27

Corelli wasn’t at his room. A soldier wandered around the corner. Black grabbed him by his uniform and demanded to know where Corelli was. The startled kid stammered that he thought Corelli had just gotten off shift at the CP and gone to chow.

Black made his way quickly, stopping at each corner to peer around. The chow hall was empty except for a lone soldier chewing on cold cuts.

“Was Corelli here?” he asked, crossing briskly to the stack of M.R.E. cases in the corner.

“Uh, roger, sir. Like, just a couple minutes ago.”

The soldier pointed at a paper plate with half-eaten food on it.

“Where?” Black asked, stuffing an M.R.E. into a cargo pocket.

“The armory, I think, sir,” the kid answered. “With Shannon.”

No.

Black pushed out the door at a run. He pounded clumsily through the corridors, his heavy gear jouncing against its straps.

He slammed through the door of the armory, his rifle upside down in his hands like a club. Corelli leaped up from his table in surprise.

“Where’s Shannon?” Black nearly shouted, looking left and right in the shadows of the room.

“Oh, he just left a minute ago, sir,” said the jumpy Corelli, gesturing at his paperwork with the pen he was holding. “I was just recording his draw.”

“What draw?”

“He was minus one grenade, sir,” said Corelli. “He was out on a patrol tonight, I guess.”

The world seemed to spin. Bosch had said he had thrown the grenade. . . .

Focus.

Black took three long strides around the table and grabbed Corelli by the arm.

“Come with me now,” he said, hauling the confused soldier up from his table.

“What? Sir, I—”

“Where’s your weapon?”

“There, sir,” Corelli answered, pointing to his rifle and body armor leaning in the corner.

“Get it all.”

He shoved Corelli toward his gear and turned to the spare parts shelf where Brydon’s rifle bolt still sat. There were several rifle firing pins. He grabbed one and pocketed it.

“Have you got a pistol slide assembly?”

“One down, sir,” stammered Corelli, pointing at a lower shelf. “Sir, what’s going on?”

“Where’s your map?”

“Here, sir,” answered Corelli, pointing at a pouch on his body armor.

“Have you got water in here?”

Corelli pointed to a case near the door. Black pocketed the pistol part and went to the case, grabbing two bottles and waving Corelli to him.

“What about your sidearm?”

Corelli patted his pistol holster.

“Come on, then,” he told Corelli urgently as he stuffed one bottle in a cargo pocket. “Hurry.”

Corelli, desperately confused but obedient to a fault, complied without further question, hustling over with his rifle in one hand and his body armor in the other.

“Take this and give me yours,” Black said, holding out his rifle and an empty hand to Corelli.

Corelli complied wordlessly, giving over his rifle. Black charged it and cracked the door, peeking out into the empty hallway.

In a little over a minute they were passing the foot of Oswalt’s stairwell and moving down the darkened corridor beyond it. Three booted kicks and the flimsy closet door burst through its lock. He pushed it shut behind them.

Outside it was still dark, though he knew that would not last. He dragged Corelli to the corner in the wall, where a triangle of moonshadow provided some limited concealment. He squatted down with his back to the corner, looking left and right down both stretches of wall for anyone approaching. Corelli squatted down next to him.

“Gear up,” he told Corelli in a near whisper.

He kept watch as the young soldier began shucking on his body armor.

“Sir, what’s going on?” Corelli pleaded.

“You’re leaving Vega,” he said.

Corelli’s eyes widened.

“Don’t stop,” Black admonished him. “Hurry.”

Corelli resumed sealing up his vest.

“You need to get out of here now and hide,” he said, speaking quickly. “You’re in danger here.”

Corelli’s face was bewilderment and fear.

“Sir, what do you mean? Why am I in danger?”

Because I lied to save my skin, he wanted to say. And now Caine thinks it’s all on you.

“Because you gave me rifle parts,” he said instead. “And you gave me Traynor.”

“What, sir?” Corelli stammered helplessly. “But, sir, I only—”

“No time,” Black cut in. “Here, turn around.”

He commenced to pour both water bottles into the water pouch on Corelli’s back. When he was finished, he handed Corelli the M.R.E., which Corelli stuffed in his own cargo pocket. Finally, Black pressed the rifle he was carrying into Corelli’s hands and took his own back.

“Can you handle a map?” he asked.

The shaken Corelli nodded weakly.

“Then listen to me, Corelli,” Black said, rooting in his cargo pocket. “You will die if you stay here on Vega. You are ordered to leave the COP and hide.”

“Hide where, sir?”

Black brought out the Monk’s envelope and handed it to him.

“Go here,” he said. “Don’t stop until you get to these coordinates, and don’t leave until the Monk comes and gets you, or I come and get you.”

Corelli took the envelope with fumbling hands and started opening it.

“Don’t look at it now,” Black admonished him. “It’ll be light soon. Get over the wall. Go that way.”

He pointed cross-slope through the trees. Corelli looked flabbergasted and pale.

Black put his hands on Corelli’s shoulders.

“Michael,” he said, abandoning protocol. “This is too easy. Get over the wall and get out of sight. Use the map and find your point.”

Corelli looked down at the envelope. Find your point. Black could see him processing the words. Just like land navigation training.

His hands were shaking visibly. All at once Black saw him as he was, as he was in his prior life just yesterday, and as he was today.

In a man’s costume.

He rooted in a cargo pocket and pulled the little zip case that Smoke Toma had given him, pressing it into Corelli’s hands.

“Take this too.”

Corelli looked down at the case. Black put his hand under Corelli’s chin and lifted it.

“He’s watching,” he told Corelli. “Do it right.”

Corelli’s eyes came into focus and he nodded, swallowing hard.

“Now go,” he urged, pointing at the ladder, which still stood where Shannon had left it. “We’ll get to you.”

Corelli shoved the envelope and case in his pockets. He climbed the ladder and swung a leg over the top.

“I’m sorry,” Black called after him in a whisper.

Corelli gave him one last frightened look and disappeared over the wall.

—

He repaired his own weapons by the light of his flashlight in the closet. When he was done he holstered and slung everything, then stepped into the hallway, pulling the broken door shut behind him as best he could.

He straightened and walked purposefully around the corner, straight through the heart of COP Vega.

It was getting light outside now. Soldiers were going about morning routines. No one paid him much mind except to note privately how haggard and tore-up the visiting lieutenant looked, and to wonder briefly why he was walking around the outpost in all his gear.

Most figured it had something to do with the periodic gunshots that could be heard outside. Nothing new there.

He entered Bay Two for the second time in the past hour. Brydon was not at his room. As Black suspected, he hadn’t bothered to lock it.

Black stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He sat on the bed and waited. Presumably when Brydon was done cleaning and dressing wounds he would be back.

An hour later he gave up. But he had an idea where to look.

On his way, he detoured and passed through the hall where Pistone’s hootch was. He pulled open the door of the Porta-Potty and peered inside.

What looked to be another hand had taken a marker and filled in words in all the spaces around the entry, leaving in its place two new and unrelated Chuck jokes.