Page 60 of Aviatrix

Smoke curls near the ceiling, and something—instinct, maybe—pulls my gaze to the farthest booth in the back.

“Come on,” I say to Eli, already moving.

He follows, his footsteps heavier than usual.

There’s a man sitting in the far back corner exactly where Frances said he’d be. He wears a sweat-stained gray cap, the kind that’s seen a thousand summers. Graying hair sticks out beneath it. His head is bowed, gaze locked on the table like the world around him doesn’t exist. A cigarette sits in the tips of his yellow fingers.

I stop in front of the booth, swallow hard. “Colonel Lark Jones sent me.”

The man lifts his head slowly. His eyes are bronze, almost gold, and strangely familiar. I’ve seen them before. Somewhere.

I notice his jacket sits odd on his right side, like something bulky is weighing it down. I ignore it. But maybe I shouldn’t.

“Who sent you?” he mutters, glancing around the diner like someone might be listening. His hand settles on the lumpy part of his jacket like he’s reaching for something.

He’s not all here anymore.

“Colonel Lark Jones,” I repeat, starting to question if I’ve approached the right stranger.

He cocks his head. “Sit.”

I slide into the sticky booth first, heart hammering. Eli follows, dropping an elbow on the table like it’s a casual move, but it isn’t. It’s a shield. A warning. He senses something. Do I?

“Where was Colonel Jones first stationed after graduating the Academy?” the man asks.

“Uh…” I stammer. Where was Lark stationed? I have no idea. “It was classified,” I offer, weakly. “He told me it was classified.”

“Not the answer,” he murmurs. “But you’re not a spook. Spooks don’t wear sweatshirts that smell like jet fuel and mint.”

If this is who Lark trusts for answers, I’m not sure what that says about the questions.

“Um…” I trail off, my eyes landing on Eli. His jaw twitches. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition? Fury?

“If you don’t know where he was stationed, then you don’t know the Colonel,” he replies cryptically.

“Kyrgyzstan,” Eli says.

I whip my head toward him.

“Correct answer,” the peculiar man grins.

How the hell does Eli know that?

No time to process it. This isn’t about Eli. This is about the Legion.

“We have some questions about—”

“Not yet,” he says. “Pie first. You’re gonna want the sugar when you hear what I have to say.” Then, under his breath, “Assuming they haven’t already scrambled your memory.”

A waitress materializes out of nowhere. Where was she hiding?

“What can I get you, Walker?” she asks, not even trying to fake enthusiasm.

“Key lime,” he grumbles. “Sharp. Cuts through the radiation.”

The waitress doesn’t blink. Just writes it down. Like this happens all the time.

“Nothing for me,” I say quickly.