Page 7 of Knot Guilty

That day, I learned two things about life and my family. Number one, I learned that my brothers loved me and were fiercely protective of me. Second, that I wanted to be just like the bastards.

Three of the four brothers joined the military, Mike, the Air Force, Brandon went into the Navy, and Wes joined the Army. I wanted to round things out and become a Marine.

You would think these overgrown apes that had teased and tortured me my whole life would try and talk me out of such a target. Not my brothers. None of them questioned my choice or believed I’d fail. They cheered and pushed me as hard as any of my instructors.

And you can bet your ass that when I graduated basic training and, later, Raider school, all four of my brothers and father were in attendance.

The funny thing is, though I could probably beat any of my brothers in a fight now, they’d still try to come between me and a drunk, handsy asshole in a bar.

It’s been months since I’ve seen any of them. They’ve all retired from the service and settled near home in Tennessee. At the thought, a wave of homesickness hits me, something that hasn’t happened in a long time. I should call my dad. I need to go home for a visit. I’ll do both soon, but right now, I need to get back to work.

With a final scan around the training floor, I grab my gear and walk out. The range is calling.

Now this feels right.

Cold steel sits heavy in my hand. Its smooth barrel and rough, textured grips are more familiar than a lover’s touch. And there are few here that handle them as well as I can. Guns, I mean.

Marksmanship is a vital part of the maintenance training required of all Knot private military contractors. Every operative must train at least five days a week when not deployed. Our training includes physical fitness, mental acuity, and range practice. On the range, we’re required to maintain a minimum accuracy score in both stationary firing and moving drills. We may no longer be military, but we operate as the soldiers, marines, and sailors we once were.

Like all other PMCs, my typical day starts early in the gym. Running and strength training ensure that on the ground, we’re well-balanced and have endurance for days. The training regimen is the same for all of us but is more demanding for a woman whose physiology isn’t geared toward war.

After gym work, operatives place themselves in the sadistic hands of Spatch. Originally from Montana, Spatch is a former ranger and ranger school trainer, meaning he’s made it his life’s work to torture people on a daily basis. As brutal as his sessions can be, every bit of pain an operative goes through under his watchful eye ensures that our chances of survival are better than our enemy’s.

After Spatch’s close combat training, PMCs usually hit the showers and get food before range practice. Not me. I prefer to run shooting drills when I’m tired, hungry, and sore from hand-to-hand combat practice. This is more realistic to the battlefield conditions I’d face on the job.

The only unrealistic element of Knot’s moving and shooting drills is the lack of battle noise. For that, I blast thrash metal through my Bluetooth ear protection. The music is heavier than I like, and the speed keeps me from settling into an easy rhythm.

To further imitate field conditions, I load out in typical Marine style, including full body armor, headgear, a Glock 19 with three magazines, and my trusty carbine, the MK18 forty-five millimeter. Coming in at around thirty-four thousand dollars, this get-up is my favorite outfit. The only thing missing from my days in the Corps is my marine MARPAT uniform. That look was traded in for plain, black TDUs when I joined up with Knot.

No other operative runs daily drills in a similar fashion, but I figure a good score in training means nothing if I can’t replicate it under life-threatening conditions.

With Slipknot blasting in my ears, I slam the start button to begin the randomized course. My next few minutes will be spent sprinting, firing, and diving from beginning to end. The diving is necessary as the targets on this course fire back. The animatronics we use are armed with only paintballs, but they still hurt. And death in here means death out there.

At the end of the course, one final shot to a timer paddle stops the time on my run. Winded and with my hands on my hips, I check the readout screen on the wall to find that I’ve finished a little off my typical high score. “Dammit,” I whisper.

Frustrated, I exit the course and shed all the heavy gear, securing it in my designated equipment locker. From there, I’ll head to the showers, which are usually empty by now.

The pulsating spray pounds against my back, and I’m content to stand with a bowed head as the steaming water drips from my long, auburn hair. As the massaging showerhead works on my abused muscles, my mind replays the match with Maxen.

I’m evaluating all the ways I went wrong and keep getting stuck on the look in Maxen’s eyes when I had him pinned between my thighs. Needless to say, I was rattled. Primarily because of the way my body responded to it.

Until now, I’ve been pretty good at ignoring all kinds of looks, comments, and condescending, contemptuous behavior from men for all the usual reasons. Some feel threatened, others resent a woman in what they consider a man’s job, and some assume I’ve slept my way up. The list is endless.

I am well aware that there are things a female body will never do as well as a man’s body can. Just like there are things the male body can’t do that the female body can, and I’m not even considering things involving birthing children.

I’m talking about those things that would make a woman an asset to a team on the battlefield. That’s what I want to be known for, nothing else. But I learned a long time ago that people will believe what they want to believe.

That type of bias has reared its ugly head a few times at Knot Corp, though men with that attitude don’t last very long here. I guess that’s what throws me off so much about Maxen.

Not once since joining our team, has there been a problem with him working or training alongside any of the other female PMCs. And up until now, I had no reason to doubt him.

Maxen has been part of The Knot Corporation for over a year, is a team leader, and is one of our top operatives. There has never been any friction between us, and we’ve had plenty of opportunities for any prejudice to surface. Though we haven’t deployed together, we have had to work side by side, planning mission strategy, training updates, and candidate selection.

In all our encounters, Maxen has always come across as highly intelligent, respectful, and dedicated to his work. Until today. The man should have beaten me. Why didn’t he? He wasn’t taking it easy on me because I’m a woman. I’ve seen him spar with Chelsea and Dani without all the bullshit theatrics.

Today, something was different. This was our first time sparring with one another and the first time Maxen had ever treated me as less than equal. Maybe all this time, he’s only been tolerating me, never really respecting my role in this team. He wouldn’t be the first to make that mistake and probably won’t be the last.

I drag a hand over my face, disrupting the flow of the falling water. Maxen was playing with me. Of that, I have no doubt. What I don’t understand was his look. It was… hell. I don’t know what it was. That’s what really threw me off. I can deal with condescending assholes just fine, but I had no idea what to do with Maxen this morning.

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