"Well, we know she disappeared around the same time as the boys, but whoever it was that took them covered their tracks well. Assuming the boys were taken, that is. If someone went after them, it wouldn't shock me if they went off-grid. I don't know. I just think that there's direct evidence that Killy is alive."
"And Cal?" Bryn asks.
She shakes her head. "Nothing yet. Nothing new, at least. We know he was still in Zermatt with Killy two and a half weeks ago. Which about when Story vanished."
"How are Anselm and Selah?" Bryn asks.
Layla shrugs. "Selah is out of her mind with worry. But Anselm is out there looking. Everyone is. And you have to remember, Story was raised by Anselm. She's no helpless little lamb."
This gets a laugh out of me. "No one in this great big group of nutters is a helpless little lamb," I say. "You'd think those assholes would learn."
Layla shrugs. “You'd think. But I have a feeling this is almost over. With our guys and those Broken Arrows involved, it's only a matter of time before both Pugli and Mercado are found and killed."
Bryn huffs. "Can't be soon enough." She glances at her mother. "Do you think Killy and Story are…?"
Layla snickers. "I mean, if you look at our track record, it'd be weird if they weren't."
"I guess you're right," Bryn says. "I just worry about Killian."
Layla sighs. "I do too, sweetie. But your brother has steel in him. More than I think you give him credit for. And if there's a beautiful girl to protect?"
Bryn chuckles. "Well, Story is certainly beautiful, that's for sure. She's just so damned…regal. I feel like a putzy commoner in the presence of a queen whenever we hang out."
Layla sighs again. "I know Killy can take care of himself. So can Cal. So can Story, for that matter. But he's my son. I can't help worrying."
"If he's anything like you, Bryn, or Harris, he'll be just fine," I say. "He'll come out on top."
EPILOGUE PART 1: I’M GLAD IT’S YOU
My coffee has long since gone cold. That's not new, though—when I'm working, I often misplace my coffee, find it, and drink it lukewarm or cold. This coffee, however, is too cold even for me to drink. I push it away out of reach so I don't keep grabbing it as I finish paperwork.
The office is dead silent, except for the soft hiss of the A/C from the vents overhead; office is a bit of a misnomer, really; it's more of a broom closet with a desk and chair, but it's an oasis of calm and quiet, a place to get away from the bustle and noise and chaos of the ER.
I hate paperwork. I hate charting. I hate bullshit admin work. What I love is the medicine. The chaos. The rush. The challenge of injury or illness. Yes, the patients are people—I have an impeccable bedside manner, thank you very much. But really, deep down, it's the rush and the challenge that drive me.
I became an ER nurse because of Mom. She'd come home after a long shift and even though I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, she'd spend time with me. Talk to me. Watch my favorite movies with me. Make me food. Sometimes even before changing out of her scrubs.
And then along came Anselm—Papa. I was seven when I met him, that awful, terrifying night when the bad guys took Mom. But yet despite all that happened, Anselm kept me safe. I'm sure you've heard the stories by now, or read about them, or seen the various made-for-streaming film versions that crop up every now and then, some more accurate than others, so I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, Mom, Anselm, and I became a family. Anselm came to live with us in Minneapolis. They never legally married, so my last name is still Binyamin, like Mom's. Not that I would've minded taking Selm’s last name, See. Story See would have been a pretty damn cool name, honestly. Although, it's pronounced "Zay" instead of the American English "see".
As a father, Anselm was…is…loving, supportive, compassionate, firm, quiet. He never once raised his voice to me, not even when I, in a fit of irrational, teenage angst, stole Mom's car, went on a 100-mile joyride, ran out of gas on a deserted two-lane highway in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and had to be rescued. At three in the morning. When he'd just returned, quite literally mere hours before, from a three-day op with A1S during which he'd managed to sleep a grand total of forty-five minutes. He'd arrived at the car, filled it with fuel from a dented, rusty, ancient old red jerry can that probably saw action in WW2, wrapped me in a long, comforting hug, kissed my forehead, and said in a very quiet, incredibly soft, and gut-wrenchingly disappointed voice, "Do not do this again, please, liebchen."
And then he left. My punishment, the only consequence delivered for my reckless behavior by him or Mom, was that statement, those seven words. And the long, agonizing drive home alone in which to think about what I'd done, and the crushing disappointment in his voice.
That was my one act of teenage rebellion. I couldn't stomach the thought of disappointing my beloved Selm that way ever again.
He loves Mom fiercely but quietly, as is his way. I saw it day in and day out. The flipside was how Mom loved him—she defended his freedom to be himself with the same ferocity as he protected her and took care of her. He's a wild thing, my Selm, my father. A creature of shadows and darkness and the hunt. Houses, buildings, cities, streets, these things confine him, make him restless. He can only stomach civilization for a few weeks before he needs time in the wilderness to recharge. And Mom never, ever begrudged him that, even though I knew she missed him deeply when he was gone. His work, too, was dangerous. It kept him away for days at a time, during which we wouldn't hear from him at all. Unlike most children of men who do dangerous jobs, I was always intensely aware of the danger he was in every time he went on an op. How could I not be? I'd been through hell with him. I watched him end a man's life with a knife at seven years old, but of course, that was far less traumatizing than watching my biological parents get gunned down by a shooter in a mall at five years old.
My favorite memories of Anselm are of the times I got to go into the wilderness with him. He began taking me with him on his days-long treks when I was ten. I remember the first one with vivid clarity. It was April. There was still snow in places, but during the day, it still got warm enough to not need a jacket. He woke me up at five in the morning, made me pancakes, and let me drink a cup of coffee with him—heavily cut with chocolate milk, of course. He gave me a special backpack—a weathered, battered leather rucksack, well-oiled, older than my imagination could fathom. Only later would he tell me it was the same backpack his own father had given him as a boy. He showed me how to roll my clothes up into neat, tight packages. He gave me a brand new canteen, a six-inch fixed blade survival knife, a compass, and a Zippo lighter.
We got into his car and drove away in the lightening gray of dawn. He'd already discussed this with Mom, of course, not that that ever crossed my mind. If Anselm said let’s go, I went, no questions asked. We drove and drove—north into Canada, west toward British Columbia. We parked at the end of a barely visible two-track path in the foothills, shouldered our packs, and walked into the mountains. We spent two weeks out there, just the two of us, with nothing more than our bags, knives, and canteens. He brought no food of any kind. In fact, the only concession he did allow was water purification tablets. He taught me how to survive with nothing but my wits, courage, and determination. He taught me orienteering, how to read a topographical map, how to make a fire, how to create shelter, how to find water and purify it, which plants I could eat and which would kill me, which would help with various ailments, which would soak up blood if I was to get cut, or since I'm a woman, deal with my periods when out in the wilderness. He taught me to stalk-hunt with a bow—and how to make one from nothing with only my knife. How to skin a carcass. How to defend myself if I'm attacked or threatened by a bear, wolf, coyote, mountain lion…or that most dangerous of predators, man. Yes, he taught me to fight with my bare hands and feet, with a knife, with a rifle, with a handgun. With a bow. With a spear.
By the time I was sixteen, I was a thoroughly competent outdoorswoman, capable of being left absolutely anywhere on the planet with nothing more than basic survival gear, and I could make it home. He also taught me how to survive if I'm left out there with nothing. And I have. He drove me out into the wilderness of Michigan's Upper Peninsula and left me hundreds of miles from anything with nothing more than the clothes on my back.
I loved every second of it.
To this day, I keep up those skills. Every couple months, I pack that leather bag and go exploring the way Anselm taught me. Just go. No destination, no purpose, just go and just be.
I'm finishing up the last bit of paperwork when my pager goes off—there was an MVC on the 35, multiple casualties inbound.
