Page 56 of Ravens
“Fun.” He spins around in his chair and grabs a small black box off the desk. His face is blank as he stands and turns the little unit on.
August still isn’t on my Christmas card list. Out of all of them, he is the hardest to discern and gather background on. They all have impeccable American accents that are regionally unique, but his is the least unique. There are no defining physical qualities about him that suggest anything remotely helpful, at least not that I can see. Either there is really nothing to tell here, or he’s the best fucking spy of all of them.
He waves the unit over me slowly, moving from my head to my feet and then asking me to turn around.
The whole knife bit in the woods still puts me on edge. When William shot me, at least I know he intended to shoot me . . . With August, I have no idea if the knife was just a game, a warning, or if he fucking missed and really wanted to skewer me.
“You are clean.”
There is a quiet clicking as he turns the device off, and I turn back around. “You guys got anything to drink here?”
“Do we ever.” He sets the device down and brushes past me in the doorway.
***
I sit at the large wooden table in the dining room as August pulls bottles out of a hutch and sets them on the table.
“We also have beer and . . . wine, I think.”
“What’s this?” Carter asks, coming in with a smile. “Drinking game?”
“Just drinking.” I reach across the table and spin a few bottles around.
“Good enough for me.”
He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a few glasses and sets them on the table. When he yells for the others, I cringe internally, but it could be an opportunity.
August pulls out a chair as William enters, pausing in the doorway for a moment before joining us. York is the last to arrive, and we don’t even look at each other as he takes his seat.
I understand why he’s aloof with me around the others, but it makes me feel insecure, which is confusing because . . . I’ve known him for like a week. It’s not as if we’re together-together. But being more or less ignored when what I really want is a hug is just going to make me drink more.
Out of all the options on the table, I grab the vodka. I’m not one who usually takes shots, but I sure as hell am not shooting tequila or whiskey.
I pour myself a shot and then stare at the glass.
“What are we drinking to?” York grabs the whiskey and pours himself a drink.
“With any luck . . . oblivion,” I say, grabbing my glass and tossing back the clear liquid. It makes me recoil and grimace.
“Hang the hell on,” Carter says as he splashes some vodka into his own glass and shoots it. “I hate falling behind.”
Taking the bottle from him, I pour myself another and then sit back and stare at it again.
“Come on, Tripoli, hurry up,” William drawls in his practiced Texan accent. “The faster you get fucked up, the faster we can get the truth out of you.”
“Truth,” I snort. “As if you all aren’t hiding a million things yourselves . . . You don’t see me bitching about it.” I take the shot. “Then again, I don’t have to.”
York sips his drink as usual. “What does that mean?”
“You’re all walking puzzles, dropping pieces all the time for me to pick up and fit together . . . The only thing I lack clarity on now is the big picture, but I’ll get there, I’m sure.”
“We haven’t told you anything of consequence.” August rolls a full shot glass between his palms carefully.
“Well,youhaven’t, but again, I’m getting there.”
“Oh, yeah?” He picks up the glass and downs it. “Try me.”
“Okay.” I sit cross-legged on the chair as I survey him. “You’re a sociopath, diagnosed likely, but that would have been buried deep, I imagine. I think the story about Afghanistan is true, or something similar to it, but I don’t think it cracked you. I’d go so far as to say you did it on purpose and killed a few combatants in the process that you never received credit for. The real question is, did you take any trophies?”
