Twenty minutes after rolling inside that warehouse, five identical vehicles had left. All five had exited and took off in different directions. That wouldn’t have presented too much trouble if those five hadn’t gone into three more abandoned buildings, and five more identical vehicles hadn’t, in turn, left each one of those buildings.
Fifteen fucking identical vehicles to track.
The following day, when we returned from chow, Alpha Team was pulled into another meeting. When the team got the Sit Rep, I grabbed the opportunity to do something productive and offered to help.
“I can watch some footage. Let me help,” I said.
Everyone stared at me. They all knew there was no love lost between me and electronics, but fuck, I could watch some film. I’d been a football player. I’d spent my teens watching game film like I was being paid to do it. It had landed me several D-1 offers, but I’d turned them down for a ticket to the Great Lakes.
“Jones…” Commander Mercer began.
I heard the skepticism in his voice, and it pissed me off.
I interrupted him, “As long as it’s just fast-forwarding and rewinding videos, I can help. I cannot sit on my fucking ass and do nothing anymore.”
The room cracked up. A couple of the guys spewed whatever liquid they were drinking across the table because they thought the situation was so fucking funny.
Finlay Ryan, the wise-ass first-generation Irishman we had on the team, said, “Brock, mon, I know ye spend a wee bit o’ time with yer right hand. That don’ mean yer porn addiction will come in handy.”
We were lucky that Finlay’s brogue only came out when he was pissed, drunk, or laughing his “arse” off like he was now.
When drunk, Finlay got to the point where we all had difficulty understanding him. Except Foster because he had afull-blooded, real-life Irish grandmother who he swore never lost the lilt, as he called it.
“Fuck off, you Irish bastard. I don’t need fucking porn. For your information, I spent most of my life playing football, watching film, and analyzing shit for the next game. Oh, and the football I play? It was the real deal. Not that shit you leprechauns from across the pond try to pass off as football,” I fired back at him, knowing that would get a rise.
“Leprechauns? Ye fecking gobshite!” he yelled, banging his fist on the table as he stood to come after me. “I’ll show you a leprechaun! Ye Yanks wouldna fecking know football if one hit ye upside ye fecking heads! Wrapped up in bubble wrap like a wee one still on its mam’s tit. Fecking pussies!”
Finlay mixed up his slang and colloquialisms when pissed off. I loved getting him riled up until he lost it. He did the same to me. We poked fun at one another until we lost our cool, and then we sat back and enjoyed the show. I’d considered selling tickets as a side hustle.
Foster shoved the raging Finlay back into his chair as I laughed.
And then it hit me. Like a ton of bricks. The realization that for the first time since Adam had been taken, I’d laughed.
Just as quickly, though, all joy and fun faded as guilt rushed in. I closed my eyes, stood, and walked out, punching the wall as I went through the door.
I walked until the anger in me exploded, forcing me into a dead run. I’d get my ass chewed for running through the halls of the building, but I didn’t give a fuck. Nothing fucking made sense.
I hit my stride and headed to the O-Course. I’d been avoiding so many places on base and around town. Without Adam, I just couldn’t face going to our favorite spots or spending time where we’d made so many memories. But I needed to burn off someof these damn emotions. Maybe if I could get myself front-sight focused, I’d be able to keep my fucking self in check.
My feet pounded the ground. My heart raced frantically, but no matter how hard I pushed my body, my mind and the thoughts swirling inside could not be caught. Memories spun so fast that they blinded me. So, I just kept running.
Thuds sounded around me. I knew the sound of feet hitting the ground around me as well as my own. My brothers. The eight of us were a unit, but the tempo was out of sync. There was a set of thuds missing. And that silence, that gaping fucking hole in our team’s cadence, just reminded me of what I—we—were missing.
I stopped, glancing down at my watch, and saw I’d been at it for quite a while. I’d clocked nine miles in just about an hour. That I did it in jeans and boots just went to prove the forty percent rule. Even when your brain said you were down for the count, you still had sixty percent left to give.
I had so much left in the tank, and I had to put all that effort and energy into finding Adam. Not running myself fucking ragged on the O-Course. Adam was fucking coming home if it was the last fucking thing I did. He would set foot on American soil again, and it wouldn’t be inside a fucking box.
“You done with PT for the day, Jones?” Finlay asked.
The run must’ve burned off his bad temper. He was sweating and smiling like we hadn’t just damn near sprinted for the last hour.
“Yep.” I pulled my t-shirt up, wiped my face, and ran my hands through my hair. “I need chow, and a shower and a change of clothes. Then I’m going to pop a squat in the command center to watch TV until I see a friendly face.”
Later that day, after refueling and scrubbing the stank off, I walked into the command center. Maree showed me to a computer, assured me I couldn’t fuck anything up too badly, and got the film rolling.
Over the next several days, I stayed in the command center, in front of that computer, watching every video link I was given and helping them pour over the footage. So far, we’d gotten some identifying info off about half of the vehicles. We were still looking for several of them that seemed to have disappeared off the face of the planet.
I rubbed my burning eyes and dragged my hand through my shaggy hair. I couldn’t have told you the last time I’d showered other than it was when Maree threatened to pull me in front of command for assaulting an officer. When I argued, she’d said the smell was enough to knock her down.
