Point of No Return (8 page)

“No.
No.
” The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other and rubbed the back of his neck. One more quick glance at Verna and he coughed. “I wasn’t here Friday. Took a long weekend. Haven’t gotten to all my mail today.”

“I can wait while you read my info and go over what the review entails.”

Another glance at Verna.
What the fuck?
Honey stood still.

“It’s the same as always?”

“I don’t have the earlier reviews.” True, she didn’t. “I didn’t want to read them and have my own review possibly colored by anything previously noted.” True, she didn’t. “I was told there have been a few updates as to what I’d be looking at.”

Bristol unabashedly stared at the ribbons on her uniform blouse. The colorful pieces of cloth were a guide, for those who knew how to read them, to where you’d served and what you’d done. She’d carefully reduced hers to display what every person in the military would wear. There was little to indicate where she’d served, certainly not her purple heart or expertise with a pistol and rifle. He gave her a smug smile and turned, walking back the way he came. Bristol stopped at the door and shot her a look. “You coming?”

“I wasn’t aware I was asked to follow.”

His lips moved. The word wasn’t audible but
fuck
wasn’t all that difficult to lip-read.

“My office is this way. We can talk there.” He swept a key card through a device on the wall to the right, pushing through the door without waiting for her answer. She gathered her briefcase to follow and stopped. The door was now closed and the corridor beyond, big enough to drive a truck through, was empty. Honey looked to Verna, who made a face and tsked. A moment later there was a buzz and the door lock clicked.

“Second door on the right,” Verna said dismissively.

Honey found the door ajar. Her light rap against the door frame was answered with an unintelligible mumble she took as approval to enter. She stepped into a large windowless I-am-the-boss office. Oversized cherrywood desk. Matching bookcases and bar and dark leather
everywhere
. Desktop, chair, visitors’ chairs and a small sofa. At least the rug wasn’t leather. It was caramel color. Very thick and expensive-looking. She wasn’t sure if it was the scent of leather or testosterone she caught. “Nice office,” she said politely.

“Thanks.” Bristol perched on the edge of the desk, one boot planted on the floor, the other dangling. His folded arms strained the sleeves of his shirt. The watch he wore cost more than most people’s cars yet somehow, on him, it looked cheap. Kara’s rough-edged description of him was spot-on.

“You know the last person they sent to do this was a woman.” He locked a cold gaze on her. “She died.”

It wasn’t the words but the way he said it that sent her evolutionary early-warning system clanging. “Yes. I was told she and her husband were in a car accident.” She watched for any reaction and thought he was doing the same with her.

“Coffee?”

The switch in subject and tone was jarring. “Yes, please. Black.”

“Verna,” he yelled, “two coffees, black. Have a seat,” he said to Honey and motioned to the chairs.

She sat and placed her briefcase on the floor. “I’d like to get to the reason I’m here. Let’s start with any questions you have.”

Bristol looked down on her with an arrogant smile, enjoying his position of power. “Why did DoD send somebody like you—” He paused presumably for effect—“to do
this
job?”

Before Honey could answer, Verna entered with a tray of steaming cups. She served Bristol, who took his and went to the chair behind the desk. As Verna deposited the second cup on the table next to her, Honey glimpsed the edge of a crude tat on the inside of her upper arm.

Bristol put his cup down. “You gonna answer me?”

“Why was I sent?” She leaned back and crossed her legs. “Mr. Bristol.” She tasted the coffee and was pleasantly surprised. “Marine Corps Command didn’t share that with me.” She went on casually. “I was
ordered
here. I did not request this assignment. If I had to guess I suspect it has something to do with my views about civilian militia.”

“Yeah?” He raised the cup to drink.

“Yes, I am completely against civilian militia. Every civilization that’s resorted to using them has crumbled. I think they should be done away with.”

Bristol choked on his coffee. He snagged a napkin from the desk and wiped his chin but it was too late, coffee had already dripped to his shirt. “Or are you suggesting because I’m a woman I can’t do a proper job?” Always best to get that out of the way first off.

“Now that you mention it”—he leaned back until the chair’s leather groaned—“yeah, I have that thought.”

“This is a relatively simple task. I go around with an iPad”—she glanced at her briefcase—“check the boxes on the forms and we’re done. Even a woman can do that. If you have specific questions, I’ll try to answer.”

“Yeah.” He stuck a pinkie into his ear and wiggled it. “Let’s get to that woman thing. What qualifies one to review our training? As in combat techniques, weapons, personal close-quarters fighting? Why didn’t they send a man?”

Okay, understandable. Men in this line of work were leery of women doing the job. When your life depends on those you work with you want those people to be the best. Men didn’t think women were the best. In some circumstances, they were right. It was a battle that wouldn’t be won or lost in this office. She held back on delivering her views and recited the official spiel. “My qualifications are included in the DoD email.” It was a carefully cleaned version of her service that would take Global, even with its capabilities, more than a couple of weeks to ferret out—long enough for her to get her job done. “Briefly, I hold the rank of major in the United States Marine Corps. You must be aware all Marines, no matter their job or gender, are required to be physically fit and regularly qualify with a pistol and rifle.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved a hand dismissively. “We’re a little past the basics here,” he said in an obnoxious, condescending tone.

“I’m trained in martial arts disciplines—”

“Yeah, right,” Bristol snorted, tramping over her words.

Unfortunately, she was quite used to being spoken down to and had her own way of reciprocating. “To be honest, Mr. Bristol, I see my review as nothing more than a formality. Global has been cleared through committees at the highest levels. As long as you don’t get in the way of me doing my job or I find this operation is a major clusterfuck, you have nothing to worry about.”

He went dead stump still. His neck flushed. His I-am-the-boss façade slipped away. “We don’t fuck up.” A vein bulged in his left temple. “We’ve got a great thing going here. Why would I do anything to fuck things up?”

Yes, Global was a great thing, but it was the last sentence that raised a red flag. Why indeed?

“I wasn’t implying your company isn’t great.” She used a contrite tone. “Global has a mega-million-dollar government contract. Considering past problems with other
contractors
, the DoD wants to prevent problems before they happen. They’re responsible to the taxpayers to make sure everything is going well.” She mirrored his smile. “I apologize for my CF remark. I was out of line.”

“Okay.” He waved a hand dismissively. She didn’t think it was okay.

He stood, went to a cabinet behind him, brought out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and dumped more than a shot in his cup. He titled the bottle in her direction.

She glanced at her watch. “Thank you, but no. Alcohol consumption at ten seventeen is early even for a Marine.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said and put the bottle on his desk and took a drink of the whiskey-laden coffee. He considered her a moment, the façade returning. “Tell me what you want to see, do, today, Major. The complex covers six thousand acres. We have classrooms, a gym, physical training areas, a pool and athletic fields, a technical command-and-control center, and a small medical center. Where do you want to start?”

Over the weekend, Honey had carefully reviewed the maps of Global’s five distinct units. She wanted the visual. “Grand tour. You choose where we start.”

“Sure, but”—his gaze bushed up and down her—“you bring a change of clothes?”

She shook her head. “Today is a look-see. Get me oriented.”

“You sure? I can get Verna to find you something. Be a shame to get that uniform messed up,” a smooth Bristol oozed out. “Tomorrow wear camos.”

“MARPATS,” she corrected. The Marine Corps was very proud of their Marine Pattern uniform and liked it called what it was by those not in the Corps.

Bristol snorted. “Sure.” He stood. “I have a call to make. If you wait for me in reception I’ll only be a minute.”

“Certainly. Can I leave my case here?”

He nodded. Honey lifted her briefcase, carefully positioned it on the chair and retreated to the reception area. After ten minutes of silence and hammer stares from Verna, Bristol appeared in the hall and there was the buzz and click allowing her to reenter.

“We’re going this way.” He tipped his head in the direction of another set of glass doors, where he swiped his key card and held the door open for her to pass.

“It is okay for me to hold the door for a Marine in uniform? Wouldn’t want to offend.”

Honey ignored him, pausing to examine the doors. “These bulletproof?”

“And then some.” He moved and gave the door a roundhouse kick. “Any glass you see is like this. It would take an RPG or fully armored Hummer to break them.”

“A Hummer?” She turned to look at the doors from the reception area.

“Yeah,” he said proudly “Can drive one down every hallway.”

“Impressive,” she said, wondering why you’d want to, and stepped into an intersection she hadn’t been able to predict. The left opened to a seemingly endless corridor. Bristol led them to the right. They went to steel door twenty-five feet away, their footsteps echoing on the linoleum in the cavernous hall. Another card swipe.

“Am I going to get one of those?” she said, eyeing the card Bristol slid in a pocket.

“Yeah. First we need your thumbprint,” he said, using his hip to push open the door to an area surrounded by ten-foot chain link. “Senior employees’ parking. The Hummer is us.” The
Hummer
was a tricked-out military-style vehicle with more lights and antennas attached than a TV station news truck.

“Why so serious?”

“Sensitive data and records to protect. Don’t want DoD thinking we’re fuckups.”

“Touché.”

“Check this out.” He stopped at the back of the Hummer and swung open the double rear doors, lifted the top of one of four compartments and a thirty-two-inch monitor rose. A press of a button on a small remote control and the four-view screen came alive. “With a click on the remote I can see what’s going on at the training sites.” He pointed to the screen. “Entries, indoor training center, obstacle course, kill house, and the defensive driving course.”

Still stuck on parking security, Honey remembered the front parking area. “Why don’t you have a guard at your entrance or at the very least have a sign? You know, the standard dire
Warning: Unauthorized persons not permitted. Turn around if you don’t have official business
.”

Bristol laughed. “Don’t need it. We don’t have any government agencies operating here. We have no access to any of their facilities. They don’t train with us or tell us what to do. The three-letter agencies hire us to go in where they don’t want to go. Makes things simple. Reviews like you’re doing are all we have to put up with.” He paused and gave her an up-and-down look. “If you checked our information you’d know that.” He chuckled.

She’d read it but was glad to get his interpretation of the contract. Honey returned the laugh. “I see we have a lot of area to cover. Let’s get started.”

While Bristol shut down the mini technical center Honey went around and boosted herself into the passenger side. He fired up the gas guzzler and they passed through an automated gate to another lot with rows of parked cars. “Trainee and staff parking. That door”—he pointed to a double steel door similar to the one they’d come out—“is where you’ll go tomorrow. Right before our front entry, take the road on the right. Park in here. The gate will be open.”

“The preponderance of electronic technology is wonderful. What happens if you lose power?”

He braked. “See that mound over there?”

She looked where he pointed.

“We call it the elephant burial ground. It houses backup generators for the whole property. Ten to fifteen seconds tops before it kicks in.” He glanced back to the entrance. “While we’re stopped, take a look at the security. Our complete perimeter is surrounded with eight-foot chain link topped with razor wire. We have video surveillance and random guard checks.”

“Impressive and expensive.”

He smirked, said nothing and drove on to the firing range and weapons training center, where they met the center’s director, a buff retired Army Special Forces Master Sergeant, “Mac” McKenzie.

“Give her the speech, Mac,” Bristol said.

Mac glanced at her ribbons. “Major, I won’t give you the ordinary citizen talk. How much do you want to hear?”

“Hit the high points today. I’ll be here a few days observing and I’ll get more details then.”

Mac led them to the center of the training room. “We have a research team to examine changes in policy and doctrine within the international market. We’re aware of current regional and world issues and developments. We consider those issues and train accordingly. We have contacts in weapons manufacturing, allowing us access to new weapons for training.”

And resale.
She smiled and nodded.

“We train with every kind of firearm we have. Hand-to-hand, with and without a blade. Medic training, rescue. Pretty much Special Ops stuff.” He made a sweeping gesture. “This building houses our section offices, Dojo, gym, and what we call a launch area. The company accepts a job, a team is selected, housed, and trained for two days before we go boots-on-the-ground. There’s a covered walkway through those doors”—he tipped his head—“to an Olympic-sized pool.” He opened a door, revealing a room with desks and computers. “Training classroom.”