The Walls Of Troy Part 2

Chapter Two.

The next morning, I put on a set of civvies-jeans and a plain white T-shirt with a black b.u.t.ton-up shirt pulled over it to hide my shoulder holster. The weapon was completely invisible, and my attire gave zero indication that I'd ever been anywhere near the Navy.

Running a comb through my hair was a little weird. This was the first time in fifteen years I hadn't had to keep a regulation haircut. I wasn't used to my hair touching my ears or my collar, never mind needing to be arranged before I looked presentable-but I'd get used to it.

And as much as I wasn't thrilled about my a.s.signment, I was definitely getting used to the idea of being less strict about shaving. A full beard would have annoyed the c.r.a.p out of me, but shaving once in the morning and not giving a s.h.i.t if I got scruffy? That was a nice switch. It always took about six months at a new command before I could go a week without someone asking me why the h.e.l.l I hadn't shaved, presenting them with my he-really-does-shave-it-just-grows-back-faster chit, and then getting my a.s.s chewed anyway because they were sure I was being lazy.

So just for the h.e.l.l of it, I didn't even bother shaving this morning. With a dark shadow of stubble on my jaw, because why the f.u.c.k not, I headed over to Admiral Dalton's place to pick up Troy.

I went in through the back door to the security office to check in with Max and arm up.

As I tucked my service weapon into my shoulder holster, Max smirked. "Better hurry. You'll miss the bus."

"f.u.c.k you." I chuckled and pulled my b.u.t.ton-up shirt on over my T-shirt so it covered the holster.

He laughed, but then his expression and tone returned to strictly business. "You carrying a personal weapon too?"

I nodded. "Ankle holster."

"Good."

I eyed him. "Doesn't this seem like overkill for general hara.s.sment?"

He shrugged. "Orders are orders. The old man would probably give the kid a full entourage if there weren't so many budget cuts these days. Doesn't mean it's necessary. And necessary or not, there is room in the budget for you."

"Lucky me." I fussed with the strap on my shoulder holster. "And the university knows about all this? Specifically, that I'll be armed?"

"Absolutely. It's been cleared with the university at every possible level." He handed me a small folded piece of paper inside a credit-card-size plastic sleeve. "Keep this with you in case anyone gives you a hard time. It's a copy of the letter from the dean, your orders, and a letter from the admiral. The university's security has copies of everything too. Anyone ha.s.sles you, just cooperate until the admiral or myself gets everything straightened out."

"Will do. Thanks." I tucked the sleeve into the back pocket of my jeans. "See you this afternoon."

"Don't forget your lunch!"

I flipped him the bird and headed out of the office.

When I stepped into the hall, Admiral Dalton was loitering a few feet away. He was dressed for work, from the spit-shined shoes and gleaming insignia to the black-and-white cover tucked under his arm.

"MA1 Ayhan," he said.

"Sir."

He gestured for me to walk with him. "I trust Chief Fowler has given you the letters from the dean? Approving your right to carry a weapon on campus?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Good." He adjusted his cover under his arm. "You know, a friend of mine handpicked you for this detail."

I glanced at him, not sure what to say to that.

"I told him what I needed," the admiral went on. "The details of the case and whatnot. He immediately suggested you." He glanced at me. "You came highly recommended, MA1."

I chewed the inside of my cheek. Was that an undercurrent of I would suggest you don't let me down I detected?

I hooked my thumbs in my pockets just for something to do with my hands. "That's good to hear, sir."

He gave a curt nod but didn't say anything until we stopped in front of the ma.s.sive staircase in the middle of the house.

"Well." He checked his watch. "I should be going. You'll let me know if anything happens?"

"Of course, sir."

"Good." He clapped my shoulder and wavered for a moment, as if debating saying something further. Then he repeated the gesture, muttered, "Good," and turned to go.

Watching him disappear down the hall, I swallowed. If all this was an act or a cry for attention, Troy was definitely committed. Enough that he'd convinced his father, anyway. The man had a full security detail at the house, and he still stuck around to touch base with his son's bodyguard before we headed to cla.s.s? When he, like any man of his stature, likely had a full docket of meetings with people of nosebleed-level pay grades.

That didn't add up to being self-righteously reckless with government resources.

I still wasn't too sure about this. Seemed like a h.e.l.l of an overreaction to generally nonviolent hara.s.sment.

But at the same time, I couldn't shake the memory of Troy's demeanor last night. Or anything, really. Bottom line, Admiral Dalton thought this was necessary. Max thought it was waste, fraud, and abuse by a senior officer.

And Troy...

Troy had seemed genuinely relieved to know I'd be going with him, and that I'd be in plainclothes.

Footsteps turned my head, and I looked up as Troy started down the staircase with that horse-h.e.l.lhound-hybrid creature on his heels.

Wow. He definitely took his look seriously. Whether it was meant to be goth or punk or some new trend I hadn't heard of-was I getting old?-I couldn't say, but he sure f.u.c.king committed. It must've taken him all morning to get the eyeliner and smoky eye shadow perfect. Not to mention painstakingly arranging his unkempt hair.

He paused on the bottom step and gave me a down-up, arching his triple-pierced eyebrow. I couldn't figure out what the slight curl of his lip meant. It could've been nice try, old man, or I have to be seen in public with you, or any number of things.

Whatever. I wasn't going to worry too much about judgment of my sense of style coming from a kid whose ink-black hair matched his eyeliner and probably contained enough hair product to make the 1980s wince.

Then he grabbed a backpack off the bottom step and put it on his shoulder. "Ready to go?"

"Is, um..." I glanced at the dog. "Is he coming too?"

Troy smirked. "Nah. History lectures bore him."

"Oh. Right." I wasn't sure what tripped me up more-the playfully sarcastic suggestion of Talos sitting through a lecture with us, or Troy actually making a joke. I coughed into my fist. "Uh, anyway. Ready whenever you are."

"Let's roll."

The ma.s.sive dog walked us to the door. Troy stopped to scratch its ear, and then we continued outside, and I would've been lying if I'd said my heartbeat didn't level out once there was a closed door between me and Talos.

I exhaled. It was going to take me a long, long time to get used to the family's dogs, especially that one.

Note to self-ask about dog situation before reporting to next protective duty a.s.signment.

On the way down the steps, Troy asked, "Your car or mine?"

"That depends. Who's driving?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"I will, then."

"Whatever." He glanced at me. "And you're armed?"

I nodded.

His pierced eyebrow rose.

"No, I'm not going to show you."

I expected him to roll his eyes like an impatient brat, but he planted his feet and held my gaze with a mix of postadolescent contempt and...something else. Something that reminded me of the way he'd been last night, both irritated with my presence and relieved by it.

"No games, Iskander." His tone was flat and icy. "Are you carrying or not?"

"Yes. I'm carrying."

"Prove it."

We locked eyes.

"The whole point of carrying concealed is-"

"Humor me," he growled, but the upward flick of his eyebrow added an unspoken plea.

Oh, what the h.e.l.l? Might as well do it here in the relative privacy of Admiral Dalton's driveway rather than on campus, where anyone might see.

I exhaled and pulled my shirt back, revealing the holster tucked beneath my left arm.

Troy swallowed. I thought he even lost a little color.

"Okay?" I let my shirt fall back into place. "Can we go?"

"Yeah." He broke eye contact and brushed past me, heading toward my car.

I watched him for a moment. What the f.u.c.k? He wanted proof I was carrying, and now that he had it... This?

But standing there trying to figure him out wasn't my job, so I followed him to the car. After he'd dropped his books in the trunk, we got in and headed down the driveway.

Without the torrential rain coming down, I had a better look at the neighborhood and surrounding areas. One thing I was quickly learning now that I lived in Hampton Roads-the cl.u.s.ter of cities like Norfolk, Virginia Beach, and Newport News-was that this area was one of those weird places where every layer of social strata was packed in together with no discernible boundaries. Trailer parks were backed up against gated communities. A high-dollar suburban development was across the street from Section 8 housing.

The area around Admiral Dalton's property was no different. While the houses immediately surrounding his were equally ostentatious, the next neighborhood over consisted of older homes, some of which had to have been standing since before World War II. The first cross street was lined with mostly well-kept yards and meticulously maintained houses. With each road we pa.s.sed, though, the overall condition deteriorated until I suddenly found myself double-checking that the car doors were locked as we rolled past a condemned, graffiti-covered s.h.i.thole.

And three streets later, we were back to plantation-style houses with Jaguars and BMWs parked outside. No wonder burglary was such a problem here. If I hadn't been a cop and I'd lived in a s.h.i.tty little house down the road from someone whose car payment rivaled my mortgage, h.e.l.l, I'd probably break in just for spite.

The absurd thought made me laugh dryly, and Troy glanced at me.

I tapped my fingers on the wheel. "So, um. I'm curious."

He fixed his gaze on something outside the pa.s.senger window and replied with a bored, "About?"

"The reason I'm here."

The slightest ripple of tension went through him. "Okay."

"Uh, well. I wanted to hear it from you. In your own words. How exactly have you been hara.s.sed?"

"Do you think I haven't been?" The hostile undertone gave me pause.

"What?" I glanced at him. "No, I'm just asking for specifics. Your take on it."

"You've been given the facts. My dad and Fowler should've told you everything." He rested his elbow on the window and stared straight out the windshield. "Some jacka.s.ses don't like gay people on campus. Someone left some threatening notes on my car last semester. You've already heard this, if Fowler's doing his job."

"Right. What exactly did the notes say?"

Troy squirmed uncomfortably. "One of them said 'f.a.gs end up in bags'."

I ground my teeth. "a.s.sholes..."

"Yeah." He fidgeted again and kept right on staring out the window. "One was a rainbow flag with 'Burial at sea for an admiral's c.o.c.k-sucking brat' written across it."

My blood instantly turned cold. "Are you...are you serious?"

Troy glared at me. "You really think I'd make that s.h.i.t up?"

"Hey, easy." I patted the air. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Then what the f.u.c.k did you mean?"

I glanced at him. "I meant I'm trying to understand what the h.e.l.l is going on so I can do my job."

"Your job is to stay with me and make sure no one f.u.c.ks with me. That's all you need to know."

"That's what I plan to do," I said coolly. "But the more I know, the more-"

"If I knew more than that, I wouldn't have to bother with a f.u.c.king bodyguard."

I couldn't decide what to make of that. Was it the ent.i.tled voice of a Navy brat who knew his dad could make phone calls to Important People and resolve his problems? Was there something else? Or was I going to work myself into a migraine trying to figure out how to read every weird nuance of this irritable, eyelinered kid who I was getting paid to protect, not understand?

Whatever the case, I let the subject drop, and we spent the rest of the drive across town in uncomfortable silence.