Shoot,” he says with a nod as he kicks his own log over and sits beside me.
“What happened to your leg?” I knock my knuckles against his right thigh.
“Well, aren’t you clever? Iraq happened to my leg.
” He nods. “Piece of shrapnel.” He makes a slicing sound and cuts through the air with his hand.
“Had to have a tendon reattached. It’s never been the same.
” He looks up at the other men through the thin smoke.
“But it only really bugs me now when the weather turns.”
“But you came home.”
“Sure did.” He looks at me for a moment and lowers his voice. “How’d you meet that devil?”
My gaze shifts to York across the site where he’s now talking to Carter and August. Devil. I think York was being real when he said they weren’t friends, but I can’t imagine why they would get together otherwise.
“Luck,” I whisper and rub my nose.
York’s attention shifts to us, but I let my eyes fall to the flames. It was luck. Sometimes it feels like good luck, other times bad. William stretches out his leg and crosses his arms, apparently not having any further questions.
The blond man steps in front of me and offers his hand. “Carter.”
I take it with a firm squeeze, and he nods at me. “Tripoli?”
“Right.”
“Well, I gather there is a story here.” Carter gestures to York and back to me, causing sweat to prick my back. At least William was quiet in his prodding. “The old man doesn’t seem keen to talk about it though.” He nods at York, who glowers at him and crouches on the other side of the fire.
“Wrong place, wrong time,” I answer, my eyes meeting York’s through the smoke.
“If that were true, you wouldn’t be here anymore.” Carter sets the end of a damp log in the fire and glances back over his shoulder at me expectantly.
“I stand by what I said.”
Smiling, he rubs his chin against his shoulder before the look fades entirely, and he turns to the fire. We are all acting . . .
York’s face is all disapproval, but I don’t care.
“Where did you attend school, Carter?” I prod when I probably shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. The need to know, to learn about them itches my brain like a fucking parasite trying to burrow its way in.
“Well, well . . .” His voice trails off. “UCLA, chemistry with a minor in psych.” Crouching, he lowers his voice. “Don’t use those observation tricks on August, though. None of us need to deal with that shit tonight.”
“I’m susceptible to bouts of paranoia and hysteria, but that doesn’t mean I’m deaf,” August says quietly without meeting anyone’s gaze.
“Things went wrong in Afghanistan, right, August?” William asks him, and then turns his attention on me.
“The kid got stuck outside the wire after his patrol was ambushed and killed. Somehow the crazy fuck survived, lost in the desert long enough to be deemed Killed In Action, but he accidentally lit up a pot field, and the fire is how they finally found him. He’s been twitchy since. ”
“I’m not twitchy.”
“What’s your origin story?” York asks me, and I narrow my eyes.
This isn’t something I want any of the crazies to know, but chances are . . . they probably know something of me already. York wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t want them to know . . . or it’s some kind of test, but for who?
Rubbing my brow, I suck it up. “I was recruited out of college after doing some voluntary testing during an employment drive on campus.”
“Did you know what you signed up for?” William asks.
“Do you know what I signed up for?” I inquire with a raised brow.
No one fucking knows what I signed up for but me. York’s face is guarded through the smoke, but I turn away from him. I’m not going to squirm under the weight of their observation, and certainly not when the spotlight is of York’s making.
“I always know exactly what I’m doing.” I add.
“Bold choice,” Carter murmurs as he pokes the fire with his boot and slides a wire grate over top.
I’m not sure what he means. Bold choice for knowing what I was getting into . . . or for admitting it?
Everyone starts moving, shuffling around to get their bags.
I look back at York briefly before getting up and walking through the site.
As I move off aimlessly, my brain starts doing its thing: cataloging.
William—tall, medium-length brown hair, brown eyes, likely a marksman, served in Iraq .
. . Based on his age, sometime in the last eight years.
Surgery on his right knee. Medical records will be available through Veterans Affairs to confirm dates.
From there I could probably narrow down his state of residence.
Stopping, I pick up a twig and bend it gently before continuing forward.
August—approximately thirty years old, copper hair, blue eyes, around five feet ten inches, no discernible preference for weapons, served in Afghanistan, so competent with a rifle and sidearm.
Survived a prolonged period outside the wire, so he’s resourceful.
Also well-spoken, above-average intelligence likely, can also be traced through Veterans Affairs if he was released for psych reasons.
If so, psych issues are a potential problem.
Carter—
“Calm down,” York says behind me.
“I am calm.”
“Your wheels are turning so hard there is smoke coming out.”
I don’t turn around and continue forward. York—first name David, likely York because he’s from Yorkshire or a beloved relative was. I march out of the camp into the woods, hopping over a few logs until I hit an incline and march up a bit of a hill.
Likely to have a service history too based on the scar on his left bicep where a tattoo was removed—probably an airborne division, based on the shape—and likely a currently serving member of the SAS or MI6.
Shorn dark brown hair, blue eyes, six foot one, proficient with guns and close-quarter combat.
I could probably string together a bunch of his contracts just from the unique kill pattern alone.
The sun is high now, and my stomach grumbles softly, but I ignore it as I set my sights on a large maple ahead and step around it, resting my back against the trunk and taking a quiet breath.
York has three scars on the back of his right hand, lacerations from glass most likely, one large one on his left—from a knife—and a bullet graze across his lower left side.
“I don’t like chasing you.” His voice comes from the other side of the tree.
“Then fuck off,” I mutter.
“That’s not how this works.” He steps around the tree and stands in front of me. “This works by you staying where I can see you.”
“Do they know who I am?”
“Does anyone?”
“Do they know there is a contract on me?”
“Unlikely.”
“What are they getting out of this?”
“I’m running an op that you are a component of. They need to buy into you to buy into the op.”
“Fuck!” I shout and his hand slaps over my mouth as I blast air out my nose and drop my head back against the tree.
“Domination,” he whispers. “You might not want or be capable of it, but I am, and I will enforce it, and I will dominate you and everyone else here to that end. Do you understand?”
I don’t fucking understand anything anymore, but I nod all the same, and his hand slips away from my mouth. “This is what you wanted me for?” I shake my head.
“No, this is just convenient.”
“You say I can talk to you, but then you do shit like this . . . I can’t trust you. How can I talk to you?”
“I’ve already got you, Theresa.” His eyes climb over my face. “What’s trust got to do with it?”
“My life!” I shove him back.
He starts to grab at me but stops himself when I wince at the pressure on my wrists.
Taking a second, he pinches the bridge of his nose and then raises his eyes to mine.
“There are things you won’t tell me, right?
Things you won’t say because you don’t trust me or are too afraid to reveal.
Did it ever occur to you that that’s a two-way street?
There are things I can’t tell you, things I can’t share .
. . not yet. Not while you’re in your feelings with a temper and too much lead time to fuck it up. ”
“I’m not going to fuck anything up. In fact, I’d fuck less up if I knew what was going on.”
He places a hand above my head on the tree and leans into my face, eyes pinning me. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
We stay like that for a minute before he leans away. “That’s what I thought.”
“You come from the unfortunate position of subterfuge, David.” I slip out from under him. “It’s going to take something pretty impressive on your part to convince me every breath you take isn’t a masquerade to pry me open and then leave me for dead.”
“You come from that same position, Theresa.”
“Exactly.” I look over my shoulder. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”
I stomp back down the hill and hop over the logs at the bottom before making my way into the campsite.
“Steak?” William asks as I approach the fire.
“Sure.” I shrug, mentally exhausted by the constant song and dance with York.
“Want to go shooting after lunch?”
“Why not,” I say breathlessly as I stare into the fire.
York thinks I’m in a position of power, but all I really want is the power to hold him down and make him tell me the truth, make him tell me what he really wants and why he didn’t shoot me.
“What’s the date today?” I ask, resuming my perch on one of the logs.
“Uh . . . twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth, I think.”
And I need to get my hands on a burner soon. Shit.
But . . . I can’t deny that York has a point. He has orders, and he probably wants to hold me down and make me spill my guts too. A chunk of meat flops onto a flimsy paper plate, alongside some plastic cutlery, and I take it from William’s hand.
I saw that thing up and eat it like it’s the last meal I’ll ever have.