“Red team, gear up,” someone calls.
I rattle off assignments in Russian to my guys, then in English for theirs. I deliberately don’t look at Caiden when I say, “Lance Corporal, on me.” I don’t have to look, I can feel him step closer, the way you feel a storm front move in.
We move into the trees in staggered pairs. Niko’s Blue team will sweep through in ten minutes, trying to catch us, trying not to get “killed.” Blank rounds only, obviously.
I let the boys fan out ahead, sending two forward, two left, one right, keeping my pace easy. Caiden keeps to my right and a few steps back. “You’re clear on signals?” I ask in English without looking back.
“Yes, Sir,” he says, in a clipped tone.
“You sound annoyed,” I observe.
“I’m focused.”
“Mm. Is that what we’re calling it?” He doesn’t answer, which is wise, and incredibly boring. We walk in silence for a bit, the forest swallowing the noise of the base behind us. The further we go, the more the air changes; it’s quieter, softer, with less echo, which means more places for things to hide.
The perfect spot.
At the third marker tree, I stop and raise my fist, and the squad halts on instinct. “Positions,” I order. I point two up into the shallow ditch, one behind the fallen log, the others to the right flank, and they melt into the undergrowth with varying degrees of stealth.
Good enough.
I turn to Caiden, and he’s watching my hands again, waiting for his assignment. “You. With me.”
“Thought I’d take overwatch on the left,” he says. “Better angle on —”
“Did I ask for your artistic opinion, Lance Corporal?” I cut in, my voice sharp. “With. Me.” I step off the faint path, going deeper between the trees. The ground slopes slightly downhill and away from the others. We’re technically still within the grid, but we’re just far enough away that line of sight is broken.
“How far are we going?” he asks after a minute.
“Why, scared of getting lost?” I ask.
“No, Sir.”
“Good,” I say. He huffs, that humourless little puff he does when he’s irritated.
“You know this area. We don’t.”
“What a tragic asymmetry,” I say. “If only there were some kind of guide.”
“You’re supposed to be that guide.”
“Mm,” I say. “I’m many things.”
“Not helpful being one,” he mutters under his breath, making me smile to myself. We stop in a little hollow between four trees; it’s a natural bowl scooped out by time and rain, the kind of place sound gets swallowed, and hidden enough that I can’t see my squad clearly.
Good. I don’t want witnesses.
I turn suddenly, and he almost collides with me. “We’ll take here.”
“Just us?” he asks, his eyes flicking around the trees and instinct kicking in. He’s counting cover and risks.
“Just us,” I confirm. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it abruptly. Something flashes across his face, I know he’s thinking about the showers, and the way he stared at me as if I’d crawled straight out of his worst idea and asked if he wanted to make it even worse than that.
It’s written all over his face.
Poor thing.
“Relax, Caiden,” I say, letting his first name purr out.
