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He scrubs a hand over his face, looking resigned. “God, I hate this job sometimes. You’re not going to press charges, are you?”
I choke on the oxygen I just inhaled, not sure I heard him right. “Me press charges?”
“Yeah. I know Rush is a dick, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did. It would make my life even more hell than it is now, though.”
Another glance at Bash. “Ah, no. I think my point was made. Honestly, I expected you to be breathing fire at me.”
The manager scoffs. “God, no. I’m actually adding a big fat bonus to your fee. Seeing Rush on his knees for once… You made my week.”
The so-called manager’s comment is unexpected. “Um. As the manager, aren’t you supposed to be on their side?”
“I’m less of a manager and more of a fixer sent by the label to keep these idiots out of trouble. Thankfully, the tour ends next week. I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep.”
“How about I help you out with that tonight? When will the venue kick these guys out?” Bash asks.
The middle-aged, accountant-looking man sighs. “Two. Three o’clock, maybe.”
I wink at Bash, catching what he’s thinking. “How does five minutes sound?”
The fixer grins. “It sounds like your bonus just got a lot bigger.”
The shortest route to bed last night was the Knot Corporation dorms. We’d ridden to the concert hall in two Knot SUVs, and when we arrived back on the compound around one-thirty, I picked walking to the hotel_what we call the dorm building_over driving home. Like most contractors, I keep a bag on site for such occasions. I showered, dressed, and fell into bed, all on autopilot.
The only downside to that plan was waking up with a god-awful rat’s nest on my head. My natural waves don’t do well when left to their own devices. My only option now is to rewet them and put them in a braid.
I’ve never liked that option. Growing up, I put a lot of effort into my hair, always taking the time to tame its wacky, wavy frizz with a flat iron. The long, sleek tresses looked better and helped to thin out my rounded cheeks. My cheeks aren’t so round now, but I still fret and fuss over having decent hair.
I hit the gym early, spending extra time on cardio like usual. This body is strong and capable, but it’ll never be perfect. That doesn’t stop me from working to get it as close as possible. My muscle lets people know I work out, but my hips and middle tell them I won’t pass up a cookie.
After the gym circuit, I enter the training room with the rest of the PMCs. It’s a full house today, with all of us assigned to random domestic security gigs. Despite the number of bodies in the room, the place is unusually quiet. Piper, our conditioning and combat coach’s dog, is even on hand to observe the group’s strange behavior.
Austin “Spatch” Madden takes us through Houthi training methods. It seems the Houthis are trying to take over where ISIS left off, and we’ll face off with them eventually. That is if we PMCs are ever given another military contract.
We pair up and work on attacks and counters, switching partners every few minutes until our chests heave and sweat covers our bodies. At least I’ll get to shower again and deal with my crazy hair.
Our CEO and former SEAL, Dillan Knot, walks onto the training floor just as Spatch dismisses us. His mood is as dark as his skin, so we’re all ears, waiting for the boom to be lowered.
“You’ll hear about this in the news soon enough, but I didn’t want this shit to get around the compound and freak you out. Heat from Congress after the disastrous Iron Strike mission has slowed military contracting jobs. As a result, many private military firms have had to shift their focus to stateside security jobs. Since many of those jobs do not require our level of expertise, they come with lighter pay. One US firm decided to advertise its skills internationally and took on a job securing an oil field…for the Saudis. The press got wind of it, and Congressman Harding is using the occasion to further smear our profession. Not only are we greedy, warmongering mercenaries, but if the pay is good enough, we’re traitors to the very government that trained us.”
Everyone in this room knows Dillan Knot would never stoop low enough to serve enemy governments or even questionable ones, but the public won’t know that.
“I want all team leaders in the war room in an hour.”
Great. This sounds like more thrash metal to me…or worse. I’m not the only one to think so, either. Someone in the group grumbles loud enough for Knot to hear. “Sounds like it’s time to apply for the police academy.”
This comment stops Knot in the doorway. He turns around and scans the group. If anyone expected him to lash out, they were wrong. Our boss sighs and rubs his bald head, but his bearing remains steadfast. “This isn’t the first time some bureaucrat has gotten a bug up his ass about military contractors, and it won’t be the last. All of you have run across someone in uniform who didn’t like the idea that you’re better equipped than they are, or maybe their son or daughter. You also know these same bureaucrats are why the military sometimes works on the cheap. Knot Corporation is operating on a full budget. None of you are getting cut. If you want to quit, quit, but don’t do it because you’re worried about job security. This will blow over once the next social media trend makes its rounds through Congress, and we’ll all get back to the work we’ve trained for.”
The warrior in a suit leaves the room, taking some of the heaviness with him. I make eye-contact with Dani, the former secret service officer, and she nods, confirming what Knot said. I guess of all of us she would know, having spent much of her career at the US Capitol.
An hour later, the leaders of the Norfolk office field teams are clean, fed, and seated in the war room in the center of headquarters’ main building. Knot walks in and leans against the briefing table at the front of the room. A long silence passes before he speaks.
“I didn’t give you the whole story earlier. What I’m about to tell you is classified, and not everyone in your teams has proper clearance. There has been another incident involving a private military firm. A team deployed to Kandahar was wrapping up a mission when some local walked into the middle of camp and blew himself up. The bomber was reportedly the contracted team’s interpreter.”
The room erupts in swears, whispers, and grumbles of disbelief. Knot tosses up his hands, trying to quiet the room. Before he can speak again, his phone rings. He pulls it from an inner jacket pocket, and his eyes widen.
Knot gestures for us to be silent and answers the call. “Knot.”
Our boss pushes off the table and stiffens at what he’s hearing. “Shit. I’m all yours.”
