“So you work intel?” he asked.
Mason snorted.
“She works near intel.”
“I worked logistics analysis,” I said.
It was not a lie.
It was just missing the part where logistics meant getting people, weapons, medical packs, satellite keys, and extraction routes into places no map admitted existed.
Mason pointed at me with his beer bottle.
“See? She does that thing. Says boring stuff like it’s classified.”
“It usually is boring,” I said.
The young Marine laughed.
Maddox didn’t.
His eyes stayed on me.
Not rude.
Not suspicious.
Careful.
Mason had already had enough beer to become the version of himself I liked least.
The version that needed an audience.
“So,” he said, “Maddox was telling us about call signs earlier. Real ones. Not movie crap.”
“Was he?” I asked.
Maddox’s jaw tightened.
Just a little.
Mason missed that too.
“Yeah,” Mason said. “You wouldn’t get it. It’s a trust thing. A respect thing. Nobody just hands you one because you processed travel vouchers.”
