The Traitor ✓ (Book Six)

Chapter Fourteen

Twenty Years Ago

  I wake up on my tiny cot to the sound of another trainee banging around. We sleep in a large room with about a hundred- of which only fifty beds are filled. For now, the others are used as storage. We were told to sleep wherever we wanted as long as we kept our space clean; that nobody's gonna clean up our shit here and that if we let it go we'd be penalized.

  I understand. We are being taught to pay attention to detail- to make sure we'll notice if somebody's on top of a building during a political rally, a gun trained on the person we're trying to protect, waiting for the right moment.

  Everything we do here is for a reason. The quick eating? Gets us used to being interrupted so we understand how common it is. They tell us breaks will be rare when we're on duty, especially for those of us who wind up on the first family's protection detail.

  I groan as I sit up. Yesterday they had us running track for hours without water. They say it's in case we ever have a situation where we can't afford to stop- if one of our protectees lives are threatened to a point they need to be moved constantly, or if there's a terrorist attack.

  The pain in my back is almost too intense to focus on anything else; though each muscle in my body hurts like hell. A few trainees are up and moving around because they quit halfway through yesterday (they'll probably be kicked out) but the rest of us are taking our time.

  I try to swing my legs over the edge. When they connect with the ground, I nearly double over. So when one of our instructors comes in, yelling at us to give up, I feel like quitting too.

  But I don't.

  I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from screaming as I move more in five seconds that I have the last five minutes. I squeeze my fists so hard that my nails, which barely have white on them,  dig into the palms of my hands.

  But I still have to get dressed. While everybody else is doing that, I'm stumbling over to the empty cot me and a few other people keep our bags on. I reach into mine and a sharp pain shoots up both of my arms.

  It takes everything I've got to suppress the "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" to a barely audible sound. The instructor still noticed and turns his attention to me.

  "What was that?" He raises an eyebrow.

  "Nothing, sir." I try to play it off. He's not buying it.

  "No because I'm pretty sure I heard you complaining. Wouldn't want to let that happen on duty and-"  He starts.

  "Have a protectee die as a result." I regret it the second I interrupt him. "I know, sir. Please just.... I need one extra minute."

  He gets so close I can see the veins in his eyes and a few trainees stop what they're doing to watch. At the moment he doesn't notice them, too focused on me.

  "Alright. I will grant it." He smiles. This one isn't evil or happy- he's ruthless. He needs to be, for this job. If he weren't he'd be pulled as an instructor and kicked from the agency. "But today is torture resistance training- I hope in the time you waste getting dressed you'll make up for with bullets."

  Great.

  We've heard about this class for weeks, and we've all been dreading it because we know what it involves. Agents aren't supposed to talk about what happened in training, but they do anyways- and they all say this class is the most brutal.

  Our instructor finally goes to yell at someone else. I realize how long I was holding my breath.

  Well at least I won't drown, I think to myself. With shaking hands from the pressure I'm putting on them, I remove the clothes I slept in and replace them with the uniform.