The Remaining: Trust: A Novella by D. J. Molles Page B

busy.”
    “Sure.” Lucas nodded.
    They sat in silence while Abe forced down the last few bites. He leaned forward on his elbows, interlaced his fingers. Rested his chin on his protruding thumbs. He could feel the roughness of that one thumb—the one he unconsciously chewed. He stared off in no particular direction, not really seeing anything that his eyes rested on. He remained that way for a time. Absent in his thoughts.
    Finally, he mumbled from behind his locked palms. “Do you know the difference between something that’s right and something that’s correct?”
    Lucas raised an eyebrow, confused by the question.
    “Yeah.” Abe’s hands fell apart, slapped flat onto the tabletop. “Me neither. Or maybe I know, or knew at one point in time, but I’ve spent so long doing the correct thing, I’ve forgotten how to distinguish it from the right thing. But the two aren’t the same, are they? Sometimes they’re the same. But sometimes they’re opposed.” He shook his head slowly, exhaustedly. “You know who knew the difference?”
    Lucas cleared his throat, seemed slightly uncomfortable. “Who’s that?”
    “Lee.” Abe nodded resolutely. “Lee knew the fucking difference.”
    Lucas tapped his finger. But he said nothing.
    Abe had a million other things he wanted to say. About Lee. About the mission to take him down. About turning a blind eye on things. About the cost of your own conscience, your own pride, your own shame. About allowing yourself to whore out your own morals, for payment in the form of comfort. He had many of these things to say, and they ran through his head all at once, clamoring for attention, and Abe finally dismissed them all with a growl and a dismissive wave.
    “How’ve you been sleeping?” was Lucas’s response to it all.
    Abe opened his mouth to respond but first noticed the sound of rubber boot heels hitting the carpeted floor behind him, coming to a stop there. One finger in the air, as though to hold his thoughts, Abe turned and looked over his shoulder. Corporal Nunez was standing there beside him, a little out of breath.
    “Major,” Nunez said on a big exhale. “Ramirez is on the line. He needs to speak to you immediately.” Nunez looked around conspiratorially. “He says he has it .”

SEVEN
    The command center had two more people in it by the time Abe jogged back in. He did so quietly, and the two soldiers—a man and a woman—remained in their seats, focused on their computers, both in communication with some other element. But Abe didn’t care about anything else that was going on in any other Green Zone. His mind was completely consumed by what was currently happening somewhere in North Carolina.
    He made straight for Corporal Nunez’s desk. The phone was lying facedown in front of the keyboard. Lying there like a crime scene. Abe approached it feeling almost sick with dread. But he had no hesitation. He snatched it up immediately and put it to his ear.
    “This is Major Darabie.”
    The sound on the other end was crackly and unclear. There was a slight metallic echo, like someone was speaking through a tin can. Abe knew that Ramirez had been equipped with a satellite phone to maintain contact. The other two times Abe had spoken to him via satellite phone, the connection had sounded similar.
    “Major, it’s Ramirez.” He sounded slightly out of breath. Or stressed. There was also the sound of barking in the background. “I’ve got the device. I had to shoot Captain Harden to get it.”
    Abe was surprised at his own gut reaction. For someone who knew that such a thing was imminent, it still choked him. It still made his hair stand up and his neck and scalp tingle with heat. The edges of his vision darkled just slightly.
    His mouth hung open, void of words.
    “I’m ready for exfil, but”—more barking in the background—“I don’t think Captain Harden is dead.”
    Abe turned, heart thundering. Lucas was standing there next to his side. Nunez was