27 Lies(4)

By: MJ Fields

I sit and listen to them go back and forth as I check my e-mail. When I’m done, I sign out, push my chair back, and stand. “Ready?”

The day is like any other spent Stateside. We train for the next call, the call that will send us into the next unknown war zone without warning, without planning. We are Delta Force; we are always prepared.

Today’s PT starts with a two-mile run. After that, we hit the weight room. Then we head straight to the training pool for laps and underwater survival training. After the pool, we hit the mats for a little hand-to-hand combat. Today, I want Killshot.

He smirks as we circle the mat, waiting to see who strikes first.

“Didn’t get laid back home?”

“Fuck you,” I retort. He knows damn well I don’t fuck and tell, not like the rest of them do.

“Miss A finally tell your ass she was sick of fucking you?” he taunts.

Before he sees it coming, I roundhouse on him, knocking him to the ground.

“Hit a nerve?” he asks as he rubs his jaw.

I don’t respond. I simply look around and ask, “Who’s next?”

Turning my back on him is a wrong fucking move on my part. He sweeps my legs, and I fall the wrong way, unprepared, and twist my ankle. Pain be damned, I hop up and face him again.

“Clipped your wing, Birdman?” He laughs.

I wince when I lean into my punch, just as the director of the FBI walks in.

“Gentleman, we have an issue that needs your attention here at home.”

Roman Slade is the youngest director of the FBI to date. He’s a cocky, self-absorbed son-of-a-bitch, but he doesn’t fuck around. He gets shit done, not worrying about rules or ramifications.

“Lane, you’ll have to sit this one out,” he says, looking at me.

Scratch that. He’s an asshole.

“Excuse me?”

He points at my ankle. “You’re injured.”

“I’m fucking fine, Slade,” I growl.

Ignoring me, he looks at the rest of the unit. “A lone gunman has taken over the Fox Club in L.A. We have no idea how many civilian casualties there are, but two hostage negotiators have gone in, and now we’re unable to contact them. We’ve been able to keep the media at bay, but they’ll want questions answered soon. I’m flying out with you in fifteen.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

“Sit this one out, Birdman. We’ve got it all under control.” Killshot winks. “Go home and get some—”

“See a doctor,” Slade interrupts.

Fucker is enjoying this.


“Eight fucking weeks?”

“At best,” the doc says, looking over the x-ray.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, I’m not sure how well you listen. If you don’t allow it to heal, it will take longer,” she says as she walks toward the door. “Do you understand, First Sergeant Lane?”

“Yes, Captain,” I answer as she walks out, flipping me off.

While overseas, I rarely have time for random hookups...rarely. While Stateside, I never bring anyone home. However, Monica Toretto and I met at a bar one night near my place. Things got heated, she got handsy, and I let her. The next day, I met Captain Toretto. That line wasn’t crossed by me again. And let’s just say she was a little pissed. She shouldn’t suck where she gets fed, if you know what I mean.

The nurse comes in while I am dressing and hands me paperwork to give to my commanding officer, and yes, I have to sign it.

Afterward, I don’t go home. I head to the shooting range and blow off some steam, needing to keep busy, needing to keep my mind off my unit, who is en route to a mission where some son-of-a-bitch is fucking with my country and her people.

This doesn’t go over well with me. I need to be there with them, and if that fucking suit, Slade, wasn’t traveling with them, you bet your ass I would be. It would be much different. I wouldn’t be first or second in the door catching or killing the bad guy, but I would fucking be there.

At home, I lie on my couch, staring at the television and trying to find something, but there is nothing to be seen. They have the media locked out, which is no small feat in this country, and that’s part of the reason there is so much chaos.

J.Q. Public doesn’t need to know every fucking thing we do to keep them safe. Fuck, now with camera phones in everyone’s hand, J.Q. Public is out in full-force daily, trying to make the next thing they see trendy because they think that’s cool. It’s not. Not one motherfucking bit.

Is the dress blue or white? My answer? Who the fuck cares?

Who are you voting for, for president? How about someone who doesn’t fuck with funding the people who keep them safe?

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