Midway through a satisfying sip of my first cup of coffee, my phone dinged. I snatched it up from the tabletop and swiped the screen with the pad of my thumb. A text message from a phone I didn’t recognize was centered on the screen. I opened the message.

I’m driving to the airport. Have time to talk tonight?

Wearing an ear-to-ear grin, I typed my response with my thumb.

I can’t wait

I read the response and then erased it. It sounded far too eager and lacked any resemblance of professionalism whatsoever.

I typed another.

Sure

I stared at the one-word answer to his two-sentence question. I detested the word sure. It meant yes, but it wasn’t very reassuring.

I erased the message. I wondered if an immediate response would make me look desperate. I decided it would. Afterall, his message was all of forty-five seconds old. As difficult as it was to do, I set the phone aside and sipped my coffee. Ninety seconds later, I couldn’t take it any longer. I picked up the phone, swiped the screen, and stared at the blinking cursor.

After considering a few hundred potential responses, I typed what seemed to be the most accurate one.

I’d like that

Before I could change my mind, I pressed send.

I wondered what he wanted to discuss, and whether he intended to talk on the phone, meet somewhere for a drink, or grab a bite to eat. The thought of him coming over came to mind. The likelihood of it happening was minimal, but it was a possibility, nonetheless.

For the next eight hours, I scrubbed, straightened, dusted, and tidied every inch of the house. When I was done, I lit a candle and checked my phone. An unanswered message from Vincent caused me to smile.

Changing planes in Dallas. Be there in about three hours.

I checked the time of the message. The text was two hours and fifty minutes old.

I had no reason to be nervous. Nevertheless, my heart beat anxiously in anticipation of him calling. I scanned the living room, looking for imperfect cushions or a missed smudge on an end table. While I searched for imperfections, my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Are you busy?” Vincent asked.

“Not at all,” I responded. “How was the flight?”

“Good, thank you. Just dropped off CW and Pike. Are you close to the base?”

“I live close by. Without traffic, maybe ten minutes or so from there.”

“Mind if I stop by?”

My heart raced, even though I wasn’t attracted to him in that way. “That’d be nice.”

“If you don’t mind,” he said. “Text me your address.”

“I will as soon as I hang up.”

“Do you have anything to drink?”

“I’ve got wine. And beer.”

It was a partial lie. I didn’t have beer. I could get some before he showed up, though.

“A beer sounds good,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“Alright.”

I texted him my address and then made a mad dash to the liquor store. While I carried everything into the kitchen, the doorbell rang. I left the beer on the countertop and answered the door.

His face was long, and his eyes were tired. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a plain white tee shirt, he could have passed for any other thirty-something that had just returned from a long, exhausting trip.

There was baggage he was carrying beyond what was loaded in the shiny black truck parked behind him, and I knew it.

“Come in,” I said.

He looked me up and down and then stepped inside. “Good evening.”

I turned toward the kitchen. The beer was sitting in broad view. “I didn’t have beer,” I admitted. “So, I ran and got some.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me.” He gave me another quick look over, from head to toe. “Wine would have been fine.”

I wondered if my choice to wear jeans and a sleeveless top was a bad idea. If he saw it as unprofessional. His expectation may have been to have me appear—and act—the same way at home as I did at work. I was hoping for more of a relaxed atmosphere.

“I normally have both,” I said. “Jordan loves beer.”

“Either will work. I just need to relax.”

“She’s my neighbor,” I added. “Jordan, that is.”

I found it surprising that I felt a need to clarify Jordan was female, considering a relationship with Vincent wasn’t what I was after.

It was easy to admit that I was intrigued by him. Talking about the emotions he felt following an assignment was oddly satisfying. Anything more than talking to him, however, wasn’t going to happen.

Spur of the moment sexual encounters were for dreamers and the desperate. Being in a relationship with a client was out of the question. Friendship was all that was left, and it was borderline unethical.

“I didn’t know what you liked as far as beer goes, so I bought Jordan’s favorite and some Budweiser.”

“What’s Jordan’s favorite?” he asked.

“Blue Moon.”

“I’ll have a Budweiser.”

“Not a fan of Blue Moon?”

“Actually, I prefer it,” he responded. “But I don’t want to drink all your friend’s beer and leave her with Budweiser.”

It was a nice gesture. I grinned and reached in the sack. “She wouldn’t care. When she’s on a roll, she’ll drink anything.”

“How often is she on a roll?”

“Every night at some point.” I handed him a Blue Moon and took one for myself. “She loves cutting loose.”

“I don’t know about every night, but it’s nice every now and again.”

“I’ll agree with that.”

I led the way to the living room and sat down on the sofa. After a lengthy survey of the available furniture, Vincent chose the chair across from me. With expressed reluctance, he sat down.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“It seemed like you weren’t sure if you wanted to sit down or not.”

“I prefer to face the door.”

“Do you want me to move?”

“It’s okay.” He looked around the room. “I’ll be fine.”

It was apparent he was uneasy. “Let’s trade seats.”

“I can sit at the other end of the couch,” he said. “Then we can both face the door.”

I didn’t care about facing the door. I sat on the couch because it was where I normally sat. “That works, too.”

He sat down at the other end of the couch and let out a breath.

“How was the assignment?” I asked, knowing there must have been something about it that troubled him.

He studied his bottle of beer. “Sinaloa cartel had taken occupancy of an abandoned home in Nogales, Arizona. It’s unclaimed cartel territory. We were to eliminate, and I quote, all occupants of the residence. Thermal imaging indicated nine bodies in the home. When we raided it, we quickly found—and eliminated—eight. The ninth was locked in a bedroom, from the outside. The bedroom’s door and doorframe were steel, and obviously new. I had an odd feeling about what might be inside. We breached the door, and there was a twelve-year-old naked American female inside. My guess is she was a kidnap victim.” He raised the bottle to his mouth, paused, and then took a drink. “Might have been held for ransom, who knows.”

I wanted to ask the inevitable but knew not to. Vincent was a machine surrounded by a man’s body, programmed to carry out the orders he was given. Unlike Shephard, he didn’t deviate from the written instructions of his assignments. He simply obeyed them, under the belief it wasn’t his part to question authority.

I tried to remain emotionless and ask the broadest of questions.

“Was the mission a success?” I asked.

“Probably depends on who you interview.” He took a long drink, and then lowered the bottle. “It was a three-man team. Me, Pike and Wilson.”

“What’s your opinion of the mission?” I asked. “Was it a success?”

“Pike wanted to eliminate the girl.” He finished his beer, and then stood. “I let her go.”

I covered my mouth with my hand, hoping to stifle the breath of relief that shot from my lungs. “Did it trouble you to defy your written orders?”

He hooked his thumb on the pocket of his jeans. The empty bottle of beer dangled from his fingertips. The pose could have easily been used by the beer company for an advertisement pushing their product to single women who were attracted to tall, tanned, attractive military-types.

“Didn’t bother me one bit. That’s what troubles me.” He turned away. “Do you need another?”

My bottle was full. Truth be told, I didn’t care much for beer. I choked down half of it and followed him into the kitchen.

“Maybe I should switch to wine.” I watched him saunter toward the fridge. “It’s my comfort drink.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Mind if I stick with beer? Wine makes me act like an idiot.”

I set the half-full bottle on the countertop. “Go right ahead.”

While he retrieved a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, I uncorked the wine and poured a glass. I washed the foul taste of beer from my palate with a healthy gulp. “What did the other two say about letting the girl go?”

“Wilson didn’t say anything. Pike was pissed off. He wanted to follow orders.”

“Did he say that, or did you sense it?”

He took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He trained his weapon on her and reminded me what the orders said.”

Pike was one of the three sadists in the program. He had yet to exhibit the level of sadism—or the satisfaction derived from it—that Shephard did, but he was a sadist, nonetheless.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“It was dark, so she couldn’t see us. I’d given an order not to shoot. He just stood there, like he couldn’t decide whether to follow my order or the written orders of the intel sheet. He was staring at her, and I was staring at him. I figured if he shot her, I was going to shoot him. Orders, or no orders, killing a twelve-year-old American girl that’s not a threat? Not on my mission. That’s what I told him.”

The more intimate I became with the missions the men went on, the clearer the difficulties they faced became. I couldn’t imagine being in a situation where I would have to make either of the decisions Vincent spoke of.

Killing a twelve-year-old girl or killing a friend. No one should have to make such choices or go through the emotions associated with contemplating them.

“Eventually he lowered his weapon?” I asked.

“After thirty seconds or so.” He took another drink and then set his bottle aside. “It felt like an hour and a half. Things changed during that mission.”

“What do you mean?”

“For one, I was okay with defying the orders.” He shrugged. “That’s not like me.”

“Your circumstance was unique,” I explained. “You’ve never been in a situation like that. Nothing I recall can compare to it.”

“The situation isn’t supposed to make a difference.” He gave me a serious look. “Orders are orders. My ability to follow orders is one of the reasons I was selected for the program.”

“Everyone has their limits,” I said. “Or, at least they should.”

“I never have,” he argued.

“What else changed?”

He raised the bottle to his mouth and looked away. After taking a few drinks, he met my gaze. “I think the girl became human.”

“Can you explain what you mean? She became human?”

“I don’t see my targets as being anything other than a necessary component in the completion of an assignment. An obstacle standing between me and the overall objective.”

“What’s the overall objective? In your mind?”

“Making the Nation a safer place.”

Emotional detachment is a common way to deal with anxiety. A person’s emotions, moods, or feelings are a direct result of what they’re thinking. If we train ourselves to think certain things about a particular event, it prevents the feeling typically associated with the event from coming to the surface.

“Your targets? They’re not human? In your eyes?”

“They haven’t been until now,” he responded. “I asked her name. We’re taught to separate ourselves from our targets. Learning her name was the complete opposite from what I’d been trained.”

“What was her name?”

“Amber,” he said. “Amber Kilgore.”

“Things changed for you in Texas, correct?”

“Something happened with that assignment.” He rubbed his head vigorously with the tips of his fingers. “Something changed.”

“The common denominator is that the targets were women,” I explained. “I don’t know that now is the time to discuss it, but it may be that you’re trying to salvage something with your female targets that you weren’t able to salvage with your mother. You know, save them because you couldn’t save her.”

He shrugged. “Makes sense.”

He set his beer aside and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. My analogy had hit a nerve. It was time to change the subject.

“Are there others in the program that are like Shephard?” he asked, changing the topic before I had a chance. “Sociopathic sadists?”

“I shouldn’t discuss the diagnosis of my clients. I really shouldn’t have told you about him,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He gave me a lingering look. “If Pike got shipped to Somalia would it surprise you?”

It was a question I could answer without feeling guilty. “It wouldn’t surprise me, no.”

“What about Taggert?”

“Same.”

“CW?”

“Who?” I asked.

“Wilson.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Jesus.” He forced a sigh. “There’s only one left.”

“Payne,” I said.

“Somalia, or no?” he asked.

“I’m surprised he isn’t there already.”

“What if I got shipped out?”

“I’d be shocked beyond belief,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because you’re the only one in the program that has the capacity to feel emotion.”

“I think finding out about Shephard made me look at all the men a little differently,” he confessed. “I feel like an idiot for believing all this time that their heads were in the right place. I’m in it to make a difference. They’re in it because they enjoy it.”

“How did it make you feel to…” I paused. After a drink of wine, I rephrased my question. “Was it strange to consider shooting another Marine?”

“Not really. My world is different than most people’s, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“It’s pretty black and white. Something’s either right or it’s wrong. What he was considering was wrong. This time, standing against what’s wrong meant going against the brotherhood in the Corps. It doesn’t surprise me that I was ready to kill him if need be. I’ve been standing against what’s wrong since I was a kid.”

“Do you prefer missions where you’re alone?” I asked.

“The value in going alone is that I know no one is going to speak of the details of my missions. What I write in my report is what happened.”

“Do you lie in your reports?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He reached for his beer before meeting my gaze. “I exclude details that would cause my mission to be scrutinized. The rest is my version of the truth.”

I chuckled. “You prefer working alone. I was just curious.”

“If eliminating the target is simple, I’d rather be alone. If the mission is complex, having someone else involved brings a certain value.”

“Because they’ve got your back?”

“Not exactly.”

I gave him a look.

“If the mission involves tactics that are questionable or a method that isn’t per protocol, the involvement of another participant allows corroboration of the story.”

“What if the other party decides to tell the truth?” I asked. “To say what really happened?”

“If they’re involved in something questionable, they’re as culpable as I am. They’ll stick to the story to save their own ass. So, to answer your question, if the mission is potentially a dirty one, I want someone else involved. If two people are wearing the mission’s dirt, they’re each only half as dirty as if one of them had acted alone.”

I couldn’t believe I was standing in my kitchen talking about the benefits of adding a partner to a potentially “dirty” mission. Until recently, I wasn’t convinced the program was a necessary part in securing the Nation’s freedom. Nevertheless, I accepted a high-level position within one of the US Government’s many clandestine hit squads.

I, no differently than Vincent, simply followed orders. In doing so, I attempted to make killers feel that they’d done nothing wrong after they’d committed the most unspeakable of acts. Then, one assignment changed my system of beliefs, entirely. After it, I embraced the program—and everything that came with it—wholeheartedly.

“Before that mission in Chicago, I wasn’t convinced this program was valuable,” I said. “I was in this job for other reasons. Now, I think killing—in certain circumstances—is necessary for the safety of the Nation’s citizens.”

“You believe there are circumstances that truly warrant murder?”

I seemed crazy to admit it, but in all honesty, I did. “Absolutely.”

“Chicago changed your mind?” He asked. “That crazy prick with all the bombs?”

“That’s the one.”

He shook his head. “Shutting down that guy’s bomb factory made me believe in this program. I can’t imagine what would have happened if we hadn’t completed that mission.”

The man in question was manufacturing bombs and providing them to anyone willing to take a stand against a cause he believed in. At the time the assignment was issued, it was believed that his bombs had been used in a federal building that was bombed, killing over a hundred innocent people and wounding hundreds; a marathon in New York City that killed dozens and injured hundreds; and a Jewish synagogue that killed a hundred and fifty and wounded everyone in attendance at the religious service.

ATF investigators found that the three bombs had a unique handmade detonation device. Even though investigators believed the target was the man behind the bombings, they couldn’t link him to the warehouse believed to be used in the manufacturing of them. Without that critical element, they couldn’t obtain a search warrant.

As the ATF strengthened their case, a white supremacist detonated a series of bombs in a predominantly black middle school, killing two hundred children. The detonation devices, like an electronic fingerprint of sorts, linked each of the bombs to the other three.

There was no doubt the devices were made by the same man. It was the last straw. Still unable to get a search warrant or an indictment, but certain of the target’s ties to the manufacture of the bombs, the Director of National Intelligence called for the assistance of New Dawn’s men.

Vincent was selected for the assignment due to his specialized training in language, negotiations, and reconnaissance. In an undercover mission that wasn’t limited by the same rules of entrapment as a law enforcement unit, Vincent posed as a Persian-speaking American with ties to ISIS.

While drinking beers and planning another church bombing, Vincent secretly slipped the man enough crushed oxycodone to place him in a reduced state of awareness. Then, he gave him more—enough to cause him to overdose. Afterward, Vincent planted enough evidence to lead investigators to the warehouse in question.

An anonymous “concerned citizen” led local law enforcement to the man’s home, where they found that he’d fallen victim to an overdose of oxycodone. While removing the body from the home, an alert detective recognized components commonly used to manufacture bombs in the same room where the man accidentally overdosed.

A scrap of paper with the address of the warehouse written on it was found near the materials. No one was the wiser that it was scribed in Vincent’s handwriting. The note allowed a search warrant to be issued for the warehouse. A subsequent search produced dozens of pre-made bombs, each of which could kill hundreds, if not thousands.

Up until that time, I felt breaking the law to deter the further manufacture of crime was nothing short of criminal, but I chose to look the other way. That one assignment changed my belief on everything. Using a clandestine force to step in when laws prevented police and federal agents from acting finally made sense.

“Before that assignment, I was nothing more than a therapist drawing a paycheck for services rendered,” I admitted. “After those bombs were found, I embraced the program, the men in it, and the reason behind it.”

“So, you weren’t completely on board before that mission?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

He gave me a quick once-over, grinned, and then took a drink of his beer.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He took another drink. “What do you mean?”

“You keep looking at me funny,” I said. “You’ve been doing it since you got here.”

He gestured toward me with the neck of his beer bottle. “Your hair’s down, and I’m not used to seeing you in jeans.”

“Do I look bad?”

He finished his beer, eyeing me as he drank it. He set the bottle aside. “No, Ma’am.”

“I don’t look bad?”

He sauntered to the fridge, got another beer, and turned around. “You look remarkable. I’ll probably need to make this my last beer, or I just might forget you’re my psychiatrist.”

I laughed jokingly. “We don’t want that.”

His mouth curled into a smirk. Wearing that playful smile, he stepped so close he could have kissed me. I noticed a scar across his eyebrow. I wondered how he got it.

“We don’t?” he asked.

I ached to have a man in my life. His golden eyes were wreaking havoc on my ability to resist him. Despite my attraction to Vincent, he wasn’t the answer. With our chests nearly touching, I turned my head to the side and gulped down what remained of my wine.

I swallowed heavily and met his licentious gaze. “I…don’t,” I stammered. “I don’t think so.”

He took a step back and looked me up and down. “It’s hard not to think about.”

An inaudible breath escaped me. “What’s hard not to think about?”

“You and me.”

I fumbled to pour another glass of wine. “In what context?”

“The context where I take your clothes off and seduce you.”

My face flushed. I couldn’t say I hadn’t thought about it, but I wasn’t about to admit it to him. I couldn’t believe he admitted it to me. I stammered to assemble my verbal escape and came up with nothing.

“How long have you been thinking about it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Since we met. Three years, I guess. More lately, though. After that night we talked, I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit. I could share my thoughts with you one of these nights, but we’d have to be naked.”

I took an overly eager drink of wine, sloshing it out of the glass and down my cheeks. Nervously, I stepped to his side and wet a paper towel.

While I dabbed the wine from my face, he flashed a sly grin.

“Sorry,” he said with a laugh. “Seriously. After we had that talk the other day, I realized you’re the only one I wouldn’t have to lie to. You know me better than anyone on earth, really. You know the truth about me, and what I do. I think I let my imagination run wild after that night.”

Now that he mentioned it, my imagination was running wild. Daydreaming about being seduced by Vincent—and not acting on it—wasn’t going to be an easy thing to do.

I felt hot. Horny. Half-drunk. Vincent was right. I knew him better than anyone. We could be truthful with one another about our feelings and the events that brought them on. At some point, however, Director Martin would find out, and we’d both be in serious trouble.

I threw away the paper towel and faced him. “It’s not a good idea. We’d both be reprimanded. We’d likely lose our jobs.”

“It’s a great idea.” He took a drink of his beer. “Implementing it is not advisable, though.”

I wanted to admit that I’d thought about it as much as he had, but I didn’t dare. Instead, I seduced him mentally while wearing a look of indifference.

I raised my wine glass. “Agreed.”

He finished his beer and set the bottle aside. “Things might go to hell tomorrow when I talk to Lt. Colonel Martin. Either way, I’ll come see you.”

I didn’t want him to go, but I knew it would be best. If he stayed, we’d continue to drink until nothing was left. It would be anyone’s guess where the night would take us.

“Does this mean you’re leaving?” I asked.

He moved so close that his chest brushed against mine. “I am.”

Mischief glistened in his golden orbs. The what-ifs and why-nots of proceeding danced around in my head. While I was lost in a daydream, he did what I least expected.

He kissed me.

It was as simple as a kiss could be. His lips pressed against my cheek, just beside my mouth.

Despite its simplicity, it rocked me to my core. My mind swam in the possibilities of what might follow. For one night with him, I could cast ethics and aversion aside. One night together wouldn’t hurt either of us.

One wonderful sex-filled night.

As if he sensed the satisfaction I derived from the kiss, his lips remained in place for fractionally longer than I would have expected. Not an awkward amount of time. Just enough to cause me to escape from reality and slip into a world of hope.

While I was lost in what the immediate future might hold, he leaned away and looked me in the eyes. Standing on shaking legs, I waited for him to take the next step. He swept my hair behind my ear with his index finger.

I drew an unsteady breath.

One side of his mouth curled upward. “See you tomorrow, Doc.”