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My pride hopes his tactics were just that, a technique to distract and defeat an enemy. Of course, I’m guessing that particular strategy only works on women and gay men. The only problem with that theory is that I beat him. Sort of. Hell, maybe I should be patting myself on the back because I didn’t fall for his ploy.
My frustration mounts, and I decide I’m doing myself no favors by overanalyzing the pathetic match. Lifting my face to the sprayer, I shake my head to clear away the confusion and finish cleaning up. Afterward, my damp hair goes into a braid, and I dress in fresh TDUs and a black t-shirt with the Knot Corp logo emblazoned on the left. My first order of business is food and then logistics.
I slide my tray next to Aaron’s in the cafeteria, though most of the other contractors have finished and cleared out. “How was the score today?”
“About as good as that match,” I answer with a roll of my eyes.
Aaron’s brow furrows, and he presses his hand against my forehead.
“What’s that for?”
“I don’t know. My mom always did it when she thought something was wrong with me.”
I brush his hand away and groan. “There is nothing wrong with me. Shouldn’t you be at the range by now?”
Aaron grins and stands up, grabbing his tray and one of my corn nuggets before scampering off. I finish eating alone and then leave to check in with Birdie.
Birdie Crenshaw is the badass intel genius at Knot Corp, and besides Aaron, my closest friend. She’s in her late twenties and a few inches over five feet tall. With her sparkling blue eyes and her naturally wavy brown hair, she reminds me of a fairy.
Birdie is a total tech phenom and could leave most of the techies in the CIA in her dust. Lucky for us, she did a little hacking as a teen and ended up with a juvie record. That kept her out of the CIA, leaving her for us to snatch up. She’s the perfect mix of sweetheart and bitch, which serves her well in this business.
I traipse through the open door of her chaotic office, plop into one of the bohemian guest chairs, and swipe one of her prized truffles from a bowl on her desk. And I’m probably the only living person that can get away with doing so.
“I hear you and Maxen almost made it on the training room floor this morning.”
"Oh, god. Stop.”
“Please. You spend all your time surrounded by delicious alpha males. Do not act like you’re immune.”
I push out of the comfy chair. “Nope. I’m done here. I don’t even care if we get turned around at the airport.”
“Oh, sit down and shut up.”
Without further teasing, Birdie and I work through government red tape ahead of our deployment, even though we were invited and are being paid to attend this party. Afterward, I spend some time studying the jackets of the officers we’ll be dealing with during our deployment. There are those in the service that see private military contractors as sell-outs and treat us like the enemy. On the flip side, just as many are jaded by the military system and are genuinely curious about how we work. The worst type I’ve come across are those that hate authority and wrongly think of military contractors as power-hungry mercenaries that abide by their own set of rules.
They couldn’t be more wrong. Knot’s system of command is every bit as strict as any branch of the US military. But without all the waste, political influence, and constant begging for better equipment many of our servicemen and women have to deal with.
Fortunately, the background I have on Colonel Heathman, our host on this mission, indicates that he has worked with PMCs before, if not ours. The network of contacts we maintain from other PMC organizations report this Heathman is a good guy that doesn’t have a problem working with contractors. I can only hope he still feels that way, given our mission is serving to guard dog his people.
After studying all available details, I’m feeling pretty good about the mission parameters and logistics and figure it’s time to head out. It’s after seven, and all but security and the night shift mission support staff have probably cleared out by now.
The Knot Corp compound never entirely shuts down. There is always some combination of teams out on deployment. Subsequently, a corresponding unit of revolving support staff is always holed up in tactical operation support, or Tacos, as we call it.
I push away from the desk, stretch my arms above my head, and then shut down my work area. The halls are quiet as I walk to the locker room beyond the gym to retrieve my bag. On my way out, I detour through the dimly lit training room, pausing at the edge of the sparring mat. I stare at the empty floor, thinking through the odd match between Maxen and me.
A sound coming from the training room door has me whirling around to find Maxen standing in the opening, bracing his hands on both sides of the frame. He’s backlit by the hallway lights, rendering a somewhat intimidating image.
I’m surprised to see him here. I figured he’d have left with all the others at the end of the day. A backpack sits at his feet, and his hair is damp as though he’s fresh from the shower.
“I thought I was the only one left,” he says as he takes a single step into the room.
I turn to face him but hold my ground on the forty-by-forty training floor. “I had a few details to research ahead of our deployment.”
Another step. “You find many details to work out in here?”
“No. I was analyzing the strengths and weaknesses revealed by the day’s training.”
A filthy grin unfurls on Maxen’s face. “And did you identify any of my weaknesses?”
