All of the guys do this. Check on me. When I’m in the gym, Kenta will pop his head in every half an hour. The other night, I fell asleep in the bath and woke up to a worried-sounding Glen tapping at the bathroom door. When I hired the Angels, I really wasn’t prepared for just how protective they were going to be. It’s definitely contributing to my impending breakdown.
As I watch, Matt finishes his lap. His eyes flick back to me, and our gazes meet. His full lips part. He gives me a little nod and dips below the water again.
I turn back to my tablet, my heart thudding uncomfortably, and stare blankly at my emails. I can’t remember what I was doing. On a whim, I typeSAS militaryinto Google, clicking the first result that comes up.
I skim the information. It’s impressive stuff. Apparently, the SAS is one of the most elite units in the UK military. A lot of their actions are classified, but they seem pretty high up in the food chain. As I scroll down the page, one particular word stands out to me.
Torture.
I back up, rereading the paragraph.
One facet of the gruelling SAS recruitment process is said to be Resistance to Interrogation training, during which applicants are subjected to torture methods commonly used upon British prisoners of war.
My mouth falls open. Horror floods through me as I start to connect the dots.
There’s a splash, and I look up to see Matt jumping right out of the pool and jogging over. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He demands. “Did X contact you?”
“What? No, I’m looking up the SAS.” I stare up at him. “You didtorture training?”
He blinks, shaking droplets of water out of his hair. “Torture… resistance to interrogation, yeah.”
“They…” I look back at the website. “They did these things to you? Just so you could qualify for ajob?” My eyes skip over the words.Humiliation. Starvation. Sleep deprivation. Hooding.
He glances at the paragraph I have highlighted, then lets his eyes flick away again. “Among others.”
“But that’s barbaric!”
“It’s necessary,” he snaps. “Soldiers need to be trained to face what they’re actually fighting. That’s the only way they’ll survive.”
“And was it?” I ask. “Necessary?”
A horrible, bitter feeling is building in my stomach. I’ve wondered about Glen’s face for a while now. There’s something strange about his scar. He doesn’t look like he was stabbed or burned or shot; he looks like he’s been purposefully carved up.
“Glen’s scars,” I say. “Is that how he got them? Why did you guys get discharged from the army, anyway?”
I know immediately that I’ve crossed a line. Emotions flicker across Matt’s face, too fast for me to read. He snatches up my tablet, powering it down.
“Don’t ask any more,” he barks, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “Don’t look this shit up. These are men’slives,not entertainment for you to flick through while you’re getting a fucking suntan.” He dumps the tablet back on my lounger, scowling. I wince internally.Shit.
I start to apologise, but I’m interrupted by a buzzing noise from the poolside. Kenta’s staticky voice rings out through the patio. “Carter.”
Eyes not leaving mine, Matt stoops and picks up the two-way radio he left by the pool’s edge, holding it to his mouth. “What.”
“A courier just delivered a package. Jack Ellis. He’s got a brown unmarked box, about 750 by 750. The service is called Jameson’s Delivery.”
“Courier still there?”
“Yes. He says the package is from the designer.”
“Hold him until I clear it.”
“Roger.”
Matt turns to me. “Are you expecting a delivery?”
I nod, pulling out my phone. “That will be my dress for this evening. Yeah, the tracker says it’s just arrived.” I show him my screen.
He nods. “Let the guy go, Kenta. When’s Glen coming in?”
