Hiding the Moon

by Amy Lane

  “Fine.” Cramer sighed. “Just… you know. I’m here.”

  “Yeah, well, you get a front-row seat to the whole damned show. I’d rather tonight be the comedy romance version, ’kay?”

  There was a weighted silence then, and Burton found himself holding his breath, torn between two instincts. Don’t let him get away with that emotionally evasive bullshit! vied neck and neck with God, maybe give the guy some space. You’ve been up in his business all fucking day!

  “Okay, fine,” Cramer conceded, and Burton couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed. “But only because I’ve got news.”

  Suddenly he had other things to worry about.

  “What sort of news?”

  “I did some research into our friends from Victoriana—”

  “Ace and Sonny?”

  Breathing: optional. Panic: operational. Ernie Ernie Ernie Ernie….

  “Yeah. More particularly Ace. He’s the only one I’ve got family on. His parents live in Bakersfield with various grandchildren, including his brother’s widow and her two kids.”

  “What happened to the brother?”

  Cramer grunted. “Suicide. Before the second kid was born. I don’t have details why.”

  Burton blinked slowly. He’d had no idea. His heart ached for his friend, the solid guy he’d seen in the field, the fiercely protective guardian and lover of fragile Sonny. Burton had always known his own childhood and family had been blessed.

  “Well, from what we’ve seen of Ace, his family’s probably not a lot of talkers. But poor Ace. That would suck.” And Rivers—whose jacket told Burton he had not had a blessed childhood or family or anything of the sort—still had compassion. Ernie’s shattered fish was garnering Burton’s admiration here.

  “Yeah. There’s something else—a girl his parents are fostering. I can’t find any paperwork on her before she showed up at the local high school. Russian by the name, but no family listed besides the Atchisons, and no place of origin. It’s… it’s just like Sonny, actually, and I gotta tell you—”

  “Ellery, we said we weren’t going to—”

  “But maybe his past is why Sonny ended up in Galway’s unit, right? He was an easy target—”

  “Stop.” The vulnerability and defensiveness disappeared from Rivers’s voice, and what Burton heard now was a decisive man capable of making hard choices. “We’re not going there. We’re not investigating them. They are not the problem.”

  “Well, no, they’re not, but the things we don’t know make them vulnerable—”

  “Did we not have this talk? Everything points to them being victims. Just because they have a past doesn’t mean anybody else has a right to it. I’ve got a past—do you want assholes probing down my secret holes? Yes, they’re vulnerable. That’s why we haven’t approached them yet—we don’t want anybody else poking around in their nest. It’s wrong.”

  Burton caught his breath and thought maybe his heart restarted.

  “What kind of perversion are they up to now?” Manetti asked, leering.

  Burton managed not to startle. “Arguing over takeout,” he said, keeping his voice the right side of bored. “It’s making me hungry for decent food.”

  “Closest decent food’s in Barstow.” Manetti shrugged. “I mean, you haven’t left the base in a month—even in the real military, you get to go off campus and eat a steak, right?”

  Burton blinked slowly. He’d wondered how many of the people in this unit thought they were actually working for the United States government. Saunders the hapless medic did. The very young, obviously prematurely promoted drill sergeant did. Lacey had told his lies selectively, maybe. The Corduroy people seemed to have a conspiracy not to disabuse the co-opted naval personnel of their real circumstance.

  The whole sitch made Burton want to vomit.

  But Manetti had a point. Burton got off duty when these two went to bed. That was part of getting the shit job, but that was also….

  Convenient.

  A plan started to form, even as Burton listened to the change of conversation.

  “It’s not wrong if it helps us stop Lacey—”

  Rivers must have made a gesture then, because Cramer trailed off.

  “Ellery, I know you’re used to going for the jugular—and it’s served you well. But do you remember why we didn’t press these guys in the first place?”

  Cramer let out a breath. “Because the asshole I was defending at the time was way the hell worse.”

  “Exactly. Lacey is way the hell worse. If I could run around the fucking block, I’d be flying down to question Lacey’s men—”

  “Yes, Jackson, I definitely want you around all the sailors in San Diego.”

  Rivers guffawed, wiping away some of the bitterness that had tinged his voice. “Why would I go for sailors when I’ve got my own shark in a suit? But that’s not the point or the problem.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “The point is, if we have to ask them questions, we will. But we don’t have to break their privacy. Their military record is fair game. Any spots on their record—”

  “Ace has a sealed juvie record—”

  “So do I.”

  A pause, while both Burton and Cramer digested this.

  “Fighting?” Cramer asked, sounding curious and nothing more.

  “Yeah. Some asshole of Celia’s groped me in my sleep and caught my elbow in the windpipe. They were going to prosecute for attempted murder, but Jade and Kaden’s mom stepped up. I was eleven.”

  “Jesus…,” Cramer breathed.

  “It’s not the only thing there—just the thing that made the biggest splash. I’m just saying, before I decided to be a cop there was plenty of evidence suggesting I’d go the other way. Ace has a solid record in the military—and he’s got a giant Russian bear and a smart teenager who’d all throw themselves on a grenade for him. We could investigate him, but I’d rather investigate Lacey. What do you have on him?”

  “Besides three divorces, two kids in rehab, and one on her third baby before she’s eighteen?”

  “Oh dear God….” Rivers muttered. “See? See? That’s the kind of scumbaggery we want to know about!”

  “Yeah, fine. Come talk to me over Thai food—”

  “I was only kidding before. I’m not—”

  “Eat or I’ll sit on your throat and shove it down your face!”

  “—not gonna pass that up!” Rivers saved in a hurry. “Sounds delicious!”

  “Worst. Liar. In. History.”

  They bickered down the hallway and to their dinner, and Burton wrote down a couple of fake notes while he listened for some stuff that not even Jason had been able to uncover.

  Lacey had monetary difficulties—his personal finances were crap. Even worse—at least as far as Rivers was concerned—was that he appeared to have no personal connections anymore.

  “It makes a man… disconnected,” Rivers said through a mouthful of Thai food. “A man with no human connections is less likely to make human decisions. It makes him more dangerous and less predictable.”

  It was a solid observation—Burton concurred. He found himself wondering if this little illegitimate operation had its roots in Lacey’s last failed marriage, in the alienation of his children. He could see those things acting as a trigger. If Lacey had lost faith in the military at the same time—

  “His budget was slashed,” Cramer said, reinforcing what Burton had just been thinking. “Those contracts he had pulled from my mother’s company were really important. He went after us, and the Navy damned near demoted him. Which serves him right on the one hand—”

  “But makes him super dangerous on the other,” Rivers finished.

  Burton had to agree. He listened to them reason their way through a situation that should have been above their pay grade and beyond their ken and had the wistful notion that he could be friends with these guys. As they cleaned up dinner and sat in front of the television, talking desultorily and p
etting their cat—who purred so loud Burton’s second-rate equipment picked it up—Burton wondered if this is what it felt like to put a child to bed. Like you’d seen them safely through another day.

  Then Manetti got his attention and looked urgently to the door of the coms unit, and Burton’s illusion of safety shattered.

  “What’s he want?” Burton muttered.

  “I dunno—maybe you’re not listening hard enough,” Manetti muttered back. “Whatever. Remember, you work for Hamblin, not him.”

  Burton had been recruited by Timothy Norton, a former Green Beret gone merc. He’d never officially met Hamblin, but he had to concede now he felt a little bit protected. Hamblin’s people were solid mercenaries—Corduroy might not have been legal, moral, or ethical, but it was organized. Burton had saved Norton’s ass in that poker game Ernie had helped him with—Lacey might hate him for the color of his skin, but he wasn’t going to shoot him without cause.

  “You coming, Oscar?” Lacey looked and sounded like every boy’s wet dream of a commanding officer. Tall, patrician features, prematurely gray hair that gave him an air of handsome experience rather than age.

  His voice had echoes of an East Coast upbringing—and all the warmth of a rabid skink.

  “Sir?”

  “I need a debrief on the two subjects. My office—now.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  It was a military response, given laconically and without respect. Burton was good undercover, but no Marine was that good, given how badly this guy had violated every oath of honor and protection the US military had to give.

  “You got a problem, Oscar?”

  Burton looked around, where none of the men in the coms unit were pretending to look away. “My guys just went to sleep, sir. I got no problem at all.”

  They were, in fact, talking quietly back in Cramer’s bedroom. This was often where they hammered facts out, although sometimes their bedroom was more of a personal sanctuary than that. Burton turned the feed way down on the pretext of adjusting the dial and set the earpiece down.

  “Would you like to listen yourself, sir?”

  Lacey’s expression twisted with distaste. “No, thank you. Have you heard anything important?”

  “Let’s see. So far I know that Rivers likes to run in December and green curry is his favorite Thai food. I also know he barely graduated from high school and Cramer’s such a control freak he won’t let him so much as surf the net without his permission. Neither of these guys is scary, Commander, but I’ll listen to them fuck like bunnies as long as you need me to.”

  Burton’s lies spilled off his tongue so easily, he was almost unprepared for Lacey’s hand flying toward him in the perfect backhand.

  Almost.

  Burton caught him midair, squeezing Lacey’s wrist in his fingers and meeting his eyes with all his formidable ice.

  “Was there something else you wanted?” Burton asked, as though they weren’t having a furious struggle between Lacey’s desire for the slap to land home and Burton’s determination to break his wrist before that happened.

  Lacey snarled—and then backed off. “No, boy. But you’d better find something out damned quick. We can’t afford to be listening in on these guys without some payoff. According to your boss, you’ve got more valuable skills than that, and we need to start making you earn your keep.”

  Burton figured his chances of staying alive were a lot better if he read that last bit as We need to start making you walk into as many dangerous situations as possible until you get taken out, but he wouldn’t give this fucknut the satisfaction of translating.

  “Any. Time. Sir.”

  Lacey glared at him and turned on his heel, and Burton slaughtered him with his eyes until he’d exited the coms room. As soon as he was gone, all the usual activity resumed, and Manetti turned to him with a reluctant grin.

  “That was great! Seriously—but you should go tell Collins at the front that you’re going out for a little breather now. I mean, if you don’t get out of here, you’re gonna rip that guy’s throat out next time he comes over here and starts to talk shit. Not that any of us would care, but it’ll be a lot of blood to wash out.”

  Burton nodded and killed his coms for the night. “They should be sleeping until six, when I’ll be up to do this again.” For a moment Manetti looked like he was going to offer to take Burton’s morning shift, probably just because he may have been a trained merc but he wasn’t a complete douchebag, but Burton couldn’t let him do that, no matter how grateful he was for the offer. “With my luck they’ll probably wake up with a quickie—my God, they need to give it a rest.”

  Manetti grimaced in distaste, and Burton took his enigmatic ass toward the front of the office.

  “Oscar? You need something?”

  Kevin Collins, a short, tough, grizzled veteran with sparse once-blond hair, had been an Army grunt for his entire career before he’d been recruited by Corduroy—but he’d been smart, fearless, and bloodthirsty. The mercenary life suited him, and if Corduroy had been the tiniest bit selective about who got set in its sights, Burton might consider the guy worth his time. As it was, he had to remind himself that Collins was the commander who sent three guys after Ernie, and God knows how many Ernies had been blown away under Collins’s watch.

  “I need off campus for a bit,” Burton said, casual. “If I don’t get some decent chow and anywhere but here, I’m gonna take that guy out the next time he sniffs around my com, and that’s bad all around.”

  Collins nodded once and checked his own readout—he was tracking two operatives in South America, from what Burton could see—and then looked back at him. “Good job not taking that asshole out here and now. As long as you’re back at your unit tomorrow, I don’t give a fuck where you are. Go get fed, go get laid, whatever you need.”

  Burton nodded and gave a terse “’Preciate it” before he strode out of the room. He had plans, dammit—and he certainly didn’t need that guy’s permission to implement them.

  He was halfway through the admin building when a slightly built man in a superexpensive silk suit and shiny black wingtips began to pace him at his elbow.

  “You are upset?”

  Burton threw a glance down at the slight form of Mr. Rufus Hamblin, European businessman, mercenary, and CEO of Corduroy. “Lacey’s got a stick up his ass about something,” Burton spat, hoping it would be in character to speak so disrespectfully of an officer by this point.

  “Well, yes. The investigation you’re listening to has cost him some important military contracts. He’ll need to make a trip in January to see if he can get some of that back.” Hamblin sounded unruffled by the prospect of Lacey’s empty pockets.

  “Aren’t you worried?” Burton would have asked it even if he were a legit member of the organization. “What happens if he can’t?”

  Hamblin shrugged. “We signed on with him because he promised us the perfect soldier. I’ve seen some of them operate. They might be the real deal. But if he can’t provide for us, we shall move elsewhere. I make it very clear that this is a for-profit enterprise, much like the pirate ships of old, yes?”

  Burton’s mouth twisted, and he hoped it passed as a smile. “Well, Captain sir, I need some shore leave or I’m throwing that guy off the port bow.”

  To his relief, Hamblin laughed. “Understood, young Calvin. Go, do what you must. Your duties will be here in the morning. Do you have transportation?”

  He did.

  He’d traded in the SUV he’d been driving when he’d found Ernie for a battered Ford F-150 Extended Cab. He kept camping supplies in the back—bedroll, sleeping bag, water, and rations—and figured he’d tell people he was an outdoorsman if he needed to.

  Truth was, he hadn’t been sure if he’d have to disappear or not, and he was prepared to live in the desert and off the grid for at least a month.

  He hadn’t lived this long by taking chances.

  He pulled out his phone, remembering Ernie’s schedule. The pi
cture he’d taken at sunset was from Ace’s back porch—Burton had seen a corner of the garage and a couple of cars sitting in the dirt-packed parking lot to the sky. But that had been hours ago. Ernie liked to wander in the late-at-night, when other people were sleeping.

  Where are you?

  Walking. Why?

  East or west of the garage?

  West, about three miles. Why?

  Burton thought about it—time and distance and accidents and collisions and Ernie’s pale skin under his hands.

  Keep walking that direction. Stay in sight of the road.

  Am I in danger?

  Burton swallowed. Only from me.

  No danger. Drive safe.

  Burton had been walking a high wire for a month, the taste of Ernie’s kisses the only balance that had kept him from falling. He’d fly the damned truck before he wrecked it now.

  Pain Shield

  “YOU’RE GOING out early,” Alba remarked without looking up. Her glossy dark hair bobbed from a ponytail behind her, and she was wearing an OD-green T-shirt neatly tucked into her jeans. It looked much laundered and much loved, and Ernie had a bittersweet moment of wondering if it had belonged to Ace once.

  He could smell the first love emanating from her in gentle waves, but no bitterness. She’d learned to live with it, to maybe accept that there would be other boys.

  As first crushes went, Ace wasn’t bad.

  “You’re here late,” Ernie told her, smiling. She was a good girl, working hard through her senior year in high school. He’d heard Ace and Sonny talking about the money they were going to use to get her through junior college and then state and had helped them rake the books to give her a raise.

  Good but smart—and observant. Ernie was good at staying away from the sharp side of her tongue.

  “Yes, I’m in your spot,” she said unapologetically. “You saying this is my fault?”

  Ernie tried to control the restlessness in his legs that made him want to bounce. He’d captured the picture for Burton and finished their text, and the buzzing that had haunted his skin only got worse. Something was going down tonight.