RICHARD'S HAND WAS SHAKING. The noise, the closed space, the lack of easy access to the door were all getting to him. He pressed the hand flat on the polished, slightly sticky surface of the bar. The webbing between his fingers, mutant stretches of skin reaching to the middle joints, stood out. The hand closed into a fist.
Doug noticed him staring at his own hand. “Ready for another one?”
“No, I think I’m done.” Richard pushed away the tumbler that had held Jack and Coke.
“This is supposed to be a celebration. I’m supposed to be congratulating you.”
“I’m thinking of getting out.” He hadn’t said the words out loud before now.
Richard appreciated that Doug didn’t immediately start arguing and cajoling.
“Can I ask why?” Doug finally asked.
He offered a fake grin. “Well, my knees aren’t going to last forever.”
“Fuck that. Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t deserve the promotion.”
“Richey, that’s exactly why you deserve it. Nothing’s worse than an entitled asshole in command.”
It was nice of him to say so, but Doug had been on that last mission; he knew what had happened. Richard stared at the empty tumbler, trying to figure out what to say to make his friend understand.
Doug kept talking. “You didn’t screw up. It could have happened to anyone. Besides, what’ll you do if you get out? You have some kind of plan?”
He didn’t. His skill sets were highly developed, but highly specialized. He could spend ten minutes underwater on one breath. He could infiltrate and escape any country on Earth undetected. He could snipe a Somali pirate on a life raft from a hundred yards on rough seas.
He said, “Private sector? Make a fortune while the joints still work, then find a beach somewhere to retire to?”
Doug gave him that “bullshit” look again. “Sounds like a waste of meat to me. Maybe you can buy an ice cream stand.” He smiled, indicating he’d meant to tell a joke. But he kept studying Richard. “That last trip out really spooked you.”
His team was on call to mobilize for rescue operations. The four weeks of boredom and two days of terror routine. This time they’d been tasked with rescuing hostages from pirates in the Arabian Sea. The target he’d shot had been fifteen years old. At the time, all Richard cared about was that the guy had an AK-47 pointed at a boatful of civilians.
The people he was killing were younger and younger, while he was feeling older and older. He didn’t know where it ended. When it was his turn, he supposed. So what was the point? Just do as much good as he could until then. By shooting teenagers.
Yeah, it had probably spooked him.
Doug’s phone rang. “I have to take this. My sister’s been in labor all day and Mom said she’d call with news. I’m going to be an uncle.” He grinned big as a sunrise.
“Congratulations,” Richard said as Doug trotted out the door. Richard was happy for Doug, and Doug’s sister, the whole family. But that left him sitting alone, staring at the rows of bottles on the back wall.
“Can I get you something else?” The bartender was an older woman—Richard couldn’t guess her age, either a worn fifty or a youthful sixty-something. Not the usual young and hip type of bartender. She might have been doing this her w
hole life.
He gestured with the empty tumbler. “Naw, I’m good.”
“Looks like you got left.”
“He had a phone call. He’ll be back.”
He must have looked like he was in need of conversation, because she kept going. “You stationed out at Coronado?”
“That obvious?” he said.
“We get a lot of you boys out here. You have the look.”
“What look is that?”