PSYCHOlogical: A Novel, page 8
I took an overly eager drink of wine, sloshing it out of the glass and down my cheeks. Nervously, I stepped to his side and wet a paper towel.
While I dabbed the wine from my face, he flashed a sly grin.
“Sorry,” he said with a laugh. “Seriously. After we had that talk the other day, I realized you’re the only one I wouldn’t have to lie to. You know me better than anyone on earth, really. You know the truth about me, and what I do. I think I let my imagination run wild after that night.”
Now that he mentioned it, my imagination was running wild. Daydreaming about being seduced by Vincent—and not acting on it—wasn’t going to be an easy thing to do.
I felt hot. Horny. Half-drunk. Vincent was right. I knew him better than anyone. We could be truthful with one another about our feelings and the events that brought them on. At some point, however, Director Martin would find out, and we’d both be in serious trouble.
I threw away the paper towel and faced him. “It’s not a good idea. We’d both be reprimanded. We’d likely lose our jobs.”
“It’s a great idea.” He took a drink of his beer. “Implementing it is not advisable, though.”
I wanted to admit that I’d thought about it as much as he had, but I didn’t dare. Instead, I seduced him mentally while wearing a look of indifference.
I raised my wine glass. “Agreed.”
He finished his beer and set the bottle aside. “Things might go to hell tomorrow when I talk to Lt. Colonel Martin. Either way, I’ll come see you.”
I didn’t want him to go, but I knew it would be best. If he stayed, we’d continue to drink until nothing was left. It would be anyone’s guess where the night would take us.
“Does this mean you’re leaving?” I asked.
He moved so close that his chest brushed against mine. “I am.”
Mischief glistened in his golden orbs. The what-ifs and why-nots of proceeding danced around in my head. While I was lost in a daydream, he did what I least expected.
He kissed me.
It was as simple as a kiss could be. His lips pressed against my cheek, just beside my mouth.
Despite its simplicity, it rocked me to my core. My mind swam in the possibilities of what might follow. For one night with him, I could cast ethics and aversion aside. One night together wouldn’t hurt either of us.
One wonderful sex-filled night.
As if he sensed the satisfaction I derived from the kiss, his lips remained in place for fractionally longer than I would have expected. Not an awkward amount of time. Just enough to cause me to escape from reality and slip into a world of hope.
While I was lost in what the immediate future might hold, he leaned away and looked me in the eyes. Standing on shaking legs, I waited for him to take the next step. He swept my hair behind my ear with his index finger.
I drew an unsteady breath.
One side of his mouth curled upward. “See you tomorrow, Doc.”
Chapter Eleven
Briggs
Immersed in his work, Lt. Colonel Martin didn’t look up. “Enter, staff sergeant.”
I approached the front of his desk and waited for him to finish. He stacked several files on top of one another and set them aside.
“I’m guessing Wallace sent you?” he asked.
“No, Sir.”
“You haven’t spoken to him?”
“No, Sir. He hasn’t arrived yet.”
He glanced at his watch and met my gaze with a scowl. “Be it known that his insolence irritates me, staff sergeant.”
“Duly noted, Sir.”
“If Wallace didn’t send you, what brings you to darken my doorway, Briggs?”
“The assignment in Nogales, Sir.”
The glare faded, leaving his typical scornful look. “Successful mission?”
I was relieved that he knew nothing of the mission. I could start with a clean slate, painting my own picture of the events as they unfolded.
“That’s what I’m here to speak about, Sir.”
He gestured toward the seat beside me. “Have a seat.”
During my decade and a half military career, I’d never disobeyed an order. Not knowing how he’d react, I proceeded to explain with slight reluctance.
“On-site intel indicated there were nine bodies in the residence, Sir. Six in the front room, two in one back room, and a third, alone, in another room at the rear of the residence. After donning our NVD’s, we entered. Six were eliminated without incident. Upon reaching the rear room, we were greeting by automatic weapons fire, through the walls of one bedroom. We returned fire, eliminating two more, one of which was identified as Ortiz. The second bedroom, at the time intel was gathered, had a body in a fetal position, at the corner of the room. Observation of that room’s door revealed it had been fitted with a metal door and frame. The door was locked from the outside. We breached the door with the M1014. Upon realizing the occupant of the room was a naked pre-teen white female, I gave the order to hold fire. Interrogation of said female revealed she was a local American resident who had been abducted by the cartel.”
“The home was dark?” he asked.
“Roger that, Sir. The operation began at 0300. The windows were boarded up. The home had no electricity, no lights. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face without an NVD, Sir.”
“What is the current status of said naked pre-teen white female, staff sergeant?”
“I advised her to count out loud to two hundred, and then walk home, Sir. As she began counting, we exited the residence. Based on all elements of the mission, and the overall objective of the program, I believe letting her go was the best option.”
“When it comes time to make decisions, I have three men to satisfy,” he said. “Myself, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and God, in that respective order. If I can’t satisfy the first, I’ll never satisfy the other two.”
“I struggled with going against my written orders,” I explained. “The decision didn’t come easily.”
“Sparing her was the right choice, Briggs.” He locked eyes with me and leaned forward. “A Marine leader must possess the ability to make spur of the moment decisions. The choices he makes may take a life from this great earth of ours, or it may save one. The teeth of our beloved Corps were cut by men in positions such as yours—and mine—who made difficult decisions during the most trying of times. Contrary to popular belief, a man is not defined by the size of his cock or the swagger in his walk. He is defined by two things.” He raised his index finger. “The first? His ability to take another man’s respective life when he must.” He extended his middle finger. “The second? Knowing when not to.”
“Roger that, Sir.”
“Knowing when to take a life and when to preserve it is the difference between good Marines and great ones.”
He shifted his eyes away from me and then stood. With his gaze fixed on the window, he drew a long breath. “I regret to inform you that Sergeant Shephard was killed yesterday while preserving the values and integrity of our beloved Corps. I got the word yesterday, at 21:30.”
“KIA? In Somalia?” I stood. “Are there any details, Sir?”
His gaze fell to the floor, beside me. “He was killed in a hail of gunfire while fighting off a local militia. The mission, as you may expect, was a hush-hush joint effort with the SEALs and the CIA.” He looked up. “Information on the mission is on a need-to-know basis, and I guess I don’t need to know. The man deserves another Bronze Star. Sadly, he’ll never receive it. As a matter of record, the mission never happened.”
After all the knee-deep hell that Shephard and I waded through, I found it hard to admit that he was truly gone. Regardless of his recent state of mind, he was still a fellow Marine. His absence would be troubling.
“Understood, Sir.”
He met my gaze. “I realize the two of you were in Fallujah together. I’m aware of the bond that develops between men in combat. My condolences regarding your loss, Briggs.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I said. “It’s a sacrifice all Marines are ready to make.”
He cleared his throat. “Every morning when I wake up, I make peace with my maker. In preparation of that very sacrifice coming when I least expect it.”
“We never know when that day will come,” I admitted. “I live my life prepared to die at any given moment.”
He gave a sharp nod. “Amen.”
Chapter Twelve
Doctor Rhoades
I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel and stared at the traffic light. Vincent hadn’t stopped by my office as he had promised. I wondered if he regretted the kiss. The same kiss that left me smiling from Sunday evening until Monday’s workday was over.
The light turned green. I stomped the gas pedal to the floor. As my Toyota Camry crept away from the intersection, I wished I would have purchased something a little sportier. Something that allowed me to use it as a tool of decompression.
When I turned onto my block, I was surprised to see Vincent’s big black truck sitting in my driveway. I parked behind him and waited, fully expecting him to get out of his truck, come to my window, and explain his disappearance.
He opened the door and all but fell into the driveway. As he started to topple over, he slapped his hand against the side of the truck to steady himself. With eyes as thin as slits, he gazed through my windshield.
I got out and walked to his side. “Oh wow. You’re trashed, aren’t you?” I asked, not expecting a response.
He put his arm around me. “That’s…affirmative.”
I helped him into the house. The entire way, he muttered illogical nonsense about Shephard, Wallace, Pike, Somalia, and the sacrifices Marines must be ready to make. His speech was slurred, his sentences were incomplete, and none of what he said made sense.
I guided him to the couch. Assuming the worst, I asked the inevitable as he slumped into place.
“Did you get reassigned?”
He pressed his index finger against his lips and rolled onto his side. “Shhh.”
I needed to know. I forced a sigh. “Did you?”
He lowered his finger. “Nega-tive.”
Curious as to what might have prompted him to get drunk, I went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. When I returned to the living room with a fresh cup, he was passed out. After making him as comfortable as possible, I covered him with a light blanket and began cooking dinner.
My dinnertime attempts to wake him were an exercise in futility. I ate, cleaned up the mess, and watched three episodes of Criminal Minds before he so much as stirred. While he slept I took frequent glances at him, wondering what a mind with his experiences dreamed about. I couldn’t bring myself to think his missions would be anything he’d ever hope to relive, even if it was in a dream.
Upon waking, he looked around the living room as if it were the first time he’d ever been there. Eventually, his eyes met mine. He seemed embarrassed.
He pressed his palms against his cheeks. “Holy. Shit.”
“Good morning,” I said.
He lowered his hands and blinked a few times in disbelief. “Is it morning?”
“I was joking,” I said. “It’s a little after eight. Rough day?”
He rubbed his eyes. “I started drinking at 0800.”
“You were pretty bad. I all but carried you in.”
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I didn’t do anything dumb, did I?”
I considered making up a lengthy lie about him doing something utterly ridiculous but decided not to. He looked incapable of processing a joke.
“No,” I responded. “Other than drive here drunk, you didn’t do anything dumb.”
“I had no business driving, that’s for sure,” he admitted. “Did I say anything that didn’t make sense?”
“Not really. You mumbled some stuff about Shephard and Somalia, but nothing that made sense?”
“Nothing whatsoever?”
“No. It was just rambling,” I said. “Are you hungry? I made enchiladas and rice.”
“I haven’t eaten since 0500,” he said. “I should probably eat something.”
I stood. “Probably so.”
I fixed him a plate and carried it toward the living room. When he saw that I was on my way he tried to stand, but promptly gave up.
“Just stay there. You can eat on the couch. I doubt you’re going to be able to do much until you get some food in you.” I handed him the plate. “What would you like to drink?”
“Thank you,” he said. “Is that coffee I smell?”
“It is.”
“I’ll take a cup, black. Please.”
I drank my coffee black and couldn’t understand why anyone would want to ruin it by adding cream or sugar. It was rare to find another aficionado who enjoyed it enough to drink it black.
“Do you always drink it black?” I asked.
He situated his plate in his lap and gave a nod. “I prefer it that way.”
By the time I returned with the coffee, he’d nearly finished his meal.
“Holy cow.” I handed him the coffee. “You were hungry.”
“It’s habit,” he said. “I eat fast. We all do.”
“We?”
“Marines.”
“Oh.” I gestured toward his empty plate. “Would you like some more?”
“I’ll be fine, thank you.”
“Hand me your plate, please.” I held out my hand. “I have no idea how much a man eats. I’m guessing two enchiladas isn’t enough.”
He grinned. “I eat a lot.”
I got him three more enchiladas and another helping of rice. When I handed him the plate, he grinned at the sight of it.
“Food’s great, Doc.”
“Thank you.” I turned toward my chair, paused, and faced him. “When we’re here, can you call me by my name? When you call me ‘Doc’ or ‘Ma’am’, I feel like this is an extension of work.”
“What’s your name?”
“Valerie. Val. Most people call me Val.”
He cut off a chunk of enchilada, lifted it from the plate, and hesitated. “I’ve got bad news, Val.”
“Your talk with Director Martin didn’t go well?”
He lowered his fork. “When I told him about the girl, he went off on a long speech about leaders being able to make decisions regarding when to take and when to preserve life. He said I was a leader because I made the right decision in sparing the girl’s life.”
“That’s much better than you expected, right?”
“Not really.”
“What do you mean?”
He set his plate on the coffee table and thought for a moment before looking up. “When someone talks to me, I pay attention to everything. It’s partially due to training, and partly because I don’t trust people. I look at body language, eye movement, and whether their facial expressions are natural or forced. Those things tell me whether or not I can trust them.”
“I’ll agree with that,” I said. “I do the same thing. Did his body language tell you that he was actually disappointed about the decision you made to let the girl go?”
“He was uncomfortable with the content of our conversation.”
“About the girl?”
“Not about her. It was something else that bothered him.” He held my gaze. “Shep’s dead. He was killed in Action. When Lt. Colonel Martin told me—”
I sprung to my feet. “Austin? Austin Shephard?”
“He was killed while on a covert mission in Somalia,” he said. “A classified CIA operation, according to Martin. But at least part of what he was telling me was a lie, I’m sure of it.”
“There’s something I need to tell you. Something bad.” I swallowed heavily and continued. “Director Martin demanded that anything to do with Shephard be removed from my office prior to his reassignment. Everything. Any proof of his existence.”
He shot up from his seat. His face washed with disbelief. “He asked for all your files—”
“He said he wanted everything to do with Shephard out of my office. He said when I was done, it needed to look like Shephard was never at New Dawn. In fact, he said our conversation never happened, either.”
His brows knitted together. “And you didn’t think anything of it? You didn’t think to tell me about it?”
“Did I think it was odd? Yes. Did I think it was out of character for a program such as this? No. Not really. To tell you the truth, I was scared to death of what Shephard might do. Knowing he was being pulled from the program came as a relief.”
His gaze fell to the floor. He rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. After a moment, he looked up. “I can’t believe this. I guess I should have known.”
“Known?” I asked. “Known what?”
“That the DNI would give the order to have Shephard killed.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why do you think they would kill him?”
All the color drained from his face. “I’m afraid no one is going to leave New Dawn and live to tell about it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Briggs
Shephard began his career as a man who had never taken another man’s life. The military trained him to kill, provided him with the tools to do so, and then insisted he perform at their beck and call.
Little did they know, Shephard was a wolf. Following his first kill, a desire burned inside of him that could only be quenched by killing. He eagerly complied with the military’s demands, scratching the itch that drove him mad when he was idle. In time, he became too eager to kill. His unpredictable actions put the program at risk of exposure.
There was only one solution.
To kill the killer.
Sitting in Val’s living room, I told her bits and pieces of the only plan to leave the program that I felt might work. She didn’t need to know everything, only what was beneficial to me in convincing her to participate.
“You can’t be serious.” Her eyes bulged. “Are you?”
“I’ve spent all night thinking about it. The killing of civilians as ordered by government authorities without judicial proceeding or legal process? The bypass of due process alone is contrary to the US Constitution. If anyone finds out the targets have been American-born citizens, heads will roll, starting with the President. The Office of the DNI know this. They obviously have the authority to do what they must to prevent news of this program’s existence from being made public.”
