‘Why on earth would I follow you? Are you accusin’ me of bein’ a stalker?’ Greg was secretly delighted that he had found her again, and harbored tentative hopes of actually becoming friends with her. He studied her once again, delighting in her natural beauty. She had long layered hair, with a variety of tints. Overall it was a golden blond, but he saw hints of auburn and dark brown as well. Her eyes were a grayish blue, and they reminded him of the sunburst cut of a sapphire. She wasn’t overweight, but she wasn’t a stick either. Her upper arms were toned, and set off by a simple silver band on each. Right now her face was set in a frown, but he saw definite evidence of laugh lines. She was definitely American, which intrigued him, as American teenagers were not very common London coffee shop employees. She made no attempt to imitate a British accent, but she seemed to know the slang pretty well, which meant she had lived here awhile. Greg was shaken out of her reverie by a hand. His friends called him Bob when he was a little older, when he had friends. Most of his 'friends' had been sacrificed on the pyre of expediency, or self-preservation. A few had fallen in his drive to achieve a mission. A few of the other, more sanctimonious 'friends', had to fall when they disagreed with his methods. He felt no remorse, or even second thoughts about his fallen comrades. There were a few still kicking around the Army that called him Bob, in private. Most of them got a nervous tic when they did. In fact, most of them got a nervous tic when they were alone with him! All except Dick Denison, that is. Dick was an exception.General Branch mused on his relationship with the Master Sergeant, while watching out the window as they raced over the mottled browns of the desert. He didn't wonder why Dick was different than his other long-time acquaintances. He knew why Dick was different. Dick was nearly as ruthless, and probably more amoral, than Missus Branch's little boy,.
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