Troubled Water (Devotion #3)

Chapter 1

There’s three of them in the room with me this time. In light of last night’s events, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

In the place in my mind where no one believes I have a sense of humor, I secretly wish they’d shown up for this grievous inconvenience wearing red, blue, and green so I could have mocked them throughout the day by addressing them as Alvin, Simon, and Theodore, but alas, they’re all dressed in black suits with white shirts.

Instead, I drawl, “If it isn’t my own little MIBs. ”

They roll their eyes even as they do checks on the equipment that will be used to perform a rectal probe on me very soon. My arms akimbo, I study them, measuring their skills and ensuring they’re not missing a step because of who I am.

“Sir, please take a seat.”

With that, I’m gestured forward. My feet don’t make a single sound as I move across the concrete floor, past the two-way window where I know people are standing witness to what’s about to happen in this room.

They have to, regardless of how they may or may not feel about me as a person, a colleague, or a friend. It’s not just their job, it’s their patriotic duty to protect the interests of the United States of America.

I expect no less from each of them than what I endure myself, which is why I didn’t complain about my discomfort when I was forced to strip out of my custom Saville Row suit of armor in front of watchful eyes before I was forced into the thin, black track suit that is barely big enough to stretch around my biceps.

I don’t offer any complaints while they meticulously hook me up to machines designed to measure various medical readouts.

I stoically endure the pinch between my butt cheeks as the pressure sensor nestles against my rectum as straps are tied around my ankles.

Calves and thighs.

Waist and arms.

And most importantly, around my head and heart.

Lord knows this isn’t my first time in the hot seat. I recall the first time I made my way to the center of this very room where—just like now—only one chair, a mess of wires, and a spotlight directly overhead pointed down into my face.

Back then, an agent was debriefing a mere SEAL commander. I was a man who had helped rescue the scarce number of survivors from an at sea hostage situation.

Now, I’m someone completely different.

Even as the first agent begins the rote instructions, I muse, who knew then that the events of the Sea Force would alter the course of my entire life down to the fact I’d willingly sacrifice American lives to protect one?

“Sir, my name is Agent Fox. I’ll be responsible for asking your questions today. Agents Pamola and Deere are also in the room. They will be monitoring your responses and medical output.”

I nod at each of the agents in question. Agent Fox peers down at me. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes.”

“We’d like to ask you a few baseline questions to calibrate the machine.”

“Fine.”

“The first two answer truthfully. For the third, we would like you to lie.”

“Go ahead.”

“What is your name?”

“Parker Thornton.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever killed an individual intentionally?” The agent looks at me expectantly.

I pause a half a heartbeat. I’ve killed. I’ve killed so many times I can’t recall the exact number. I’ve killed because of duty, assignment, mission. But the way they phrased the question? “No.”

Agent Pamola’s head whips up so fast, I’m certain she’s libel to claim workman’s comp for whiplash as my lie registers. Besides, it’s true. I did kill someone intentionally.

It was last night.

“For what it’s worth?”

“Yes?”

“I think my response may address the question you may have been planning to ask. The ‘What significant life events have influenced your personal development?’ one,” I offer. Anything to get this circus act over and done with.

“Not. Even. Close. Sir.” Fox glares down at me.

Her eyes dip to the base of my throat as if she’s measuring it to wrap her fingers around and squeeze.

She spins away on her heel to regain her composure.

I glance at the clock on the wall behind her.

We’re a mere six minutes in, and I’ve already pissed people off. Impressive.

This must be a new record of some kind.

Sadistically, I hope the person behind the glass is keeping score because as much as I annoy the shit out of him on a regular basis, it ain’t nothing on what’s going to happen in this room today.

I drawl, “Do you want to ask me my favorite color? Did I have any stuffed animals growing up? What my favorite childhood beach was?”

Fox taps her nails against the desk, “Actually, now that you mention it…”

I get as comfortable as I can, with a smirk on my face and ready to answer whatever question they throw at me.

“What is your wife’s name?”

“Bethany.”

“Where did Bethany grow up?”

“Kensington, Texas.”

“What about you?”

“I was born and raised in Virginia Beach, Virginia.”

“Good parents?”

“Great ones. I miss them every day. The car crash that took their life was a tragedy.”

“Good influence?”

“Yes.”

“Good schools?”

“Excellent. Top of my class in high school, I attended the Naval Academy before graduating and being assigned to BUD/S on Coronado Island.”

“Popular.”

“Depends on who you ask,” I answer honestly.

Fox snickers. “Fair response. So, overall, would you say you had a good childhood?”

“Yes.”

“What about your wife?”

Fuck.