PROLOGUE
FIRST ORDERS
We are all the walking wounded. Some scars are just more visible than others. Mine are the inside kind: unhealed, pink, festering. Outwardly, I’m still a perfect specimen. That’s why I was chosen for Missions.
“Cadet Davenport . . . it’s time.” The voice came from the generically pretty assistant, standing in the doorway to my future. The clichéd metaphor that sprang to mind was subpar, unworthy of a cadet. Something a civilian girl would write in her ACT essay and think herself clever. Maybe something she would write. I glanced at the photo peeking at me from the folder—my mark. I let out a sigh. Six-freakin’-teen. I clung to the knowledge she had a birthday coming up.
Seventeen is the age of consent in New Mexico . . . not that I had to worry about staying within the confines of civilian laws.
She must be subpar because The Academy wasn’t looking at her, just her brother, the Potentially Gifted Civilian. He was the ripe old age of eight. The same age as—I mentally snapped a rubber band. I couldn’t even look at his picture without a twisted gut. I was the wrong guy for the job. That’s likely why I was here—dismissed so Ranger could take over. Take-over. That should be his motto: Taking over the world, one mission at a time.
The assistant said something to get me moving. She spoke using the clipped tone I’d been accustomed to my whole life. The softest nuance of accent marked her for what she was—a former cadet. If sympathy was what I was looking for today, I wouldn’t find it here.
The reflexive, knee-jerk reaction I’d been fighting for weeks hit me— fight or flight. Neither option was possible. I ran a finger along the nape of my neck, feeling the small, precise scar that was a permanent reminder of what I was . . . what I would always be.
Unfolding myself as slowly as a six-foot, one-inch frame would allow, I finally stood. The assistant narrowed her eyes at me—no one kept the General waiting. I was sure she had preconceived notions about me. Oh Well. Like the uniform at the end of a scheduled day, I shrugged it off then flicked back my hair, grown out indulgently in the interim. I was surer than sure General Weston wouldn’t be a fan (not that he was anyway). I could claim it was for her, the civilian girl. My eyes wandered to her picture again: dark hair, forlorn eyes, a little unkempt around the edges. The only thing missing from the wholesome face was dimples.
She didn’t look so tough . . . I could break her.
May as well get on with it. Trudging forward, I caught the assistant looking from her doorway and shot her one of my “special” smiles. It did its job—a little color brought the puppet’s face to life.
“Right this way,” she said, her professional tone giving nothing away. Textbook manners, inbred.
A lot of inbreeding went on here.
I followed her neat bun and long legs through the unmarked door, where my throat immediately closed with the same metal resonance as the door behind us. Deep breath in, I put one foot in front of the other down a long, gray corridor that seemed to wrap around us like a tunnel. Our footsteps automatically fell into the marching rhythm of our youth. I concentrated on the clacking sound of her heels against granite, anything to take my mind off where I was headed.
Like a prisoner walking toward my execution.
I snorted at the second bad metaphor. She slid me a disapproving glance that had me slowing to a swagger in order to needle Little Miss Efficient. And thumb my nose at The Establishment.
Secret, defiant games were a go-to defense mechanism I’d used to keep my sanity over the years.
But she didn’t really appear bothered, peeking coyly over her shoulder at notorious Peter Davenport. I rewarded her with a grin and checked out the nametag pinned to her chest.
“So . . . Blair. What say you lace that third cup of coffee Weston’s gonna have with a relaxer we both know he’s in dire need of?” I dropped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s a beautiful day for sailing with a beautiful girl.”
Flirting: my next go-to defense mechanism.
“The Commander limits his coffee to two cups a day,” she said as though the answer were just as programmed in. And just when I thought she was a lost cause, she let out a girlish giggle but fought it like an unwanted advance.
“What’d ya say?” I waggled my eyebrows at her.
“I would never!” She tried for outraged, but I knew she’d only set the record straight for the benefit of the cameras, eyeing us discreetly from the corner.
“Never’s a long time,” I said, giving her the eyes. She pressed her lips together but couldn’t hide her smile.
My own smile died. We had arrived at our destination, and the plaque said it all: Commander General Richard Weston—Commander Dick. I paused to belly sigh, but literally could not put this off another minute. The powers-that-be had decided today was the day to put all that training to good use, so I guess it was.
She did the discreet throat-clearing thing. “Aren’t you going to go in? It’s two minutes after.” A tragedy worth being written up for here.
“Why don’t you wait two minutes then pull the fire alarm?” I countered. “Then we’ll make our getaway.” I guess this was said too close to the mouth of the lion’s den, because she sucked in her breath like I’d said Wait two minutes then throw the pipe bomb. Did I really have to state the obvious? I raked back some hair. “That’s what one refers to as a joke.”
“Well, not very mature behavior for an elite cadet.” She took the jab poorly, spinning on her heel to continue going about her duties diligently— another cog in the ruthless machine known as The Academy.
“Future elite cadet. I don’t graduate till next week!” I called after her departing back. “And, apparently, I’m only seventeen anyway . . . so I have a ways to go.” I thwacked the paperwork against my jeans. Should’ve worn my blues. This oversight would likely cost me. I just hated to dress like a reproduced soldier boy on my brief furlough. Sucking down a last lungful of freedom, I rapped on the door.
“Come in.” Even muted behind solid oak, dude sounded like a douche.
I stepped in, as reverently as one would, when meeting the figure of authority that could put your balls in a sling and fling ‘em to the canines. “Cadet Davenport reporting for duty, sir.” My fingertips tapped my forehead a beat too late to be believable.
Not rising for the occasion of my arrival, Weston stared me down (an intimidation technique used liberally around here). His eyes tightened when he took in the sight before him: floppy hair, black T-shirt fading to gray, torn jeans, scuffed sneakers. A smirk, that didn’t go unnoticed by Weston, snuck to my mouth for a nanosecond. He took his silver pen, and a moment of his valuable time, to tap out some Morse code on top of a closed folder. With my name on it. I took the same moment to take in his man-cave.
The ebony desk he was presiding over came equipped with an embedded touch screen and was located dead center of the room. Flanked across from him were two tanned-hide chairs, the likes of which once belonged to animals you might see on a safari. The floor was the polished naked of a woman’s skin, adorned by a single black rug, sliding beneath the sideboard like a discarded robe. A nod to the arts, our corner of the world was renowned for, broke up the wall of windows—gray squiggles framed in black. The kind that was light on the art and heavy on the prestige.