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I take it gingerly, flipping it open and scanning the few pages inside. “How did you get this? I’ve never been able to find any details on his last mission.”
“I have my ways. The reason you’ve not been able to find anything is because our last mission wasn’t official, Jess. But you knew that, didn’t you?” Rick picks up another file, which I hadn’t noticed before, but is one I recognise.
I snatch the folder from Rick, checking everything I’d collected over the years is still inside. “This is mine. From my apartment, so how the fuck do you have it?” I snap, waving the folder in front of him.
“As I said, I have my ways. My point is that you’ve been looking into what happened to your brother since he died. What I need to know is why?”
I roll my eyes at his ridiculous question. “I’d have thought that was obvious but let me spell it out for you. I don’t believe the utter bollocks that your lot and my father spewed to us about Christian’s death.” I watch as Seb bristles at my jibe at this country’s army. In all fairness, my snide comment pretty much counts for every army all over the world. Every move they make is political on some level, and the fact they have special ops at all should be enough to tell people not everything they do is within the laws and morals of society.
“Please don’t insult my intelligence, Rick. All of us here know the army engages side missions, special operations that are classified, need to know, top secret, all of the above and none of which are official. You just said so yourself. My mother might have swallowed their bullshit about how my brother died, but I didn’t. As for my father, he’s happy to ignore the reality and bury it beneath the mountain of other corrupt and illegal shit he’s been involved with over the years. He’s a master at making shit disappear.” Bitterness creeps in as I think about how my father covered up what happened to me to protect his name.
I open the file Rick gave me again, noting the name of Major Richard Cole and the details of the surveillance operation Rick and Christian were briefed on. There’s nothing here to make me think that this was anything other than what is stated.
“As you can see there was nothing out of the ordinary or unusual about the op, Jess. Everything there is exactly what we were instructed to do. A simple surveillance operation and report back our findings.”
Looking up at Rick, I ask, “If that’s true, how did my brother end up dead?”
Thirty-One
Rick
Jess’ folder, although slim, is thorough and she did her homework. Unfortunately, her efforts were met with the same result; your brother was killed in action.
Only this time, I have no intention of giving her the standard line issued by the army for those killed during manoeuvres. Today Jess will finally get the truth she’s been seeking.
“Six months after Ryder lost his platoon, all except Seb, Operation Zeon landed on my desk. A straight-forward surveillance op like so many I’d done before. But something was off from the beginning, and I should have listened to my gut.
“On the morning of the briefing, my partner never showed, and Kuffs was drafted in as his replacement. The Major and I had words about it. I told him something didn’t feel right, that Kuffs was a good soldier, but he’d never done anything like this before and hadn’t been through the training. It was all brushed aside, and the op went ahead.”
As I begin my account of what happened during that op, I get lost in the memory.
After being dropped at the entry site, Kuffs and I made our way to the confirmed location for conducting our surveillance with instructions to be at the extraction point in 48 hours at 0600 hours. Our objectives were clear, monitor and record foot traffic, along with vehicles and equipment in and out of the small building.
For the first twenty-four hours everything was quiet, barely any movement at all, but the following morning with the arrival of a large truck, everything changed. The trucks arrival brought chaos, and the place was overrun with men, more than the small building should have been able to house.
Kuffs and I couldn’t believe our eyes when they started unloading the truck. Boxes upon boxes of military grade weapons being carried into the tiny house. It was almost as though they weren’t expecting the delivery or not at that time at least, and it took them by surprise.
With so many people racing about outside and us busy trying to record everything, neither of us noticed the small group that broke away.
By the time we realised our position was compromised, it was too late. I created a diversion for Kuffs and thought he’d got away, but about an hour after my capture, they brought him in, dropping him in a bloody heap at my feet.
For the first couple of days, they kept us fed and watered. They even provided me with medical supplies to treat Kuffs’ wounds. At the time, I considered the possibility it was some mind game meant to lull us into a false sense of security.
But by the third day, their attitude towards us became openly hostile. It’s like someone had flipped a switch, and now, we were being treated as true prisoners. The food and water we’d been getting two, sometimes three, times a day dwindled to only once or not at all. When it did come, the food looked like the scraps you’d feed a dog and the water was stale.
They interrogated us individually at first, but when they weren’t getting the answers they obviously wanted, they upped the ante.
“You know, when you join the army, they train you on how to handle being questioned under duress, torture, but it doesn’t come close to the reality.” I pour myself another whiskey, feeling eyes on me the whole time. I’m conscious that I’ve never spoken to anyone about some of these details, and I can feel beads of sweat dotted along my forehead and my hands are clammy. Knocking the drink back, I put the glass down, rubbing my hands down my thighs, and continue my story as the whiskey burns its way through my body.
“For three days straight, they quizzed us with barely any rest, and when we did begin to wane, they’d wake us right back up again with loud noises, bright lights, anything to keep us conscious.
They knew who we were, our names and that we were soldiers, and they kept asking about someone called The Archer—”
A gasp beside me halts my words, and I look to see Jess with her hand over her mouth.
“Jess, what is it?”
She begins shaking her head in disbelief, her hand still cupping her mouth. “Oh my god,” falls from her lips, and she jumps up out of her seat and starts pacing. Suddenly, she stops, hands now on her hips and turns to me. “You’re sure they said The Archer? They used that name specifically?”
