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Camp Raven, The Green Zone, Baghdad

The sun went down and the trailer had grown dark except for the blue glow of a digital clock. Camille sat alone with her head on the desk. Her face was sticky from tears and snot. Her head throbbed and her nasal tissues were so swollen, she had to breathe through her mouth, and that only dried out the membranes more. She heard someone come into the trailer, but she didn't look up. A hand stroked her back.

“I told you to go,” Camille said, her voice hoarse.

“You've been alone here for hours,” Pete said as she turned on a lamp.

The bright light burned her eyes and Camille shielded them with her hands. “Get that off.”

“You can't stay like this in the dark.” Pete switched the lamp back off.

“Just go.”

“Can I get you something? Water? Something to eat?” Pete moved beside her and ran her fingers through Camille's hair.

“Get me a bottle of vodka.”

“That's the last thing you need right now.”

“Get it.”

“Whatever you want,” Pete said, her voice now stiff and cold. “You're the boss.”

 

Camille didn't know or care how much time had passed when Pete returned. She hadn't moved, though it felt like even more of her world had fallen away. Her tears had dried into a salty crust.

Pete placed something on the desk. “Honey, you shouldn't drink on an empty stomach. Not when you're like this. I got you some kind of a lamb stew and rice. Best I could do at this hour.”

“You get the vodka?”

“I shouldn't have.”

Camille heard a glass bottle clink against the desk, but couldn't identify the sound of what else Pete set down. She heard the click of a lighter and immediately shut her eyes.

“You can't drink in the dark. I brought some candles.” Candles presumably lit, Pete kneaded Camille's shoulders. “You want to talk?”

“Nothing to say.”

“Can I get you anything else? Water maybe?”

“No water, two shot glasses.”

Pete made some noise in the kitchenette, then put three glasses on the desk. “You're getting water anyway.”

Camille heard Pete pour the vodka, then say, “What are we drinking to?”

“We're not. Go.”

 

A few minutes after Pete left, Camille raised her head. Her neck was so stiff, she could barely move it. Everything ached, but she was too numb to care. She opened the desk drawer and reached inside. She pulled out another USP Tactical, a replacement courtesy of the Black Management armorer. She checked the magazine, then positioned it on the desk to her right.

The vodka was some Polish brand she didn't recognize. She screwed off the top and filled the two shot glasses. Using a candle, she lit the vodka in one of the glasses. The blue flame flickered.

“This is for you, Hunter—for us,” she said out loud, holding up the second glass in a toast. As far as she was concerned, the Hunter Stone she had loved really was killed in action in Iraq two years ago. She downed the vodka in a single shot. “I loved you so much. We paid the ultimate price.” Her voice cracked. Reaching for the vodka to pour herself another shot, she glanced at the gun and decided to drink from the bottle instead. She pressed it against her lips. The alcohol burned her raw throat.

She watched the blue flames dance and thought about what had been. She remembered tracking one another in the Mark Twain National Forest, armed with paintball guns, but she could no longer feel the delight as they'd blasted away at one another. She recalled the times their martial arts sessions had gotten out of hand, turning into serious violence, then dissolving into tender lovemaking, but the passion wasn't there anymore. She was but a voyeur. Pain had stripped away joy and the memories were now flavorless. Everything was a blue blur as tears welled in her eyes and dripped onto the manila file folder. She looked down at it, then grabbed for the vodka. The alcohol rush made her feel warm and calm.

Half of the shot had burned off. It was almost over. She reached over to the pistol and flicked the safety off, but kept her thumb on it, hesitating.

She was happiest when she was with him, but it wasn't like she couldn't be happy without him. Before he had resurfaced in May, she was moving on with her life, missing him, but moving on. She loved Hunter and it hurt like hell that he didn't feel the same way, but she was a warrior.

A Warrior.

Warriors don't quit.

She shoved the gun aside.

She sat there staring into the air for several minutes, then she opened the top folder and looked at a picture of Hunter. He really was Greek-god gorgeous. She turned the page and looked at the next one. Why wasn't she the woman lying in his arms after that picnic?

Camille took a deep breath. The flame was nearly gone. She stared at the photo, wedging herself into Hunter's arms in place of that bitch. The other woman kept butting in and she was left staring at a snapshot. Then she noticed the date in the print's lower right-hand corner and squinted to be sure—May 11th of this year.

“Oh my god,” she whispered to herself. “May 11th—Granny's funeral—he was with me.” Tears streamed down her face and her body shook as she wept. He loved her. He really did.

She leaned over and blew out the flame before it could extinguish itself.

Semper Fi, Hunter. Semper Fi.

Camp Raven, The Green Zone, Baghdad

Camille tripped down the stairs of her trailer, shouting for Pete. She stumbled, but caught herself before she hit the ground. She heard the loud
bam-boom
of a rocket fire in the distance. A few moments later, Pete came running from her trailer.

“He loves me, Pete. He loves me.”

“Camille, sweet pea, you're drunk.”

She put her arm around Camille and led her to a bench someone had constructed from shipping crates. The generators were so loud, she could barely hear the palm fronds rustling in the warm breeze. A crescent moon hung low in the sky.

“It's a forgery,” Camille said, slurring her words and breathing through her mouth.

“Even the vet checked out. You've had too much to drink. You need to down some water and sleep for a while.”

“No.” Camille shook her head. “The dates are wrong. The pictures. They're wrong. May eleventh.”

“Why don't you let me help you take a shower and put you to bed?” Pete brushed the hair from Camille's face. It was soaked from tears. “You poor thing. You've cried a lake.”

“He couldn't have been with her. On May eleventh Granny Lusk was buried. No one knew he was there. No one but me.” Camille stifled a yawn.

“I know how badly you want to believe him, but you're not making sense. You need to sleep. If it'll make you feel better, I'll take it and get some of our resident spooks to look over it and check it all out.”

“No. It's a fake. Oh god, they've got him. We've got to get him away from Rubicon.”

“We don't know where he is or even if he's alive.”

“He's alive. I know he is. They want him to talk. They can't break him, but they won't know that yet. That gives us time.” Camille stood, but Pete stayed on the bench. A mortar whistled in the distance. “What time is it?”

“Almost two.”

“Bars still open?” Camille swayed.

“You don't need any more.”

“Are they open?”

“Yeah.”

“Get a dozen men down here immediately.”

“With all due respect, you're drunk and heartbroken and you look like shit. And that's coming from someone who thinks you're one of the most stunning women she's ever seen.” Pete stood and put her hand on Camille's back, nudging her toward her trailer.

“Get the boys. That's a fucking order.”

Pete's square jaw was clenched. “Yes, ma'am. What do you want? Hunters? Pilots? Spies? Technicians?”

“I don't care. Whoever's up. Civilian dress is fine—no gear. I expect them in front of my trailer in ten minutes.” Camille weaved more than she liked as she walked away. She had ten minutes to sober up, print some pictures and try to make herself look like a boss—one who, under the right circumstances, they would follow to their deaths.

 

As soon as Camille got back into the trailer, she flipped on the computer, grabbed a stack of twenties from petty cash and shoved them into the pocket of her running shorts. While waiting for the computer to boot up, she shoveled the rice and lamb stew into her mouth, barely chewing before swallowing. She would've preferred her favorite peanut M&Ms, but she didn't have time to search for a bag.

The laptop was finally displaying the Windows desktop and the wallpaper was still the picture from three years ago that Hunter had taken at arms' length of them laughing together, both splattered in Day-Glo fuchsia and orange paintball paint. She smiled this time as she remembered the high of that day. God, they had had so much fun.

She leaned over and clicked into a personal file and opened a more easily recognizable picture of Hunter. She set it to print two hundred copies, hoping to get as many as she could before time was up. On her way to the bathroom to clean up, she stopped to shovel in a few last mouthfuls of food and to guzzle as much water as she could stand. She had no doubt she really did look a wreck. A few splashes of cold water, a Black Management baseball cap and some sunglasses would have to do the trick. At least vodka didn't taint her breath.

 

Iggy entered her trailer without knocking just as Camille was putting her hair into a pony tail and threading it through the back of a baseball cap. Papers were falling out of the printer tray. Then he noticed the candles, the empty bottle and the .45. He picked up the gun and flicked the safety back on.

“What's going on, Cam? Pete told me you ordered her to muster my troops. She also told me you're sauced.”

“I love you, Iggy, but no time.”

She snatched up the pile of papers from the printer. They all had Stone's picture on it. She weaved toward the trailer door and Iggy grabbed her arm with his artificial hand.

“Cam, listen to me. You're drunk. I can't let you make a fool of yourself in front of your men.”

“Let go of me.” She twisted and pulled away.

 

Iggy followed Camille outside the trailer, embarrassed for her. A dozen off-duty men stood around in front of her quarters wearing Green Zone casual—skin-tight Under Armour T-shirts, Royal Robbins 5.11 pants and assault rifles. They were a mixture of operators, shooters, spooks and techies. Whatever stunt Camille was about to pull, no way could Iggy contain it. Word would spread like gunfire in Fallujah.

Camille climbed back onto the bottom step. A mortar thudded and whistled across the sky. No one even turned a head. She cleared her throat, then said, “You have a mission. Fan out to all the bars here in the bubble—”

The men laughed.

She continued. “I'm serious. Cover all the bars and the private trailer parties. Tell everyone I'm offering a bounty of one million dollars cash for this man.”

She held up the stack of papers. It was too dark to see anything other than that she was holding the sheets backwards.
Jesus.
Iggy leaned over to Pete. “Get those from her.”

Pete slipped up beside Camille and took the flyers.

Camille paused, waiting for the whistle of a mortar to stop. “Tangos are sure busy tonight. Must've cashed another Saudi check. They always seem to shoot their wad on payday—I'm sure none of you can relate to that.” The men laughed again. “I want you to find Hunter Stone—the one Rubicon captured between Fallujah and Ramadi. Hit the bars, but avoid media hangs-outs. Keep it in the family.”

“Any idea where he is?” one of the computer weenies said.

“No. Rubicon's got him. Focus on getting word to Rubicon employees. Some of them know where he is,” Camille said.

“Ma'am, with all due respect,” a cocky operator known as C
OPPERHEAD
said. He'd been a SEAL for only four years, but thought he could kick the world's ass. “That's not enough money if he's being held in one of Rubicon's facilities where they keep the tangos. It would take serious gear, a team of six top-tier operators with support, bribes for information—everyone would need a cut. It's got to be worthwhile. One million might work if you want some Gurkhas or other Third World mercs taking a stab at it, but if you really want him—”

“I want to turn heads,” Camille said. Like she hadn't already, shooting after a naked man running from her trailer and now talking to her troops drunk. She was a damn fine operator, but this personal crap was making her lose it. Much more of this and he would take out Stone himself.

“Try five million. That would get my attention,” someone shouted.

“Five it is. I'll toss in an extra two mill if he's not harmed in the op. One million for information that leads to his rescue.”

Iggy thought about how things had changed since the early penny-pinching days of Black Management when the Marines let them rummage through piles of seized AKs to arm their troops. Now they had so many government contracts, it wouldn't even be a challenge for the accountants to figure out a way to bill the government for the five mil—chump change.

Camille pointed to Iggy. “For anyone from Black Management who convinces Iggy they have solid intel and a good plan, I'll furnish the toys. Spread the word. By noon tomorrow I want every employee at Rubicon dreaming of retiring to Hawaii.”