Chapter 4 - THE WHITE HANDKERCHIEF
Avery did not raise her voice. She did not look toward the reviewing stand for salvation, nor did she look to the hundreds of armed personnel standing behind her.
Slowly, with absolute, deliberate mechanical precision, her right hand drifted downward to her cargo pocket. Her fingers unbuttoned the concealed flap without a sound, reaching into the recessed interior.
Sullivan watched her fingers with a mocking sneer, expecting her to pull out an identification badge, an official order form, or a phone to summon a legal officer.
Instead, Avery withdrew a small, square of neatly pressed, stark-white cotton cloth—a standard-issue military handkerchief, starched and folded into crisp four-layer quadrants.
She brought the white fabric up to her face. Her movements were smooth, devoid of haste or agitation. She pressed the folded corner against the left corner of her mouth, holding it firmly against the torn skin for two measured breaths.
When she pulled it away, a bright, precise circle of crimson stained the pristine white weave.
Without glancing at the blood, Avery carefully refolded the handkerchief along its original creases, tucking the stained side inward until only the crisp white exterior was visible once more. She returned the square to her cargo pocket, smoothed the pocket flap down, and re-secured the button with a quiet snap of thread.
Her hands returned to her sides, fingers curled naturally along the seam of her trousers.
Sullivan watched the entire sequence, his smirk turning into a scowl of irritation at her refusal to show panic, tears, or indignity.
"Finished with your performance?" Sullivan sneered, his chest heaving slightly as his temper, denied its expected release, began to curdle into erratic rage.
Avery looked directly through his eyes, into the shallow space behind them.
"No," she said.
May you like
A beat of absolute, terrifying stillness hung in the air.
"You are."
