Page 30 of PSYCHOlogical

“What do you mean?”

“It seemed like you weren’t sure if you wanted to sit down or not.”

“I prefer to face the door.”

“Do you want me to move?”

“It’s okay.” He looked around the room. “I’ll be fine.”

It was apparent he was uneasy. “Let’s trade seats.”

“I can sit at the other end of the couch,” he said. “Then we can both face the door.”

I didn’t care about facing the door. I sat on the couch because it was where I normally sat. “That works, too.”

He sat down at the other end of the couch and let out a breath.

“How was the assignment?” I asked, knowing there must have been something about it that troubled him.

He studied his bottle of beer. “Sinaloa cartel had taken occupancy of an abandoned home in Nogales, Arizona. It’s unclaimed cartel territory. We were to eliminate, and I quote, all occupants of the residence. Thermal imaging indicated nine bodies in the home. When we raided it, we quickly found—and eliminated—eight. The ninth was locked in a bedroom, from the outside. The bedroom’s door and doorframe were steel, and obviously new. I had an odd feeling about what might be inside. We breached the door, and there was a twelve-year-old naked American female inside. My guess is she was a kidnap victim.” He raised the bottle to his mouth, paused, and then took a drink. “Might have been held for ransom, who knows.”

I wanted to ask the inevitable but knew not to. Vincent was a machine surrounded by a man’s body, programmed to carry out the orders he was given. Unlike Shephard, he didn’t deviate from the written instructions of his assignments. He simply obeyed them, under the belief it wasn’t his part to question authority.

I tried to remain emotionless and ask the broadest of questions.

“Was the mission a success?” I asked.

“Probably depends on who you interview.” He took a long drink, and then lowered the bottle. “It was a three-man team. Me, Pike and Wilson.”

“What’s your opinion of the mission?” I asked. “Was it a success?”

“Pike wanted to eliminate the girl.” He finished his beer, and then stood. “I let her go.”

I covered my mouth with my hand, hoping to stifle the breath of relief that shot from my lungs. “Did it trouble you to defy your written orders?”

He hooked his thumb on the pocket of his jeans. The empty bottle of beer dangled from his fingertips. The pose could have easily been used by the beer company for an advertisement pushing their product to single women who were attracted to tall, tanned, attractive military-types.

“Didn’t bother me one bit. That’s what troubles me.” He turned away. “Do you need another?”

My bottle was full. Truth be told, I didn’t care much for beer. I choked down half of it and followed him into the kitchen.

“Maybe I should switch to wine.” I watched him saunter toward the fridge. “It’s my comfort drink.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Mind if I stick with beer? Wine makes me act like an idiot.”

I set the half-full bottle on the countertop. “Go right ahead.”

While he retrieved a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, I uncorked the wine and poured a glass. I washed the foul taste of beer from my palate with a healthy gulp. “What did the other two say about letting the girl go?”

“Wilson didn’t say anything. Pike was pissed off. He wanted to follow orders.”

“Did he say that, or did you sense it?”

He took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He trained his weapon on her and reminded me what the orders said.”

Pike was one of the three sadists in the program. He had yet to exhibit the level of sadism—or the satisfaction derived from it—that Shephard did, but he was a sadist, nonetheless.

“What did you do?” I asked.