The Flying Eyes. J. Hunter Holly
don’t have to stand it,” Iverson said from the door. “I’ve heard enough, Collins. Anything you’re saying about Linc, you’re also saying about me. Remember that. Now—with that fact in mind—do you still wish to charge incompetency?”
Collins looked at the floor. “I’m sorry, sir. The tension—the heat of the moment.”
“We’ll forget it, then,” Iverson turned to face Linc’s belligerence. “You’re a mess, boy,” he said, and it was both gruff and gentle. “Take a shower, wash that blood out of your hair, and go home. We’ll give this over to the National Guard this afternoon.”
“You’re not giving up on it?” Linc asked.
“I’m not giving up,” Iverson said. “But you need rest. So do I. So does Wes. Look at him, Linc. Double the mess he is, and you’ve got a good picture of yourself.”
Linc glanced at Wes. He was a shambles of a man. His face was dirty with mud and caked with fluid; blood streaked it, and his eyes stood out like marbles in a dark hole. His clothes were matted and caked, and Linc saw that the man was utterly exhausted.
He gave in to Iverson on the strength of Wes. He headed for the door, then turned back. “I’m not going to give up, Doc. I was out there, and I felt what they can do to a man beyond the horror they generate, and I’m not going to give up until I see them destroyed. It’s too personal now. I have to finish it.”
Wes grasped his arm and led him down to the locker room where hot showers waited, and a clean change of clothes.
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