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Maxen doesn’t say anything, but his grinding teeth speak loud and clear. He doesn’t share my concern for Aaron’s well-being right now. Maxen bandages my arm in silence, though I doubt it really needs more than a Bandaid. Afterward, he inspects the damage to my hands without commenting.
“I think I’m going to hide out for the weekend. Coming here today wasn’t the brightest move for any of us. It’s too soon.”
Maxen’s shoulders stiffen, and the tightness in his eyes gives way to resignation. After a beat, he finally says, “If you need me for anything, you call, Sadie. Day or night.”
With a nod and a whispered thanks, I pull away and rush past the curious stares to the rear door and fresh air.
I collect Gunny when I get home and spend the next two days in hiding with my phone turned off. During my self-imposed isolation, I can only hope that Aaron cooled off and is no longer on a war path.
Monday morning rolls around, and I finally turn my phone back on to find that I have no missed calls or messages. My family doesn’t know I’m back in the States, and thankfully, everyone else left me alone. Some people, Knot and Birdie, for instance, would have had no trouble ferreting me out if they’d really wanted to.
Aaron’s truck is no longer in the lot when I arrive at Knot Corp. I expect to see him here today, but not this early. No one should be here this early outside of security and mission support. The only reason I’m here at the ass-crack of dawn is to clean out Brock’s locker, and I want to do it without an audience.
This isn’t high school or a barracks where I’d find condoms, pinups, and dirty letters, but it is or was Brock’s private space.
Inside his three-by-five equipment locker, I find a bag containing a spare change of clothes and add to it the contents of the storage cabinet’s upper shelf: soap, razor, the usual toiletries. My hands shake when I find an open box of pictures on the bottom shelf. I cross my legs on the floor and flip through the stack.
All of these were taken since Brock came to work for Knot. Some capture scenes from overseas deployments, and a couple are from our trip to Gatlinburg. Most of the pictures are of Aaron, Brock, and me in various combinations.
Still, a number of them feature only one person. Me.
Taking one featuring Aaron, Brock, and me, I place the rest back into the box, which goes in the duffle bag.
The only object left is a matchbox-size diecast of a McLaren 570 in blue. That goes with me. Brock, Aaron, and I spent some time discussing dream cars during a lull in action on deployment a couple of years ago. Brock favored the McLaren. When I saw the toy car at a hobby shop later, I couldn’t pass it up. I bought it and gave it to Brock for his birthday.
I didn’t know he’d given it a place of honor in his locker. Now, it will have a special place in mine.
Two hours later, all operatives not deployed arrive at the training room, set to be put through our paces by Spatch. Everyone except Aaron. I send him a text telling him to pop two Advil and get his ass to work. I don’t get a reply.
Spatch has just walked from his office when the training room doors burst open, and Knot’s booming voice fills the gym. “I want everybody that just got back from Afghanistan in my office. Now!”
Knot’s bellowed command was so out of character that no one dares mention Spatch’s strict training schedule. Not even Spatch.
The imposing CEO storms off, not even bothering to make sure his order is being obeyed. The crew, minus Aaron, scrambles after the boss while sharing a few worried glances.
“Where’s Grim,” Zach whispers.
“I haven’t seen him since Friday,” I answer as the five of us follow Knot’s long strides up the stairs to his office on the top floor. Passing his assistant’s desk, Knot roars, “I’m going dark.”
The efficient woman picks up her phone, immediately understanding her orders. When the last of us walk in, Knot slams the door and storms to his desk, activating a system that locks the room down. A slew of counter-surveillance systems come online, ranging from electric privacy glass to signal jammers and sound dampeners in the walls, floors, and ventilation shafts. Not a good sign.
“I want to know what the fuck happened over there from the time your asses walked off my plane until you walked back on.”
He glares at Maxen and adds, “And that includes whatever shit started before and the fight you and Hosfeld had on Friday.”
Since he was the one pointed out, Maxen is the first to speak up. “What started before, sir, was that Sadie and I began seeing one another. I believe the revelation was met with disapproval.”
Knot stares back and forth between Maxen and me, and I feel like the walls are closing in. “I’m waiting, Phelps.”
Shit.
Despite the audience, he gets it all. Except for the sex. Knot already knew about the raids, assignments, and other key points. What he hadn’t heard about was Avara shoving me into the hole, causing me to need stitches, Aaron disappearing for several hours to god knows where, or Maxen giving away Brock’s secret, which led to Friday’s fight.
The two-hour-long debrief wraps up with Bastien detailing his and Chelsea’s part in the fated raid, and then Knot slides back into his chair and stares at the blotter. He doesn’t comment on anything he hears. That in itself is the most worrying part.
“All right. Everybody out. Sadie, you stay.”
The room clears, and the successful CEO drops his everything-under-control façade. Stepping up to his desk, I ask, “What’s going on?”
