by CJ Daly
Copyright © 2019 CJ Daly.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,
graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are used fictitiously and not based on actual events or people. Any resemblance is coincidental and not intended by the author.
For my eternally beautiful sister, Susie, the person for whom
nothing really happens to me until I share it with you.
Prologue
FIRST ORDERS
We are all the walking wounded. Some scars are just more visible
than others. Mine are the inside kind: unhealed, pink, festering.
Outwardly, I’m still a perfect specimen. That’s why I was chosen
for Missions.
“Cadet Davenport . . . it’s time.” The voice came from the generically
pretty assistant, standing in the doorway to my future. The clichéd metaphor
that sprang to mind was subpar, unworthy of a cadet. Something a civilian
girl would write in her ACT essay and think herself clever. Maybe something
she would write. I glanced at the photo peeking at me from the folder—my
mark. I let out a sigh. Six-freakin’-teen. I clung to the knowledge she had a birthday coming up.
Seventeen is the age of consent in New Mexico . . . not that I had to worry about staying within the confines of civilian laws.
She must be subpar because The Academy wasn’t looking at her, just her
brother, the Potentially Gifted Civilian. He was the ripe old age of eight. The
same age as—I mentally snapped a rubber band. I couldn’t even look at his
picture without a twisted gut. I was the wrong guy for the job. That’s likely
why I was here—dismissed so Ranger could take over. Take-over. That should
be his motto: Taking over the world, one mission at a time.
The assistant said something to get me moving. She spoke using the
clipped tone I’d been accustomed to my whole life. The softest nuance of
accent marked her for what she was—a former cadet. If sympathy was what
I was looking for today, I wouldn’t find it here.
The reflexive, knee-jerk reaction I’d been fighting for weeks hit me—fight
or flight. Neither option was possible. I ran a finger along the nape of my
• iv •
neck, feeling the small, precise scar that was a permanent reminder of what I was . . . what I would always be.
Unfolding myself as slowly as a six-foot, one-inch frame would allow, I
finally stood. The assistant narrowed her eyes at me—no one kept the General
waiting. I was sure she had preconceived notions about me. Oh Wel . Like
the uniform at the end of a scheduled day, I shrugged it off then flicked back
my hair, grown out indulgently in the interim. I was surer than sure General
Weston wouldn’t be a fan (not that he was anyway). I could claim it was for
her, the civilian girl. My eyes wandered to her picture again: dark hair, forlorn eyes, a little unkempt around the edges. The only thing missing from the
wholesome face was dimples.
She didn’t look so tough . . . I could break her.
May as well get on with it. Trudging forward, I caught the assistant looking from her doorway and shot her one of my “special” smiles. It did its job—a
little color brought the puppet’s face to life.
“Right this way,” she said, her professional tone giving nothing away.
Textbook manners, inbred.
A lot of inbreeding went on here.
I followed her neat bun and long legs through the unmarked door, where
my throat immediately closed with the same metal resonance as the door
behind us. Deep breath in, I put one foot in front of the other down a long,
gray corridor that seemed to wrap around us like a tunnel. Our footsteps
automatically fell into the marching rhythm of our youth. I concentrated on
the clacking of her heels against granite, anything to take my mind off where
I was headed .
Like a prisoner walking toward my execution.
I snorted at the second bad metaphor. She slid me a disapproving glance
that had me slowing to a swagger in order to needle Little Miss Efficient. And
thumb my nose at The Establishment.
Secret, defiant games were a go-to defense mechanism I’d used to keep
my sanity over the years.
But she didn’t really appear bothered, peeking coyly over her shoulder at
notorious Peter Davenport. I rewarded her with a grin and checked out the
nametag pinned to her chest.
“So . . . Blair. What say you lace that third cup of coffee Weston’s gonna
have with a relaxer we both know he’s in dire need of?” I dropped an arm
around her shoulders. “It’s a beautiful day for sailing with a beautiful girl.”
Flirting: my next go-to defense mechanism.
“The Commander limits his coffee to two cups a day,” she said as though
• v •
the answer were just as programmed in. And just when I thought she was a lost cause, she let out a girlish giggle but fought it like an unwanted advance.
“What’d ya say?” I waggled my eyebrows at her.
“I would never!” She tried for outraged, but I knew she’d only set the
record straight for the benefit of the cameras, eyeing us discreetly from the
corner.
“Never’s a long time,” I said, giving her the eyes. She pressed her lips
together but couldn’t hide her smile.
My own smile died. We had arrived at our destination, and the plaque
said it all: Commander General Richard Weston— Commander Dick. I paused
to belly sigh, but literally could not put this off another minute. The powers-
that-be had decided today was the day to put all that training to good use,
so I guess it was.
She did the discreet throat-clearing thing. “Aren’t you going to go in? It’s
two minutes after.” A tragedy worth being written up for here.
“Why don’t you wait two minutes then pull the fire alarm?” I countered.
“Then we’ll make our getaway.” I guess this was said too close to the mouth of
the lion’s den, because she sucked in her breath like I’d said, Wait two minutes then throw the pipe bomb. Did I really have to state the obvious? I raked back some hair. “That’s what one refers to as a joke.”
“Well, not very mature behavior for an elite cadet.” She took the jab
poorly, spinning on her heel to continue going about her duties diligently—
another cog in the ruthless machine known as The Academy.
“Future elite cadet. I don’t graduate till next week!” I called after her
departing back. “And, apparently, I’m only seventeen anyway . . . so I have a ways to go.” I thwacked the paperwork against my jeans. Should’ve worn
my blues. This oversight would likely cost me. I just hated to dress like a reproduced soldier boy on my brief furlough. Sucking down a last lungful of
freedom, I rapped on the door.
“Come in.” Even muted behi
nd solid oak, dude sounded like a douche.
I stepped in, as reverently as one would, when meeting the figure of
authority that could put your balls in a sling and fling ‘em to the canines.
“Cadet Davenport reporting for duty, sir.” My fingertips tapped my forehead
a beat too late to be believable.
Not rising for the occasion of my arrival, Weston stared me down (an
intimidation technique used liberally around here). His eyes tightened when
he took in the sight before him: floppy hair, black T-shirt fading to gray, torn
jeans, scuffed sneakers. A smirk, that didn’t go unnoticed by Weston, snuck
to my mouth for a nanosecond. He took his silver pen, and a moment of his
• vi •
valuable time, to tap out some Morse code on top of a closed folder. With my name on it. I took the same moment to take in his man-cave.
The ebony desk he was presiding over came equipped with an embedded
touch screen and was located dead center of the room. Flanked across from
him were two tanned-hide chairs, the likes of which once belonged to animals
you might see on a safari. The floor was the polished naked of a woman’s skin,
adorned by a single black rug, sliding beneath the sideboard like a discarded
robe. A nod to the arts our corner of the world was renowned for broke up the
wall of windows—gray squiggles framed in black. The kind that was light on
the art and heavy on the prestige.
Rows of gold-star awards ate up all other wall space. And all other
frames were taken over by staged photographs: Weston and a couple of ex-
presidents, Weston with the governor of California, Weston with the mayor of
Tiburon, cutting some bullshit charity ribbon. I looked at Mr. Glad-Hander
commanding from his leather chair and masked my derision. A lot of training
went into that.
“At ease,” Weston finally growled, and I relaxed my stance. “Peter Anthony
Davenport the Third . . .” Just the way he said it sounded like an insult.
While that lingered in the air, he deliberated over a selection of identical
cigars, wedged together in a glossy humidor; their bands of gold flashed like
rings. A worthy candidate was brought up to inspect with a critical eye before
being run along the tip of his nose. It passed inspection, but I suspected I
wouldn’t get off so easily.
“I’ve spent— wasted, ” he clarified, “my morning reading the saga that
is your file.” He snipped the tip off the cigar while eyeing me like it was a
euphemism for something else.
I kept my well-trained face smooth.
Weston abruptly stood—iron hard and pushing sixty—to stalk over and
open the window. The expansive view beyond the seawall revealed sailboats,
bobbing like bright bathtub toys, in the San Francisco Bay. Back at command
post, he ignited his stogie with an ornate lighter before dropping it into a
bowl. A loud ping! infiltrated the silence. Then he scooped up the slick navy folder emblazoned with the Academy logo—a lion in mid-roar—and fixed
his steel-blue eyes on me.
“I don’t recall,” Weston began again, puffing around to face me squarely,
“in all my years, ever seeing a cadet get through The Elite Program while
being such a screw-up.”
I had nothing to say and couldn’t speak out-of-turn anyway.
“Or be so goddamn stubborn. Or stupid depending on which way you
• vii •
want to look at it. Attempts to mitigate such behavior . . . have only been moderately successful.”
A chimney’s worth of smoke blew my way. This almost brought back my
delinquent smirk because smoking, or tobacco use of any kind, was strictly
banned for cadets. Junk food, too. Hell, sometimes I even thought fun was
banned here. Weston regarded me through the smoke, one eye at half-mast
like he could figure me out better that way.
“You trying to get kicked out, Davenport?”
“No, sir.” Who did he think he was fooling? There was no escape (that
didn’t require embalming or a lobotomy) .
Weston poked his tongue around his mouth, deliberating. “Good to hear
it. But in my experience, actions speak louder than words. Doesn’t appear like your heart’s in the program, son . . . worries me.” His eyes bored into mine
while I tried not to look bored. “However, your training profile indicates that
you are, indeed, a match for Missions. Despite your shenanigans, you seem
to pass everything with flying colors. No easy feat.” A grudging admission.
“So you up for your first solo one?”
“Yes, sir.” I was on autopilot.
He nodded thoughtfully, surveying me as though he were sizing me up
for a new suit, he wasn’t sure I would fit. I stared at his mustache, noting it
was groomed with an artist’s precision, and that it was the exact grizzled color
and bristled texture of his crew cut.
“You’ve been handpicked for this job, Davenport,” Weston reminded me.
“Tailor made for you, if you will. Should be a cake walk, but I don’t want you
sleep-walking your way through.”
“No, sir.”
“Because I’m not taking any chances with this particular PGC—I have
high hopes for him.” Weston picked up the photo of golden-boy, and my
stomach seized, yet you’d never know it by looking at me. My face remained
impassive as the Queen’s Guard. Next up for inspection: the photo of the girl.
After assessing it for a long, drawn-out moment, he set it aside and rearranged
some phlegm. “Should be a fun, quick one.”
I could’ve taken that a couple of different ways.
“But no screwing up. Whatsoever. Period. The end.” A fat, finger-wrapped
cigar punch punctuated each sentence.
I breathed in through my nose, nodded my compliance. Didn’t think I
could force out another yes sir.
The General must’ve taken this for subtle insubordination because he
said, “You may not give a deviled dog about furthering your own career, but
• viii •
I’d hate to see Cadet Caruthers be painted with the same yellow paint brush when she doesn’t deserve it. She’s been hard at work on this mission for the
last couple of months while you’ve been growing out your hair at the beach.”
“I was just recently called to duty, sir,” I reminded him while telltale heat
crept up my neck. Bastard. That wasn’t even a veiled threat.
Yellow paint referred to a dishonorable discharge—very few and very
conspicuous. The unchosen were plucked-out, their navy lockers painted over
in yellow, a black DD slashed across the front for all to see. The reminders
remained up till December 31, when sledgehammers were passed—baton
like—into cadets’ hands to take turns beating down their lockers. Locker-
bashing to ring in the New Year . . . funny how that good ole Academy
tradition never made it into the brochure.
Weston considered me another moment. He’d already found a soft spot
with Reese, now he was probing for more. “You should thank your lucky
stars for your parents’ longstanding dedication to this organization or you’d have been out on your ass in Civilian Land a long time ago . . . after a brief
pit stop through Siberia!”
I waited for the chill that was supposed to follow this threa
t.
“Need I remind you of the long arms and far-reaching powers The
Academy has in this country?” he prompted. “In the world?
“No, sir.” He didn’t. I was all too aware.
“Then we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir.” Not a lot was needed here: some boot licking, a pair of ears, a
dash of contrition.
“Because if you fail, I’ll personally bash in your locker and stamp your
file with double D myself.”
“I won’t let you down, sir,” I capitulated, as we both knew I would. The
Academy will always win . . . no matter who gets hurt. The innocent civilian girl and her brother flashed in my mind. Bitter bile clogged my throat. I wanted
to hock it out like a loogie—he gave me an impatient hand gesture—right
on his boots. I relinquished the mission file to Weston, and he added it to the
briefcase holding my first orders.
“Cadet Davenport, you are to report directly to the Ops Building at
o-nine-hundred hours where Ranger will finish briefing you, give you your
civilian ID, and any additional accoutrements needed for the success of this
mission,” Weston finalized, clicking shut the briefcase and handing it over.
“I highly suggest you finally live up to the potential bred and nurtured in you these past two decades.” He patted my shoulder. “I do hate wasting the
valuable resources of the institution I’ve dedicated my life to.”
• ix •
I wanted to shrug his filthy hand off but held myself tightly in check.
Weston was good at reading minds. And mind games. He leaned in to
hiss in my ear: “However, if you do not succeed in bringing this PGC into
our ranks forthwith, I will see to it that you are worse than ousted. You will
be deplored . . . elsewhere, your parents will be demoted, and this blight will haunt you for the rest of your short life.”
The chill I was waiting for came, and it penetrated my whole being like
an iceberg up my ass. I’d heard enough rumors to know what “deplored
elsewhere” was code for; it would make Siberia look like a day at the beach.
Weston smiled benevolently at me. “Please give my regards to both Doctors
Davenport. I understand your mother isn’t doing so well these days. Do be
careful, Cadet Davenport . . . another loss, like your brother’s, would be
catastrophic to your mother’s well-being.”
