Chapter 11: Networking
The support group met in the same basement as before—same folding chairs, same flickering lights, same burned coffee that tasted like it had been brewed during the Reagan administration.
I took my seat near the door and waited.
Curtis Hoyle arrived at seven sharp, nodding to the regulars as he made his way to the front of the circle. His eyes found me—a flicker of recognition, maybe even approval. I'd come back. That meant something to him.
"Play the long game. Build trust. Patience is a weapon too."
The session followed the same pattern as last time. Veterans sharing their struggles, their small victories, their ongoing wars with demons that had followed them home from overseas. Curtis guided the conversation with the same gentle authority, never pushing, always listening.
I spoke this time. Not much—just a few sentences about the adjustment period, the difficulty of finding work, the way civilian life felt foreign after years in uniform. All of it true, in a sense. Just not the whole truth.
"Army?" Curtis asked.
"Yeah. Two tours in Afghanistan. Got out in 2012."
The lie slid out easily. Marcus Cole's military records supported the story—at least on the surface. The BCD was a problem I'd have to address eventually, but for now, the basic details checked out.
Curtis nodded. "Glad you came back. Getting better takes time, but showing up is half the battle."
The other veterans relaxed around me. I was becoming part of the furniture—a familiar face, a known quantity. Another broken soldier trying to piece himself back together.
Lewis Wilson sat in his usual corner, as far from the group as he could manage while still technically attending. His eyes were darker tonight, his energy more agitated. Something had changed since last week.
[SCAN UPDATE: LEWIS WILSON]
[PSYCHOLOGICAL STATE: DETERIORATING]
[RADICALIZATION RISK: HIGH]
[NOTE: SUBJECT EXPRESSING INCREASINGLY VIOLENT RHETORIC IN ONLINE FORUMS]
[RECOMMENDATION: AVOID ENGAGEMENT — MONITOR ONLY]
The System's warning was clearer this time. Lewis wasn't just unstable—he was actively sliding toward something dangerous. The kind of man who showed up on the news after doing something terrible, with neighbors saying they'd never expected it.
"Not my problem. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if I'm lucky."
But I filed the information away anyway. Intelligence was always valuable, even when you didn't know how you'd use it.
After the session ended, I lingered. Helped stack chairs. The rhythm was familiar—I'd done this a thousand times in my previous life, at church functions and military briefings and family gatherings that felt like a dream now.
Curtis noticed. "You've done this before."
"Habit." I folded a chair, slotted it onto the rack. "Army teaches you to clean up after yourself."
"Or your parents did." Curtis smiled. "I can always tell the ones who were raised right. They don't leave messes for other people."
We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes. The other veterans filtered out, leaving just the two of us in the basement.
"You seem like you're doing better," Curtis said eventually. "Steadier than last week."
"Found a place to stay. That helps."
"It does." He stacked the last chair, then turned to face me. "You know, Marcus, I've been doing this a long time. Running groups, talking to veterans. I've seen a lot of men come through those doors."
"Here it comes. The pitch."
"Most of them are looking for someone to listen. That's all they need—someone who understands what they've been through." He paused. "But some of them are looking for something else. Purpose. Direction. A reason to keep going that's bigger than just surviving another day."
I kept my expression neutral. "Which kind do you think I am?"
Curtis studied me with those calm, assessing eyes. "I think you're the second kind. I think you're looking for a mission."
"You have no idea how right you are."
"Maybe." I shrugged. "But missions are hard to find in civilian life."
"They are." Curtis pulled a card from his pocket—different from the one he'd given me before. This one had an address on it, somewhere in Brooklyn. "I run a different group, sometimes. Not a support group. More of a... network. Veterans who want to help other veterans. Mentorship, job placement, that kind of thing."
He handed me the card. "You seem like someone who'd be good at helping people. If you're interested."
I took the card. Turned it over in my hands. The address was for a community center in Bed-Stuy, about three miles from the warehouse.
"A network. Veterans who want to help other veterans. Curtis Hoyle knows every broken soldier in five boroughs, and he's inviting me into his circle."
"I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask."
We shook hands. His grip was firm but not aggressive—the handshake of a man who'd learned to project confidence without intimidation.
Walking back to Red Hook, I turned the card over in my pocket. Curtis Hoyle wasn't a warrior, but he was something potentially more valuable: a connector. A man who knew people, who understood their needs, who could point me toward exactly the kind of recruits I was looking for.
"He wants to help veterans find purpose. I can give them purpose. The question is whether he'll approve of the purpose I'm offering."
Probably not. Curtis was a healer, not a killer. He'd helped men rebuild their lives, not throw them away on vigilante crusades.
But I didn't need his approval. I just needed access to his network.
"Play the long game. Seem like a healer. Someone who wants to help veterans find meaning. Not entirely a lie."
I did want to help them. I just wanted to help them become soldiers again.
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