“Brennan,” Skye ventured.
He marched to the front door, throwing it open, and scanning the street in both directions for any sign of them. There was nothing but the typical foot traffic and buzz of activity of the Quarter at this early evening hour. A cold sweat formed on his brow, and he slammed the door shut, locking it and throwing the bolt. He made a beeline for the back door, though it opened to the courtyard, which was reinforced by tall stone walls that still featured the ancient broken glass affixed to its top to keep out intruders hundreds of years ago. Even stone and broken glass didn’t seem like enough, and he locked the door anyway.
A lock honestly didn’t seem like enough either, and he marched straight to his bedroom, through the bathroom, and into the closet.
The skeletons in Brennan’s closet took the form of uniforms and equipment and a lockbox of medals, decorations, and insignia. Things intended to display honor, but things that merely caused him a peculiar shame.
Mostly because of Kandahar.
His sole purpose in his former life was to be a killer, and he was really good at it. He’d killed a lot of people. He’d killed them one by one with careful, thoughtful, calculated focus. He’d stared at each of them through his crosshairs for long stretches of time, just waiting for the right moment before he ended their existence in a singlepopthat threw a misty, red puff of blood and gore into the air. He didn’t know who any of them were; just that they were are a target. Most of the time it was all done with his rifle, but Kandahar was a little different. That place during that time had added extra darkness to the murder mission he’d unintentionally signed up for.
Brennan hadn’t ever wanted to be a killer.
“Don’t worry about it, Brennan,”GySgt. Boudreaux, the recruiter had told him, waving his weathered hand dismissively.“These scores plus your transcript mean you can choose a job that’ll keep you away from the frontlines. In fact, you could choose something that puts you in more of a PR role. You’re a good looking guy. The uniform’ll look good on you. Ladies love it, and young men envy being able to wear it.”
All that sounded great to Brennan, especially since he was just trying to placate his dad by enlisting in the first place. But that had been before boot camp when they discovered Brennan’s special talent.
He didn’t realize that the skill he’d learned as a boy hunting with his father and the men in their social circle was going to be so valuable to the Marine Corps. That wasn’t what he’d signed up for; it was just the job they realized he was best at, and by then, they owned him.
He’d always just wanted to be alover.
He’d wanted to love that pretty blonde girl, the first girl he’d ever loved, in a deep and meaningful and lasting way. But she hadn’t wanted to love him back, so he threw himself into the job he happened to have a real knack for—popping off scary-accurate headshots from absurd distances.
But a rifle wasn’t the only killing instrument he was proficient with. The Ka-Bar had its own fucked up, twisted stories. The knife with a large, sinister blade knew the real darkness that lived in Brennan. It was right there in that box, too.
He lifted the lid and ignored the medals as he went straight for the handle and the leather sheath. Holding it with somber reverence, Brennan closed his fist around the grip and slid out the blade.
What the fuck am I doing?
“Brennan.”
He turned to meet Skye’s fearful gaze.
“What are you doing?”
He turned back around and stared at the Ka-Bar in his hand. This wasn’t who he was anymore. He hadn’t been this man, the human killing machine, for a long time. It seemed that his own stupidity had ushered him to this point again, except this time without the excuse of being under orders.
This wasn’t the answer. Vito’s thugs were long gone, and it was only Brennan and a terrified woman who had her own threat looming in the darkness.
“Brennan, what in the hell is going on?” Her voice was tight and urgent with panic. “That box has teeth in it. What the fuck is going on?”
Brennan slid the blade back into its sheath and secured the knife back in the box. Turning around, he approached Skye with hands postured to instinctively pull her close to him, but he quickly remembered himself and shoved them into his pockets.
“I owe a guy money,” he said simply.
A deep V formed between her brows. “Your bookie is this kind of guy? Is it like…illegal gambling?”
“Basically.”
“And is this their way of telling you you’re out of time to pay up?”
He lifted his shoulders. “I would venture to guess.”
She stepped closer to him, her blue eyes wide as hell. “Are they going to kill you?”
“Well…” He offered a cavalier tilt of his head. “Probably not tonight.”
Her breathing picked up. “You need to go to the police.”
