Page 58 of Aviatrix

“If you want to talk, Quay, you’ll do it in the ring.”

I groan theatrically as he walks away, headed for the coffee pot.

Frances clears her throat, pulling my attention back to her.

“I probably shouldn’t say this,” she glances around nervously, “but it’s about the person you’re supposed to find.”

My posture straightens. “What is it?”

“He has some farfetched ideas,” she reveals.

Honestly, I’m not surprised.

“Where can I find this person?”

“Area 51 Diner.”

I swallow. Hard. “Area 51?”

“You’ll find him there.”

I drag a tired hand over my face. “Cryptic.”

“It’s about two blocks from here,” she adds as she stands. “I’d stop and pick up a pack of cigarettes on the way.”

“Why?”

She hesitates, then murmurs quietly, “Let’s just say the individual in question was tied to a classified ops unit. A weird one. The kind people whispered about but never named.” A beat. “The nicotine helps calm him.”

With that, Frances turns to leave, trailing more questions than answers. But just before she disappears, I notice the subtle shift. Her shoulders stiffen, fingers flex. Like she’s holding something back.

And now I’m not sure if she's an ally… or someone pointing me straight toward a trap.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m getting my ass handed to me on the mat. And Eli hasn't volunteered a single piece of information, even though I've asked a thousand questions. What is his classified mission? Who is his CO? What does the General know about Lark's involvement with the Legion?

All he keeps saying is, “Earn the answer, Quay. Stay on your feet.”

I don’t.

“You’re rusty,” Eli calls, bouncing on the balls of his feet, gloves up, chin tucked like he’s training for a real match.

I’m flat on my back, heart pounding so hard it echoes in my ears. “We fly jets,” I wheeze. “Not fists.”

Eli drops his hands and strides over, towering above me. “Get up, Quay.”

“I don’t want to,” I mumble. “I just want to stay down here. It’s easier.”

Eli crouches beside me, gloved hands resting on his knees, concern etched into every line of his face.

Back at the Academy, we used to box for hours. It was his favorite way to start the day. Still is, apparently. I never loved the sparring but I loved him, so I showed up, early and eager, just to be near him. He always won. Always.

Except once.

His mom had just passed, sudden and brutal. We stepped into the ring like usual, and I got one hit in. Just one. But he went down, and stayed down. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. I remember kneeling beside him, my gloves heavy on his shoulders, and saying something I’d almost forgotten until now.

“You can’t stay down there forever. Eventually, you’re going to have to get back up. And when you do, I’m right here.”

The memory burns in my throat and stings behind my eyes.