I am Shiloh Kenny, 32 years old, the woman my entire family has called a useless filing clerk for the last 10 years. Nobody thought a family barbecue in the Virginia suburbs would end with the sound of snapping bone. When Kyle, my hero cousin, who just graduated boot camp, lunged at me with a manic smile, he thought he would crush me into the grass like a ragd doll.
He didn’t know that my reflexes weren’t forged at summer camp, but in the kill houses of the Middle East. In the moment he touched me, the air thick with the smell of stale beer suddenly turned to the metallic scent of blood. 6 seconds.
That was all the time I needed to turn the family’s pride into an unconscious heap at my feet and expose my mother’s hypocrisy. Two hours before the ambulance sirens cut through the humid Virginia air, I was sitting in my sedan at the end of my mother’s driveway. The deep grally voice of a former Navy Seal host on my podcast was discussing the discipline of silence, the tactical advantage of being underestimated.
It was the only world that made sense to me. I looked at the house, a two-story colonial with a perfectly manicured lawn that screamed middleclass American dream. The driveway was already packed with Ford F-150s and oversized SUVs, their bumpers plastered with patriotic stickers that most of the drivers didn’t truly understand.
I reached for the volume knob and killed the engine. Silence filled the car. I took a breath, holding it for a four count, then releasing it.
This was the ritual. I had to take off the operator, the tier 1 specialist who analyzed threat vectors and breach points, and put on the costume of Shiloh, the mousy single 30some administrative assistant who supposedly filed paperwork for a logistics company in DC. It was the heaviest armor I ever had to wear.
I stepped out of the car, adjusting my glasses. They were non-prescription, just another prop to soften my face, to make me look harmless. The air smelled of charcoal, lighter fluid, and roasting broughtwursts.
But underneath that, I could smell the tension. Walking into the backyard was like walking onto a stage where everyone knew their lines except me. The noise was overwhelming.
Country music was blaring from the patio speakers, competing with the rockous laughter of men holding cans of Bud Light. And in the center of it all, standing by the grill like he had just conquered a nation, was Kyle. He was 22 with a high and tight haircut so fresh his scalp looked raw.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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