She didn’t take the elevator. She took the stairs moving silently. On the sixth floor, the atmosphere changed. The lenolium turned to carpet. The smell of antiseptic was replaced by the smell of fresh coffee and money. She found the office marked hospital administrator. The door was a jar. Inside she heard voices. The grave’s situation is a problem.
Robert Dr. Sterling’s voice said he was supposed to lose the leg. A crippled old man is easy to discharge to a nursing home. A recovering hero. He attracts attention if he talks to the press about the equipment failures. Relax, Frederick, a smooth, oily voice replied. That was Emmes.
Nobody listens to angry old vets. We label him as suffering from PTSD induced delirium. If he complains about the prosthetic quality, we say he’s confused. Sarah stepped into the doorway. He’s not confused,” she said loudly. Both men jumped. Robert Emmes was sitting on the edge of a mahogany desk. He was older than she remembered his hair, silver, his suit costing more than her annual salary.
But the eyes were the same cold, calculating sharklike. “Excuse me,” Sterling sputtered. “Nurse Mitchell, you are trespassing. I am calling security.” “Put the phone down,” Sarah said. She walked into the room and locked the door behind her. Emmes looked her up and down, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Feisty, I like that. Who is this Frederick, one of your little helpers? She’s a nuisance,” Sterling spat.
“She’s the one who interfered in the grave surgery.” Emmes chuckled. “Ah, the Florence Nightingale complex. Listen, sweetheart. You’re out of your depth. Go back to changing bed pans. Sarah walked straight up to Emmes. She stopped 2 feet from him. Kandahar, Route, Michigan, October 12th, 2012. Emmes’s smile faltered. What are you talking about? Sector 4.
Sarah continued her voice devoid of emotion. You told Captain Miller the road was clear. You said you had eyes on the village, but you didn’t. You met with the local warlord, Alharik, the night before. You took a bag of cash to root us into the ambush. Emmes’s face went pale. He stood up, towering over her.
I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was a consultant. Intel is never 100%. Tex Miller, Sergeant Ruiz, Corporal Davis, Private First Class Ali. Sarah recited the names like a prayer. They burned to death in that m because of you. Emmes’s eyes narrowed. He looked at her closely. He looked at the way she stood.
He looked at the scar on her chin. “You,” Emmes whispered. You’re the coreman, the girl, the one they found in the ditch. I’m the one who lived, Sarah said. Emmes laughed, but it was a nervous sound. Well, isn’t this a reunion? Look, honey, that was a long time ago. War is messy. Deals are made. It’s just business. Business.
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