Chapter 2 - Behind Kitchen Doors
The swinging door of the kitchen muffled the sound of Martin’s booming voice, but not his arrogance.
Standing by the speckled granite countertop, I crossed my arms and listened as he regaled his guests in the adjacent dining room. Three men had arrived ten minutes earlier—stiff-backed, wearing civilian jackets that couldn't quite hide the squared shoulders and disciplined posture of active-duty or retired service members.
“You see, the problem with the modern military is that people want comfort,” Martin was pontificating, his voice pitching higher to ensure it carried through the partition. “Back in my day as a Command Sergeant Major, we didn’t have soft-hearted recruits questioning orders. We broke them down and built them back up. Discipline starts at home. That’s why I keep a tight ship here.”
Through the frosted glass of the pantry door, I watched my mother walk past the hallway, her head bowed slightly, carrying a tray of small appetizer plates. Her shoulders were tense. The woman who had once taught me how to read maps during family camping trips, who had stood up to school board members and local politicians without blinking an eye, had been reduced to a shadow in her own home.
Martin had been dating her for eleven months. In that short span, he had moved in, redecorated the living room to his taste, changed the locks on the back shed, and systematically dismantled my mother’s confidence through a relentless barrage of petty criticisms and manufactured rules.
He called it "building character."
I called it psychological erosion.
My secure tactical tablet buzzed softly inside my coat pocket resting on the kitchen stool. I pulled it out, input my biometric thumbprint, and checked the encrypted message from my command post in Savannah. My mission—a counter-intelligence operation targeting illicit technological supply chains in the region—was entering its final phase. I was scheduled to brief a joint task force on Monday morning. Until then, I had weekend leave.
Leave that I had intended to spend catching up with my mother. Instead, I had walked straight into a domestic pressure cooker.
“Hey! Kitchen help!”
The swinging door pushed open, and Martin poked his head in. His face was flushed with the red wine he had already started drinking before dinner. He glared at me as if I were a stubborn mule refusing to pull a plow.
“What did I tell you about staying out of sight when guests are in the formal living areas?” Martin hissed, lowering his voice so the men outside wouldn't hear his hypocrisy. “I told the boys you’re an unmotivated freelancer who can't hold down a stable job. I don't need you wandering out there looking like a deer in the headlights and ruining the atmosphere.”
I didn't blink. I didn't tense my jaw. Years of SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) training and high-stakes intelligence debriefings had taught me one fundamental truth: never interrupt an enemy while they are making a mistake.
“My apologies, Martin,” I said smoothly, letting a hint of practiced hesitation color my voice. “I was just looking for a glass of water.”
“Well, grab it fast and stay in here,” he snapped, pointing a thick finger at me. “When I call for the hors d’oeuvres, you bring them out. And don't make eye contact with Lieutenant Colonel Vance. He’s a real officer. He doesn’t have time for civilians who can't get their act together.”
Lieutenant Colonel Vance.
A sudden, sharp smile threatened to break across my lips, but I suppressed it just in time.
The name rang an immediate bell. Marcus Vance was a brilliant logistics and intelligence officer whom I had worked alongside during a joint NATO exercise in Poland three years ago. If Marcus Vance was sitting in our dining room right now, he was either stationed nearby or part of the regional command inspection team. And if he saw me standing in my mother's kitchen wearing sweatpants and an old college t-shirt while Martin treated me like an indentured servant, the shock wave would hit the Richter scale.
“Understood, Martin,” I said softly, lowering my eyes just enough to feed his inflated ego.
May you like
He grunted in satisfaction, spun around on his heel, and let the swinging door slam shut behind him.
I waited five seconds. Then, I walked silently up the stairs to the guest bedroom, locked the door, and unzipped my garment bag.
