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Authors: Alan Lawrence Sitomer
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decision about this, too. That he couldn’t make ’em for you,” Puwolsky continued. “Guys like him, they get off on
getting in your head and making you feel like they really tried, but in the end, also making you feel like you have to make your own choices in this world. Thing is, all this guy has is his career.
No marriage, no family, no kids…his career means too much to him—it’s his entire life—and now that his little experiment with you has gone to piss, he knows he might
fry.”
M.D. wrinkled his brow, the look on his face clearly saying,
What do you mean, gone to piss?
“The reason I am telling you this is ’cause I only work one way: I shoot straight, tell the truth,” Puwolsky said. “You’re just a pawn to guys like Stanzer. Always
have been. He loses you, it’s just another chess piece. He loses his job, however, and he loses his complete identity.”
To M.D., Puwolsky was a jerkhead whose words didn’t add up. Stanzer had never been like that with McCutcheon. No, his colonel might not have supported this choice, but Stanzer had never
done anything to make M.D. believe he could not be trusted. “I know you don’t believe me. If I were you, I probably wouldn’t believe me either,” Puwolsky said as the vehicle
cruised up the service road and silver spirals of barbed wire fence appeared on the horizon. “But that’s because you don’t know all the facts.”
“What facts?”
“Me, I told you the truth from day one. I told it to you straight about the death of your gym buddies. I told it to you straight about the fact that your father sits inside those walls up
ahead. And I told it to you straight about the danger to your girl. But Stanzer, he’s Mister Fucking Mind Game. Been lying to you since the beginning.”
“What beginning?”
“The very beginning. The get-go. What, you need a map?” Puwolsky said. “They had their eyes on bringing you in to do their undercover dirty work ever since that day Freedman
called in, playing the ‘
favor-for-an-old-friend
’ card.”
“You know Mr. Freedman, my old high school science teacher?” M.D. asked.
“Me, no. But my department was looped in on the search for your sister when she was abducted, and I know that it wasn’t just an accident that you got plunked into Wit Sec soon
thereafter. Usually it’s the middle class or even the rich folks that get that kind of protection. Families from the ghetto? No offense, but we don’t have the resources to protect all
the people from the ’hood who need an angel to look out for them. Your ticket got punched because they saw value in you.”
“Who saw value in me?” M.D. asked. For the first time, Puwolsky’s words did make sense. When Gemma had been abducted, McCutcheon turned to the only person he could—Mr.
Freedman, his high school science teacher—and Mr. Freedman was the one who brought in the FBI.
That’s how Gemma was saved. That’s how Sarah was found. And that’s how McCutcheon ended up in a white van bound for Bellevue.
“Lemme guess: not soon after you were taken away to some new city you’d never even heard of, they fed you that ‘Come fight for the red, white, and blue’ shit. The
‘do your duty, higher calling, America needs your service’ line. That how they get you?”
Puwolsky read McCutcheon’s face, a furrowed brow telling him everything he needed to know about the answer.
“You were played, son. You were their target before you even knew they existed, an experiment to see if teenage operatives in the field of battle could work at a realistic level. Before
you knew left from right, I bet you were raced through training, told how great you were, and sent off on missions to see if your boat could float. The downside? Not you being wounded or even
dying. No one gives a shit about that. The downside has always been awareness. Notoriety. Recognition. A public knowledge that our government is willing to risk the lives of kids by placing them
getting in your head and making you feel like they really tried, but in the end, also making you feel like you have to make your own choices in this world. Thing is, all this guy has is his career.
No marriage, no family, no kids…his career means too much to him—it’s his entire life—and now that his little experiment with you has gone to piss, he knows he might
fry.”
M.D. wrinkled his brow, the look on his face clearly saying,
What do you mean, gone to piss?
“The reason I am telling you this is ’cause I only work one way: I shoot straight, tell the truth,” Puwolsky said. “You’re just a pawn to guys like Stanzer. Always
have been. He loses you, it’s just another chess piece. He loses his job, however, and he loses his complete identity.”
To M.D., Puwolsky was a jerkhead whose words didn’t add up. Stanzer had never been like that with McCutcheon. No, his colonel might not have supported this choice, but Stanzer had never
done anything to make M.D. believe he could not be trusted. “I know you don’t believe me. If I were you, I probably wouldn’t believe me either,” Puwolsky said as the vehicle
cruised up the service road and silver spirals of barbed wire fence appeared on the horizon. “But that’s because you don’t know all the facts.”
“What facts?”
“Me, I told you the truth from day one. I told it to you straight about the death of your gym buddies. I told it to you straight about the fact that your father sits inside those walls up
ahead. And I told it to you straight about the danger to your girl. But Stanzer, he’s Mister Fucking Mind Game. Been lying to you since the beginning.”
“What beginning?”
“The very beginning. The get-go. What, you need a map?” Puwolsky said. “They had their eyes on bringing you in to do their undercover dirty work ever since that day Freedman
called in, playing the ‘
favor-for-an-old-friend
’ card.”
“You know Mr. Freedman, my old high school science teacher?” M.D. asked.
“Me, no. But my department was looped in on the search for your sister when she was abducted, and I know that it wasn’t just an accident that you got plunked into Wit Sec soon
thereafter. Usually it’s the middle class or even the rich folks that get that kind of protection. Families from the ghetto? No offense, but we don’t have the resources to protect all
the people from the ’hood who need an angel to look out for them. Your ticket got punched because they saw value in you.”
“Who saw value in me?” M.D. asked. For the first time, Puwolsky’s words did make sense. When Gemma had been abducted, McCutcheon turned to the only person he could—Mr.
Freedman, his high school science teacher—and Mr. Freedman was the one who brought in the FBI.
That’s how Gemma was saved. That’s how Sarah was found. And that’s how McCutcheon ended up in a white van bound for Bellevue.
“Lemme guess: not soon after you were taken away to some new city you’d never even heard of, they fed you that ‘Come fight for the red, white, and blue’ shit. The
‘do your duty, higher calling, America needs your service’ line. That how they get you?”
Puwolsky read McCutcheon’s face, a furrowed brow telling him everything he needed to know about the answer.
“You were played, son. You were their target before you even knew they existed, an experiment to see if teenage operatives in the field of battle could work at a realistic level. Before
you knew left from right, I bet you were raced through training, told how great you were, and sent off on missions to see if your boat could float. The downside? Not you being wounded or even
dying. No one gives a shit about that. The downside has always been awareness. Notoriety. Recognition. A public knowledge that our government is willing to risk the lives of kids by placing them
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