“How does it feel to finish your first mission?” Craig comes over and plops next to me.

“I always thought I’d be one of the ones storming the place,” he stares at me, expressionless, “In a few years I mean. But scampering on top of buildings while trying to shoot people a hundred yards away was not even on my radar.”

“I hear ya. I thought Marcie was pulling my chain, but you did well enough. Going to have to work on your off-hand pistol accuracy while hanging from a ledge though.”

I shrink a little at the criticism, but realize the ridiculousness of the example he used. “If only I had known that ‘making noise’ meant trying to shoot concrete to the Moon. This must be one of those learn by doing scenarios.” Glance at our team leader’s face, trying to see if he thinks I’m funny, but just nods his head to some invisible beat. “When are we headed to Bishop.”

“Sensible question. Couple days. We fled in a hurry in a direction people saw us leave in. We have to stay low for a few days, then take the interstate at night. We expect to be backup and or an occupying force once we take facilities there. You should get the training you need, and we can get paid.”

I can’t help but laugh at the thought of money right now. I get told what to do, what to eat, and where to sleep; money is barely even in my sights. My laughter may have turned manic by the way everyone is looking at me.

“Sorry folks, not cracking after one mission, I promise. I was just laughing at this is the first time I’ve thought about getting paid since I was selected from the Orphanage. Been with the Organization more than a year and a half. That’s looney right?”

Waller scoffs, “You’ll be chasing credits soon enough. It’s okay to enjoy having a sponsor while you can.”

“I guess, but I feel guilty for staying still too long when I could be eeking out progress toward a better Track.” I grouse and pull out a bar to distract myself. I hear a grunt when I see Grizzly do the same.

“I’d heard they were taking that more seriously this year. Makes you wonder if it’s worth the price for you and your mentor.”

I huff at that. “I mean, I gained ten kilos of muscle and maybe another five in fat, so yah, I think I’m doing alright. Not to mention the extra language, some life skills, relationships and people I can count on.”

“Okay, okay,” Templeton holds his hands up in defense of my word vomit. “I didn’t mean offense.”

“We’re all tired.” Craig says, “Do what you need to do to calm down and get some sleep. We’re here for at least two days.”

I shrug at that and go back to the cubby that is my room to take out the secret device that Marcella smuggled into my pack, a small vehicle’s ansible that connects to the nearest city-sized one, or Vegas, if it’s less than a few hundred miles away. I order a cleaning kit that can service my rifle and pistol and a couple of sandwiches, then head back to the mess area that also doubles as the meeting and office area.

“You know, you can clean those in the morning.” Craig said.

“Yeah, but it will be calming, otherwise I’m just going to picture falling off that building a bunch of times.” He nods and Grizzly puts a hand on my shoulder and tells me to wait a few minutes to get started.

The veteran comes back with a shipping blanket and a toiletry bag full of wire brushes and oil. He throws the blanket over the table and spills his bag of tools out on it. I like the gesture, so I offer him a sandwich. He accepts and begins breaking down his weapons without another word. I follow suit with my rifle first, getting a couple of laughs when I have to hold the rifle with my legs to pull the cleaning cloth through the barrel. Craig joins us at some point and toward the end, Waller comes out with a different bag full of medic tools.

“Hop up on the table when you’re ready old man.”

Tennison and I finish putting our weapons back together, wipe them down, and fold the blanket back so Craig has space to work while Waller lays out some tools that I recognize from when Marcella pulled a slug out of my back. Except this was a different breed of human. The Vet eats the sandwich I gave him as she jabs the grippy clamps into his thigh. I was hollering and yelling by now, face down on a table. He’s just eating a damn sandwich. I shake my head in disbelief and cart my weapons back to my room, hopefully to get some sleep.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

***

After the last deal was sabotaged, five thousand credits of cocaine missing, I had to let go of my last security team—scrapped the whole crew in the end. The resultant fiasco with the buyer left me ten thousand in the hole as the buyer decided to renegotiate on the spot, knowing I couldn’t find another buyer quickly enough to satisfy the Central American suppliers. It also meant that those buyers wanted nothing to do with me anymore.

Losing money, especially that much, hurts. What hurts more is not knowing how the drugs went missing. None of the boys admitted to seeing anything, which leaves a bunch of liars or the person that came after the kid took some of the drugs. Then, that little shit defies me in front of the program instructors, who ended backing her up! I’ll figure out a suitable punishment for those should-be-retired killers after I fit Novarro for a casket. I wish I could get rid of Fontaine as simply. People inside Warram have been trying to get her away from the Boss or dead for a few years now. The Boss respects her though, making it difficult collude against her and not sign your own death warrant.

“Guillermo, what news from L.A.?” The only person in the same room as me at the moment.

“It’s not L.A., sir, the Irvine settlement wants the shipment of ketamine and ‘E’ to help control their population. Needs as many units as we can get them, even willing to pay retail.” The tone in his voice is uncertain, as though problems are following me. Knowing that any business tied to that region comes with threats of reprisal for broken promises. Only the desperate deal with Southern California—to bad that describes my situation.

“Did you find out where Fontaine took the kid?”

“She checked into her suite the night you called at the interrogation facility. Rumor has her and the kid in Primm on a special mission with Harlow’s team,” the info man says as he taps away at his interface.

“Mm, must have been the lab that exploded in the hills. I’ve heard some whispers that one of our cars was seen out in Barstow?”

“Uh, yeah. It was checked out to someone that leads to Miss Fontaine. She might be sniffing around, but other than the car, we haven’t seen any other activity.”

“FUCK! We can’t pull out of this deal this late. The Valley thugs will come out and make that town New Valley.” What are the chances that the reason she’s in Barstow has nothing to do with me?

***

My Mentor has me seeing clients that he’s decided only need someone to talk to. I’ve been listening to mostly young men talk about being bullied and how hard it is to change from being important at their shelter/halfway/orphanage to being harassed—or so they say. Kimber has been through so much more than they have, and their complaints and sob stories remind me of how little she complained.

I’m advancing, of course, even just suggesting lines of thought, coping and processing mechanisms and walking them through step by step is helping me get better. Mr. Lambert is proud of my progress, and I think what I will be doing when I get real clients will be important, but a month without a piece of my heart and the shallow issues that my clients have are wearing on me.

When Marcella told me I had to move out it affected me more than I thought it would. Moving away from the sights and smells that I associate with Kimber was the last bit of crying I had in me—which has oddly helped me stay unaffected for sessions.

I only feel as though I have a few clients that actually need my help. Marcus is surprisingly one of them. He had more problems that stemmed pre-orphanage, but I didn’t see the effects because I was dealing with the grubs, I mean . . . damn it Kimber. He’s been dealing with VIP protection training and his inability to connect with people due to his home situation before his parents were killed in Vegas.

In times of strife, historically, cliques and often racism reinforces itself. In the Warlord Period, this was especially apparent as oppressed people could gain power with the new system, and they did not wield it for peace. Marcus’ family was one of the costs of handing power to everyone, in his eyes their attackers gunned them down for the experience. While many children in our age group have similar tales where their parents were literally sacrificed for someone’s advancement, Marcus took it harder because in his mind, if he’d have tried harder to stay in Oklahoma--where they had stopped for a few weeks for provisions and information gathering--his parents would still be alive.

I’ve come to believe that his problem stems from the kind of people he is being assigned to are similar to the people that would have been killing people to progress and when he starts to feel himself forming a connection with them, guilt and anger force him to shut it all down. My way forward seems less clear, however.

Helping him trust again will be important for his future development, though I’m leaning toward helping him trust in himself and those close to him to protect those he cares about—the few connections he’s made anyway. I need to clear that with Mr. Lambert as well as the idea to trust in the training to help him establish professional boundaries and begin separating his trust issues from his work life. I don’t think we can work through this much before the decision point in two months, but if we make enough headway, Marcus should be able to keep his job instead of being relegated to for-hire protection that Kimber would call thugs and goons are famous for.