"Bloody hell, do you Brits lose your legs the second you smell a decent cup of tea?"
Daniel Murphy pinched the delicate handle of the porcelain cup between two calloused fingers and took a wary sip of the steaming Darjeeling. The air was thick as soup; the vapour beaded on the jagged shrapnel scar that ran down the right side of his face and itched like fire ants.
"And what in the hell are these sorry little rocks, John?"
He flicked one of the scones with open disgust.
John lifted the pan lid and said nothing.
Daniel's nose twitched. "Now that's a smell sent straight from heaven. Tell me you're fryin' proper fries, chef.My heart's doin' cartwheels."
He threw his hands wide and slumped back into the ancient chair they'd rescued from some dusty second-hand barn.
Turning to the big picture window, he watched amber dusk spill across the birch ridges, turning Esopus Creek into a vein of molten sapphire.
"What this view wants is an ice-cold Corona, hoss—not some fancy-pants hill-country tea. Let's drink like men."
He glanced toward the sizzling kitchen, shoved the plate of suffocating scones aside, and planted his boots square on the table like he owned the county.
John Hasting's broad back was turned, lats and biceps straining that grey T-shirt in a way that made Daniel quietly furious with God's sense of humour. The man could've had half the women in Manhattan eating out of his hand and still hadn't bothered. Modern-day saint with a jaw you could crack walnuts on. Bloody noble.
"I'll get 'em myself."
Daniel set the teacup down with a clink, stood, yanked open the fridge, and pulled two long-necks from the top shelf. Dropped back into his seat, popped both caps off the table edge—crack-crack.
John turned, brow creasing like gathering storm clouds over the South Downs.
"Do that once more and you're buying me a new table, cowboy."
Daniel grinned wide enough to show every crooked tooth. "Free antique finishin', courtesy of Murphy Custom Woodworkin'. I'll drink your beer and wreck your furniture—call it a package deal."
John set down the charred spatula, scooped golden chips with a slotted spoon, drained them on paper, dusted them with salt and pepper.
"Where's my ketchup, chef?" Daniel drawled in a put-on posh voice, then took another long pull of Corona, letting the bitter fizz burn just right.
"Malt vinegar, Daniel."
John's reply came crisp and final, cut-glass accent.
Daniel narrowed his eyes. "Not everybody's tongue is as twisted as yours, Limey."
John sat opposite, slid the vinegar forward.
"Have a try."
Daniel exhaled like a bull. "I'd sooner dip these fries in motor oil than that damn vinegar."
He did worse—dunked one straight into his beer. Oil slicked the surface, the chip turned to mush, and Daniel ate it anyway while John watched in horrified fascination.
"Well done," John said drily. "You've managed to ruin two perfectly good things in one idiotic motion, you daft bastard."
He snatched Daniel's second opened Corona and started eating the vinegar-dipped chips himself.
"Aw, quit your whinin', John. You ain't Gordon fuckin' Ramsay and this sure as hell ain't Hell's Kitchen."
Daniel nearly choked laughing at the flash of pure English indignation. He reached out deliberately and clinked bottles just to watch John bristle.
For the next couple of minutes they sat boots-on-table, chewing in silence. The chips vanished. The scones sat untouched like museum exhibits.
"Say somethin', John."
Daniel leaned forward on his elbows. John swallowed, rinsed with beer, and turned.
"I heard you've taken up dentistry, Murphy."
Daniel snorted Corona through his nose, slapped a napkin over his face as foam erupted everywhere.
"Come again?"
"Dentistry."
"You reckon this face belongs in a dental surgery?" He jabbed a thumb at the scar that carved down into the gap where his beard refused to grow.
"One wears a mask."
"No—no—no, pump the damn brakes, partner. I'd get cast as the psycho dentist in a horror flick before I ever leaned over some poor bastard with a drill."
"Playing the Tooth Fairy would be considerably more challenging than practising dentistry. The two aren't comparable."
"What in the Sam Hill is wrong with you today, John?"
Daniel hooked a thumb under his top lip and bared a canine the colour of ancient bone.
"Only way I'm linked to teeth is as the 'before' picture on a whitening poster. You get me?"
John lifted an eyebrow in theatrical alarm, then let out a short, deeply unkind laugh.
"Do you gargle with warm cheese sauce?"
"How many times did I drag your posh British ass outta the fire, huh? And now you're takin' the piss?"
"Spare me the histrionics, Murphy."
"Let me spell it out—I can tie a tourniquet in a sandstorm, but I don't know jack shit about sterilising gums. If some poor sod woke up under the lamp and saw this mug, they'd think they'd been kidnapped by a lunatic."
"It's not that dreadful, Murphy. Rather rugged, actually."
"Piss off, John."
Daniel slammed back the rest of his beer, thumped the half-empty bottle down hard enough for foam to splash John's knuckles.
He paused, then asked, dead serious, "You meant that? The rugged part?"
"Possibly."
"What kind of answer is 'possibly'?"
"Character counts for more than surface, Daniel. Don't be shallow."
"Piss off, John."
Murphy drained the bottle in one defiant swallow and belched long and proud.
"So what're you doin' these days, Daniel?"
John set his bottle down, eyes steady on the scarred man scratching at his jaw.
"Why the hell should I tell you?"
"Because I used to be your captain, Murphy."
Daniel rolled his eyes so hard the Catskills probably felt it. "Fine, Captain Buzzkill. Bought me a spread outside Tulsa. Runnin' cattle, makin' money hand over fist. Bet that just eats you up inside."
"Looks like you're the one who landed on his feet, then."
"Depends. How much did they give you?"
John gave a thin, humourless smile. "Enough that I'd have to invest foolishly to ever see the bottom of it."
"And the medals?"
"Sold them."
"You're jokin'."
"It wasn't my blood on the ground. No honour worth keeping. The truth's still miles away, Murphy. That job wasn't bad luck."
Daniel's grin died.
"You really believe that?"
"The task force was penetrated. Only explanation that fits."
"But it's finished. Follow-on units avenged the lads, wiped those bastards out—"
John shook his head once, sharp. He unlocked his phone, laid it flat on the table, and pressed play.
"—Gray-1, run! Run! Run!"
The broken helmet-cam audio hit Daniel like a gut punch.
"—RPG! We're hit! Tail rotor gone—tail rotor gone!"
The black helo took the hit, fire blooming, spinning down through blinding dust, blades shearing the suspension bridge on the way to the ground.
"Sweet mother of God, John…"
Daniel rubbed his forehead, breathing hard.
"Those weren't dumb rockets. IR seeker with laser riding shotgun, maybe GPS mid-course updates, fifteen-mile envelope. That's impossible unless our jammers were already dead when they came over the ridge."
John swiped to the second clip, glanced up—Daniel was already leaning in, face chalk-white.
"Not some bearded militia. Private army. Full-spectrum information warfare capability."
Gunfire cracked closer. Then a broken voice:
"Hey… Captain…"
Grainy monochrome. Logan on his side, hand clamped to his neck, blood pumping through his fingers, plate carrier smoking.
"Take my kit. Put a few more in the ground for me, yeah?"
Daniel yanked off his glasses, pressed a fist to his mouth, eyes shining.
John fast-forwarded, froze the frame on the assault force climbing the platform.
"Look at the kit."
Daniel zoomed in, pupils shrinking to pinpricks.
M4A1s. Current-issue optics. Rebreathers.
"Well, I'll be damned… Those boys are kitted like SEALs."
His arm swept the empty bottle off the table; glass shattered, wood shuddered.
"How in the hell are they our own side?!"
John rubbed his temple, voice low and deliberate.
"They're not SEALs. Look closer—retired gear, supposed to be locked in depots or used for training. Now it's in the hands of private contractors. You see what that means?"
Daniel shivered hard enough to rattle the chair.
"John… that means we were betrayed from the inside."
Hasting nodded once and killed the screen.
"Everything about it stank. The intelligence officer tried to convince me I was imagining things—hooked me up to a polygraph until I doubted my own name. At the funeral I spotted federal agents sitting in cars across the street, watching the mourners."
Daniel loosened his collar like it was choking him.
"If you're right, John, you ain't safe here. Whoever they are, they've burrowed deep. They'll track your phone, your pills—they'll shut you up permanent, Captain."
John looked out the window. Bruise-coloured clouds piled over the Catskills.
"That's not what keeps me awake, Murphy."
He tapped his knee with one finger, steady as a metronome.
"They're burying the truth. Whatever it is, it cost five of our lads their lives and tore four families apart."
His jaw locked; another wave of palpitations slammed into his chest, stealing his breath.
"Logan Lerman, De Armas, 'Django' Bannack, 'Whitey' Jason, and 'Little Demon' Finn… Finn was the youngest of us."
Daniel closed his eyes against the ache in his ribs. When he opened them, John had pulled two prescription bottles from the drawer and set them on the table.
"I need a favour, Murphy." He nudged forward the sertraline and the paroxetine. "If they want me quiet, this is how they'll do it. Get these analysed—tell me what's really in them."
Daniel picked up the bottles, read the labels, gave a short nod, and pocketed them.
He met John's eyes, voice low and steady.
"What's next, John?"
John Hasting's face hardened. He clenched his right fist on his thigh until the tremor stopped.
"If you want peace, prepare for war."