John Hastings twisted the tap. Cold water roared into the basin. He tugged the brim of his cap lower, swallowed the bile rising in his throat.
"Right. Open the file, please."
"Can I rip the bloody sensor off now?"
"Pay attention. This is everything we have on 'Hassan.'"
He shoved trembling hands under the stream, rubbing at nothing in particular. The scabs had come away days ago; the new skin felt thin as wet paper, ready to tear at a touch.
"Turn to page two. Hassan Sabah, CAT II. Hired as a civilian contractor in 2029, joined Grey Horse the following year. KIA in the Indo-Pacific theater, 2031."
"The device that killed him was a pressure-triggered IED under the driver's seat. Before he bled out he handed you a photograph—possibly of his daughter. Am I correct?"
"Your mind's playing tricks on you, Captain. Severe PTSD. You're tangled up with ghosts."
"You're fishing."
"Admit it, Captain. You'll have plenty more episodes like this. This is only one of them."
His knuckles locked. He could feel the grit in every joint, the familiar hypoxia from a racing heart. John braced both palms on the marble counter, breathing slow and hard beneath the shadow of his cap.
"So the polygraph says I'm inventing all this, does it?"
"No, of course not. Most of what you said is technically true."
"Then why question me?"
"Because far worse than lying is when your brain has accepted a false memory as gospel truth—and believes it absolutely."
"You faked these documents. You're trying to gaslight me."
"Very well, Captain. Take them. Read them again when you're alone. I'm only trying to help you through this… John Hastings, you must accept the treatment we're offering."
He bent over the sink, splashed his face, attempting to rinse the noise from his skull. No one was behind him, yet every muscle stayed coiled.
When he straightened, he met his own eyes in the mirror. Blood-red, exhausted.
A yellow-and-black shemagh was knotted around a stubbled jaw. Camo paint still streaked his cheeks; dust clung to furrowed brows. Tactical headphones sat over the cap.
He raised his right fist and smashed the glass.
In the spider-webbed ruin he saw two fractured men, edges misaligned. A bead of blood ran down the centre of John Hastings' forehead.
One half exiled among the living, one half doing life in hell.
"Who pays the bill for the dead, John?"
He spoke to the broken reflection.
"You know the price of every man you lost, yet you haven't got six lives to give."
He dropped his gaze, pressed the dog tags against his chest.
"This is your reckoning, John."
All that fire in his youth, thinking he could change something. For "freedom," half a lifetime wasted in someone else's war, hollowed out by hate and guilt. The only inheritance left was memory… and now even that had turned hostile.
Cold crawled under his skin like needles. He shut off the tap, stood a moment longer among the growing electronic whine and the shards.
Then the old slider phone on the counter buzzed to life.
Manhattan area code.
Daniel Murphy.
"You there, Captain?"
City horns bled through the earpiece.
"John—tell me where to find you."
Southeast New York, Catskill Mountains, County Route 47.
A white Chevrolet Camaro thundered past, kicking up red-gold leaves in twin roostertails off the rear tires.
The man behind the wheel wore half-rim glasses; wind tore through his wavy, sun-bleached hair and revealed a raw, fresh scar that cut through his patchy three-day scruff. He took the next bend hard, sunlight flickering off the Esopus Creek. Maples and birches blurred past the window frame; the ridgeline rose sharp and green against the sky.
He lit a cigarette one-handed, exhaled toward the open window. Spotting the matte-black Challenger Hellcat Redeye parked on the verge, he eased off the throttle, pulled in behind it, and killed the engine.
He zipped his khaki field jacket, tugged up his jeans, set a weathered Stetson on his head, and stepped out.
The owner of the Dodge was prone in the grass twenty metres downslope, elbows dug in, a Remington 700 5R resting on a Harris bipod. The rifle wore a Nightforce optic and a fat can the size of a Red Bull.
The newcomer tipped his hat lower, hands in pockets, and ambled down the meadow. Grass rustled. The shooter's support-hand thumb twitched—he'd heard the footsteps—but his eye never left the glass.
The visitor dropped cross-legged beside him, leaned back on his palms, and picked up the spotting scope like he owned the place.
"Little unsporting to hunt ducks with that cannon, Johnny."
John Hastings flicked the safety off, voice low and gravel-rough with that faint, clipped British edge.
"Tell me where the target is, Murphy."
Daniel clamped the cigarette between his lips, grin climbing one side of his face. He racked the focus, sweeping the far treeline.
"Nothing but trees and rocks. Which bloody sparrow we killing today?"
John said nothing. He traversed left, exhaled half a breath, and pressed the trigger.
The Remington barked, brake flashing white. The stock kicked solidly into his shoulder.
Daniel spun the spotting scope west. Three-quarters of a second later a yellow powder cloud erupted across the creek, dead centre on a stump.
"Fuck me."
Another metallic clack as John cycled the bolt. Daniel shook his head, laughing despite himself.
Hot brass tinkled into the grass.
"You've got one more, spotter," John said, finger indexed along the trigger guard. "Find it."
Daniel killed the grin, cheek-welded the scope, searching.
"You're a right bastard when—"
Crack.
The second yellow bloom burst exactly on the mil-dot John had called.
He worked the bolt once more, gathered the two warm cases, then sat up, cradling the still-ticking-hot rifle across his chest. Daniel handed back the spotting scope.
"You're getting rusty, Daniel."
"Like hell. You set the targets yourself, you cheating bastard."
John gave a tired half-smile, pulled an eight-point cap from his jacket pocket, and settled it over his hair.
"Climbed Mount Hunter since then and half forgot… maybe a trace memory left. So I had a few pulls of vodka—mostly forgot again."
He offered a battered stainless flask. Daniel took a swig and nearly coughed his lungs out.
"Christ, that's paint thinner."
"Vodka. Warms you up."
John capped it, stood, slung the Remington. Daniel crushed his cigarette under a boot heel and fell in step.
"Where to now, Captain?"
John started up the slope, gait slightly uneven, voice quiet against the wind.
"Come on back to the cabin. I'll put the kettle on for a proper afternoon brew."