“Hey, if I had it my way, things would be different. I hate all these politics just as much as you do. You have to understand that the military is just trying to protect their secret.”
He sure didn’t look like he hated the politics. He looked like he was having the time of his life, the heartless pig.
“I don’t care about your damned secrets,” I said, wiping the tears from my cheeks again, just to have them soaked again within seconds. “I want to see Hunter.”
“Yeah, sadly, you can’t. I can’t even get a hold of him. They don’t let the patients at the rehab facility take calls.” Training center, rehab facility, even he knew it was all crap. “But, you never know these days. Since ‘Nam, the media’s been pretty powerful.”
I looked up at him and he was looking down at me, smirking lips pressed thin. “What are you saying?” I said.
“Oh, you know. With the internet and whatnot, people start asking questions and the military doesn’t like the attention. If they can put out a fire before it gets out of control, they will.”
I stared into his eyes. “Is Hunter dead or not?” I asked slowly.
“Dead? No. He’s training new recruits in Georgia,” Matthew said. He bit his lip as if to hold back a laughing fit. “If they killed Hunter—could you imagine the headlines? Hunter’s a War Hero. America loves a War Hero, especially a controversial War Hero.” Matthew slipped his cigarettes into his coat pocket and nodded his head. “It was nice talking with you, Ms Rose.” He turned and started to walk away.
“Wait,” I said.
He stopped and looked back, waiting for me to continue.
“Why did they want Meraux dead?” I asked.
He smiled. “You look stressed out, Ms Rose. Why don’t you take a little vacation?”
“Tell me,” I said.
“Get your nails done, get a massage, go spend a few nights at the cabin.” He turned and walked away.
My head was spinning. When the military lawyer disappeared around the corner, I began to wonder if I’d dreamt the whole thing.
Matthew was telling me to go to the press and publically announce military secrets—secrets that Hunter wouldn’t even mention in private.
But before I could do that, I needed the final piece of the puzzle. I needed to know why they put the hit out on Lieutenant Meraux. I needed to know what Meraux found that was so shocking that he went into hiding—that the government was willing to pay millions of dollars to track him down over—and risk major controversy and backlash over.
But that wasn’t all Matthew was telling me to do.
He was also telling me to lie, to humiliate myself in front of the whole world. I was picked to play the role of Judas, to martyr myself in the name of some ideology. At least Judas believed in his ideology. I would tell the world that the government killed Hunter to cover up some controversial secret, then they would release Hunter and say no, not only is Hunter is fine but that woman just slandered America’s most beloved troops! In case that wasn’t bad enough, I would have to admit that I was never in Kansas City, that I was actually with Hunter at the cabin, while Liam, an ex-Marine himself, was oblivious at home.
And if I didn’t, Hunter would probably die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
They flew me three states over, to a high security base somewhere in Nevada. The base was so high security, it didn’t even have a name. The pilot of the plane simply referred to it as “Panda Field,” which made no sense, as there were no pandas or fields anywhere in sight. Just desert, hangars, and barbed-wire fences.
They gave me a nice little room with a bed and a little bathroom and two guards who were ordered to stand outside the door every hour of every day to make sure I didn’t go anywhere. Anyone who wanted to take me out from my room was required to present identification, and then the guards would still radio it in before releasing me.
There was only one guy in charge of me. Every time the guards radioed in a request, it went directly to that one guy, and he was the only guy who could say yes or no.
His name was General Chesney. He was as tall as he was wide and he was always chewing on unlit cigars. He didn’t like me, but I didn’t like him so it was at least mutual. He was ex-Air Force, and he was more decorated than a goddamned Christmas tree. That was about all I knew about him. I only met him briefly after my plane landed within the base walls.
Every morning, I’d wake up to the loud rumbling of engines. The days would be silent, and then I would fall asleep to the same rumbling. A long caravan of army vehicles and large trucks drove out around midnight, every night, and didn’t come back until the morning. I asked one of my guards where they went each night, and he said nothing—following orders like a true military man.
It was a week before I saw Chesney again. He ordered the guards to bring me to his office, which wasn’t far from the little room I was being kept in.
Chesney’s office was large, filled with bookshelves, all loaded with books I’m sure he’d never read in his life. The place smelled of bourbon, which didn’t surprise me in the least. Chesney waited for the guards to leave before he said anything.
“You’ve got your choice, Sykes. Poland or Uruguay,” he said. His voice was a low growl, and he never removed the cigar from between his teeth.
“Choice for what?” I said.
“Relocation. You prefer Spanish or Polish? Before we ship you out, we’ll make sure you can speak the language.” He finally removed the cigar from his mouth, only briefly so he could sip his bourbon.
I didn’t want to go to Poland or Uruguay. Hell, I didn’t even know where Uruguay was on a map—in South America somewhere.
“What about France? I know some French from elementary school,” I said.
“No, we don’t do France. We only do Poland and Uruguay. Sometimes we do Sweden, but their relocation advisor is on vacation for the next few months. His daughter just had a baby. Nice looking kid, too.”
“Can I have some time to think about it?”
He sighed and grumbled something under his breath. “You can have a day to think about it. In a month, you’re gone. The Easter Talent Show is in two months and the guys need a place to practice. Unfortunately, we need to make sure you can speak the language before we can send you out. Our base won last year, you know. The guys did a number from Rocky Horror Picture Show.” He dug into his big desk and pulled out a file. “Take these brochures. These are the two towns. Morato and Bartniz—Bartnizikis… I don’t know how the hell to say it. Maybe you can figure it out.” He handed me two brochures that looked like they were part of some half-assed high school project.
The pictures in the brochures looked like they were taken with an old cellphone, and the attempt at an English translation was mostly gibberish. “I used to recommend Uruguay to people because I thought it was warm and tropical. But it’s actually kind of cold and shitty. Poland’s no better. At least in Uruguay you don’t have to deal with Polacks. It’s your call.” How generous…
The guards escorted me back to my room.
Both towns looked like shitholes. I couldn’t even find the town names on the map I found.
I wondered if Greg was being sent to one of the towns, or if he was sent elsewhere, to one of the many detainment camps in and around the States. I tried to push the thought out of my head. It hurt too much to think about, and it was ignorant to think that there was any chance Greg was out on his own somewhere. Yeah—that and my dad really did take our childhood dog to go live on the farm. It was easier not to think about.
And it was easier to think that Bremkin didn’t lie to me about Kyla, that she was simply given a warning and allowed to continue her life as if nothing ever happened.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I’d hoped that I would figure things out with a good night’s sleep, that the decision would be obvious after some rest. But after three sleepless nights in a row, the only thing that became obvious was that I wasn’t going to get a good night’s sleep until I ma
de a decision.
If I made the sacrifice—if I threw my pride to the sharks and broke Liam’s heart—there was a good chance nothing would come out of it. Hunter might stay missing. It was a gamble—even that was an optimistic way of putting it. At least when you gamble, you get your bet back if you win. Even if they send Hunter back to Nintipi, I would still the laughingstock of the media, the Witch of Nintipi. Even some drunken gambling-addict in Vegas wouldn’t take those odds.
But if I didn’t get up in front of those reporters and make that statement, Hunter would never come back. They might even kill him… If they hadn’t already.
I was working in the bar when a young girl came in. She looked too young to be in the place, so I IDed her. Her ID said she was twenty-six, but the thing looked faker than Victoria Beckham’s chest. There was nothing I could do to dispute it though, so I let her order a drink. “A Bloody Mary,” she ordered. I didn’t put any liquor in, and she didn’t seem to notice.
It was strange that she was alone, a girl her age on a weekday night. Our bar wasn’t exactly popular with the younger crowd. Even stranger, she kept staring at me, watching me as if I was some sort of exhibit at the zoo. She had a notebook out on the bar that she was scribbling in, so I figured she was doing some sort of high school research project—maybe some Career Studies assignment. “Do a two-page report on the worst job you can think of. Single-spaced, 12 point font. Pick something exceptionally pathetic for a woman nearing her thirties.”
She ordered a second Bloody Mary. When I dropped it off, I decided to ask, “What are you working on?”
“Are you Kyla Rose?” she asked, ignoring my question.
I tried my best to hide the shudder that crawled up my spine. “If you want anything else, just wave me down,” I said, turning away.
“Wait,” she said, sitting up, straightening her back. Her perky tits were a sad reminder that I was getting older. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
The bar was practically empty. There were no good excuses out of it. “What kind of questions?”
“About Sergeant Sykes.” She smiled. Her eyes were bright.
“I’m sorry, I’m not supposed to talk to reporters right now.” I turned away. Now was as good a time as ever to go clean the bathrooms out.
But she stopped me again. “I’m not a reporter. It’s for a book I’m writing about the military history of Nintipi. It’s my Creative Writing masters thesis. I’m just finishing it up, but I don’t have much on the whole Congo thing.” Masters thesis? Great, maybe the perky little girl really was twenty-six—only a year younger than me. The thought stung. Had I not cheated on Sammy, I would have been finishing my masters program in astrophysics. Instead, I was struggling to make ends meet as a bartender on the rough end of town.
“You know a lot about military history?” I asked.
“History was my second major, and my father fought in Vietnam.”
I sighed. The last thing I wanted to do was answer her questions, but there was nothing else to do, and I had little else to hide. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, let’s start from the beginning. How long have you known Sergeant Sykes?” she asked. I couldn’t help but laugh. “What’s funny?”
“Sergeant Sykes. It’s funny.”
“Why?” Her eyes narrowed and her head bobbed to one side.
“He would hate being called that. I can’t even imagine…” When we were younger, Hunter wouldn’t tell anyone his last name. He would tell everyone he didn’t have one. He liked being called Hunter, and that’s it. “I’ve known him since… probably the third grade. I didn’t talk to him until the seventh grade, and we weren’t friends until the eighth or ninth grade.”
“Wow. The third grade?”
“Maybe even the second grade,” I said.
She put down her pen and bit her lip. “I bet he was a really cute kid,” she said. Her eyes were glowing. That was something that hadn’t changed since we were little—women mindlessly swooning over him.
“What were your first impressions of Hunter?” she asked.
“I thought he was sleazy and full of himself,” I said.
She nodded and scribbled everything down into her notebook. “Mhm,” she muttered as she wrote. Her notebook was nearly full, crammed with pages and pages of notes from similar interviews. She wasn’t kidding; this wasn’t just some quick little homework assignment.
There was a comfort in knowing that my voice might be heard in a book. For once, people would actually hear my side of the story. I could defend myself without being cut off and slandered. Everyone could finally understand that Hunter was a womanizer, that we were drunk that night, and that I had just caught Sammy cheating on me.
But what was the point in telling the world any of that? What did I stand to gain from resurrecting my reputation? Besides, it was all my fault. Throwing the blame on Hunter and Sammy might make me look better, sure, but could I live with that shame? I would truly become the Witch of Nintipi. “I thought he was sleazy and full of himself, but I loved that about him. Once I got to know him, I realized that was just an act. Hunter was sweet and loyal to everyone who was loyal to him. He still is.”
“You slept with Hunter, right?”
That lump in my throat was becoming far too familiar. “Yes, I did,” I said. One of the nearby regulars turned and looked at me, but I pretended not to notice, not to care. “The night before he left on tour.”
“But weren’t you and Sergeant Patrick dating at the time?”
“We were, yes. It was a mistake, and I regret it.”
“Why’d you do that? We’ve all heard the rumours, but what’s your side of the story?”
Now every face in the bar was turned my way, eyes peeled wide, waiting for the answer they’d waited half a decade for. My heart was pounding. I wanted to tell her, ‘Because he cheated on me; he took advantage of a young girl.’ But I fought back the urge and instead I said, “Because I loved Hunter. I still love Hunter.”
The girl’s eyes became wide. Even she’d expected me to defend myself.
“I only ever dated Sammy to get closer to Hunter.” Saying it aloud was hard. The center of my chest suddenly hurt and I had the urge to burst in to tears. But I stayed strong and kept my head high. “Do I regret it? Sure. Every day. I loved Sammy, too—as a friend. He treated me like gold for the most part, and he had his bad days like anyone else. But I never loved him the way that I love Hunter.”
The girl was frozen. When she finally came to, she snapped her head down and began to scribble into her notebook. There was a sense of relief having everything out in the open, admitting my faults. Sure, the regret was still there, along with the guilt, but I finally felt like I could breathe, like a weight had been taken off of my shoulders for the first time in five years. The girl paused and looked up at me. “You know this is going in my book right? You sure you’re okay with me writing about this?”
I shrugged. “Write it. Please. And on that note, may as well note that I’ve slept with him again since he’s been back.”
Her eyes became even wider. She started writing again and then, a moment later, she paused again. “You know they send our master’s theses out to most every university in the country, right?”
I didn’t know, but it made no difference one way or the other.
“A statement like this, given your—um—media record, might get you some unwanted attention.”
“What do you mean, unwanted attention?” I asked.
“You know—media, reporters, and all that. It wasn’t that long ago that this whole Congo thing was a pretty hot topic. Still is, really.”
The dots connected in my mind. If I was going to get Hunter back, I needed the media attention. This girl was handing it to me on a silver platter. But I still didn’t have the full story.
“You said you’ve been with Hunter since he got back from the Congo?” she asked.
“I spent a whole week with him.”
She scrib
bled some more notes into her notebook. “There’s a lot of controversy surrounding their mission in the Congo. In all of Hunter’s interviews, he dodges the important questions. Is there anything you know that the rest of us don’t?”
She stared at me with hungry eyes. “I know everything,” I said. My heart fluttered.
“Everything?”
“When’s your book due? Can we meet in a few days?” I asked.
She gave me her address on a little slip of paper. Her name was Erin Black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I chose Poland as my eventual destination, but not because that’s where I wanted to end up, or because I was half Polish myself. The base had four guys who spoke perfect Spanish, all ready to teach me whatever I needed to know to live in Uruguay. There was only one guy who taught Polish, and he was at a base in Oregon teaching some other poor bastard. Fluent Polish speakers are hard to come by. Fluent Polish speakers with top-secret military credentials are even harder.
GAGE: A Bad Boy Military Romance Page 30
