Noise pulses in my head.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The scent of wet earth fills my nose, then the rancid smell of death stained with the metallic stench of blood. Then it’s gone.
“Fuck, fuck,fuck.”
At first I think it’s me, cursing over and over, but I realize it’s Reaper.
The cover of the tray drops to the carpet with a heavy thud. Reaper’s fingers flex, all ten stretching outward, then curling into a fist.
Noise, like rumbling voices, cut through the thumping in my head, and I see Breaker pacing, talking on the phone, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s all garbled, and the only word I can hear is Hunter.
I rip my eyes from the platter and look down at the card in my hand. My hand trembles, making it hard to read, but the words burn through the haze and embed themselves into my brain.
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Reaper says. His hands hover above the cart, shaking as he reaches to grab the pieces on the tray, but stops, turning as rigid as ice. The shaking in his hands ceases; his shoulders square. His features seem to harden, and he looks at me.
“I’m going to kill him,” he says, deadly calm. “Rune will fucking pay for this.”
I dare a look down at the tray. My stomach roils.
Fingers, ten of them, line the tray, all bearing the same tattoos as Reaper.
Hunter’s fingers.
My vision blurs as I read the card again.
“An eye for an eye. Blood for blood.”
Rune wants blood, and nothing but destruction will appease a man obsessed with vengeance.
But he doesn’t know he now has to contend with Reaper.
Chapter 22
Delilah
Theseconddayoftraining, I’m exhausted as I make the trek to the range. I spent the entire night flickering in and out of sleep, thoughts of Reaper, his touch, his words, leaving me feverish with want.
By the end of practice, it’s obvious I’m shit with the small .22 rifle, absolute garbage with the larger semiautomatics, but my little Sig fits perfectly in my palm and I can hit near the center of the target every time.
Fallon says that will do. After all, I’ll be in close contact. And if I catch him by surprise, I can end him quickly.
A snap of fingers brings me out of my thoughts, and Reaper catches my eye.
“Focus,” he says. “I need you to focus. Keep your eyes on me.”
Of course, my face flushes and I swear he smirks.
Reaper motions for me to continue, and we practice in slow motion the many moves Viper taught me last week.
I miss Viper. He’s better at instructing than Reaper, and more patient. I also just miss his big hands on me, but then I remember how Fallon watches our every move, and I’m glad I just have these two men to contend with instead of all four. When Reaper actually allows me close enough to stab him, just the brush of his hands sends heat to my cheeks, and I find myself checking to see if Fallon notices.
He does.
Like Reaper, the man misses nothing.
Day three, Striker and I resume our morning run, 57 and 55 following behind. These soldiers don’t have names, just the numbers that are on their uniforms, and every time Fallon calls one by their number, my skin crawls at the lack of humanity.
