Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
After wandering through the house for a bit alone, I find August in a small office emanating enough heat to be a sauna. The amount of computer equipment he has set up is impressive.
In the doorway, I stand and watch as he picks away at his keyboard.
I’m not a hacker in the sense that I could work in cyber ops, but I can get around a standard firewall.
Sometimes I do okay with mid-grade security systems. The thing is .
. . I mostly just know where to look. The amount of data you can dig up legally is astounding, especially if a person has an online presence at all. Just work backward from what you know.
“Can I help you?” he asks, distracted.
“Do you have a radio frequency detector? I need to know if I’ve been bugged.”
“Fun.” He spins around in his chair and grabs a small black box off the desk. His face is blank as he stands and turns the little unit on.
August still isn’t on my Christmas card list. Out of all of them, he is the hardest to discern and gather background on.
They all have impeccable American accents that are regionally unique, but his is the least unique.
There are no defining physical qualities about him that suggest anything remotely helpful, at least not that I can see.
Either there is really nothing to tell here, or he’s the best fucking spy of all of them.
He waves the unit over me slowly, moving from my head to my feet and then asking me to turn around.
The whole knife bit in the woods still puts me on edge. When William shot me, at least I know he intended to shoot me . . . With August, I have no idea if the knife was just a game, a warning, or if he fucking missed and really wanted to skewer me.
“You are clean.”
There is a quiet clicking as he turns the device off, and I turn back around. “You guys got anything to drink here?”
“Do we ever.” He sets the device down and brushes past me in the doorway.
***
I sit at the large wooden table in the dining room as August pulls bottles out of a hutch and sets them on the table.
“We also have beer and . . . wine, I think.”
“What’s this?” Carter asks, coming in with a smile. “Drinking game?”
“Just drinking.” I reach across the table and spin a few bottles around.
“Good enough for me.”
He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a few glasses and sets them on the table. When he yells for the others, I cringe internally, but it could be an opportunity.
August pulls out a chair as William enters, pausing in the doorway for a moment before joining us. York is the last to arrive, and we don’t even look at each other as he takes his seat.
I understand why he’s aloof with me around the others, but it makes me feel insecure, which is confusing because . . . I’ve known him for like a week. It’s not as if we’re together-together. But being more or less ignored when what I really want is a hug is just going to make me drink more.
Out of all the options on the table, I grab the vodka. I’m not one who usually takes shots, but I sure as hell am not shooting tequila or whiskey.
I pour myself a shot and then stare at the glass.
“What are we drinking to?” York grabs the whiskey and pours himself a drink.
“With any luck . . . oblivion,” I say, grabbing my glass and tossing back the clear liquid. It makes me recoil and grimace.
“Hang the hell on,” Carter says as he splashes some vodka into his own glass and shoots it. “I hate falling behind.”
Taking the bottle from him, I pour myself another and then sit back and stare at it again.
“Come on, Tripoli, hurry up,” William drawls in his practiced Texan accent. “The faster you get fucked up, the faster we can get the truth out of you.”
“Truth,” I snort. “As if you all aren’t hiding a million things yourselves . . . You don’t see me bitching about it.” I take the shot. “Then again, I don’t have to.”
York sips his drink as usual. “What does that mean?”
“You’re all walking puzzles, dropping pieces all the time for me to pick up and fit together . . . The only thing I lack clarity on now is the big picture, but I’ll get there, I’m sure.”
“We haven’t told you anything of consequence.” August rolls a full shot glass between his palms carefully.
“Well, you haven’t, but again, I’m getting there.”
“Oh, yeah?” He picks up the glass and downs it. “Try me.”
“Okay.” I sit cross-legged on the chair as I survey him.
“You’re a sociopath, diagnosed likely, but that would have been buried deep, I imagine.
I think the story about Afghanistan is true, or something similar to it, but I don’t think it cracked you.
I’d go so far as to say you did it on purpose and killed a few combatants in the process that you never received credit for.
The real question is, did you take any trophies? ”
I look around the table at the others momentarily and then continue.
“Your computer skills are probably self-taught, and you sound nondescript, very generic in speech, which makes me wonder if you learned your accent from television. That makes sense though, because you lack the people skills to be immersed here the way these other two clearly have been. So, I’d bet you’ve been in the country for maybe a few weeks to a month and don’t live here.
No fucking government has you on their payroll, at least not above board, but more likely these guys have subcontracted you, and it’s not the first time, because I think you and William legitimately know each other from serving together. ”
“How Sherlock Holmes of you,” August says dryly and pours another drink.
“I envy your sociopathy,” I clarify. “If I had that superpower, I wouldn’t be at this table right now.”
“How do you figure?”
I shrug. “I’d have killed you all in the fucking woods like a sane person would have, and I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, the way a crazy person wouldn’t.”
August nods knowingly in my periphery as the others stare at me.
The truth is, if I was a sociopath, I’d have dominated in my job so much more. I’d be an even better actress. I’d be ruthless in the pursuit of my goals, and I certainly wouldn’t form any compromising emotional attachments like I’ve done now.
“William,” I begin without looking at him, “is an arrogant asshole, but he isn’t delusional, so I assume he comes by it honestly.
I bet if I dug around I’d find his name or some variation of it on some impressive list or record like ‘Longest Kill Shot,’ although it wouldn’t be on that list exactly, because those kills are in real time, and the shooters don’t advertise their identity .
. . so, I’d say he has the third or fourth longest ‘kill shot’”—I use air quotes just to be an asshole—“on record in competition, and he mentions it from time to time, which annoys people. I bet his name is recorded as Billy or some shit too, because somehow, he thought it was clever.”
The thing is, I know for a fact there is a Bill Brown on that competition list, and his nickname is Bottlecap. I’d bet money it was a tongue-in-cheek move, and Bottlecap is William’s fucking code name. William is arrogant enough to think no one could ever put it together.
York covers his smile by palming his face and leaning on the table, which pulls my attention to him.
“And I bet you joined as soon as you were old enough, likely due to a lack of options. David Crossley, code name York,” I mutter and take a deep breath.
“You came up in an airborne regiment, did two combat tours, maybe more, and I’m guessing you have a medal or two from those times that you don’t acknowledge and have lost at the bottom of a drawer somewhere because you don’t agree with recognition for ‘doing your job.’ You see them as participation trophies.
” I pour another drink. “You were recruited by the government fairly young into this part of your life and knew at a young age that you never wanted children or a family of any kind.”
His face doesn’t give anything away as my eyes drop to my glass, and my body warms as the alcohol reaches my veins. My head buzzes slightly, just enough to quiet my natural impulses, and I relax a bit into my chair.
“So, what’s the deal with all that?” Carter asks, taking another shot himself. “Are you on the spectrum or something?”
“Severe obsessive-compulsive disorder that is triggered every time I meet a new person.” I cross my arms. “As soon as I get a face and a name . . . I have to flesh out the whole picture, or I’ll go fucking insane.” I rub my warming cheeks.
“Don’t you meet new people all the time given your . . . job?” Carter asks.
“Yes, which is why I’m so good at it and always hovering on the edge of insanity.” I smile and sip from my glass, rather than shooting it. “There is stuff I still don’t know about you all that I could fix with a computer, and it makes my brain itch not knowing . . . but I’ll find out.”
“Where does it end?” August asks with a sense of fascination. “When does the impulse to learn die?”
“Mm.” I tilt my head. “When I find the next of kin, usually . . . Addresses.”
Carter leans back and crosses his arms. “That’s fucked up.”
“Says the guy with how many kills under his belt?”
The table falls silent, and I take a deep breath as I scan each of them.
Being kept in the dark is difficult for me when I thrive on information and use it to build my ability to predict people.
What I think I know of these men has not been confirmed or denied, which also makes it difficult.
They are cagey around me, though, which makes me think that what I’m looking at right now is my jury, and they’re split.
Looking at them now, I don’t think York has the sole power to decide if I live or not.