Bad Environment (Agent Juliet Book 3)

by E. M. Smith

  “Clear,” he said into the headset. He sounded muffled. I opened my mouth and tried to yawn so my ears would pop.

  A few seconds later, Mike and Whiskey came into the room. Bravo nodded at the passageway.

  “We’ve got a branch to the right ten yards in,” Bravo said. “Main tunnel ends in about twenty yards. No sign of hostiles.”

  Whiskey leaned around him to look. “Mike and Juliet, check it out. See if it’s just an alcove or if it goes anywhere. Bravo and I’ll hold position here and watch our six.”

  The tunnel was too narrow for two people to walk side-by-side, so I took the lead. Mike followed behind me and a little to the left.

  “I’ll keep an eye on the main pipe,” Mike said. “You watch the branch, Juliet. Stop, hug the wall, and wait for my count to clear it.”

  “A’ight.”

  It went against everything my brain said I should do, but I angled my rifle away from the main tunnel and focused on the green black hole coming up on our right. The NVGs didn’t want to illuminate any details. Staring at the nothingness gave me this creepy feeling that there was a monster in there, waiting to attack.

  My heart was pounding so hard I could feel the pulse in my face, making the NVGs jump. That hole would be the perfect place to hide.

  Two yards. One yard. A foot and a half.

  My vision was blurring. I’d been holding my breath and hadn’t even realized it. I sucked in some air.

  Urine, shit, and rotting meat. I gagged.

  “Easy, Juliet,” Mike said. “In through the mouth, out through the nose.”

  I tried that, but the smell was so strong I could taste it.

  I hugged the wall and waited for Mike’s count.

  Nothing moved. But if it had been me in that hole, I would’ve waited until some dumbass stuck their head around the corner before I gave up my position, too.

  Mike gave me another silent count with his fingers. I could feel the monster in there watching me, itchy finger squeezing the trigger.

  On one, I went in, adrenaline pumping so crazily that my arms and legs got that dead-rush. My finger tightened on the trigger. First one to shoot lives.

  It took a few seconds before my brain registered that I was looking at a door. Looked like it’d been built out of recovered plywood.

  “It’s a door,” I said. My voice may have cracked a little.

  Mike checked it out while I tried to get my breathing back under control. He ran his hand over the handle, then all around it.

  “Locked. Ah, dammit, the smell!” Mike said it like he’d just figured something out that he should’ve already known. “It’s a cell. This is where the prisoners are. Keep watching the pipe.” Mike adjusted his headset. “Whiskey, this is Mike. Are you getting this?”

  “Everything,” Whiskey said. “How do you want to proceed?”

  “We’re looking for keys on one of the bodies,” Mike said.

  “Roger.”

  A few minutes later, Bravo’s voice came over the headset. “Got your keys.”

  “Bring them down,” Mike said.

  Bravo came down the tunnel a few seconds later and handed the keyring over.

  “Okay,” Mike said. “Juliet, when I tell you to, push the door open. Bravo, take right. I’ll go left.” He crouched down and unlocked the door, then stowed the key in a drop pouch on his vest. He pointed his rifle at the door, but kept his finger on the trigger guard. “Okay, Juliet. Let ‘er rip.”

  I shoved. The door dragged on the uneven floor. The ceiling was even lower than I’d guessed. Bravo ducked in and swept right. Mike stayed in the crouch and swept left. I stayed back and watched Mike.

  Shots. A burst from Bravo’s rifle and a single shot that felt louder than the grenades.

  I was still swinging my M16 toward Bravo’s side of the room when he jerked, then stumbled back and fell.

  Mike and I got off half a dozen shots apiece while the lantern was still rolling. The hostile slammed into the wall, spitting blood. He was hugging a grimy white case to his chest with one hand and holding a shiny new Desert Eagle in the other.

  I put one through his eye. He dropped the gun, but didn’t let go of the case.

  “Clear the room,” Mike yelled at me. He took a knee by Bravo. “Good pulse. Interrupted breathing.”

  I turned a tight circle, mentally dividing the cell into quadrants. Mike and Bravo in Quadrant One. Dead hostile, white case, oversized American hand-cannon in Quadrant Two.

  “Where was he hit?” Whiskey’s voice came through the headset and from behind me.

  “Stomach,” Mike said. “Vest took it.”

  Door in Quadrant Three. Whiskey standing guard.

  “Fuck,” Bravo coughed.

  “Easy,” Mike said. “You’ve probably got a few broken ribs.”

  I kept turning toward Quadrant Four.

  My heart flipped when I saw the body.

  No, not a body—a person. Thin as hell, naked, facedown on the floor, shaking like crazy.

  Off to my right, Mike was saying, “Think you can get up?”

  “Yeah.” Bravo groaned and started coughing again.

  A guy. That skeleton with the skin clinging to it was a guy. He had some facial hair and an unfinished tattoo across his bony shoulders that said CHEAP TRICK.

  I took a step closer.

  Wrong again. The tattoo wasn’t unfinished—the shading was still there in some spots, and the lines were distorted in others. Looked like somebody had tried to color it in with a blowtorch.

  Actually, he’d had lots of tattoos. There was still some of a bird on his forearm and a blur on what was left of his bicep that might’ve been an American flag at one point. Most of them were burn-scarred, but a few had been sliced up and keloids had developed over them.

  “Mike,” I said, but I couldn’t get anything else out.

  Everything got quiet.

  “The fuck?” Bravo said.

  Then he shoved past me. He dropped to his knees and crawled over to the prisoner.

  Underneath his tan, Bravo’s skin had turned sick and grayish. I thought it was just a side effect of taking one to the vest, but then I heard him say, “Trick?”

  “N-n-not hos-stile,” the prisoner croaked.

  “Don’t touch him, Bravo,” Mike said. “Give him some space.”

  Bravo didn’t back off.

  “Trick,” he said. “It’s really you. You’re—”

  He reached out to touch the prisoner’s shoulder.

  “Stand down, Bravo,” Mike yelled.

  Bravo pulled his hand back.

  “Prisoner,” Mike said, speaking slowly and clearly, “If you can understand me, say ‘Yes.’”

  “Y-yes,” the prisoner said.

  “Identify yourself,” Mike said.

  “No, God, no.” The prisoner curled his legs up under his chest and covered his head with his arms. “No, no, no, no…”

  “Goddammit, Mike,” Bravo yelled. “He’s not a fucking terrorist, he’s a soldier—Weapons Sergeant Andrew Sacre.” Bravo scooted closer to the prisoner and laid down on the floor next to him. “Listen to me, Trick. You’re safe. We’re going to take you home.”

  The prisoner just kept saying “no” over and over.

  “Come on,” Bravo begged. “It’s me. It’s Banger. Dog Team—eat shit and die, remember? You know me. Just look at me.”

  The prisoner lifted his head to look.

  Bravo froze. Mike gagged, then slapped his hand over his mouth.

  Where the prisoner’s right eye should’ve been there was a blob of meat, rotting and crawling with maggots.

  I took a step back, then spun around and puked on my boots.

  *****

  Once Whiskey saw the shape the guy was in, she agreed to let Fox radio in some way-off-the-record air support. Bravo and Mike helped the prisoner outside while Whiskey pried the grimy white case out of the hostile’s cold, dead hands.

  “Foxtrot, what’s the status on that helo?�
�� Whiskey asked.

  Fox’s voice came back through the headset. “I have a lift point for the recovered prisoner one click northeast. Mike and Bravo are moving out now.”

  “Whiskey, this is Bravo. I’m flying out with Trick.”

  “Negative,” Whiskey said. “You’re walking out of here with your team.”

  “He needs someone he knows—”

  “He doesn’t recognize you, Bravo,” Mike said. “He can barely see. And I’d be surprised if he doesn’t have serious brain damage from the infection and fever.”

  “He knows me,” Bravo growled. “I was best man at his fucking wedding.”

  “I don’t give a fuck if you’re his life partner,” Whiskey said. “That soldier is getting dropped off anonymously at the closest friendly hospital. If someone sees you bringing him in and you refuse to tell anyone how or where he was located, you’re looking at interrogation in a black facility.”

  “With all due respect, Whiskey, fuck that shit and fuck you.”

  “Bravo—”

  “He’s offline,” Mike said.

  “Dammit!” Whiskey’s yell echoed in the cave.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Mike said.

  “Keep Bravo off of that helo if you have to kneecap him, Mike. If he goes to interrogation, we’re all fucked.”

  We hauled ass out of there and met up with Fox and Romeo on the opposite hillside. By the time we made it to them, Mike was checking back in.

  “Helo just lifted off.” He grunted like he was lifting something heavy. “I’m going to need some extra muscle here. Bravo’s a big boy. I don’t think I can carry him back to the jeep by myself.”

  “Sit tight,” Whiskey said. “We’ll rendezvous at your coordinates.”

  “Make it fast,” Mike said. “I had to knock Bravo out with tranqs from the med kit and I didn’t have much left after sedating the prisoner. I’d like to get as far as we can before he comes to.”

  *****

  No one said anything on the way back to the truck or after we started driving.

  I could feel the exhaustion behind my eyes and in the pit of my stomach, pulling me down like a weight. But every time I started to nod off, I got a flash of that guy—Bravo’s friend—stuck in that stinking shithole, starving, rotting, and getting burned and slashed up and Jesus knew what else for however long it took to make a guy look like a skeleton.

  The ride back to Kuwait was silent until we got stopped at the border. Then a guard yelled and pointed at Bravo a lot, who was still unconscious, and at our guns.

  Fox didn’t argue with the guy, just handed him a wad of cash. He waved us through.

  *****

  The sedative Mike had given Bravo finally wore off somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Flex-cuffs?” Bravo yelled, twisting his hands inside the loops. “Ohoho, Mike, you are going to be one sorry motherfucker when I get these off.”

  “I ordered them,” Whiskey said. “You’re not thinking straight and I’m not letting you fuck this team over and blow a deep black op just because you rescued someone you used to serve with.”

  Bravo lunged at her, but the harness on his seat held him back.

  “You ice-bitch,” he yelled. “You don’t fucking understand! Trick needed me!” Bravo’s voice cracked. “We thought he was dead.”

  I couldn’t look at Bravo. I leaned my head back and pretended to sleep for the rest of the flight. I never did doze off, though. I don’t think anyone else did, either.

  *****

  After we landed, I hung close to Romeo. As soon as everyone started breaking off and going their separate ways, I stopped her.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m an asshat and an asshole and probably an assclown, too. I shouldn’t have yelled at you the other day. I should’ve been on my knees praising Jesus that I finally got laid by a pretty little thing like you, not blaming you for how fucked up I am. Can I just say I’m sorry and I’m all the asses ever, and have that make it cool between you and me?”

  Romeo glared at me.

  “What is this, like, the in-person version of a booty call?” she said.

  I tried to laugh. “Yeah, like I’ll ever get lucky enough to tap that again.”

  “Deal with your shit yourself,” Romeo said. “Don’t blame it on me. And don’t think I’m going to let you jump me again just because you say you’re sorry.”

  “I ain’t trying anything,” I said. “Just don’t be mad at me anymore. That’s all I want.”

  She watched me for a long time. Then it was like all the fight went out of her.

  “I just hate everything so much right now,” she said. “It’s like, we kick ass, we save somebody or take down some evil bad guy, but we’re not accomplishing anything. There’s always another call and always something horrible going on somewhere else. We put out this fire and some asshole throws gas on a different one. This world is the worst and no matter how hard we try, it’s always going to be the worst.”

  Romeo took a shaky breath and rubbed her eyes.

  I pulled her into a hug. She didn’t put her arms around me, but she didn’t tell me to fuck off, either. For a long time, we just stood there. Romeo didn’t shake or sniff or make any sounds. If not for the wetness soaking through my shirt, I wouldn’t have been able to tell she was crying.

  After a while, she said, “You know I can feel that, right?”

  I took a second to adjust my boner.

  “Guys don’t have any control over that,” I said. “A girl with some manners would’ve just politely ignored it.”

  Romeo squeezed the bulge in my fly and I choked back a rookie groan.

  “You’re going to lecture me about manners while you’re stabbing me in the stomach?”

  “I swear he wasn’t in on it when I apologized,” I said.

  “There was a handicapped restroom back there,” she said. “If you wanted to.”

  “Do you?”

  “I just want one thing to be okay.”

  *****

  Romeo stretched out on top of me. She was short enough that when she laid down, her head rested on my shoulder.

  She cleared her throat. “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I stuck out my bottom lip and blew some air up onto my face, trying to cool off. “That was…”

  “Intense,” she said.

  “Sorry about the uncontrollable sobbing.”

  “I’m being serious, asshat. That was powerful. Extreme.”

  The soles of my boots were jammed up against the bathroom door, but I couldn’t feel anything when I pushed.

  “I can’t feel my feet.” I made a fist. “Or my fingers.”

  “It was because of everything,” she said. “Because, if you think about it, this could be the last time. Any time could be the last time. We’re just walking corpses. Everyone is. Most people just don’t know it yet.”

  “Walking corpses.” I stared up at the pockmarks in the ceiling tiles and tried to guess how many people I’d shot so far. Must’ve been around twenty. The only face I could remember was Delgado’s. I was glad that son of a bitch was dead. The rest I didn’t care about one way or the other. “Do you think I’m fucked up?”

  Romeo looked at me like I was crazy.

  “I mean, I ain’t even a real soldier,” I said. “And I don’t have PTSD or anything from shooting people. Does that make me a sociopath?”

  “You went through operant training, didn’t you?”

  “If I have to ask what operant training is, the answer is probably no, right?”

  “Did Whiskey train you to shoot a person-shaped target?”

  “Well, yeah. But isn’t that different?”

  “Not when it’s shoot or die,” Romeo said. “Anyway, it’s not like you’re killing people for fun. It’s just our job.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

  “It’s like this,” Romeo said. “We’re the tool. We get the orders, we follow the orders. Somebody else up the line ha
d to decide whether these targets are dangerous enough that they needed to be put down.”

  “Who? Whiskey?”

  “Maybe,” Romeo said. “Maybe NOC-Unit command. Maybe the government. We do their shit-work, but they’re the ones who have to live with it. It’s kind of a fair trade if you look at it like that.”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t know whether I thought she was right or not, but I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  Romeo got off me, put her underwear back on, and started turning her pants right-side-out. I threw the condom in the trash.

  “Want to split a cab back to barracks?” she asked.

  I arched my back and pulled my pants up.

  “I got to check on something before I call it a night,” I said. “Or day. Whatever the hell time it is.”

  “Your nieces,” Romeo said.

  I quit buttoning my fly and stared at her.

  “What?” she asked. “You thought you were some kind of International Man of Mystery?” She checked the mirror. “Anyone who’s been around you for more than ten seconds knows there are only two things in the world you care about—and they both live on the Upper West Side.”

  That wasn’t necessarily true. There might’ve been three things, but it probably wasn’t too smart to say something like that out loud yet. Not when Romeo might think I was just saying it because of the sex.

  *****

  I did need to check on my nieces, but I couldn’t go up to see them because their guardian, Ms. Baker, had gotten my visitation rights revoked.

  If that was all she’d done, I would’ve just said fuck it and go anyway. I’d been arrested enough times in my life that it didn’t worry me too much. But Ms. Baker had also gotten Dr. White—some big shot in NOC-Unit’s R&D department—to put out a stop-notice on me. If I tried to get anywhere near the girls, the guards were supposed to stop me at any cost—lethal force strongly encouraged.

  Whiskey had been just as pissed off about the whole mess as I was and she’d agreed to help me find out what the hell was going on.

  I tried calling her on my way out of the terminal, but got voicemail. So I took a cab to the NOC-Unit building in Lower Manhattan, hoping I could catch up to her there.