Page 57 of Ravens
I look around the table at the others momentarily and then continue. “Your computer skills are probably self-taught, and you sound nondescript, very generic in speech, which makes me wonder if you learned your accent from television. Thatmakes sense though, because you lack the people skills to be immersed here the way these other two clearly have been. So, I’d bet you’ve been in the country for maybe a few weeks to a month and don’t live here. No fucking government has you on their payroll, at least not above board, but more likely these guys have subcontracted you, and it’s not the first time, because I think you and William legitimately know each other from serving together.”
“How Sherlock Holmes of you,” August says dryly and pours another drink.
“I envy your sociopathy,” I clarify. “If I had that superpower, I wouldn’t be at this table right now.”
“How do you figure?”
I shrug. “I’d have killed you all in the fucking woods like a sane person would have, and I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, the way a crazy person wouldn’t.”
August nods knowingly in my periphery as the others stare at me.
The truth is, if I was a sociopath, I’d have dominated in my job so much more. I’d be an even better actress. I’d be ruthless in the pursuit of my goals, and I certainly wouldn’t form any compromising emotional attachments like I’ve done now.
“William,” I begin without looking at him, “is an arrogant asshole, but he isn’t delusional, so I assume he comes by it honestly. I bet if I dug around I’d find his name or some variation of it on some impressive list or record like ‘Longest Kill Shot,’ although it wouldn’t be on that list exactly, becausethose kills are in real time, and the shooters don’t advertise their identity . . . so, I’d say he has the third or fourth longest ‘kill shot’”—I use air quotes just to be an asshole—“on record in competition, and he mentions it from time to time, which annoys people. I bet his name is recorded as Billy or some shit too, because somehow, he thought it was clever.”
The thing is, I know for a fact there is a Bill Brown on that competition list, and his nickname is Bottlecap. I’d bet money it was a tongue-in-cheek move, and Bottlecap is William’s fucking code name. William is arrogant enough to think no one could ever put it together.
York covers his smile by palming his face and leaning on the table, which pulls my attention to him.
“And I bet you joined as soon as you were old enough, likely due to a lack of options.David Crossley, code name York,” I mutter and take a deep breath. “You came up in an airborne regiment, did two combat tours, maybe more, and I’m guessing you have a medal or two from those times that you don’t acknowledge and have lost at the bottom of a drawer somewhere because you don’t agree with recognition for ‘doing your job.’ You see them as participation trophies.” I pour another drink. “You were recruited by the government fairly young intothispart of your life and knew at a young age that you never wanted children or a family of any kind.”
His face doesn’t give anything away as my eyes drop to my glass, and my body warms as the alcohol reaches my veins. Myhead buzzes slightly, just enough to quiet my natural impulses, and I relax a bit into my chair.
“So, what’s the deal with all that?” Carter asks, taking another shot himself. “Are you on the spectrum or something?”
“Severe obsessive-compulsive disorder that is triggered every time I meet a new person.” I cross my arms. “As soon as I get a face and a name . . . I have to flesh out the whole picture, or I’ll go fucking insane.” I rub my warming cheeks.
“Don’t you meet new people all the time given your . . . job?” Carter asks.
“Yes, which is why I’m so good at it and always hovering on the edge of insanity.” I smile and sip from my glass, rather than shooting it. “There is stuff I still don’t know about you all that I could fix with a computer, and it makes my brain itch not knowing . . . but I’ll find out.”
“Where does it end?” August asks with a sense of fascination. “When does the impulse to learn die?”
“Mm.” I tilt my head. “When I find the next of kin, usually . . . Addresses.”
Carter leans back and crosses his arms. “That’s fucked up.”
“Says the guy with how many kills under his belt?”
The table falls silent, and I take a deep breath as I scan each of them. Being kept in the dark is difficult for me when I thrive on information and use it to build my ability to predict people. What I think I know of these men has not been confirmed or denied, which also makes it difficult. They are cagey around me, though, which makes me think that what I’m looking at rightnow is my jury, and they’re split. Looking at them now, I don’t think York has the sole power to decide if I live or not.
I’m choosing to believe York is on my side, but that could be extremely naive. William is against me, and while I thought Carter was leaning in my favor, this conversation might have tilted him the other way. August is the opposite; he was leaning toward getting rid of me, but now I think he has a new appreciation . . . but I’m up the creek either way because they’ll never come to a consensus.
“Okay,” William pipes up and leans into the table. “Our turn.” He pushes his glass back, and I raise a brow at him.
“You’re alone,” August says. “For a while now, I’d guess. No family.”
“I don’t think you lied about being recruited out of college,” Carter adds. “But based on what we know of the Raven program now, you aren’t a civilian, although I can’t figure out where or who the Ravens trained with.”
“You never formally served,” York adds, “and whether you have a body count or not is very hard to determine, but I’m leaning toward at least one, although it may have been unintentional.”
“Your OCD is just the tip of the iceberg and more likely than not, a red herring to cover up who the fuck knows what.” William glares and then shoots his drink.
Not bad. Although, no, I haven’t killed anyone, and the OCD is real, but it isn’t the whole picture. I am alone with no family left to speak of, and I was recruited from collegejust not for Raven. I was recruited by Central Intelligence, like every Raven. We were hand-selected for the Raven program on graduation, and the program was still actively recruiting until all this shit went down with Babylon.
“Not bad.” I nod. “The ifs and buts drive you crazy, though, don’t they?” Smiling, I finish off my drink and slide the glass away. Four shots are a lot for me. “Well, boys, this was fun. When the vote comes in and youdodecide to kill me, don’t wake me up for it.”
I slap my hands on the table and push myself up. A vote is a pretty generous assumption. It’s more likely that there won’t be one and one of them will just decide what’s best unilaterally. That’s what I would do if our roles were reversed . . . not that I’m going to take it lying down, as I inferred.
