Page 213 of Silver Elite

His doubt is unambiguous. So is the anger.

“I didn’t.”

He grabs my arm. Hard. Holding me in place as his gaze bores into mine. He doesn’t believe me.

“I promise you, Cross. I didn’t know. I would never, ever have led them into an ambush. Not Kaine.”Agony rips through me at the notion of never seeing Kaine’s impish grin again.“He’s my closest friend here.”

My eyes feel hot again. I shrug his hand off me.

“I didn’t know.”

At that, I spin on my heel and go help Xavier secure the perimeter.

—

The funerals are held two days later in a small cemetery on the grounds of the base. It’s a depressing affair. Three flag-draped caskets sit side by side. They’re empty, of course. Our three fellows were nothing but ashes by the time we were able to send a team to go through the bomb site.

My gaze falls on the Company flag, its navy backdrop with the white crest in the center. Everyone stands in respectful formation, but most faces are bereft of emotion, including grief.Theymight not care, but I’m grieving. Grieving for a golden-haired young man with mischief in his eyes.

I cry for my friend. I don’t care if it’s wrong. I don’t care that six months ago, I would’ve secretly been cheering for the deaths of three Primes. Three Command soldiers, for that matter. Bonus! Tana and I would’ve shared a drink in the town square and toasted to their deaths.

But Tana is not here.

And there’s nothing to celebrate.

The loss weighs heavily on me. I know he was the enemy…but he didn’t feel like it. I stare at Kaine’s portrait being projected from behind his casket, and my chest clenches with sorrow. My gaze shifts to Tyler’s image. That doesn’t make it better. I didn’t know her well yet, outside the context of instructor, but she was someone Xavier cared about.

He doesn’t cry for her like I cry for Kaine. He stands in his dress blues. Expressionless. Jaw hard.

When their commanding officer is asked to step forward, Cross moves in front of the three caskets. Rather than deliver a speech extolling their virtues, he simply recites their names, rank, and ward.

“Tyler Struck, 2nd Soldier, Ward A. Kaine Sutler, 1st Soldier, Ward D. Noah Jones, 1st Soldier, Sanctum Point.”

There’s a low growl at Noah’s name, and I turn to see a man with jet-black hair and murder in his eyes. He wears a tailored suit, impeccably fitted to his lean frame, and the expensive clothing anddiamond-studded watch speak to wealth and privilege. He exudes power. He’s also one of the few people here who is visibly overcome with grief.

This must be Jones’s father, the capitalist. I wonder why he gets to attend when Kaine’s and Tyler’s families are conspicuously absent. Lyddie, who’s clutching my hand like it’s a life preserver, told me that the General doesn’t like “emotional fanfare” with his funerals.

Noah’s father stands next to Travis Redden, who seems to be having trouble maintaining a composed expression. Flashes of barely restrained fury keep breaking through the mask.

With a sinking feeling, I realize that heads will roll for this.

The burial is short and concise, just the way the General likes it. He’s not even here, our esteemed leader who values his military above all else. The ceremony draws to a close with the slashing of the flags. Two honor guards step forward in unison to hold the Company flag taut for Cross. He reaches into his belt and slides a knife out of its sheath, the silver blade winking in the morning light. His face has been impassive since we got here, but when it’s time for him to slash the flag, I notice his throat dip, the first hint of emotion.

I never understood this tradition. Slicing the flag down the center but stopping short of tearing it in half. It’s supposed to represent resilience or some shit.Damaged yet not destroyed.I remember the General uttering those words during a televised funeral for a colonel from Tin Block. I suppose a few paltry dead soldiers don’t warrant his attention the way a colonel does.

One by one, Cross slashes the navy and white pieces of fabric. The guards’ movements are synchronized as they carefully drape the flags over the caskets again. And that’s it. We’re dismissed.

I want to talk to Cross, but he’s intercepted by various officers. I keep my distance, waiting for him to be free, despite the fact that he glances over his shoulder at one point to pin me with a hard look. We haven’t spoken in two days. He’s kept his distance. I sent him a message on his comm, and he ignored it. He won’t come to my quarters. He won’t let me link with him as Wolf, and he won’t let me talk to him as Cross.

He thinks I knew about the ambush, but I wasn’t lying to him when I insisted I didn’t. For the past two days, I’ve been cursing the Uprising for keeping me in the dark, and the conversation I had with Adrienne about it after we returned to base that night hadn’t done shit to appease me.

“I don’t appreciate being kept out of the loop,”I’d snapped at her.“I’m Elite. I could have—”

“What? You could’ve done what? Made the operation go even smoother than it did? We got what we wanted without you.”

“The plane.”

She neither confirmed nor denied it. “You don’t call the shots. We do. If we had needed you for that mission, you would have been part of the mission. And we didn’t need you, Darlington. In fact, prior knowledge of it might have endangered the whole op.”

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