notice the flickering screen.
“You won’t attend the surgery?”
Clancy shook her head. As far as she was concerned, two years of work was going down the toilet under the scalpel. “A piece of advice.”
Francine arched a brow, changing her expression from friend to superior.
“Just be very careful who and where you put your faith, Francine. It’ll come back to haunt you, trust me.”
Francine’s brows kitted, her gaze questioning where that bit of acid advice came from. Clancy didn’t share and headed out the door.
Her steps feeling awkward, Clancy tried to leave the building without much notice—-with the Terminator in her purse and classified material padding her shoes.
Eleven days prior
Virginia
Mike followed orders. Sometimes.
Right now, taking up a hospital bed when there were wounded coming back from the Middle East all the time just didn’t wash. He pulled on his shirt and felt only a twinge in his shoulder from the infection he’d contracted in Libyan waters. At least the stitches were out.
“You can’t leave yet, Gannon,” he heard and kept his back to the nurse as he tucked in his shirt.
“Watch me.” He was looking forward to a beer and a night without someone waking him to check his eyeballs or inject him with drugs.
“I have to sign you out.”
“Then get to scribbling, Ensign.”
“You have to complete the psychological interviews, you know that.”
He turned, eyeing the small young woman from head to foot. “My mental health is fine. Not like it’s the first time I’ve been shot.”
Her shoulders pushed back as she said, “That’s an order.”
Christ. Newly commissioned ensigns were a pain in the ass. Especially ones being trained for classified clearance. “Yes, ma’am.”
She gestured to the door. Mike grabbed his duffel bag and advanced, but when he was close, she slipped back a quick step. He froze at the door, frowning. Christ, she’s afraid of me. It put him on edge and he gestured for her to lead the way.
“Don’t put that clipboard away, Ensign Durry, I’ll be leaving.”
Down the next corridor, she ushered him into a conference room, barely able to look him in the eye. Mike recognized the man behind the table and smiled slightly. Dr. Figaroa was a round, dark-haired man with a big Italian nose and easy humor.
“You’re a frequent guest, Gannon.”
“Let me save you the time, Dr. Figaroa. Read the last entry and we’re done here.”
The shrink pointed to the chair. Mike dropped the bag and sat.
“What are your plans?”
“A beer, some TV, and if I’m lucky, getting laid. What’s yours?”
The little ensign shifted in her chair, but Figaroa just smiled. “I should expect that.”
“Then why are we here?” Mike leaned his forearms on the table. “What do you want that I can actually tell you?” His status was classified, need to know, and these people didn’t need to know shit.
She fuddled with papers. “Your rank isn’t listed, why is that?”
Figaroa put a hand on her arm and shook his head in warning. Durry was new to dealing with Spec Ops personnel, but even with a class-A clearance, all Figaroa knew about him was his service record; most of it was blacked out. The only smudge on his record was disobeying his senior command orders to watch an al-Qaeda training camp. He went in and blew it to hell. When his commanding officer questioned why he didn’t remain outside as ordered, Mike had replied, “Because the enemy was inside, sir.”
“You think you’re special that you don’t have to undergo the same requirements as anyone else,” the woman said. “There are thousands like you doing the same thing.”
He gave her a deadpan stare. “Pretty slim ratio considering there are nearly three hundred million American citizens, huh?”
She flushed pink. “What did you feel when you shot those men?” she asked, reading off a checklist that was as impersonal as her questions.
“Nothing. They’d killed innocent Americans. I’m an expert at an ugly job. I wish I weren’t necessary and there was world peace, Miss America, but there isn’t. I’d rather not kill anyone.”
“Any new women in your life?” Figaroa asked.
Mike hated people asking personal questions. His life was his own, and while his services belonged to the Marines, who occupied his bed didn’t. “No.”
Next they’d be asking him why he didn’t kill the child.
“Look, Figaroa, we all defend America’s safety in some form.” He glanced at the woman, and she seemed to flinch in her chair. “I go out and find the threats. If there were a reason beyond my countrymen’s safety that matters more, I’m all ears. But you lose your freedom once and you’ll understand.” Mike pushed the memories down and looked between the two.
“This is exactly as you said last time, Gannon.”
He looked at Figaroa. “That’s because I’m still the same.” Eggheads, they just didn’t get it. It proved to Mike that military rank didn’t mean they understood anything outside their playground. He pushed the chair back. “I’m outta here.”
“You can’t be listed as ready for active status till physical therapy signs off,” the ensign said.
Mike raised his arm above his head, rotated it, then did the same at his side.
“Excellent, but strength training is necessary.”
Mike grabbed the extra chair beside him and lifted it above his head. Then he threw. She flinched at the crash. Figaroa chuckled, shaking his head.
“Well, that was helpful,” Durry said, indignant. “An amazing recovery.”
“For a rat maybe.” Mike was a fast healer. Always had been. Probably because he hated sitting still. He’d been working out in his room at night when all the on-duty corpsmen were watching Law and Order reruns.
Mike looked pointedly at Dr. Figaroa and inclined his head to the ensign, his look as if to say, “Clue her in, will you?” Figaroa tapped the file and the ensign read. Mike knew what it said. In the last six months he’d won two decathlons. He liked to run and wanted to get the hell out of here and do some of it. The door suddenly flew open and Mike jumped to his feet as his commander entered.
“We aren’t finished.” Figaroa stood.
“Yes, you are,” the colonel said.
Mike didn’t let his expression show his amusement.
“At ease, Gannon, and follow me.”
Good. He really didn’t want to piss off the people that doctored him up. They might leave a sponge inside him next time.
“If he leaves, it’s against orders.”
The colonel looked at the ensign and she shrank in the chair. She won’t last, Mike thought.
“Then I guess it is.” The colonel quit the room and Mike was right beside him. “Hold your questions.”
Mike followed his commander through the hospital, an unmarked building on the outskirts of Manassas, Virginia. Outside, a uniformed Marine held open the car door. Mike ducked in, glad to be out of that antiseptic petri dish. If one more person took his blood pressure, or asked him “how are we feeling?” he was going to smash something.
The