I remember lying awake and realizing that the only solid thing I’d held on to for years, my hope of one day taking revenge on her, even though I knew I was too chickenshit to ever do it personally, was now…gone.
It’s like something snapped inside me when that finally sank in and I processed it.
“I’m an idiot, I guess.”
He punches me in the side of the head, nearly knocking me over, but I somehow remain upright. The sound of footsteps walking away, toward what I guess is a doorway, and the way they echo reinforces my idea that this space is much larger than the previous one.
I wonder how much time I have left. The only true regret I’ll carry with me is that I can’t tell Carter one more time how much I still love him. That I can’t apologize for not being able to break through my own stupid walls back then and love him back the way he deserved.
That I realize now I wasted our chance to be together, and it’s the biggest regret of my life.
That I frequently goaded the meanness out of him in the desert because it was the only thing my soul could accept from him, at the time.
The only thing I felt I deserved.
And back then, I believed he deserved a partner far better than someone irretrievably fucked up like me.
Through no fault of Carter’s, I let my fear control me and rule my actions instead of fully trusting him to take care of me the way he promised he would and could.
The man literally laid down his body and risked his life to protect me, and the thanks I gave him was to let him go and not follow him the moment I was released from the hospital. Instead of letting the doctors give me a medical discharge, like they wanted, I begged and pleaded and even lied more than a little about my condition and pain levels to stay in.
Which is how I ended up transferring into intelligence work, first with the Army MIC, then, once they realized I had certain skills and personality traits they could exploit—and a lack of familial ties to worry about—I was recruited into the NSA and, later, the CIA. From there I was laterally transferred to a “civilian contractor,” which is a polite way of saying black ops, and so the rest of my career progressed until I officially left their employ when I hit thirty-nine and realized I could be self-employed and doing the exact same thing I was doing without giving up a share of the profits to someone else.
The dollar signs danced in my head, I’ll admit it. I self-medicated with work and find myself regretting those decisions now.
I could be over thirty years into a damned good relationship with a man I knew would always have my six, and instead I’m about to die wherever the fuck I am right now.
With my hands manacled behind me and my shoulder all jacked up, I can’t try to work the hood off, or resist in some way.
This isnotthe kind of helpless I enjoy.
Dirt rasps under my raw and likely bleeding knees where I’m kneeling on the hard concrete floor. I can’t tell what time of day it is, or how long it’s been since I was taken, except I’m thirsty as fucking hell now, and my empty stomach’s taken a back seat to my dehydration and the frigid temps out here. With the hood muffling my hearing, I can’t tell what’s going on outside the building, or if I’m in a rural or urban location. Wherever it is, it’s likely isolated in some way. Protected, at the very least.
Safe enough for an execution.
Footsteps approach, more than one man. At least three.
Then a booted foot painfully connects with my right hip bone, hard, and I go down face-first. Unable to put out my hands and catch myself, my forehead bounces against the floor, making stars erupt behind my eyelids.
I am going to die here, like this, in my underwear.
Not even my good briefs, either. These are plain ole tighty-whities.
More blows rain down on me and I realize it’s only a matter of minutes, if not seconds, before they kill me.
Hewill never know what happened to me.
Will He ever try to contact me? Find me?
I suspected that hug from Him outside the hotel would be the last time I ever saw Him in my life. And when the blows stop and I hear the unmistakable sound of a slide being pulled back, the last of my courage dissolves as the hard metal of a handgun muzzle presses against the back of my head.
“Last chance, Eddie.Talk.” Fuck me, I’d swear it was him, which is why I can’t control what I say next.
“I’m sorry, Carter,” I sob. “I’m so sorry.”
But the expected shot doesn’t come.
The man I’ve been dealing with suddenly leans in close in front of me. He must not be the one holding the gun. “What did you say?”
