Washington, D.C.
June 7, 1999
7:30am

Pine trees.

There were always pine trees.

An entire pine forest towered in a shadowed jigsaw, solemn like an army of faceless soldiers. It might have been strange to anyone who'd been paying attention; conifers weren't populous in this part of Indiana. Where it got colder close to Michigan and the upper crest of Illinois, they would start to sprout in jagged hedges that rolled into forests and sprawled over the Canadian border. But not in all Jill's years spent wrapped in coils of rope, dangling down faces of rock to scoop up exhausted climbers, or the evenings chasing down poachers in their unmarked trucks, or the days spent marching through forests of black-barked trees to smoke a would-be bomber or militia out of their rural strongholds, not once had Jill seen a naturally-occurring pine forest in this part of the country. Not even as a young girl, when she pitched nylon tents and cooked dinners and coffee over campfires with her father in these very forests. No pine trees. Not outside of the Arklay Mountains.

They could have chosen any sort of maple they wanted. Sugar, silver, red. Maybe boxelder. The Midwest had plenty of those, even outside of arboretums and research forests. A sprawl of maple trees rattling in the silvery wind wouldn't have been strange or attracted attention. But instead Something That Should Not Be Here grew lush and ever present on these hill crests in dark, jagged cutouts, flocked with fronds of blossoming herbs in every color, blue and green and red and yellow, like a carpet reflecting the lights of a Christmas tree. Jill should have noticed. They no doubt enjoyed the unnerving imposition of biology tampered with just so, like a naughty secret to giggle over once you got the full context of the joke.

It didn't smell like pine trees here. It smelled like damp earth, like the cold spongy hands of coiling mist. Looked alive but smelled dead.

She should have noticed.

Jill had been here many times, but only once had her bootheels actually sunk into this dense mud, still fragrant and pliable from rain. All the other times she'd remembered: remembered the sucking at her boots as she walked, the whips of cool moisture against her skin. Knowing this was a memory didn't make it any better. She walked anyway.

Something big is in that mansion, she thought, I shouldn't go in there. We should get back on the helicopter and leave. We need to leave before somebody gets hurt. Then, There shouldn't be pine trees. Why are there pine trees?

Jill walked, undeterred by her worrisome brain, as if pulled on the rails of an amusement park ride. Her foot sunk heel-first into a pat of mud that spread and moved, left her foot half consumed. Jill struggled and pulled her foot free of the mouth she'd created in the ground.

It always began and ended the same way, so much so that Jill understood, vaguely, how this too would end. It started with the strange band-saw forest of trees and ended with the barks; the ripping of flesh from bone, the screams, the growls of wild animals. Some days she ran fast enough, flocked by three men she knew by name. Sometimes they looked like themselves. Sometimes Chris had no face, an expressionless motion blur, but she knew he was Chris, even without the hard green of his eyes or the unsatisfied frown. Sometimes there was no Barry, not that she could see, but she knew he was there enough to question her own mind about his physical whereabouts when he didn't present. And sometimes, like tonight, it was just Jill, running as fast as she could, sucking in greedy lungfuls of moist, clammy early summer midnight, barreling towards the first port she saw in the storm; an ominous set of filigreed double-doors. Sometimes she made it inside. Often, she didn't.

Something on her knee, sudden and warm. Blood? Had Wesker shot her, smashed the kneecap out of her leg from behind, made her unable to run? When Jill looked down, there was no blood. Her fatigues were gone, replaced with bare skin. No, a skirt — light brown tweed, her legs folded to the side. A hand rested on one of her knees, its skin dark against the fair complexion of her leg, and she looked up.

"You still in there?" Carlos laughed. "Ground control to Major Valentine. We lose contact?"

"Oh. I—" Jill stammered. The darkness of the forest, the moist air, the inhabited-den smell of the mud, all was replaced with the stiff, fuzzy gray of a car interior, the warm smoky smell of the man beside her. Jill glanced from the heavy, handsome lines of Carlos' face to the windshield; a bright green air freshener in the shape of a pine tree dangled beside the cab driver's head like a gateway to another time.

Jill cracked an unsure smile. They were both buckled in the back seat of a taxi cab, she in her best skirt and blouse — an outfit she swore fit more comfortably when she bought it two weeks ago — and he in his black summer fatigues, cargo pants and boots and a black long-sleeve t-shirt. "Sorry." Jill said. "Just… lost in my own head this morning, I guess."

Carlos' hand left her knee, and he laced his fingers in hers, gave a reassuring squeeze. "Can't imagine, but…" he said, "if anyone can nail these fuckers, it's you."

Jill wished she believed him. Wished the bravery would come to her in a thunderbolt, or maybe an encouraging whisper on the wind like in movies. It was easy to be brave when you were running for your life; your brain took over, did most of the work for you, an accident of biology's tendency to want to save itself first. It looked a lot like bravery. But when you were running to, it was different. You had to build that, to overcome that same brain to do so. It was different. Harder. Some people might have realized this and been lost; some might have collapsed into sobs at the lack of direction, the enormity of the task in front of them. But to Jill, no direction was a direction — a direction forward in solitude. It was only her marching against the firing squad, blindfold affixed and cigarette clamped in her lips. Though others around her could kiss the bullet holes, speak to her in soft encouragement about how brave she was, it would be her blood running down the wall. It was never going to be any other way.

"I'll try," she said, and her smile felt weak. Thin, like paper.

Carlos looked at her differently, these days. He didn't catch glances of her and then look away when she noticed, didn't open his mouth to speak and then think better of it as often. Now free to evaluate her emotions, free to gift her affection and safety without risking himself, something changed, the way some solids spread more readily under the simple power of warmth.

"You don't gotta try," he leaned his forehead against hers in a gentle bump, "you just gotta remember. Okay?"

Jill's fingers dug against his hand in a shaking fist. She nodded.

The cab pulled up alongside the curb and Carlos ducked out first. He had downgraded to a single crutch in the last week, insisted he didn't need the other. Jill was suspicious he'd land flat on his face, but he ditty-bopped along like he'd been using it all his life, moved fluid and quick as someone with command of both legs, some of his previous swagger returned with this bit of newfound freedom. If anyone could walk on a full-sized crutch and look confident doing it, she supposed it would be Carlos. Jill was envious at the speed he learned to adapt to unfortunate circumstances with cheerful acceptance, like it had been his idea all along. He leaned over and confirmed the cabby would keep the meter running for him, and then they started across the sidewalk and up the white stone steps into the Capitol Building.

There were people everywhere.

"Packed house," Carlos said, and tried for a smile. He had one good arm that wasn't occupied by a crutch. He held the door open for her with it. "Popular lady."

It was a veritable sea of bodies, a murmur of conflicting conversations that wove together to make one large, undulating wall of noise. The beep of machines; the gruff tones of security guards giving directions and directing the minnow-school flow of foot traffic; the snapping of cameras and the clipped, official tones of reporters in formal attire who'd parked themselves in front of the most interesting-looking crowd to give their dire, ominous predictions. It had always fascinated Jill just how official someone could sound while saying nothing.

Some people stood in groups of conversation, clear of the polished white-and-tan tortoiseshell tiles and bricks of the main plaza. There were enough bodies to clog it still, no matter how distanced the clusters began. A bank of men in black business suits with briefcases stood still and silent, watching. When Jill pushed through the door, one leaned to another and gestured in her direction, mumbling into the second man's ear. The first man nodded, and checked his watch.

"Are all these people here for the trial…?" Jill asked, a question she was sure had been swallowed by the din.

"Yeah." A nearby security guard answered from behind a rotating belt that led to a large metal box. He had a bulbous nose and tired eyes, and leaned in a way that said this was all wholly unimpressive. Just another day at the office. "Put all your metal objects into the bowl and set it back on the belt, coins, phones, belts. No weapons are allowed beyond this point."

"Oh…" Jill said. She and Carlos looked at each other. "I uh… I forgot. Here." They both handed over a 9mm pistol; after a moment's thought, Carlos unshackled a large black combat knife from the small of his back, under his shirt, and proffered it. Jill expected some sort of warning alarm to sound or for them to get arrested or… something. "We're not in trouble or anything, are we?"

The guard just sighed, tired, checked the guns for safety, and put them in a large lock box behind his station. "Take a note of your serial number and you can get it on the way out."

"Sorry about that. This crowd's, uh…" Carlos said, "enthusiastic about the Second Amendment."

"You don't say," the guard said, his eyes already on the next person in line.

They made Carlos place his crutch through the x-ray machine and he balanced on one foot waiting for it to feed through the other side, his leg cast held just above the gloss of the floor like a tentative cat's paw. Jill poised to intervene if his balance betrayed him, but when Carlos felt her eyes upon him, he glanced aside to her and winked. They passed the crutch back, confident now it didn't contain a gun or a bomb, and he waited for her on the other side of the metal detector's vaulted steel door frame.

"Lot of people. You recognize anyone?"

Jill didn't, not immediately.

"Not anyone I know," she said, doubtful. "Not yet."

"Hm. I'm sure they'll pop up," Carlos said, defaulted to shrugging optimism as a way to thumb his nose at reality rather than a belief in what he was saying. Positivity as guerrilla warfare. "There's a lot—"

They rounded the corner and Jill was immediately hijacked by a five-man crowd, some in suits and some not, clustered by the intersection of plaza and hallway the way an unsuspecting person might get mugged on their way into a dingy alley; they noticed her first and grabbed from her blind spot, gathered around her like an inquisition. They spoke over and around each other, introducing themselves and their papers and websites in a wall of noise that Jill couldn't parse.

"Good morning," Though Jill spoke to the people before her, her eyes scanned above their heads. She located Carlos where he watched from the periphery with an expression of hesitant mistrust. The line of his shoulders and the dip of his brow suggested readiness. For what, Jill wasn't sure. "I... look, I don't really think now's a good time."

A flurry of questions launched in her direction, overlapping and interrupting one another. One in particular stood out:

"How do you respond to the allegations that you were a part of a set-up? A 'corporate coup', as its been called."

They waited for her response with their pens poised over legal pads, staring at her with intent, hungry eyes.

"A… a what? I don't know anything about that. Look, I have to go, so—" Jill looked to Carlos again. He took it as a signal, and moved towards them.

"Alright, alright," Carlos said, loudly, as if he'd seen enough. He muscled apart the crest of reporters with his shoulders and his elbow. One of them cried out in offense as he was moved. "Alright, that's enough. I gotta steal you from your adoring public for a moment. 'Scuse us."

"Just a few more questions, okay?" One of the reporters stood in Jill's path and held a hand up, either to ward Carlos off or somehow assure him that there was no threat. He stood between them, separated them. Jill didn't know what the man intended - but what she did know was the look on Carlos' face, a silent mixture of bewilderment and fury at being denied her safe passage when demanded, indicated just how dangerous a place the man had willingly put himself. "If you'll give us a few mo—"

Carlos cut the man off mid-sentence, bullied him back like mobile rampart. The two never touched, the smaller man retreated on dancing, shocked steps away from Jill as his assailant advanced. Carlos' movement was swift and aggressive; Jill thought if you looked up the phrase "get in someone's face" in the Encyclopedia, that a snapshot of this very scene might have been the picture you found.

"She said it's time to go." Carlos' accent rounded his vowels and clipped the ending consonants, a verbal presentation of danger as sure as the shake of a rattlesnake's tail. "You got it?"

The man blinked with a smiling balk. He shook his head, bravery forgotten. "N-no. I mean, yes. No problem. Sorry."

Carlos stared at him for a few more illustrative moments, then turned and hustled Jill away through the parting crowd with his arm looped around her lower back. The crowd, interested by such a lurid, dramatic idea as violence in an official government building, turned away with mumbles of disappointment and a smattering of laughter.

"You good?" Jill laughed. "I'm used to you talking other people down from getting in brawls. Usually me."

"Sorry," Carlos said, and shook his head. "I know you can fight it yourself, just—they were gettin' too close, and… just a knee-jerk reaction, I guess."

Jill looked up at him for a long moment until, self-conscious, he laughed and asked, "What?"

"Nothing." Jill replied. The interested, appraising tone in her voice said otherwise. She thought she saw him blush, his cheekbones and the tips of his ears flushed a faint reddish-purple. Jill leaned on him as they walked in their pocket of silence through the bustle and the hectic energy of the building. Jill had already forgotten who the initial gesture was meant as a comfort for, she or him, or perhaps both, but it didn't matter. Carlos must have felt it just as she did: his arm around her waist drew her closer.

The hallway beyond, tall and wide and hewn entirely of polished marble and gold accoutrements, was empty and silent as a tomb compared to the main plaza. They had built a little walkway blocked off with crimson velvet ropes, a police officer in a bulletproof vest at the walkway's mouth. A sign with a metal base stood beside him: Authorized Persons Only. In the distance, another man stood near the center of the hallway, as if he were waiting for someone.

"I guess…" Jill said, looking to the rope and the vaulting hallway beyond. "I guess this is my stop."

When Jill turned back to Carlos, one of his hands was outstretched, a puddle of gold coiled in his palm. Jill tilted her head. Her eyes took a moment to pick its shapes apart into something recognizable: the necklace she'd found tucked away in his old uniform with the quarter-sized charm of Saint Jude. "Almost forgot. Here," when she hesitated, he said, "go on, take it."

Jill picked the necklace up. It dangled in a burnished rope from her fingertips. "What is this?"

"It's a good luck charm. For when you've got something big and important to get done. Always worked for me. Now it can work for you."

After a moment's hesitation, Jill ducked her head and slipped the necklace on. It was long enough that it draped over her breasts, down to the juncture where her ribs arced. She tucked it into her shirt, it warmth reassuring against her skin. "I… I actually feel a little better already."

"Good." Carlos leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Go get 'em, beautiful."

Jill took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and forced herself to walk between the ropes like she owned the place. The officer stopped her.

"This hall's for trial witnesses only," he said, "I.D. please."

Jill presented her driver's license. The officer checked it against two stapled pieces of paper. His expression was suspicious until he reached the bottom of the last sheet, then looked to her I.D, and then her face.

"You're with Congressman Graham," he said, and jerked a thumb back to the man in the hallway, "room 2-236."

Jill thanked the officer. He stepped aside and she walked through his fortification's choke point. The man in the hallway noticed her as she neared, and sauntered in her direction.

"You must be Jill Valentine," He extended a hand, the other still in his pocket. He was on the younger side of what Jill was expecting, the symmetrical, approachable kind of handsome that might have been approved by a focus group rather than produced by the random machinery of genetics. His short, sandy brown hair was parted on one side and he was clean shaven, wearing khakis and a light blue dress shirt that seemed a touch too big for him, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the first button opened at the hollow of his throat. No tie. Where someone else might have looked frumpy or unprofessional, the Congressman carried an air of formality while still cutting a figure casual enough to put her at ease. "It's an honor to finally make your acquaintance. James Graham."

"Good morning, Congressman Graham," Jill said, and shook his hand. "The pleasure's all mine."

"That's very kind of you, but you're the hero here — not me." He said, in an accent that sounded half like home and half like Chicago, or maybe Detroit. "And please, when we're out of chambers, just James is okay. Or Jim, if you don't mind."

"Okay, Jim," Jill said, and was amazed at the speed with which he'd charmed her, made her feel her own importance was elevated just by being in his periphery, and not the other way around. A politician's trick, no doubt, but one warmly and smoothly deployed. "Am I the first one here?"

Congressman Graham checked his watch, a heavy-looking dress number with a band made of steel links. The early morning light filtered silver through a patch of the downy hair on his arm. "You and two others, but we still have a few minutes. We can have a coffee while we wait for rest to filter in, if you'd like to come inside?"

"That sounds good," Jill said, "thank you."

"Just this way. Oh — looks like we've got some more company after all."

Jill looked up — at the end of the hallway, a young man wearing a navy blue suit and a matching tie was standing close to Carlos, behind the velvet-rope barricade that blocked off the wing. He was less talking to Carlos and more being talked to, nodding in response, rubbing his fingers together in nervy twitches. Carlos pounded on the young man's shoulders and pushed the him in the officer's direction, the way teammates on a sports roster would push a member off of the bench to go make a penalty shot.

Congressman Graham laughed, a soft, sensible sort of chuckle. "You all've got your own cheering squad. Should make this easier, huh?"

Let me spot for you, Jill thought, and smiled, the beginning of her words colored with a laugh of her own. "Let's hope."

A hand touched soft and warm upon Jill's arm, and she turned. A small woman, dark-haired and narrow-boned, opened her mouth and faltered for a moment before she spoke. It was as if a ghost had swirled out of the early morning sunlight and taken solid form, a specter of Jill's past plucked out of memories and given flesh. "I thought that was your voice," she said, and tried for a smile, but her voice shook and her eyes glossed with emotional tears. "Hi."

Jill didn't ask or wait for permission. She pulled the woman close in a warm squeeze. A dam broke somewhere behind the younger woman's face and she began to sniffle, soft against Jill's shoulder. If decorum suggested this was untoward, the Congressman made no effort to stop them. He just watched with a distant, whimsical sort of smile.

"I see you and Miss Chambers are already acquainted," he said.

"I'm sorry," Rebecca stood up straight, wiped the running mascara with her fingertips. "I'm good now." She sniffled and swallowed, and then said, "You look great. It's so good to see you…" safe? In one piece? Not dead? Still reasonably sane? "…I didn't think we would get to. You know?" She blinked back more tears with a pronounced frown like a baby's, pulled down deep at the edges.

"But we did," Jill said, "Raccoon City—"

"—versus everybody," Rebecca finished her sentence, with a laugh. "That goofy slogan they'd tell us to get up hyped up before an assignment."

"That's right," Jill said.

"We're waiting for one more," said Congressman Graham. The young man in the smart business suit stood nearby, and looked away from Jill with suddenness, as if he'd been appraising her while she was distracted. "Why don't we go inside, have some coffee?"

There were five chairs inside the Congressman's office, but only four witnesses. Another man named George Hamilton — Doctor George Hamilton, the Congressman had introduced him — a solidly-built, expensively-dressed man with a face that was both intelligent and sad, sat waiting for them. The Congressman introduced the young blond man as Leon Kennedy, a name that didn't strike Jill as familiar then. They sat and sipped coffee and made small talk; Congressman Graham leaned back in his chair, one hand to his mouth. He was smiling and laughing along, his eyes crinkled with paternal lines. Every now and then, his eyes would slip over Rebecca's shoulder to the clock hung on the back wall.

"Are we still waiting for somebody?" Jill asked. "It's getting close to time, isn't it?"

"He should have been here by now," Congressman Graham said, "but we'll give him ten more before I make a call."

After a second, the eyes of the Congressman and the young man named Leon met. Just for a blink. Nobody else noticed; Rebecca's attention was on the paper cup in her long, thin fingers, and George Hamilton stared at the large framed photo behind the Congressman's desk. He adjusted his collar to alleviate what looked like a sudden flare of nerves, his expression as pale and blank as a numberless clock face.

But Jill saw it. Her brain seized upon this flicker of information like a snake darting out of a hole to snag a tiny animal, then retreating back to its lair to digest.

The time came and passed. George and Rebecca made conversation about what kind of medicine George practiced — cardiothoracic surgery, which meant nothing to Jill, but from Rebecca prompted interest and delight. Leon was silent.

Eventually, the Congressman pushed out of his seat.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, cell phone in hand. "You all continue. I'll be right back."

Jill watched him leave for the hallway. She crossed her legs and tilted her head, pretended to be interested in the medical conversation happening beside her, but her ears were tuned to the words being spoken outside. A sentence that made sense to only two of the people seated in this small room reverberated back, in quiet tones of politeness: "Hey! Hey, yeah, it's Jim Graham over at the Capitol. Yeah." A pause. "Mhm. It's about Ben. He was supposed to be here by now but he's not shown or given any sort of word…"

Jill looked aside at Leon for a reaction. He was lost in his thoughts, and her gaze occurred to him all at once, like one might notice an insect crawling on their skin. They shared a moment of eye contact and she saw a vulnerability in his face, until, deferential and guilty, Leon looked away. It was then Jill gathered the distinct impression that this trial was a veneer over something treacherous and confusing, thin and breakable like the skim of new ice over an underground cavern. Jill had no intellectual reason to think this, of course. Something tiny and circumstantial like a stray look would get you laughed out of court. But this didn't feel right, and Jill had long ago learned to trust what didn't feel right, however tiny and circumstantial. The pronounced backward-facing lens of regret, the one that projected her past mistakes onto her today and all her tomorrows, demanded nothing less than this constant vigilance.

Silence from outside. "Well, I hope he's alright. That's mighty strange for him… I know he got the subpoena, so he knows… mhm. Well, okay. Okay, thanks. Bye."

Congressman Graham came back inside.

"Everything okay?" Dr. Hamilton asked.

"Well," The Congressman replied, nonplussed, "it looks like it's just us today. We should get up there."

Joint Anacosta-Bolling Air Force Base
Washington, D.C.
June 7, 1999
9:15AM

The cab driver waited, as promised, and drove Carlos to work some seven blocks away. It would have been faster to walk, Carlos thought, but then realized that was off the table for a few months. He watched the snarls of traffic and the scores of people from his backseat vantage, paid his $125 cab fare, and disembarked in front of the base, with the fool's surety that was the most stressful part of his day over with.

When Carlos approached, his guys were clustered around the entrance to the building like a gang of hooligans waiting for a passerby to seize on. Kevin was laughing, leaned on one elbow against the gray brick wall, gesturing with his hands while he spoke. The other three were laughing along.

"There's the man of the hour," said one of them as Carlos drew near. "Decided to show up?"

"Yeah, yeah," Carlos said, "had to go see Jill to the Capitol Building. Trial and all."

"How's she doing?" Kevin asked, laughter forgotten for something softer.

Carlos shrugged. "Stressed to all fuck. It was standing room only in that place. Reporters everywhere." Carlos paused. "Wait, why aren't you guys inside?"

"Our badges are fucked," said another man, "we're just using you for your clearance, big guy."

"C'mon, you love me. You know you do."

"Alright, guilty. Kevin especially."

"Oh fuck yeah, you kiddin' me?" Kevin scoffed, as if suggesting otherwise was ridiculous, "I'm Heavy's hall pass. Jill said so. No cuttin' in line, neither."

"Alright, loverboy," Carlos collected his own I.D. from the wallet in his back pocket. "Here. Try this."

Kevin slid the card. Eee-ee! Squeaked the machine, and flashed red on one of the glass buttons. "Same thing ours did." His brow rumpled, Kevin swiped the card again. Ee-eee balked the machine, and the red light flashed a second time. "Oh, what the fuck."

They stood around the machine in confusion and wonder like a gang of animals, poking at an object waiting for it to do a trick or drop a treat. They moved aside when a young woman in combat fatigues and heavy boots, her hair slicked down in a bun, said "Excuse me" and swiped her own card for entrance. The machine sung its happy song, lit up green for her on the first try, and the heavy locks on the door opened.

"Maybe it's broken," said one man. "Kinda made a different noise when Kevin slid his."

Carlos knew better. "C'mon," he said, nodded to the door before it drifted shut, "let's go to the office."

Kevin caught the door before it closed, pulled it open with a flourish. They filed in, down the hallway. The air in here felt weird, like someone had just been gossiping about you before you walked in — they continued past the querying, confused looks of the office workers with armfuls of file folders or cardboard drink holders filled with steaming cups of coffee.

"Can you tell me why I'm getting eye-fucked by every joker in this place?" One of the men mumbled.

"I'd like to know that myself," Carlos said. A sense of looming dread pricked the back of his neck. "They seen us before. They know we work here."

Behind the front desk sat a civilian; a larger woman with curly blonde hair and an uncommonly pretty face. She was wearing a pink cardigan over a gray dress, makeup in springlike shades of pastel. She finished what she was typing and then turned her eyes to them. She started, surprised, her eyes flicking back and forth between the group of men at her desk.

"Hi," she said. Her eyes kept returning to Carlos, distracted. "C-can I help you?"

"Hey," Carlos said, "we don't mean to bother you, but we're locked out. None of our cards are working. Can you help us out?"

"That depends… what's your name?" She stopped, corrected herself. "What are your names, I mean."

They went down the line introducing themselves. One by one she searched them, her expression becoming more puzzled with each.

"Uh…" the woman said, with a stammer, "well… it says here you were all… huh. I mean… well, we're glad you're here! But…" She squinted at the screen, clacked on her keys and clicked on her mouse, and left them in confused silence.

"Says we were all…" Kevin prompted her to continue.

"It says you were all confirmed Killed In Action...? The order came down to deactivate your cards and dissolve the team payroll, last… week?"

"Dissolved?" Carlos asked. "Order from who?"

"From… from your commanding officer," she said, like it was a trick question and she was nervous to give the wrong answer, "that's who has to sign off on it."

There was a silence, coiled and dark; the men around him all wore a similar mask of realization that gave way to confusion, that gave way to a thoughtful simmering. The woman at the desk thought it was for her, and she pushed her chair away, just by a little.

"I'm very sorry for the mix-up. I-I'll just call your commanding officer," she stammered, "we'll get it figured out."

"Hey, it's okay. You don't need to apologize, you didn't do nothing wrong." Carlos smiled; it seemed to put her at immediate ease. "Everyone's just a little keyed up with the trial and all. We just need to get this cleared up so we can get out of your hair and get to work."

"Okay." She said, the color high on her cheeks. "I'm sorry. This sort of mix-up usually doesn't happen."

"Nothin' to be sorry for," he reiterated, "you're doin' the best you can. Go ahead, we can wait."

"Thank you." She dialed a number. Waited. Hung up. Dialed it again, waited. After a moment, she shook her head. "He's not answering. I'll go get him, okay? Just one moment." She stood, wrapped her sweater around her bust as if she was to walk into a stiff, cold wind, and then was gone on a skittering trail of high heel clicks against tile, down the hallway. Carlos watched her go, something not quite right.

"Heavy and the secretary, sittin' in a tree…" Kevin sang, settled with one of his haunches on her desk. "You're cheatin' on me. I knew it. My mom warned me about you."

"Ladies love the accent," Carlos shrugged, "least it got us what we're after."

"KIA," One of the men spoke, his tone distant. "Sounds very… sure."

"It don't make sense, Heavy," Kevin said, flipped between nonsense and seriousness with his trademark lack of commitment to either, "… and if something don't make sense, it's usually not true."

Carlos stopped. "That a cop thing?"

Kevin shook his head. "Judge Judy. Good though, right?"

Some minutes later, the secretary returned, her sweater still hugged around her. Her face was pale. Unsure.

"Just..." the secretary said, with a manicured finger extended, and smiled a desperate smile that looked more like madness than happiness, "Just one moment while I get my supervisor, okay?"

Snippets of muffled conversation blinked out under the door, the high notes of the secretary's voice carrying an emotion that sounded like panic. No no, not like that — is here. Right outside. They're asking why …They're not! They're right out—!

The door opened. A woman, rail-thin with a stooped posture and chin length mouse brown hair hustled past the team, down the hall, in a stride that was businesslike and serious. No time for nonsense. The secretary followed, and once she was a distance away, Carlos nodded after them. The team followed. They may get stopped by security, Carlos figured, but sometimes forgiveness was better than permission.

The two women stopped at the door. The door was familiar to Carlos. Capt. Benjamin Harris, USMC its stenciling read, in official-looking gold leaf letters on expensive wood. Carlos wasn't close enough to see the door, not yet, but had been in there a few times; he wasn't sure what fresh hell awaited them through it, but he knew he had to see for himself.

The secretary opened the door with a key from a collection slung around her wrist on a neon pink corkscrew elastic. The early morning light fell across them from the room beyond, and she looked aside to her supervisor for a reaction. The supervisor, for her part, put her hand over her mouth in an expression of consternation and said nothing.

The team stopped behind the two women, looking over their shoulders into an office that just days before was decorated, studded with medals and honors and paintings. Now that office was barren, devoid of everything except the carpet and the desk. A slant of June sunlight gleamed off of the polished wood with oblivious cheer, lonely motes of dust floating in its wake.

Carlos shook his head, his lips pressed together in anger, in disbelief.

"Gentlemen," Kevin said after a moment. He spoke with a grave note that dipped down so far into disbelief that it surfaced on the other side through a splash of absurdity, and he laughed, unable to help himself. "I believe we've been bamboozled."