CHAPTER 18: [18] MOP, LIE, ESCAPE

Forty minutes of wandering through identical white corridors had left Pierre questioning both his infiltration skills and his sense of direction. The Naval base seemed designed by someone who enjoyed psychological torture—every hallway looked exactly like the last, every turn led to another sterile passage lined with the same regulation doors and motivational posters about duty and honor.

Pierre paused at an intersection, pretending to examine his mop handle while secretly studying the directional signs mounted on the wall. "Officer Quarters - Level 3," "Mess Hall - Level 1," "Training Facilities - Level 2." Not a single mention of a library anywhere.

Where the hell do they keep their books in this place?

A pair of young ensigns approached from his left, their polished boots clicking against the floor in perfect synchronization. Pierre quickly resumed mopping, dragging the wet strands across tiles that were already spotless. The motion felt awkward and unnatural—he’d never actually mopped a floor in his life, and it showed.

"Evening," one of the ensigns nodded as they passed.

Pierre grunted in response, keeping his head down. The moment they disappeared around the corner, he stopped pretending to clean and studied the signs again. Maybe the library was called something else here. Archives? Records? Information Center?

A middle-aged petty officer emerged from a nearby office, clipboard in hand and reading glasses perched on her nose. She glanced at Pierre, then at the suspiciously clean section of floor he’d been "mopping" for the past five minutes.

"You missed a spot," she said, pointing to a perfectly clean tile.

"Right. Thanks." Pierre dunked his mop in the bucket and slopped water onto the indicated area. The woman watched him work for another moment before shaking her head and walking away.

This is getting ridiculous. I’m supposed to be finding maps, not playing janitor.

Pierre abandoned his cart near a water fountain and decided to try a different approach. He’d walk purposefully, like he belonged here, like he was heading somewhere important. People rarely questioned someone who looked like they knew where they were going.

The strategy worked for exactly twelve minutes.

"Hey, you!"

Pierre’s shoulders tensed, but he kept walking. Maybe they were talking to someone else.

"You with the red hair!"

Shit.

Pierre turned slowly, offering what he hoped was a confused expression. Three sailors stood behind him—two men and a woman, all wearing the standard white uniforms that marked them as regular Navy personnel rather than officers. The one who’d called out was tall and lanky, with arms that seemed too long for his body and a nose that had been broken at least twice.

"Yeah, you. Come here."

Pierre approached cautiously, his mind racing through possible explanations for his presence. The tall sailor squinted at him, studying his face with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle.

"What’s your name, sailor?"

"Martin. Thomas Martin." Pierre gestured to the nameplate on his borrowed uniform.

"Martin..." The sailor scratched his chin. "I’ve been stationed here for two years, and I’ve never seen a Marine with red hair in this branch. Hell, I don’t think I’ve seen any Marines with red hair."

The woman stepped closer, her brown eyes narrowing as she examined Pierre’s features.

"You know what?" she said to the tall sailor. "He looks familiar."

"Familiar how?"

"Can’t put my finger on it." The lady tilted her head, studying Pierre from a different angle. "Something about the eyes, maybe."

The third sailor, a stocky man with prematurely gray hair and calloused hands, had remained silent during this exchange. Now he spoke up, his voice carrying the gravelly tone of someone who’d spent too many years shouting orders over ship engines.

"Martin, you said? What department you assigned to?"

"Maintenance," Pierre replied, trying to project the kind of bored resignation he imagined came with endless cleaning duties.

"Which maintenance?" Gray Hair pressed. "Hull? Engine? Weapons?"

Fuck. I should have prepared for this.

"General maintenance," Pierre said. "Wherever they need me."

"General maintenance reports to Chief Petty Officer Williams," Gray Hair said. "When’s the last time you checked in with Williams?"

"This morning." Pierre shifted his weight, ready to run if necessary. The corridor they stood in was long and straight—not ideal for a quick escape, but he’d work with what he had.

"Funny thing," the lady said, still reading from her notebook. "Williams is my uncle. Had dinner with him last night. He mentioned they were short-staffed in maintenance, said he’d been pulling double shifts all week because half his crew was out with that stomach bug that’s been going around."

Pierre’s mouth went dry. "Yeah, that’s why I’m here. Covering for the sick guys."

"Uh-huh." Broken nose stepped closer, close enough that Pierre could smell the coffee on his breath. "And where exactly were you planning to do this maintenance work? Because I don’t see any tools."

Time to go.

The nearest intersection was maybe thirty feet behind him. If he could reach it, he might be able to lose them in the maze of corridors. The problem was getting there without them raising an alarm.

"You know what I think?" The woman closed her notebook with a snap that echoed off the walls. "I think we should take our new friend Martin here to see Chief Williams. Let him sort this out."

"Good idea," Gray Hair agreed. "Williams has a real good memory for faces. He’ll know if Martin here is one of his boys or not."

Broken nose grinned, revealing teeth that were slightly too small for his mouth. "Course, if Martin really is who he says he is, he won’t mind a little verification, right?"

Pierre forced a smile. "Sure. No problem. Lead the way."

The three sailors arranged themselves around him. It was a casual formation that could pass for friendly escort to any casual observer, but Pierre recognized it for what it was: a trap closing around him.

They walked for several minutes, passing more identical corridors and regulation doorways. Pierre counted steps, memorized turns, and looked for opportunities. The sailors chatted among themselves, discussing weekend plans and complaining about duty assignments, but their attention never wavered from their captive.

"Take a left here," the lady directed, leading them down a narrower hallway lined with storage compartments.

"Actually," broken nose said, "I just remembered something."

The group stopped walking. The lady turned around, eyebrows raised in question.

"Remember that briefing? About the red-haired guy who assaulted Miss Alyssa?"

Pierre’s stomach dropped.

"Yeah, what about it?" Gray Hair asked.

Broken nose reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper—one of the wanted posters, Pierre realized. The sailor unfolded it carefully, his eyes moving between the cartoonish illustration and Pierre’s face.

"Well, well," broken nose said softly. "Look what we have here."

Lady snatched the poster from his hands, her eyes widening as she studied the image. "Holy shit. It’s him. It’s actually him."

Gray Hair peered over her shoulder, comparing the drawing to Pierre’s features. "The hair’s right. Height’s about right. Face is..." He squinted. "Hard to tell but yeah. Could be him."

Pierre raised his hands slowly, palms visible. "I take offense to that, I’m way too hot—"

"Shut up," Chen snapped, her hand moving to the baton hanging from her belt. "Five thousand Cori, boys. That’s what the poster says. Alive."

"Split three ways," Broken nose added, his grin widening. "Not bad for an evening’s work."

"Question is," Gray Hair said, stepping closer to Pierre, "do we turn him in to Lieutenant Commander Reynolds like good little sailors, or do we handle this ourselves?"

"I vote we handle it ourselves," Lady said. "Why split the reward with them when we did all the work?"

"My thoughts exactly," broken nose agreed. "Besides, this bastard insulted my future wife. That’s personal."

Pierre looked around the corridor one more time. No witnesses and three armed Navy personnel who thought they’d struck gold. The poster had described him as dangerous, but these three seemed confident they could handle one man.

Well, it’s your funeral.

"So here’s how this is going to work," Gray Hair said. "You’re going to come with us nice and quiet, and we’re going to collect our reward. Resist, and we’ll bring you in unconscious. Your choice."

Pierre flexed his fingers, feeling the improved strength flowing through his enhanced muscles.

"Actually, I think I’ll choose a third option."