He wanted to believe that it was because he hadn’t yet gotten used to his new fire team. A recent series of accidents and ambushes had sent a lot of Marines in his unit to the hospital or worse. As a result, personnel had to be transferred in and shifted around. Ethan’s old team had been broken up, and he’d ended up on a new team that consisted of three misfits plus him. He’d hoped they were only having a rough transition, but it had been a month now and they still didn’t get along. And on a four-man team, that was one hell of a problem.
“… and that’s how the ruby necklace of the Lady of the Kingdom of Albania got into the watermelon,” Merlin concluded. His voice was getting hoarse. Maybe it was finally wearing out. But he took a drink of water, cleared his throat, and went on, “As for how I got involved, my great-grandfather once spent some time as a gardener in a nunnery…”
Merlin Merrick had been talking nonstop for what felt like the entire six hours. Ethan thought he’d started talking to try to break the ice, continued out of boredom, and was now well into seeing how long he could go before someone told him to shut up. To be fair, Ethan had initially tried to help out with the ice-breaking, then had gotten distracted by thoughts of Destiny and fallen silent, and, once he realized that Merlin had been carrying on by himself for quite some time, had stayed silent to see how long he could go before he either gave up or was shut up.
Yeah. This team definitely had a problem. And Ethan was forced to conclude that he was part of it.
Pete Valdez interrupted Merlin in the middle of a sentence. “Is it even physically possible for you to shut the fuck up?”
“Is it even physically possible for any of you guys to have an actual conversation, like normal people?” Merlin retorted.
If Ethan didn’t like being part of the problem, then he had to be the solution. He broke in. “Good idea. I’m starting it.” He took a split second to consider topics, then settled on sports. What Marine didn’t like sports? And, to be safe, he didn’t start with Merlin. “Pete, what’s your favorite sport?”
Obligingly, Pete asked, “To play or to watch?”
“To play.”
“Does it have to be a team sport, or does anything count?”
“Anything counts,” Ethan replied.
“Boxing,” Pete said. Ethan was unsurprised. Pete was a good-looking guy, but he also looked like he’d had his nose broken a time or two, and his big knuckles were flecked with little white scars. “What about you, Ethan?”
Ethan almost said baseball, which was certainly the sport he was best at, or used to be, anyway. But it had too many bad associations to be his favorite, and it had been years since he’d played. “Basketball.”
Grinning, Pete said, “I’d love to see you go up against Shaq, short stuff.”
“Right back at you, munchkin,” Ethan retorted. He and Pete were both six feet tall exactly.
Unexpectedly, Ransom Pierce spoke up. “Muggsey Bogues was five foot three, and he played in the NBA for fourteen seasons. So there’s hope for you yet.”
Ethan was relieved that nobody argued, as it wasn’t as if they could check with Google. But Pete and Merlin either already knew about Muggsey Bogues, or had figured out that Ransom apparently had Google beamed directly into his head. He not only knew as much as a college professor, but with his lanky frame and angular face, he also looked the part.
Looks could be deceiving. Ransom was the deadliest sniper Ethan had ever known.
“My grand-uncle was only five foot two, but he set a world record for—” Merlin began.
Sensing yet another unlikely story that would fray Pete’s temper, Ethan cut him off. “Never mind your uncle, what’s your favorite sport to play?”
Merlin shot him a look from his bright blue eyes like Ethan was an idiot for not already knowing. “Gymnastics.”
Once he’d said it, Ethan did feel like an idiot. Whenever they had down time near a tree or an abandoned building with sturdy girders, Merlin would start swinging on them like an acrobat. When they’d asked him about it, he’d first claimed to have been a gymnast in high school, then to have been an Olympic gymnast, then to have been the star of a series of Latvian movies about a superhero whose power was agility, and finally to have been raised in a circus. At that point everyone stopped asking.
“Of course it is,” Pete muttered. “You were raised by chimpanzees.”
Before Pete and Merlin could start in on each other again, Ethan said, “Ransom? What about you?”
Pete glanced at Ransom’s rangy frame and said, “Marathons, right?”
Merlin nodded, for once in agreement with Pete. “Yeah, that’s a runner’s build. Long-distance, not sprints.”
Ransom gave a shrug, neither confirming nor denying, and made no reply. Aggravated, Ethan almost said something—why the hell would your favorite sport be a secret?—before remembering that he was trying to avoid arguments, not start them himself.
He shut his mouth with a snap. Fine. Let Ransom be Ransom, with all the sudden silences and weird secrets that entailed. However frustrating he could be, he had a sixth sense for danger like none Ethan had ever encountered before. On his very first day on the team, he’d saved God knew how many lives by stopping their entire convoy, then calmly pointing out an IED trigger in the road that no one else had spotted, including the bomb-sniffing dog.
Ethan just wished Ransom was a little less of a riddle wrapped inside an enigma. Why was he so cool in the face of danger, but went pale and made an excuse to get away whenever he encountered any one of an array of random things? Ethan had been mentally keeping a list of the latter, in the hope of figuring out what made him tick, but had been less than successful at figuring out what dice, flickering fluorescent lights, and the book Carrie had in common. And, apparently, his favorite sport. Whatever that was.
Only then did Ethan remember his intention to get his team to have a normal conversation. But a Marine is nothing if not persistent. “Pete, what’s your favorite sport to watch? Other than boxing.”