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With his blond-streaked hair, thick eyebrows, deep-set eyes, and long eyelashes, Gérard had a look that didn’t quite fit the Foreign Legion.
Despite Sharlan’s objections, Kang Chan had selected him. Though he hadn’t mentioned it, the soldier reminded him of Gillot. It was as if Gillot, who had always wanted to soar through the skies, was urging him to pick this recruit.
“Stop. Go get treated,” Kang Chan ordered.
The soldier’s cheeks twitched but soon turned away.
“Gérard.”
Swish.
Gérard turned his head back.
“If you want, I can send you somewhere else. But if you choose to stay, respond when I give an order.”
Gérard’s cheek twitched again.
“Oui,” he replied before turning away once more.
“What the hell is your problem?” Kang Chan muttered in Korean to Dayeru.
Dayeru, speaking in Arabic, pointed at the overturned table next to the field cot.
“Fucking crazy bastard! If he put the bags on the table because he didn’t know any better, you could have at least tried asking nicely first,” Kang Chan said.
Dayeru either didn’t understand or just pretended not to, but he wiped the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand and set the fallen table upright.
What a troublesome bastard.
Kang Chan shook his head as he headed back to the barracks. The commotion died down once Gérard was moved to the adjacent barracks.
That was about as much involvement as he’d normally allow. What was the point of...
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