Page 130 of Severed Heart
“You’re cutting it close, Jennings. Any particular reason why you haven’t sipped an umbrella drink or taken any leave since you started?”
“I’m ambitious.”
“Orsuicidal,” he counters, scouring my person.
“Frankly, sir, if I wanted that fate, we wouldn’t be talking.”
He opens the file and points to a mission name that I glance at—Adobe. “How in the fuck did you get out of this?”
“You want a play-by-play?” I ask with zero condescension in my tone.
“Actually, I would,” he replies, brows drawing further into a V, which I consider a compliment, knowing the intrinsic, highly complicated nature of the orders he doles out to the others in the GRS. “Have a seat.”
I toss my ball cap on the edge of his desk and take the offered chair as I scan our surroundings. Though my interest is becoming piqued, I know better than to question why he’s chosen a temporary office in a shipping warehouse in downtown New York. Much like my own club, theirs is just as tight-lipped in providing answers.
“The long and the short of it is,” I start, and damn near laugh at my explanation, “have you ever heard of Anvil and Hammer?”
“Get the fuck out of here,” he says, scrutinizing the paper in front of him.
“With twenty-four coming in arrogant and overconfident, I already had our teams split into right and left flank positions to crowd them. So, we let them gain some ground before cutting their number in half and rushing them before we dropped it.”
“Jesus Christ, Jennings.” He gapes at me. “Are you fucking telling me you used a tactic frombefore Christto survive this?”
I shrug. “Worked for Alexander the Great.”
“How in the fuck did you think of that?”
A French mastermind. One I’m getting more desperate to thank personally after each completed mission. It takes me a few seconds to answer, but I manage to get through his extensive questions while leaving said mastermind out of it. I want to tell her myself. Some day. Maybe a day in the near future because the more missions I carry out, the more it becomes obvious that she’s owed, at the very least, a thank you.
“Look,” he finally says, “as helpful as you’ve been, we’re starting to close shops all over due to the increasing risk. At this point, we have a growing need to utilize minds just like yours in station.”
I blink at his suggestion. “You mean re-enlist?”
“Reserves, but with a specific job in mind. I can guarantee your time card will be punched for the stint you’ve put in with me, and”—he pauses for emphasis—“it will count, Jennings. You’ll go in high on the scoreboard as gunnery sergeant with the deserved pay increase.”
Home. He wants to send me home. Or at least, back to—“North Carolina?” I ask.
“Greensboro. Any objections to that? You will work with outside intelligence via satellite while attending to your responsibilities on base. In addition, your reserve contract will be drawn up on your terms.”
Home. Or closer to home, and after months of minimum contact, I have no idea what’s happening there. Even between jobs, I’ve rarely checked in with Mom. Mostly to keep hard-wired in my missions in lieu of what’s happening, which would only distract me. Now I have that chance. The thought of seeing it through—of going home—has my pulse pounding. For one reason alone—tothankher and selfishly lay eyes on her.
It’s as I stare back at Phillip, his offer lingering in the air, I realize I’ve done all I need to. I’ve been postponing the inevitable. I’ve done my service and beyond. I can quit now, walk away, and consider my time well spent, or take him up on his offer and again exceed my own expectations with a higher clearance to finish my investigation. It’s too good to pass up.
“Before you make your decision,” Phillip interjects with caution, “I’m going to add the caveat of a favor. One of a more personal nature.”
“Of course you are.” I blow out a long breath.
“You’ll get to cherry-pick your team. But if you carry this out for me—successfully—I will owe you.”
“Owe me what?”
“A significant favor. No questions asked. If it’s within my power, I will get it done, and as you’re aware, there’s very little I can deny you.”
“Make ittwofavors,” I say, “no questions asked. And I need a little desk help on something I’ve been working on that has nothing to do with either significant favor you’ll owe me.”
I give him a pointed look. In return, I’m granted his unimpressed stare. “Quite the barterer.”
“That’s what my father tells me.”
