“Go!” I scream, every ounce of air ripped from my lungs as I launch myself into the passenger seat. Gunshots echo around us as the kid floors it. The rear window cracks when a round pierces it, and the sound that follows is wet and horrible. Jerking beside me, the kid chokes as blood shoots from his throat, spraying in a crimson arc against the windshield. His hands spasm around the wheel and fall slack.
“No! No, no, no!” I lunge toward him, catching the steering wheel and righting the SUV before we flip. The kid’s body falls forward, heavy and twitching, his blood hot as it coats my bare arms. Reaching over him, I pull at his door handle and mutter apologies under my breath. I shove him, desperately, heaving as I push him through the open door. He tumbles out, lifeless, before his body hits the dirt.
I climb into his blood-soaked seat and tug the door shut. The SUV roars when I stomp on the accelerator, fishtailing as I try to see through the red glaze coating the windshield. I wipe frantically with my hand—smearing more than clearing—until I can see just enough to not hit anything in front of me.
My hands lock around the steering wheel so tightly that my white knuckles glow under the illumination of the dashboard as the sun fully sets. Even with the gunfire in the distance, and several kilometers between me and the village, my pulseis still pounding in my ears. I don’t know where I’m going, only that I can’t stop. Not yet.
After driving through a small village near the base, I pull off the main road and park the SUV in the shadows of an alleyway, partially obscured by a crumbling wall. My breath is ragged, and my eyes burn from crying. Blood covers me, the seat, and the car interior. Everything is smeared with sticky crimson remnants of Private Jacobson. Unwrapping my fingers from the vise-like grip around the steering wheel is painful. I stare at my shaking, claret-stained hands for a moment before digging in my bag for my satellite phone.
The call fails on my first two tries. On the third, it finally connects—the signal crackling—as it rings. “Pick up, Carl,” I mumble my plea just as he finally answers the phone.
“Reese?” My boss’s groggy voice sharpens fast. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I don’t care,” I rasp, my throat raw. “I was in the village—” My voice breaks when the images of the woman’s lifeless, bloody body and the kid’s throat bursting open flash vividly in my mind. I gulp hard. “The military… they killed him. My detail… he’s dead. They’re carrying bodies. Women. Fuck… They’re… God, Carl… I got photos.”
The phone falls so silent that I pull it from my ear to ensure the call didn’t drop. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Carl is wide awake now. “You need to get the hell out of there. Where are you? I’ll get a plane ready. Right now.”
“I’m not leaving,” I snap, the words surprising even me. My voice shakes, but my resolve doesn’t. “This story is everything. Whatever’s happening here… They’re hiding it. I can’t walk away from whateverthisis.”
“You almost got killed.” His voice rises, which is rare for him, and he sounds almost paternal. “Reese, listen to me. You’re done. You’re coming home.”
“No.” I wipe my bloodied, free hand futilely across the leg of my soiled pants. “If I go home, the story dies. And she—” The woman’s lifeless body, dragged through the dirt, flashes behind my eyes. “She died for nothing.”
He breathes hard, pacing on the other end. I can picture him with his bedhead hair and the skyline of New York dark behind him. Finally, he exhales. “You’re insane. Fine. You stay. But I’m not letting you run around alone anymore. I’m sending a protection detail. A real one. They’ll find you, and they won’t be kids or men from the base. Give me twelve hours, then head to the press room.”
Relief mixes with guilt in my chest, but I swallow it down. “Okay.”
“Reese—” His voice softens. “Don’t make me bury you for a story.” There’s genuine worry in his tone. He has been my boss for nearly a decade, but he’s so much more than that. Carl is the closest thing in my life to a father figure. He has watched over me, anxiously most of the time, since he offered me a job when I graduated from college.
“Thank you…”
The line clicks dead, and I’m left in silence with the phone clinging to my bloodied, tacky hand.
The shrill buzz of my phone against the nightstand rips me out of my slumber so suddenly, it might as well be an air-raid siren. Now sitting upright, I throw back the covers, and my feet hit the cold wood floor as I reach for the vibrating slab of glass.
“Yeah?” My voice is gravelly and hoarse. “What is it, Abbs?” She is one of five people who can ring when my phone is set to do not disturb, and none of the guys are on missions to be calling while it’s this dark.
“Hawk?” Abby’s voice is brisk, but still tired, threaded with the kind of urgency that has me pushing from the mattress and rising to my feet.
“What is so important”—I pull the phone from my ear and squint at the blinding screen—“at four in the damn morning?”
“Sorry.”She doesn’t sound sorry.“Urgent job. Wheels up in ninety minutes.”
I rub a hand over my face, scrubbing the grit from my eyes. “Abbs, ninety minutes?” I grumble. “That doesn’t even give me time to?—”
“They demanded the best.”
Damn it.“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“I know,” she chirps victoriously. “Now, get moving. I gotta call the others.” The line clicks dead before I can ask her any questions about the job.
With my phone still in my hand, I stand at the window for a moment, staring out at the skyline in the distance. My apartment is as quiet as the sleepy suburbs around me, the only sound coming from the faint tick of the heirloom grandfather clock in the living room. This is my life: a clash of quiet and chaos. Pick up and go. No matter the hour. No matter the cost.
In the walk-in closet, I dress quickly in a pair of black tactical pants and a matching fitted T-shirt. I pull on and lace my combat boots before yanking a black hoodie with the Aegis logo emblazoned on the chest over my head. Since I am being forced to forgo a shower, I add a quick spritz of cologne to tide me through what could be a twenty-hour flight.
The thud of my boots against the hardwood echoes through the silence of my apartment as I make my way toward the front hallway. I grab my go-bag—weapons, clothes, passport, and cash—from the spot I placed it in the closet. I emptied it last night and repacked it before bed.Just in case.It never stays unpacked. Never has time to.
I sling it over my shoulder and grab my keys from the hook by the door. Cold night air greets me as I step out the back. My ’68 Ford Bronco is parked in the driveway, mud still splattered up the sides from a job two weeks ago. She’s old, loud, and dependable.Just like me.The engine growls to life, and the headlights cut through the darkness. As I drive down the empty road, I roll down the window to let the morning air slap me awake.
