Chapter 2 - Financial Tourniquet
The terminal waiting area at Al Udeid Air Base in Qatar smelled of burnt jet fuel, floor wax, and the collective exhaustion of two hundred soldiers waiting for the westbound charter flight. I sat on a hard plastic bench, wearing my sterile operational camouflage uniform, my duffel bag resting between my boots.
On my lap, my satellite phone buzzed.
I didn't answer it immediately. I watched the screen pulse with Tristan’s contact name. He had attached a picture to his contact profile two years ago: him leaning casually against the railing of a sailboat we had rented in Destin, Florida—a trip that I had completely financed down to the tip for the charter captain. He looked tan, carefree, and utterly parasitic.
The phone stopped buzzing. Five seconds later, it started again.
He was panicking.
I swiped the green bar and brought the phone to my ear. I didn't say a word. I let the open line hang in the silence, listening to the rapid, ragged sound of his breathing.
"Nola? Nola, are you there?!" Tristan’s voice was high-pitched, vibrating with hysterical indignation. "Jesus Christ, why did it take you three calls to pick up? Where the hell are you?"
"I’m deployed in a combat zone, Tristan," I said, keeping my voice deadpan, drained of all inflection. "Where do you think I am?"
"Look, something insane is happening with the bank," he blurted out, his words tumbling over each other. "I’m standing at the gas station on Wilma Rudolph Boulevard, and my card got declined. Both cards! The debit card and the Sapphire card! I thought it was just a system glitch, so I went to the drive-thru ATM, and the machine literally swallowed my card! It ate it, Nola!"
"Did it?" I asked softly, watching a C-17 taxi across the tarmac through the reinforced glass window.
"Yes! And I have zero cash on me!" he raged, his voice rising in volume. "I had to leave my watch with the gas station clerk just so he wouldn't call the cops over thirty dollars of premium unleaded! Then I tried to log into the mobile banking app, and it says my profile is locked due to suspected security breaches! Did you mess with the direct deposit? Did you do something from over there?"
"Why would I mess with the direct deposit, Tristan?" I asked, playing him like a dull instrument. "I was in the middle of an emergency femoral artery reconstruction for the last six hours. A private almost died on my table."
"Well, I’m dying over here, Nola!" he shouted, completely oblivious to the grotesque absurdity of his comparison. "I have meetings today! Important meetings with investors for the new craft distillery distribution model! I was supposed to take a partner to lunch at the River Club! How am I supposed to pay for a business lunch when my accounts are frozen like I’m some kind of common criminal?"
"A partner?" I repeated, letting the word hang between us. "What partner, Tristan?"
There was a micro-second of hesitation on his end—the distinct, greasy pause of a habitual liar recalibrating his narrative.
"Just... an associate," he stammered, recovering quickly. "Chloe. She’s consulting on the branding side. You don't know her, she’s from the Nashville creative sector. But that’s not the point! The point is, I’m being humiliated! My mother called me an hour ago in tears because the subscription services you set up for her meal deliveries bounced, and the country club membership dues were flagged as uncollectible! My dad is beside himself! He says his card was declined at the pro shop!"
I closed my eyes, leaning my head against the concrete wall of the terminal. The sheer scope of their shamelessness was breathtaking. Not only was Tristan living off my blood money, but he had systematically dispersed secondary cards and recurring payments to his parents, treating my military paycheck as an open-ended family endowment.
"That sounds terrible, Tristan," I said, my voice so calm it sounded almost comforting.
"Terrible? It’s a catastrophe!" he whined. "You need to call the bank immediately. Call their priority line, tell them to unlock the accounts, clear the flags, and wire five thousand dollars into my personal checking account to cover the immediate expenses. I have to get the Camaro detailed this afternoon, and the shop won't release it without payment."
"The Camaro," I said. "The one you bought with my parents' retirement money?"
"Oh, don't start that again!" Tristan groaned, exasperated. "We talked about this! That was an investment! Classic cars appreciate faster than the stock market right now! Once I flip it, your parents will get their twenty grand back plus a ten percent return! If you hadn't been so paranoid, we’d already have the paperwork finalized! Now are you going to call the bank or what?"
"I’ll look into it, Tristan," I lied smoothly. "You know communications out here are spotty. The satellite uplinks keep cutting out because of the dust storms."
"Well, fix it!" he demanded, his arrogance returning the moment he thought he had successfully browbeaten me into compliance. "I can't be living like this, Nola. It’s bad enough that I’m stuck here alone dealing with the trauma of losing Elliot, and now I have to beg for my own household money? It’s disrespectful. It really is."
"Losing Elliot," I repeated. My fingers tightened around the edge of my aluminum duffel bag until the metal rivets bit into my flesh. "You really miss him, don't you?"
"Every single day," Tristan sighed, laying on the theatrical grief with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "The house feels so empty without him running to the door. Every time I walk past his empty dog bed in the hallway, it breaks my heart all over again. That’s why Chloe has been such a lifesaver, honestly. She’s been helping me cope with the grief. Helping me keep my mind off the tragedy."
"She sounds very supportive," I said.
"She is. She’s an empathetic person, Nola. You could learn a thing or two from her about emotional intelligence," he said, the smugness dripping from every syllable. "Just get the cards unlocked, okay? I’m heading back to the house to wait for the mobile banking notification. Don't let me down."
"I won't let you down, Tristan," I said. "I’m going to make sure everything is taken care of. Exactly the way it deserves to be."
I hung up the phone before he could reply.
I sat there in the humming terminal, listening to the flight announcer call the boarding groups for the westbound transport to Ramstein Air Base, the primary hub before the final jump across the Atlantic to Kentucky.
"Flight 402, active personnel manifest, board through gate Bravo," the mechanical voice echoed over the PA system.
I stood up, hoisted the sixty-pound duffel bag onto my shoulder, and adjusted the strap of my tactical backpack. The weight of the gear felt good against my spine. It was honest weight. It was the weight of duty, of survival, of reality.
As I walked down the boarding ramp into the cavernous belly of the transport plane, my phone received one final text message before switching to airplane mode. It was from Marcus Vance back in Afghanistan.
*Marcus:* **Lien filed with Montgomery County Sheriff. Camaro flagged as disputed property tied to active grand larceny investigation. Clarksville PD notified. Locksmith and moving crew scheduled for Thursday, 1400 hours. Go hunt, Captain.**
May you like
I turned off the phone, slid it into my breast pocket right beneath my combat infantry badge, and took my seat in the belly of the beast.
***