“I’m sorry, I tried.”
Alex thought Caleb would have had her back with the deputy director, but instead, he caved. There was nothing she could say in response that wouldn’t make her sound like a petulant child, so she remained silent.
“You still there?” he asked.
She couldn’t shake the image she’d painted for herself of Celeste in the intensive care unit of a hospital in The Hague, wires and tubes protruding out of her. As a combat medic, she’d seen it hundreds of times. Likely more. She had initiated some of the same invasive treatments on the battlefield, performed them in Black Hawks during casualty evacuations, and aided the medical teams in the operating rooms at combat support hospitals. She was intimately familiar with the sights, sounds, and smells of trauma units and ICUs.
Celeste.
“I’m going to see her,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Alex, I don’t know what more to say. Deputy Director Thomas listened. She’s sympathetic to your situation.”
“And when you knew my request for compassionate leave was denied, you went running to my dad to tell on me, knowing I might not take it well?”
“I didn’t, Alex. Thomas called me and—”
“All I’m asking for is a few days to make sure Madame Clicquot will be alright.”
“Alex, don’t go AWOL on me again. One day you’ll need friends, and going rogue will just leave you dangling out in the cold.”
She looked at her father, who sat there staring back at her, silently sipping his bourbon.
“I don’t know what more to say. I’m used to being by myself.”
“Alex—”
She ended the call and drained her glass.
Out in the cold was fine with her.