Page 24 of Knot Guilty

The unknown of the pair jumps into the crude basement. “What are you doing, Masters?” Avara demands from the rim.

“My job. As the only medic here, I’m checking to see how much damage you caused.” Under his breath, he adds, “Asshole.”

Avara walks away from the hole's edge while Corporal Masters straps his rifle to his back, removes his gloves, and takes a knee in front of me. Looking up, Masters lifts a brow in question, asking permission to touch me. I nod my consent, and he reaches out to unstrap my armored vest and then probes my ribs over my black shirt. His bare fingers come away bloody, and the medic shakes his head.

“Sorry about the sarge,” he murmurs softly. “He was in Iraq when those Blackwater guys shot up all those civilians. He’s been salty toward mercs ever since. Not to make excuses for him or anything. He’s still a bastard.”

“I am not a fucking merc.”

Masters throws up his hands defensively. “Sorry. Sorry. Bad generalization. I merely meant to point out that Avara doesn’t acknowledge the distinction.”

Noticing Masters’ wide, apologetic eyes, I relax my stiff posture, and Masters resumes his work. The truth is, no one knows what really happened that day in Nisour Square. Some say the incident was a planned ambush by insurgents that infiltrated the local police force. For what purpose? Bad political press to see if America would bow?

And bow they did. The administration put these people through three trials until receiving what the foreign government viewed as a favorable outcome. All guilty, except for the guy that testified against his teammates to save his own ass. Since then, another administration viewed all facets of the case, and the PMCs were pardoned after serving years in prison.

I guess Avara bought the original party line like so many others, not concerned about learning the truth. “Doesn’t he know that every profession has its share of assholes?” I ask.

Masters smiles. “He should. He’s one of them.”

As Masters spoke, he lifted my shirt and then looked to be at a loss with how to manage the situation. I take over and tuck the fabric under my bra to give him a clear area to work. Masters presses some gauze to the gash to clean away some of the blood so that he can decide on the proper treatment.

Aaron leans over to see the damage at the same time as I do and swears under his breath at the extent of it. No wonder it hurt like a motherfucker. The rough corner of the crate dug into my skin with the force of my landing, tearing a little as I slid.

The medic’s assessment of the injury is calm, quite the opposite of Aaron’s demeanor. “Avara is lucky nothing broke. I think your partner would have killed him otherwise. The wound looks worse than it is, but it could do with some stitches. I can close it, but I’m shit with needlework and would leave a wicked scar. It’d be better if someone with a gentler hand did it. You’ll be all right for now if I just put on some butterfly strips.”

“Thanks.”

Masters applies the closing strips, with me trying not to hiss through the pain at the pressure needed to place them securely. Afterward, the whole area is covered with a bandage, and the medic scans the rest of my uniform for other bloody spots that would indicate further injury. During his perusal, he asks, “Your landing was pretty rough. Can you walk on that leg?”

“I’m good,” I tell him.

“Ah. The strong, silent type. What branch did you serve in?”

“Marines.”

“Impressive. What was your MOS?”

So, the grunt wants to know my military operational specialty. Normally, I wouldn’t say anything, but maybe word will get around to Avara, and he’ll get off my ass. “MARSOC. I was a Raider.”

The corporal’s eyes go wide. “No shit. So, you’re her, the only female Raider. That’s badass.”

Aaron scoffs, and I look up just in time to see him roll his eyes. “Why don’t you pass along a pressure wrap just in case she needs it? I wouldn’t want Avara giving you shit for being away from your post for too long.”

“Right. Yeah,” he says before handing me a rolled-up wrap bandage.

Masters steps up onto a box and climbs out of the hole. Aaron follows and lowers a hand to me. My own efforts to leave the basement hurt like hell, but I’ll be damned if I let that asshole sergeant know.

Aaron and I have been guarding this hole for six hours now, waiting on the feds to show up. The army guys have been rotating out every two hours, so we’ve at least been able to get away from Avara. And so far, the other guys we’ve stood guard with seem cool with us.

Three FinCEN agents finally waltz in at the seven-hour mark. They’re escorted by Sergeant Avara, with Heathman and Morrison having returned to base after patrols were established.

No introductions are made by the sergeant, who’s moved on and is currently reassigning his men. Aaron and I, however, have a job to do, and being a good sheep isn’t part of it. I approach the dick swinger giving the agents a report of the raid. “Excuse me,” I say to the agent standing in front of the others. “I’m sure you understand, but I’d like to verify your identity.”

“Stay in your lane, Phelps,” Avara warns.

“Hey, you got a problem with us doing our job, fuckface?” Aaron demands. “Take it up with Heathman.”

Now having the full attention of the three agents, I introduce myself and Aaron.

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