Page 14 of Lethal Game

“Level three, yes. For level three, you add protective clothing and respirators. Level four, no. Level four requires an entirely separate air system for the lab tech and the sample. We haven’t quite found a way to do that so the lab can be broken down into bags.”

“What about oxygen tanks, like firefighters?”

“No. It’s not just about the personnel. Level four pathogens must be kept isolated completely. They can be airborne, and have few or no treatment options.”

“That is a problem.”

He said it like he’d found a puzzle he wanted to solve. Should she compliment him on his apparent intellect, or would he find that insulting?

He sat down on the floor next to the bag and braced an arm on his knee. “So, tell me what I need to know to not get in your way or irritate the hell out of you?” He gave her a crooked smile.

Holy shit. A man who could probably kill people with one handandwas considerate? A man who was built to protect and was smart enough to read her body language and extrapolate reasonably accurate insights about her emotions?

Not possible.

“Okay, now this is too good to be true,” she said, leaving her microscope to stand in front of him with her hands on her hips. “No man is this perfect. What’s wrong with you? Did that explosion scramble your brains?”

He put his hands up like she had a gun on him. “Hey now, no need to get upset. I’m just trying to be accommodating.”

“Yeah, telling me what you think I want to hear.” It was an insidious kind of lie. She knew all about the lies people tell to keep a dying adolescent hopeful. It seemed like they were all she’d heard after being diagnosed with cancer. Lying to make someone happy in the short term never resulted in anything good in the long term.

He frowned and lowered his hands. “What’s wrong with trying to get along with people?”

“I don’t want a cardboard cutout for a partner. I want someone who’s going to be honest with me about who he is. Otherwise how can I possibly anticipate what you might do in a dangerous situation?”

“You’d rather I was an asshole?” he asked, his voice rising in disbelief.

She shrugged. “At least assholes are honest.”

He studied her for several seconds, his lips tightening. Finally, he let out a gusty breath. “Look, my job is to keep you safe, or as safe as is possible in our line of work. I have to be adaptable to do that. I’m probably going to nag you to death with questions until I wrap my head around what exactly it is that you do. I’m trying to make your life easier, not more difficult.”

He didn’t get it. And that was okay.

Thank God he wasn’t perfect.

She opened her mouth to tell him she wanted him as he was, but he added one more comment to his explanation. “I’m trying to make my life easier too, if that helps any.” He dropped his gaze to the floor and absently scratched his left shoulder.

He meant that. He was genuinely trying to fit in and not paying lip-service to his assignment. She might be able to work with that.

She slowly sat on the floor a few feet away from him. “Tell me about yourself.”

He took in a breath, but she wasn’t finished. “Tell me about your work. You’re Special Forces, right? I don’t know much about what makes you different from other soldiers or why you’d make a better backscratcher than a Marine or some other guy.”

“You know more than a lot of people. They think a Special Forces soldier is the same as a Marine or an Army Ranger. We’re not.”

She waited silently for him to continue.

“Every group of highly trained soldiers has a specialty. For Navy SEALs it’s rescue and targeted attacks, Army Rangers it’s advance scouting, Special Forces soldiers are infiltrators and trainers. Special Forces soldiers are trained in more than just fighting techniques, weapons, and tactics. We’re expected to learn multiple languages, understand other cultures, and work within foreign indigenous armed forces. We train other armies to use the latest weapons, adapt strategy to fit their cultural needs, and environment.” He stopped and tilted his head. “What your boss said is true. We’re taught to throw the fucking box out and that the more creative you are, the better off you’ll be.”

“How long have you been in the Special Forces?” She’d give a little and use the name he seemed to prefer.

“Since I got out of college. Six years.”

“What’s your degree in?”

He gave her a puppy-dog look. “You’ve got to swear not to laugh.”

“Why? Are you planning to say something funny?”

---