I don’t have to see him; I know he is pausing, waiting for me. Focusing my attention on the door I drop one hand and squeeze the top of the back of Stone’s thigh, signaling I’m ready, I’m here, and it’s time to kick some fucking ass. We back up a few paces before the charge blasts and black dust blows in all directions. We ignore it completely and enter the building over the debris. It’s quiet inside. Too quiet. It means the fuckers are going to hide. Luckily hide and seek is one of our favorite games. There’s no question now, even if they were hard sleepers, they know we have arrived.
We enter a small room to the left. Stone slips in as I clear my corners, knowing precisely which areas he’s responsible for and which I am. I know the exact speed at which my gun needs to travel, the way my feet need to be placed. A thousand specific details that were a bitch to learn are now coming together to form a perfect, stealthy killer. More than that, a protector for my point man. The room doesn’t have very many places for people to hide and we soon discover no one is hiding in this room.Count to ten, mother fuckers.
Stone and I make our way upstairs and clear another bedroom without pausing. There’s only one more room left. It’s at the end of a long corridor. It’s still pitch black—no light coming from the door. Creaky floorboards twinge under our heavy weight, but at this point it’s no matter. We know the people we’ve come for are behind the door in front of us. We approach cautiously, ready for the gunfire that will surely blast through the door any second. Keeping to the wall, we stack up a few feet from the door, me behind Stone. I hear his breathing pace pick up as adrenaline spikes. For most people this would be a detriment. We require it. A small flash of light lands on Stone’s boots, the light coming from the bottom crack of the door. Just as quickly, it’s gone.Ready or not, here we come.
The door isn’t locked. I squeeze the back of Stone’s thigh. He turns his head, which breaks protocol. “Tighten your fuckin’ towel, T.H.,” he breathes, a goofy smile crossing his face. He calls me T.H. And that’s all it takes to trigger it.Windsor. Windsor. Windsor whispering T.H. into my ear. Kissing Windsor. Windsor and Nash.Stone opens the door and gunfire litters the air like the Boston Symphony.Windsor.
I see Stone in front of me, in slow motion, firing his rifle into the room. I hesitate not even a half second, maybe not even a Nano second.Windsor.I pull the trigger and begin firing in succession at the bad guy who has a shitty table on its side as cover. I forget to the clear the corner, my corner. I turn to glance at Stone and I see it written in his tense body language. I fucked up. His eyes grow large, round in surprise. Because I don’t fuck up. I don’t fuck up because this is the only thing I’ve ever been good at. Another half second passes.
The bad guy, the one in my corner, shoots and I hear the familiartink, tink, tinkof a grenade, but I don’t know where it’s at because I can’t take my eyes off of Stone who is on his knees, clutching his bleeding side with both hands, his face a mask of disbelief. Another second ticks by. Then another. I send a kill shot to the corner and watch the bad guy slump down the wall, staining it as he slides to his final resting place. I stoop next to Stone, my whole body trembling. He looks at me, briefly, and nods. In another slow-mo moment, I watch as Stone throws his arms out and falls forward over the explosive green oval, covering it with his own body.
And the grenade detonates.
You know that feeling I was trying to explain? About how death changes the air. I feel it now. It soaks into my awareness and wraps around me like dark clouds. It’s different this time. No elation or adrenaline buzz. And I know this death, the one I sense right now, isn’t like the others. I’m the one dying. Or my brother is. Maybe we both are. One fate is more preferable than the others.
I feel nothing. I know nothing. I deny everything. Darkness, the most helpless feeling, takes over. I want to feel Stone—to be close to him. Because I’m scared he’s right.
My newest attachment not only made me crazy, she just pulled the fucking pin from thousands of miles away.
Chapter Twenty-four
Maverick
Present Day
I hold the letter in my hands like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. I’ve memorized the size, shape, and weight of the envelope. I promised Morganna we’d open the letter together and it’s the least I can do. It was like a never-ending nightmare when I woke up in the hospital.
First, I see Monica’s face. And if that wasn’t enough to throw me into an absolute fucking fit of rage, they told me Stone died. My brother—the only person who was there for me for as long as I can remember is gone forever. Denial would be the easiest way to cope, but even that doesn’t fill the jagged hole in my heart.
Tiny pieces of the mission float back to me as the days pass and I’m finally at the point when anytime I close my eyes, I see my best friend sacrificing himself for me, bits of his body coating me as I lie on a dirty floor wishing I’d made the move first. It would have been easier to wallow in my pretend denial had mydarlingwife been absent.
After I threatened Monica, she left the hospital and promised to finally sign the divorce papers. Morganna gave them to her at least seventeen times in the past five years. It took seeing me shot up, in a hospital bed, looking her in the eye and telling her that I never loved her—that I will never love her, for her to see the light.
Monica never truly wanted me, she wanted my career…my community. I married her at a courthouse when she got pregnant five years ago on a trip back to my hometown with Stone. It was my pathetic attempt to win my family over by doing the right, moral thing. Of course her convenient miscarriage came two weeks after the wedding. She’d manipulated me into giving her exactly what she wanted.
When I found out she lied about being pregnant, I left her. It was also the very last time I did anything because society deemed it “right” or “moral”. She’s refused to divorce me ever since.
I pay her monthly. Partly to keep her mouth shut, and also because somewhere inside me I’m a good person. I loved the idea of having a baby. I wasn’t fond of Monica, but the idea of a baby is one I eventually liked. The day I walked away from Monica, I distanced myself that much further from my parents. To them, my loser status reached new, unfathomable depths. Little did they know…little did they know.
Morganna blasts into my bedroom, wearing huge sunglasses and sweatpants that hang off her body. She’s unrecognizable. She hasn’t answered a phone call from anyone except the guys or me sinceithappened. I can’t even think the words without feeling ill. Morg looking like hell is a reminder I don’t want. I pick a spot on the wall and focus on it.
Taking a deep breath I say, “You look like shit. He’d hate it. You know he’d hate it.” My voice is hoarse from rarely using it…and because emotion clogs everything.
She kicks off her shoes, pulls the covers back on the other side of my bed, and gets in, sunglasses on.
I roll to my side and truly look at her. “Hey,” I say, clearing my voice. I lift her glasses to rest on the top of her head. “You actually have to go in public tomorrow, Morg.”
The funeral. I shiver. Her sad eyes, rimmed with permanently wet, black lashes meet mine. What I find there crushes me. Dealing with my grief is one thing—I can internalize it—but Morganna’s is quite another. It takes me a full three seconds to swallow.
“I can’t do it. I really can’t,” she sobs. “It’s not real, Mav. It’s not real. I woke up this morning and I forgot for one tiny second. And then it hit me all at once. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe without him…my heart,” she whispers bringing both hands up to her chest.
I know exactly what she’s feeling. It’s a full-blown panic attack; except the misery is so overwhelming that it takes my breath away. I hug her close to my body and listen to her sobs, feeling her cry against my chest. I try to find the spot on the wall again, but I’m not quick enough. A solitary tear slips out and runs down my face.
“Have you talked to her?” she asks, looking up to my face. I shake my head.Windsor.The thought of her pains me. The thought of kissing her reminds me of death. Monica told me she was at the hospital. Driving away Windsor by letting her assume I’m married is the only good thing Monica has ever done. Because I don’t think I can look at her without facing harsh reality. How much heartache can one person deal with before it drives them mad?
I’ll soon find out. Morganna’s assistant fields both of our phone calls. I haven’t even asked him if Windsor’s called or texted. Attachments kill people. I’m living, breathing proof. I may take breaths and my heart may beat, but I’m not alive anymore. The good part of me died in a dusty room far from home.
“He’d want you to,” Morg whispers, trying to ply me with my own words. “You can’t blame yourself.”
