Page 30 of Exit Strategy

“Yes, economic reasons. I spent six years in the Royal Marines, and I’ve seen the ugliest parts of the world and some of the worst of humanity. Now, I am a freelance contractor who seems to be incapable of making decisions in my own self-interest. By every right and drop of common sense, I should not have stepped between one of the most powerful men in Hollywood and his wife, regardless of how hard he was beating her. Even if he pulled out a gun and blew her head off, I should have stayed where I was until I was tapped to act. That was literally my job. Instead, I choked Rex out and dumped him on his own thousand-dollar glass coffee table and fled the state with his wife.”

“What is she to you? Have you been intimate with her?”

“You are just seriously looking for a place to stick a knife, aren’t you?”

“I have plenty of reasons,” she said.

“After seeing this place, I think I understand,” I said. “But I would appreciate it if you put the verbal knives away. I think I’ve been chivalrous to a fault, and I am beholden to none of the American sins.”

“What are the American sins?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Slavery, genocide, resource exploitation, international adventurism, military support of oil? There are the Hollywood sins – sexualizing children, human trafficking, drug abuse. There is literally a laundry list. That doesn’t even touch wanker shite like the cults of personality like New Eden, that does shite like groom teenage girls to be sold off to their elite celebrity backers, and God knows what that place does away from the eyes of media.”

“Are you going to do something about that?” she asked. I thought a moment about that, hesitating before I answered, but I already knew what the answer was.

“In all likelihood, yes. Not by my choice. They will come to retake their perceived property and it is my intent that they draw back a bloody fucking stump, or nothing at all.”

“That is an answer I approve of.”

“Finally,” I said.

“You should probably get in contact with Fallout. They would likelyloveto get interviews with Calanthe, get the inside word about the New Eden cult out.”

“That is a good idea, but right now, we need to make sure she doesn’t die, or when she wakes up, she can talk, doesn’t drool, doesn’t drag a foot or have to wear diapers.” The doc gave me a harsh expression.

“Are you questioning my abilities as a doctor?”

“Fuck, no. I’ve seen enough head wounds and veterans with lingering trauma.” I held up a hand. “That concern has literally nothing to do with you or your abilities as a doctor.”

“I’ve had enough people question me and my credentials,” she said. Lord, the proverbial chip on this woman’s shoulder was the size of a boulder.

“Doctor, have you ever worked with the Veterans Administration, have you treated combat wounds? Battlefield triage?” She shook her head no. “It’s nothing like this. It’s chaos and screaming, and blood, and if you’re close enough to the front, you can hear the fighting still going on as you watch medics trying to put blood back in a kid faster than he can bleed it out. Mazar-i-Sharif, Marjah, Kandahar, it was a goddamn mess. Afghans killing Americans with weapons they were given to fight the Soviets decades ago. So I’ve seen more horror than you would care to see. Please take care of my friend, and we will leave as soon as we can, but not before you say it’s safe to go.”

I could feel my pulse thundering in my ears, and I left the doc’s office as quickly as I could without running. Was it reliving the memories, was it how similar this part of the U.S. was to being in-country? Was there something about her, her dark hair and angry voice? I could feel the weight of the flak jacket on my shoulders again, the heft of the rifle in its sling, the heat pressed against my skin because there was nowhere for it to go. My sinuses were full of dust again; my eyes stung with it.

Fuck this place.

I thought I would enjoy seeing parts of the country that I had only seen on television, and cinema, but it was completely different than what I had wanted, had wished it to be. I looked up at the mountains to the north and there was no difference – the color of the rock, the rainbow sunset, the vast miserable emptiness.

The outpost of the reservation was a deeply depressing place and it seemed we weren’t going anywhere for a while, so I had time. Given the layout of the land threats would be visible for miles away, and unless New Eden had attack helicopters and GPS coordinates, there was no way they could surprise me. It was time for some self-care, as the Centre called it. Except that it was my self-care, and not that meditate on a leaf or a clear-blue wave shite. No, it was a bottle of cheap whiskey and my gun cleaning kit.

I dropped the tailgate on the truck, and one by one went through my collection of weapons. Each weapon was broken down, cleaned, meticulously oiled, and reassembled. Each pistol was given special attention. Some were well used, including the 1911 I had carried as a sidearm all the way through Afghanistan.

The captain had given it to me the first night we were on the same patrol. He would probably be pissed when he found out how I fucked up the job with Rex and the New Eden Centre. He was the one who had gotten me an in. Did he know what they did? Surely, he couldn’t have known. If I survived this mess and ever got to talk to him again, I would have to ask.

I sighed and drank more of the cheap stuff.

It was working. The stress was leaking out of me, and I felt something akin to normalcy creep over me, but it wasn’t the calm and casual cool I was used to. No, it was the nerved-up always watching, bordering on paranoid normalcy that had kept me alive through years in the Afghan mountains. I reached up and scratched at my chin; it had been too long since I shaved. In-country I had let my hair grow long and my beard grow out. It was just easier, and it made us stand out less among the locals. To them, beards had something of a social standing and meaning.

“She’s going to be okay, you know,” the doc said. “And I want to apologize,” she said, holding her hands up and taking a few steps back. I slid the 1911 back into its holster on my hip and gave a nod.

“Apology accepted. Sorry about pulling down on you,” I said.

“You really were over there,” she said.

“Yes.”

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