She nods. “I see. You’ve never mentioned your time in the military before. Where were you stationed?”
“I was part of Desert Shield, stationed over in Saudi. My unit was ambushed by some local forces a couple of months in. I was shot, and most of them were killed.”
Her eyes go wide with genuine disbelief. “My God… and you were eighteen?”
I nod.
“You say most of your unit lost their lives… What happened to the others? How did they survive?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Our squad was split in two. The other half, as far as I know, did survive, but I left the Army soon after I was discharged from hospital, and lost touch.”
Kaitlyn glances at her watch. “It’s almost time to wrap this up for today, but I want to leave you with this thought, Brad. From everything you’ve told me, and simply from how you carry yourself, it’s pretty clear, even to someone without three degrees in psychology, that you feel it’s your… responsibility to protect people. I think you view yourself as everyone’s big brother, and you take it very personally if someone you feel is your responsibility is hurt in any way. As honorable as that is, it’s an incredible burden for anyone to bear. I think you bear it gladly, but you have to understand the downside to that is you end up blaming yourself for things that aren’t your fault. It can also be a way of avoiding having to address your own problems… In terms of the guilt you say you feel, I think we’re very much at a crossroads now. I think you’re intelligent enough to realize what I’m saying makes sense, but I think you’re… frankly, stubborn enough to allow yourself to stay trapped in that cycle of guilt we mentioned earlier. You need to understand that any guilt you’re feeling is a choice and you’ll continue to feel it for as long as you allow yourself to.”
I nod slowly as I stare blankly at the floor again, absorbing everything she’s saying, and trying my best to process what it means. I’ve never looked at myself that way. No one’s ever said to me I’m a natural protector. I wonder if she’d think that if she knew what I really did for a living? I guess she has a point, but that still doesn’t change the fact my actions were directly responsible for a lot of people I cared about dying, including the woman I loved. What right do I have to move on from that? I should suffer the guilt I’m feeling.
I glance out the window before looking at her. “Okay. Thank you, Kaitlyn. As always, I appreciate your time and insight, and it does help me. Really.”
She smiles professionally. “You’re an intriguing man, Mr. Foley, and while I think there’s still a way to go, I’m glad you’re feeling the benefit from our sessions.”
I stand and straighten my T-shirt. “I am, definitely. Are you free tomorrow?”
She flicks through her notepad. “Yes… how does three o’clock sound?”
I nod. “Perfect.”
We both stand, shake hands, and I leave her office. I walk down the three flights of stairs, press a button to release the magnetic lock on the main entrance, and get into my car, parked in the lot outside. I start the engine, put on a pair of sunglasses, and stare ahead for a moment, lost in idle thought. I always feel drained after my sessions with Kaitlyn. It’s difficult having to think about all that shit for a solid hour.
I need a drink.
9
I’m traveling along the E10, heading toward the coast. I exit right and merge onto the road that takes me over the marina to Al Reem Island. The traffic isn’t as heavy as in the main city. There are a handful of districts, each with their own micro-communities and points of interest. Lots of money was invested in developing this place over the last couple of years, and so far it’s been thriving quite nicely. Some of the houses over here dwarf mine. That’s not to say my place is small or anything, but there are definitely degrees of wealth, shall we say. Plus, I’m trying to stay reasonably discreet.
Because of the climate, natural vegetation and greenery is practically nonexistent, but lots of artificial trees, grass, and shrubbery have been planted all around here. As a result, the place looks a little like Las Vegas, but it’s nice.
I drive down the main street for a half-mile or so, and take a left. The road takes me away from the center and out into one of the residential areas. After another quarter-mile, I turn left again and stop in front of the gates leading into the exclusive community I now call home. There’s no security as such, except for a network of camera feeds that link directly to the local police department. Plus, the wide, wrought-iron gate that blocks the street can only be opened remotely… and only the residents have a remote. I aim mine at the sensor, which is a small black box fixed to the left pillar next to the gate. The fob in my hand beeps, and there’s a whirring as the mechanisms kick in and the gate begins to slide open.
I drive through, and it closes automatically behind me. The street is a long cul-de-sac, separated down the middle by a strip of grass roughly three feet wide, which has tall, thin trees planted at even intervals all the way along. There aren’t that many properties within the community, but each one is enormous — set back from the road behind a big driveway and front lawn.
My place is the third one along on the left. It’s a single-story house made from brilliant white brick, with a decorative pillar standing either side of the front door. Inside is a large reception area that leads straight through to the kitchen. The hallway stretches away in both directions. Left takes you to the first of two lounge rooms at the front of the house, as well as another room at the back that families would probably use as a dining room. I’ve not bothered furnishing it — some free weights are stored along the left wall, with a heavy punch bag hanging from the ceiling in the middle. To the right is a second lounge room — which, again, I’ve not bothered too much with — and my bedroom, which has an en suite bathroom and shower.
I ease my Aston Martin onto the drive, kill the engine, and climb out over the side. Mostly because I can, and it’s fun. I walk toward the front door, reaching for my keys, but stop when I near it.
It’s open.
What the hell?
I look over my shoulder, glancing up and down the street. There’s no sign of anyone. No movement. No unfamiliar cars.
Instinctively, I move my hand to my lower back and grab the Beretta I have holstered there. I’ve moved away from carrying two around with me all the time. I’ve even refrained from personalizing this one. It’s just a boring, stock 92FS.
I quietly work the slide, chambering a round, and flick the safety off. I cautiously step forward and lean gently against the wall on the left. I place my hand on the door and hold my gun low by my side. I take a deep, quiet breath and slowly push it open, just wide enough for me to sidestep inside.
Pausing in the doorway, I flash a glance along the hallway — first left, then right.
Nothing.
I continue slowly, just a few steps into the reception area. Only now do I bring my gun up, ready to fire if necessary. You should always lead with your head, not your hands. You only need a second to see if anyone’s there. Whereas, if you hold your gun out in front as you walk in, anyone who is there will see your weapon before they see you, which means they know you’re armed and can prepare for you before you even know they’re there.
I don’t close the door behind me, as I want to keep any noise to a minimum. I tread carefully, silently, across the reception area and head left. There are two doors leading into the lounge that slide apart. They’re standing slightly separated. I ease the left hand door back, just enough to give me a view of the room.