Apparently her article in the paper, doing her best to debunk the myths surrounding the Marine Corps boxing team, either hadn’t worked, or had induced the opposite result.

Gasoline on the fire.

At least they were peaceful, she reasoned as she inched forward another few feet. Cardboard signs with pithy sayings and half-hearted jargon wouldn’t make anyone driving through these gates do anything but roll their eyes and take another drink of their morning coffee. But it still felt like a physical reminder of her failure.

Ten minutes later, she walked into the gym and headed straight for Coach Ace’s office. She had calls to make, confirming their bus down to Paris Island for their matchup with the Marine drill instructors. And she had a text message on her phone to call her supervisor ASAP.

The moment she closed Coach Ace’s doors, she dialed her supervisor.

“Robilard!” Andrew Calvant barked.

“Yes, sir?” She sat down, instantly regretting the choice. Even if he wasn’t there, he might feel her intimidation. She stood, ready for the offense.

“What the hell kind of article is this?”

She blinked. Hadn’t he read it yesterday when she’d emailed him? “I’m sorry, I thought you read it already. It was my response to the first article about—”

“Not yesterday’s thing,” he snarled. “Today’s paper. Did you read it?”

Did she admit she hadn’t read that morning’s paper, and look lazy? Or did she act like she had, and fly blind for the rest of the conversation?

He made the choice for her. “Front page, above the fold this time. Lovely title, though I’ll let you read that for yourself. I especially like the alliteration. But the article is a true gem. It talks about how we’re attempting to make a bunch of killing machines—that would be our athletes, if you aren’t keeping up—look like, and I quote, ‘pansy-ass candy sticks’ and trying to pass them off as ‘an enlightened bunch of kangaroos.’”

She let that sink in for a moment.

“Anything to say?” he bit out.

“People like kangaroos.”

There was silence on the other end.

People like kangaroos? That’s the best you can come up with?

She was so getting fired.

“Robilard,” he said, in a voice so low and menacing she’d need to check if she was bleeding somewhere from the sheer venom alone, “make this go away. Make it all go away, very quickly, or you will be exiting stage right.” That was the last she heard before the line died.

“Right,” she said, her voice shaky. “Good to hear from you, too, sir.” She sat down and let her cell phone drop to the desk. Would anyone notice, she wondered, if she crawled under the table and just cried for a few minutes? Nothing more, just a couple good sobs to clear the system . . .

Yeah, probably not a good idea.

Doing the best she could by rote, she called the bus barn and confirmed their transportation, then went online using Coach Ace’s computer—holy molasses, Batman, the thing moved at the speed of a snail—and checked what the local paper had to say.

After she found it, she felt her lip sneer. It was the same reporter from the other day, that David Cruise. The one who had written that stupid, overly verbose crap about the double helix of violence and whatever else. The poor guy had been paint splattered, and she knew that wasn’t a great first impression. But come on.

There was a knock on the door, and she went to open it. Coach Ace stood there, and she started to apologize, but he shook his head. Then he stepped back, and two MPs took his place. “Ms. Robilard?”

She nodded, her tongue too thick to speak.

“We were told you were the athlete liaison for the team. Is that correct?” the same one asked.

She again nodded.

“We’ll need your assistance, ma’am. We’re conducting an investigation into the events that have taken place leading up to the paint incident.”

“Oh.” She blinked, then looked back at the coach. “Uh, can we use your office?”

“You’ve got it. Let me know if you need anything.” He stepped aside so the two young Marines could walk in and sit down. Before he left, the coach bent down closer in the guise of grabbing the door handle, and added, “You need anything, you come get me. All right?”

So grateful for the show of immediate support after she’d just been dumped on, she nearly teared up at that. But it would only embarrass them both, so she nodded quickly and turned to go sit behind the desk.

“Gentlemen,” she began, forcing her most professional tone of voice. “What can I do for you?”

CHAPTER

15

Greg worked the heavy bag, keeping one eye on Coach Ace’s door. Nobody else was getting a damn thing done in the gym, either. When the MPs started calling in one Marine at a time, you knew it wasn’t good. And it definitely was a big kick in the nuts to productivity.

The whole thing sucked. He swung, punched, punched again, then said “Fuck it,” and let his fists fly, forgetting the training pattern the coaches had handed down. Channeling his frustration, his anger, his inability to help Reagan into the heavy bag, he felt the soothing burn up his shoulders, into his back. Felt the way his knuckles started to tighten, his wrists ached. Knew he was getting out of control, but couldn’t stop.

He had no idea how much time passed while he worked the bag. Could have been a few seconds, or an hour. That anger, the frustration of the day worked its way out through his fists. And he let it control him until he felt the tap on his shoulder. In instinct, he swung around, fists still cocked, and found one of the younger Marines backing away, palms up.

The younger man was sweating bullets. Greg knew it wasn’t just from the pretty mild workout they’d had. He shook his hands out and relaxed his stance so his teammate wouldn’t worry. “Sorry, got in the zone.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He glanced at the bag behind Greg, then back at him again. “You okay? I thought you were going to pull something the way you were working it.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.” His eyes darted toward the coach’s door. “What’s going on in there? Why do they keep calling people in? I don’t get it, we’re the ones who keep getting targeted. We’re the victims here. Why are they after us?”

Greg sighed. For some people, the police—in any form—were something they could never associate with the good guys. Either prior experiences or the way they were raised ingrained in their minds that all law enforcement were out to get everyone, were all crooked, were all bad. He’d seen enough of it himself in the numerous foster homes. Kids—usually older and more jaded than him—would tell him stories that could raise the hair on his arms. Cops that took bribes, that ran drugs, that bought into prostitution rings.

He was fortunate enough, he supposed, it didn’t stick. There were dirty cops, just the same as any other occupation. But the sunny optimist in him believed most cops were out there doing their job.

“Calm down, dude.” Taking a break from the bag, he wrapped an arm around the younger man’s shoulders and took a quick walk with him around the perimeter of the main floor. “They’re just trying to fill in the blanks on what’s been going on. Nobody’s in trouble here.”

“B-b-b-but I l-l-let the balloons f-f-fall,” he stuttered. “My f-f-fault.”

“No way.” He shook the man a little as they kept walking. The other man’s gait was decidedly stuttered as well. His sneakers squeaked over the waxed floorboards. “There were three of you, and trust me, we all saw your faces. You were just as shocked as the rest of us. You’re good.”

The other man started to shake. Greg cursed under his breath.

“Want me to come in with you?”