by Xavier Neal
For a very brief moment we stay like that. Jazz taps at the glass again forcing my hand to let go.
Once outside of the car the three of us head back to the parking attendants station, turn over our cell phones, and head towards a secure door that Jazz lets us enter. We follow her down two flights of stairs, through two more secured doors, and into a long hallway of the building. We arrive in front of a door, which Jazz opens to usher Haven in.
“Please have a seat inside,” she firmly states. “He will be right in.”
Haven nods that she understands and as soon as she's on the other side of the door, Jazz closes it, eyes narrowed in on me. She folds her arms across her crisp white button down shirt covered chest. Slowly she shakes her head, “Still pissed off at me I see.”
I merely place my hands behind my back and stand at attention. No answer. Stoic.
“And the cold shoulder?” She taps her pointed heel at me. “Can't you say thank you?” When I don't respond she shakes her head again. Glove approaches her from the other side with a file in his hand.
“Here you go,” he hands it off, gives me a slight wave, and hustles back the way he came.
My eyes settle back on her, which is when she extends the manila folder for me to take. “Take it. Has all the questions we want you to ask.” I raise my eyebrows perplexed. “If you don't think you can do it then fine. Just say it. But something tells me this will all go a lot smoother if it's you in there and not Shepard.”
For a minute I stare at Jazz who's doing her best to hide the fact she's actually sorry on her face. I know her. I know this wasn't all her choice any more than it's mine. Sir warned me. I should've known something like this was coming. I should've known that when it comes to the past it's never done haunting. I should've known that what's dead isn't always buried. Jazz is right. I don't want anyone else in there prodding and turning Haven back into the scared girl she was when I found her. I don't want to be the one to do it either. But at least I can protect her through it. At least I can be strong for her when she's not. I always said I would give my last breath for her to take one more and a Marine is only as good as his word.
I take the file out of her hand and march into the room, the challenge of the job I have to do for my country and the job I want to do for my heart battling inside me. Fuck.
In the small interrogation room is a table, two chairs, shitty lighting, and a window I know Jazz can see everything on the other side of. Somewhere in here I know there are cameras and that Shepard is watching. The room reminds me of part of the training we went through for HORN. Being left with just our thoughts to eat us alive. I need to get my girl out of here. I need to get her out of here in one piece. I fucking hope it's possible. Goddamn it with that hope shit.
Sitting across from her at the table I observe the way she's chewing on her bottom lip. Looking around at the pale walls. The way her fingers are clutching her dog tags for dear life. Her life line. My life line.
In a whisper, her voice clearly already on the verge of tears she asks, “Why am I here?”
“I have to ask you some questions about Old Man Banks.” The words drop from my mouth as I place the file down in front of me. “And I need you to answer them because if you don't, you won't like what happens as a result.”
“Are you threatening me?” she shrinks back into the uncomfortable seat.
“I'd die first.” The answer briefly washes relief across her face. “I'm trying to protect you the best I can during this so please, just answer the questions angel.”
Her fingertips squeeze her tags tighter and to my surprise she says, “Okay.”
That was easy.
“But only if you answer mine.”
My jaw drops momentarily. I clear my throat. “No Haven. That's not how this works.”
Haven's hand stills, the tags are being death gripped, and she lets out a long sigh, “But it is.” Taken off guard I fold my hands together on the table. “I will answer anything you ask me, if you answer me in return.”
“It's not a game Haven. If you don't answer my questions then someone else will come and ask them. They won't be nice. They won't care how you feel. And if you don't answer them they'll take you to another room and use instruments and exercises of force to make you talk. Do I make myself clear?”
“I. Don't. Care.” she sighs loudly. When another confused expression comes across my face she leans forward. “Clint, I've been beaten. Raped. Tortured. Carved.” The reminder has my hands tightening around each other. “I was starved. Neglected. Within inches of death almost every day of my life. All that Clint, and the only thing that scares me more than the idea of reliving it, is spending another day in this mental hell I have settled in. There's nothing worse than what I'm doing to myself every day and night over what happened between us. I would rather suffer through all the pain of that nightmare than this prison I'm in now. Over you. Over us. Not knowing what's happening here is worse than anything someone could physically do to me. So it's up to you Clint.”
Who. The. Fuck. Is. This. Girl? My eyes bounce back and forth between hers. Impossible. There's no fucking way the girl I love would give me an ultimatum like this. She's not that brave. She's not that stubborn. Who the hell is this girl? Shit. What if Jazz is right? What if I drove her to Michele? What if it all it took to keep her would've been to stop treating her like she couldn't breathe without me? How can I treat her that way when I know how hard it is to breathe without her?
There's a sharp knock on the glass. I know what Jazz wants me to do.
“Fine.” I swallow the lump of anxiety in the back of my throat. I push my head down. I force my eyes to focus on the file in front of me. On information they want me to get out of her. I rub my jawline. I adjust in my seat. Tug at the collar of my t-shirt. Try to steady my breathing to concentrate. I can do this. I have to fucking do this.
“Me first then,” Haven speaks up, the clinking of her dog tags dragging my eyes back up to hers. They look soft. Vulnerable. Hopeful. Shit. “The woman you keep leaving for at the drop of a dime. The one you hugged in the hospital. The one on the other side of the glass. Is she your new girlfriend?”
The question gets a deep growl of annoyance out of me. Every time she assumes she's just that easy for me to walk away from causes a rage in the back of my mind to shove its way forward. To boil. To want to spew out from every orifice I have while losing my shit.
I fight the urge to snap. I have her name tattooed on my fucking arm. How much more fucking evidence does she need? My mouth forms a hard line while I gain my composure. Finally, I'm calm enough to respond, “No.”
A small smile twitches on her face and she jingles her tags again. Almost like a victory cheer.
My eyes read the information they are seeking before looking up to ask, “What do you remember about Old Man Bank's place?”
She shrugs. “Not much. I spent most of my time in that tiny room. I could describe that to you.”
Her offer causes the blood in my veins to go cold. I can't do this to her. I can't make her relive that nightmare. My face turns to the glass prepared to walk out. Staring at it however I can feel Jazz's eyes on me urging me to continue.
“Do you remember the one other time you tried to escape?”
She nods quickly. “That jagged scar on the bottom of my foot is from something I stepped on in the process. Cut right through my shoe. Green Eyes helped clean it.”
Her mention of him makes me want to harden but I resist. “Do you remember seeing anything abnormal?”
“Like what?”
“Money? Drugs? Anything?”
She closes her eyes for a brief moment like transporting herself back. I feel worse than I did before. “Um...the night I almost escaped, I remember seeing a young girl. Jet black hair. Looked foreign. She was tied to a chair. Clothes tattered.” The description has my hands tightening on the folder, more and more thankful with each passing word I slit that bastard’s throat. “When I was being dragged ba
ck I noticed she looked as scared as me. She also had a very jagged scar on her arm. Almost looked like a brand.”
I pull a photo from the file, “Like that?”
She glances down at the photo and nods, “Yeah. Exactly like that.”
The mark is the same one all the girls that went through The Face's trade bare. To think that my girl could've ended up in that life rather than with me, has my breath stifling in my chest.
“Do you think you can ever forgive me for what happened?” the question rushes out of her mouth like she's afraid to lose her nerve.
It's a damn good question. It's the same one I asked myself the first night I was alone in “The Room” during HORN training. The same one I alternated answers between. On a deep breath I let my eyes meet hers. “I don't know.”
The air in the room feels like it's been sucked out and I divert my attention back down. Shifting in my seat I continue, “Do you ever remember overhearing Banks talk about money? Or moving it?”
“No.”
“Anything like that?” She shakes her head quickly. “Think Haven.”
“I am thinking.”
“Really think,” I push her.
“I lived in the pits of hell Clint. I think I would remember hearing something like that. It's not like I lived in the prime location for the information you're looking for. He kept me like a pet. Sheltered. Away from the world. Away from sounds. Lights. Life. So no Clint. I don't remember overhearing him talk about anything.”
My voice whispers in a tone dripped in sympathy, “I'm sorry.”
She snips, “You should be.”
Her gripe startles me. Uncomfortable, I rub the back of my neck. Since when does she talk to me like that? I wet my lips and ask, “What about when you were with Green Eyes?” The question draws her eyes away from the window where she was staring out of.
“What about him?”
“Did he ever mention anything?”
“No,” she rattles her tags again. “Green Eyes didn't like whatever it was Old Man Banks and Left Arm were apparently up to. Most of the time he was either teaching me something out of his school books or telling me how much he wished he could take me to eat at his favorite restaurant.”
The information causes a curious look on my face. “He wanted to take you somewhere?”
“I don't know that he actually wanted to take me somewhere or was just trying to comfort me because he felt bad for me. But he always mentioned this Italian restaurant. I don't remember its name, but he ate there constantly. I remember seeing the napkins in his bag. Had a little chef hat and the letters RH in red on the hat.”
A sharp pounding on the glass has me up promptly on my feet, folder closed. Haven reaches her hand landing it on top of mine, “Wait. I get one more question.”
Tossing the two way mirror a short look, I turn back to her and nod.
“Do you still love me?” the shaky question is one I hoped she never would ask. One I hoped she would always know the answer to. As much as I want to let myself revel in rage over it, I realize something. She has every fucking right to wonder. The cold shoulder. Having not seen me for months. My evasive behavior.
I move my body so my lips land next to her ear. For just a brief moment I let my eyes shut and whisper, “Always.” The sound of her breath hitching tugs at my heart and forces my lips to do something they haven't done in way too fucking long. I press them against the side of her forehead and walk away from her, my heart throbbing as hard as my jaw.
On the other side of the closed door, Jazz has a pleased smile on her face. Glad she's fucking happy while my girl is on the inside possibly spiraling herself back into the depths of chaos I hope doesn't eat her alive.
“That's perfect,” she yanks the file out of my hand.
“What's perfect?”
“That. That last bit of information.”
“It's just where he likes to eat. I don't see the big deal.”
“And that's why my job is to do behavioral analysis and your job is to shoot shit,” she responds and hugs the folder to her chest. “Shepard wants to see you in his office.”
“But Haven--”
“I'll take her home.”
“No. I'll take her home.”
I brace myself for an argument when she caves. “Okay. I'll tell her you'll just be a minute then.”
Before I can say anything else Glove and Lordy come around the corner in an argument over who did better on their skills test. They continue until Jazz shoots them a look to shut up.
“You can tell us,” Glove shoves his hands in his gym pants. “Who did better Jazzabelle. Me or The Little Georgia Peach?”
“First off,” she turns her body so she's beside me. “Don't call me that.”
“It's cute.”
“It's not.”
“It's southern.”
“Again. It's not,” she shuts him down. “Second, you call him Lordy. Let's not add unnecessary nicknames to his roster. Third...I'm not telling you who did better on their skills test. All I'll say is, you both owe me another round in the training center.”
They groan in unison before Glove asks, “Is it always gonna be like this?”
“Like what?” Jazz questions.
“I know you told us always alert, day or night, drop of the dime, but....does that mean we can never drink again? Or travel? Or go the movies? I thought you mentioned something about down time...”
“What Glove really wants to know is, does this mean he can't ever get laid again,” Lordy clarifies and I swear the side of her lips lift upwards briefly. The word laid rolling off his tongue exciting to her. I know that look. I've had that look. At least it wasn't about a member of my fucking team.
“There are two codes. Yellow and black. When you're in a code yellow, it's similar to being off duty. You have to show up for check in on check in dates. Occasionally a small briefing. Usually when you're on yellow you can travel. Get drunk. Relax. However when you're on high yellow, close to black, we prefer you stay close to home. Black is exactly where we are now. Black because you are just getting settled in the unit. Black is active. Black is you better be within a moment’s notice ready to do your goddamn job. Black is be prepared to see more work than sleep. Clear?”
“Clear,” the three of us answer in unison.
“Good. Because we fly out tomorrow to help another HORN team with a problem on the East Coast. It's all hands on deck.” Jazz turns to me. “Upstairs. Now. Shepard doesn't like to wait.”
Fuck. I push past them and haul ass up stairs to the office. The door is cracked open and I give it slight knock.
“Come on in Jacket,” he ushers me inside. Immediately I notice he's on the phone, stand at attention, and focus on a spot past him. It isn't my right to observe his office. It isn't my right to notice how there are no visible cameras, how the wooden desk seems questionably bare, or how the book shelves seem to contain war novels.
Director Shepard hangs up the phone without a goodbye and leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest, “The girl. She's yours?”
Swallowing my confusion I go on my instinct. “Yes sir.”
“For how long?”
“Over a year sir.”
“You shouldn't have been the one to interview her,” he states firmly.
“I know sir.”
“JZ fought me for that. Hard,” he clarifies running his hand across the stubble on his face. I tried to hide the respect I have for her. Even if she handed my ass to me yesterday, she didn't lie when she implied that I could trust her. That she would do what's best for everyone. Myself included. “She likes you.”
“Yes sir.”
“I think too much.” The comment has me tensing. “I hope I'm wrong.” Shepard narrows his vision in on me harder. “I also want to believe Jacket, that if the time comes again and your girl is placed in a position you are clearly uncomfortable with, you will once again remember where your loyalty lies. And there better be less hesitation than there was th
is time.” My lips press together. “By less I mean none. Are we clear Jacket?”
“Yes sir,” I nod.
“Dismissed.” He picks up a piece of paper off the desk.
Turning sharply I exit his office. He's right. I know better than to hesitate when given an order. I know that my loyalties need to lie with my country first. But that's the problem with having Haven in my head. As much tranquility as she brings, she can stir up just as much insanity in places that it shouldn't ever be.
Official HORN Duty Day 10
The flight back from helping out the other unit team is peaceful. To my surprise I sleep for two hours solid, which is the most consecutive amount of sleep I've received since we left. My eyes struggle to open and settle on Jazz who insists on flying next to me. I don't mind. She doesn't sleep, which means she doesn't drool. Glove drools. STD flooded spit on the seat beside me is not how I enjoy flying. It adds to why I make him sit next to Lordy.
“Do you just wake up over thinking?” Jazz grumbles under her breath, fingers flipping through pages in a file. She rarely stops working. It's impressive. It's also a constant reminder of how I once was. The more I look at it, the more I wonder how much of my fucking life I missed being balls deep in my career choice. I don't regret a minute of it. I'm a Marine, well a Jacket now, and it was worth every sacrifice I made. But I'm beginning to wonder just how many fucking sacrifices there were.
“I don't know. Do you just wake up bitchy?” my counter makes her twitch a playful smirk.
“I'd have to go to sleep first,” she informs me finally looking up. Her green eyes look weary. Her perfect hair in a ruffled bun on the top of her head. She's wearing dress pants and a loose white dress shirt. It's clear she's fatigued yet she won't admit it. Her refusal to admit exhaustion. Weakness. I hate how much we have in common.
“What are you working on?”
“What were you dreaming about?” she counters.
