The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) Sheehan-Miles, Charles (good beach reads .txt) 📖

tiny smile. “No. I actually chopped my husband up into little bits and threw him into Rock Creek.” Then she slapped her forehead and grinned. “No ... sorry ... that was just what I wanted to do. In fact, my ex is alive and well and married to a blonde with no more brains than a paperweight.”

I laughed, hard, and she said, “What about you? I don’t see a ring.”

“I’m ... very serious about a guy. I think we’re edging close to being engaged.”

“Oh? What does he do?”

I looked at the table, and for just a second I thought, what does Ray do? He used to be a soldier. And ... I guess he was again. “He’s a soldier, actually. He just came home from a tour in Afghanistan a few months ago.”

“Wow!” Lori said. Then she took a big drink. “That’ll shake up the pencil-necks at NIH when they try to chase you down. What does he do? Army? Marines?”

“He’s Army infantry. But he’s planning on finishing his undergraduate at Georgetown next year.”

“A soldier and smart. I like that,” she said. “You should introduce me to his friends.” She had a wicked expression in her face as she said it.

“We’re going to get along just fine,” I said.

I thought I was done (Ray)

It was only my third night back in the Army, and somehow I managed to draw the short stick and end up on CQ duty. CQ means Charge of Quarters. Army headquarters don’t shut down at night, even for a command in the Criminal Investigation Division. So when everyone goes home at night, one Sergeant and one enlisted man sticks around to answer the phones, check for fires and unlocked doors, and be ready for the next war to start.

I’d done CQ duty as a private before Afghanistan, but this was my first time in charge, and my crappy attitude wasn’t really helping matters. My parents had overnighted my laptop and a few other things, so at least I had something to occupy me. But the truth was, I didn’t want to be there. Up until New Year’s Day, I’d been sure I was done with the Army. It had only been a couple months since I’d gotten out, and it disturbed me how normal the uniform felt.

Even though it was involuntary, I suppose I might have felt differently if I’d had something to do. Some responsibilities. Anything. As it was, I spent my first day in-processing back into the Army, getting issued new uniforms and a spot in the barracks. The second, third and fourth day? I spent those sitting in a chair in the company headquarters. I didn’t have a role in this unit: they were simply housing and feeding me until ... whenever. By the end of the second day I was so tense from inactivity I didn’t know what to do with myself. I brought my laptop with me to the headquarters on the third day, and spent the entire day on that. No one said a word to me. I was essentially invisible, unnecessary, completely superfluous to the function of what was, after all, a criminal investigation unit.

At five minutes after eleven, the front door of the headquarters opened, and PFC Bowers came in, carrying a pizza. He was a scrawny soldier, about five foot four, and looked like a strong wind would have blown him away. I tried to imagine him on a twenty-mile road march with a rucksack and rifle out in the boonies, and I just couldn’t see it happening.

“Pizza’s here, Sarge,” he said.

“Did you find a Starbucks?”

“Nah,” he replied.

Damn. I was stuck here all night, and the coffee coming out of the percolator tasted like it had been brewed fourteen years before. Amazing how quickly you get used to luxuries. I was worried about getting a decent cup of coffee. Three months ago I was worried about not getting shot by either the Taliban or my fellow soldiers.

Screw it. I popped on to Facebook and sent a message to Carrie. You awake?

Her reply was quick: Yes. Call me.

She didn’t have to ask me twice. I grabbed a slice of pizza and called her on my cell.

“Hey, soldier,” she said, her voice sleepy.

“You don’t sound that awake,” I said.

“If you must know, I’m a little drunk.”

“Shit. Without me?”

“We’re still going out tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Good.”

“So tell me about your first day.”

We chatted, and she recounted the story. “You’ll like Lori,” she said. “She’s a funny lady.”

“You think it’s funny she chopped up her husband?” I asked. That raised an alarmed look from PFC Bowers, who was sitting across the room from me.

Carrie laughed. “I told you, she was joking. Besides, you wouldn’t ever have to worry about that.”

“So what you’re saying is, I couldn’t possibly piss you off that much?”

“Oh, I’m sure you could. But remember, I know how to handle mountain lions.”

I laughed out loud. “All right. I’ll be very careful then. See you tomorrow night.”

“I love you, Ray,” she said. I never got tired of hearing that.

“Love you,” I replied then hung up.

Crap. Seven hours and forty-five more minutes to kill. It was going to be a long, long night.

“So, uh, Sarge,” Bowers said. “I hadn’t seen you around before. You new to the unit?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Where’d you come from?”

“The block,” I answered. The block was a generic term for where I wished I was: not in the military.

“I don’t get it,” Bowers said.

I shook my head. “I got out a few months ago. They called me back up and assigned me here.”

“That sucks. Or did you want to come back?”

I shook my head. “I thought I was done. I’m a witness in an investigation, and apparently they figured it’d be more convenient to have me close-by.”

“Oh, that sucks. What kind of investigation?”

“Can’t talk about it. So what’s your story? What do you do around here?”

“Battalion personnel clerk.”

Paper shuffler. Which the Army had plenty of, and needed plenty of in order to keep