Page 38 of Ravens
I start talking, parroting some of what he said but not everything. He nods along with my words as I follow him in the direction of the camp. Once he’s satisfied, he starts talking about disarming basic bombs, tools, and where to find supplies easily. It’s a crash course, essentially, but I don’t think he realizes it. He’s just talking about what’s interesting to him, and I’m absorbing it all like a sponge.
I can’t imagine when I’d ever need to build a bomb, but with the way my life is currently going, it’s more likely than not to come up at this point, so I listen carefully. When he winds down and falls into silence, I change the subject.
“How do you all know each other?”
“Work.” He shrugs.
“Obviously.”
“The more interesting question is howyouknow York.”
“Yes, and it’s an interesting story too . . . but just like you, I have no intention of sharing.”
“I’m not being dodgy.” He looks over his shoulder. “We met through work. There is nothing to tell.”
“Through service, or this work? Because I can run the timetables in my head for the conflicts you all would have participated in and the likelihood of whether you would have crossed paths, and in the off chance that you did, it wouldn’t have been a significant enough crossing to have formed a relationship worthyof pulling you into these miserable fucking woods at this time of year.”
His brows shoot up, and he stops in his tracks. “You can run the timetables?”
“I’m well-read and versed in this country’s major conflicts, yes . . .,” I lie easily, but I went a bit too Rain Man on that one.
I also know all the army regiments, the location of every American base—home and abroad—and which regiments participated in which conflict since the Afghan War started, to say nothing of which allies were involved and when. These guys didn’t meet while serving. They met as spies, and I can’t figure out how two Americans and a Brit came together in this world, let alone an unhinged independent like August, although I think he may really have served with William.
This just isn’t a world where you have real friends; it’s too much of a liability. Spies work alone, generally keep their identities well-concealed, and if they do have contacts in the network, they’d never meet in person, at least not like this.
The only thing that makes sense is that none of this makes sense, which means none of them are who they say they are, and that’s the most believable part of any of this. The only way I can confirm any of it is if I can get my hands on a computer, but it’s hard enough getting a phone.
“I bet you get told that you think too loud.”
“It has been said.” I pick my way around a minefield of slick, moss-covered stones and continue on.
So, what do a demolitions expert, a marksman, and a British spy have in common? William kept talking about patriotism. I’m not sure what August really is . . . a consultant? Maybe.
I take a deep breath and push on with the swish of Carter’s jacket still at my back. This is why I didn’t want to meet these people and see their faces. I’m not going to be able to let this go until I flesh it out and understand. It’s going to haunt me.
York is leaning against a tree, glaring again when I get back. He doesn’t say anything or approach me; he just watches from afar, and I can’t imagine what I’ve done now. He knew I was going with Carter. Maybe he’s just pissed about the explosion.
Twenty
The rest of the afternoon wears on, and a couple of the guys rest, while the others clean weapons or wander out on patrol. By nightfall, I just want to get the hell out of here and away from these people. Nothing feels right.
York passes me a flask. “Drink?”
I take a swig and then cover my mouth and cough before passing it back to him. Disgusting.
The heat of the fire makes me lean in, and Carter starts talking about some woman he has back home, which is one hundred percent fabricated, but everyone listens with interest anyway. These guys tell make-believe stories about their lives around the fire the way normal people tell ghost stories.
My gaze shifts around the fire casually, always coming back to York. Carter is lying down, propped up on an elbow beside William, who’s sitting on his coat with his legs stretched out. The rest of us are on damp logs. York and William both havetheir rifles on the ground at their sides, and I can’t see a weapon near Carter or August, not that that means anything.
Across from me, August’s eyes meet mine often. There is no love lost there. I’m still not sure if he had meant to hit me with the knife or not. Either way, I still wish he was dead.
Beyond him, the brush at the edge of the camp shifts, and my eyes stray to it. A shadow of fur comes just into sight and shifts away again. Discreetly, I slide my hand up under the back of my jacket.
I’m not sure how to play this. I can hope this thing barrels right for us, taking everyone by surprise and August from behind. Maybe it mauls him, maybe it doesn’t, and maybe someone else shoots it first. Tripoli can be surprised, scared, brought to tears by anxiety . . . There are many cards I can play. I could also make a run for it in the chaos.
There are no guarantees though.
And what would happen if I didn’t get away? What happens if one of them catches me? There would definitely be consequences. To say nothing of getting lost out here. The nights are cold, and the weather is shit. I wouldn’t make it long without food or shelter.
