Chapter 3 - The Treason of a Friend
The interior of the old tractor shed smelled of rust and old engine oil, but James had dragged two wooden crates inside and covered them with a clean plaid blanket to serve as seats. We sat across from each other, the space between us charged with decades of unspoken agony.
James didn't waste time. He pulled a worn leather journal from his coat pocket and laid it flat between us.
"In November of 1970, our unit was stationed near the Cambodian border," James began, his eyes fixed on the grain of the wood. "We weren't just fighting the Viet Cong, Mary. We stumbled into something much darker. A black-ops intelligence ring operating within our own command. They were running weapons and laundering black-market currency, using military transport lines to move contraband."
I stared at him, my mind struggling to process the words. "What does that have to do with you? With us?"
"Adrian was knee-deep in it," James said bitterly. "He approached me, tried to get me to look the other way, to sign off on false supply manifests. I told him I was going to report it up the chain of command the moment we rotated back to base."
A cold shudder ran down my spine. "That's why..."
"That's why the 'explosion' happened," James nodded, lifting his gaze to meet mine. "It wasn't an enemy mortar. It was a planted claymore mine, detonated inside our supply tent while I was inside checking inventory. Adrian set it. He thought I was dead. When he crawled into the wreckage afterward to check, he found me alive, but barely breathing, trapped beneath a collapsed steel beam."
I gasped, pressing my hands over my mouth.
"Instead of pulling me out to save me, he whispered a choice in my ear," James continued, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "He told me he could finish the job right there, or I could crawl out the back drainage tunnel, disappear into the jungle, and never, ever return to the United States. He told me if I ever tried to contact you, or if I ever showed my face, the men running the syndicate would find you, my parents, and my brothers. They would kill every single one of you to tie up loose ends."
The room spun. Fifty-six years of sorrow shattered, instantly replaced by a blinding, incandescent rage.
"He came to my parents' house," I whispered, venom coating every syllable. "He sat on our sofa and cried real tears. He told me he saw you die."
"Adrian was an actor," James said bitterly. "He stayed close to you all these decades not out of friendship or guilt, Mary. He stayed to monitor you. To make sure nobody was asking questions, to intercept any stray inquiries, and to ensure I never dared to cross back over the line."
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"Then why now?" I asked, my voice shaking with fury. "Why send the roses today after all this time?"
James offered a grim, weary smile, reaching out to touch my hand at last. His skin was rough, but his touch was warm. "Because three days ago, Adrian suffered a massive stroke. He’s in the veterans' hospital in St. Paul, unresponsive, dying in a sterile white room. The syndicate is gone—dissolved decades ago when the investigations finally caught up to the higher-ups. The threat expired, Mary. And the moment I knew Adrian couldn't hurt you anymore... I finally came home."
