"Yeah…" As an adult, I can see how things were that way, but as a kid I hated not having family around. "Mom always tried to create traditions even when we were living out of boxes. Dad would take leave when he could and we'd do the whole turkey dinner thing, even if we didn't get to see our grandparents or cousins."
Jace is quiet for a second. I look over at him and see his face drawn up into thoughtfulness, maybe a little sadness too. "Growing up in the gangs on the West Side, holidays were just another day. Maybe less violence because people were distracted with their own families, but nothing special. We didn’t have dinners or family to celebrate with. And the Mob doesn't exactly have holiday parties or exchange gifts."
It makes me feel sad for him that his life was so different from what the normal American experiences. A lot of us have differing experiences, but most of us have a family. It sounds like Jace lost his family young, but I don’t want to pry and make him emotional or defensive so I let his words rest for a while and the cab of his truck goes silent.
"Well, we can have turkey and stuffing somewhere. I'm sure there's a truck stop diner or something…" I'm speaking wistfully now, wishing somehow that I could make this Thanksgiving with Jace feel different from every one before it, and I'm thinking this way because that's what a good person would do.
But under all of that care and compassion shit that humanity is prone to do for each other, there's an undercurrent of affection. Jace is misunderstood, not bad. If I were dragged from my family who died tragically and then forced to be raised by criminals and murderers, I think I'd end up being just as cold and dangerous. The fact that he hasn't finished his mission by killing me and hiding my body shows that he's not just a robot following orders.
Jace could have at any time pulled the trigger, and he hasn't. Yes, he was waiting for information, but even still, we've been together for almost twenty-four hours since I gave him the information on where to find the next people on his list. And instead of offing me and running with the intel, he slept with me, drank coffee with me, and now he's here talking about having Thanksgiving with me.
"I need to pee," he says, breaking my concentration.
I turn and smile at him because I realize that Jace likes me. Whether he will admit it to himself or me, he's here with me doing this thing because he's found companionship. It stirs a warmth in my chest too because I feel the same way.
"What?" he says, narrowing his eyebrows. "Why are you staring at me with a dumb grin? Are you a serial killer?"
"It would be a coincidence if there were two of us in the same car randomly, huh?" I say playfully, and he laughs.
"Hart, you're something else…"
I know it. Jace Morelli is falling for me, and I don't think I mind. But we still have to tackle several major hurdles before we can even think about what might happen between us after this. And I can't let myself get ahead of things. We have to convince one or more of the people on that list to help me, and then we have to take the captain down.
I'll think about what happens after that when we've finished our objectives.
15
JACE
The truck stop parking lot holds maybe a dozen vehicles scattered across the asphalt when I open my eyes to the gray predawn sky I see through the lace of frost on the inside of my windshield. Sabine sleeps curled against the passenger door with her jacket pulled up around her shoulders, and I can see the slow rise and fall of her breathing. The truck's cab grew cold hours ago when I killed the engine to conserve gas, and now my breath fogs in the air while I shift in the driver's seat and work the stiffness from my neck.
We made it through Indiana and most of Ohio before exhaustion forced us to pull over, and now we're positioned about four and a half hours from Kingwood, West Virginia. Close enough to reach Camp Dawson by lunch time but far enough away that nobody will connect two people sleeping in a truck to the military intelligence officer who went rogue in Chicago.
I grab my phone from the cupholder and check the time. Six forty-three on Thanksgiving morning and my stomach growls with hunger, reminding me that we ate gas station sandwiches for dinner last night and nothing since.
Sabine mentioned her childhood yesterday during the drive, the way she grew up bouncing between military bases with parents who tried to create a normal routine in a life defined by constant relocation. Her words stuck with me long after she finished talking because I recognized something familiar in the story she told. We both grew up without roots, learning to adapt to circumstances beyond our control, and we both ended up in professions where violence became a tool for survival.
The difference is that she had people who loved her and tried to give her stability. I had Vittorio Barone and his enforcers teaching me that loyalty meant obedience and hesitation meant death. We're not the same at all, but I so desperately want to be what she needs and wants. I just don't know how to move forward yet.
The contract I accepted from Barone was clear about the objective—eliminate the targets and return with proof that the job was complete. Nowhere in those instructions did it say to get emotionally involved with a target or to start imagining a future for the two of us. My brain must've gotten its wires crossed because here I am, watching her sleep in the passenger seat and feeling something dangerous take root in my chest.
The feeling whispers that maybe I could help her get the justice she deserves so we could find a way to satisfy Barone while keeping Sabine breathing. I've toyed with that thought enough to get bold enough to be stupid. If I tie Barone to the broker and the broker to that shit captain of hers, Barone may be inclined to keep me alive. Especially if I use my knowledge of his organization as leverage. But that would require some sort of major planning, a means to have evidence released should my untimely death happen.
Stupid—that's what this feeling is.
Stupid and reckless and guaranteed to get us both killed.
I push the door open as quietly as possible and step out into the cold morning air. My breath creates clouds that dissipate quickly, and I close the door quietly so it won't wake her. The building sits about fifty yards away with its fluorescent lights glowing through the windows, and I make my way across the parking lot while my boots crunch on gravel and scattered road salt.
Inside the building, a vending machine sits in the corner near the restrooms, and I feed it a handful of bills in exchange for two bottles of water and a package of powdered donuts that'll have to serve as breakfast. When I return to the truck, Sabine hasn't moved from her position against the door. She looks so peaceful when she's resting, like none of the shit she worries about in her waking hours can touch her.
I wish I could make that a reality for her, which is why I press on with this hare-brained scheme of hers.
Climbing back into the driver's seat, I start the engine, letting it idle while the heater works to chase away the worst of the cold. The noise and the sudden warmth do what my exit failed to accomplish, and Sabine stirs with a small sound of protest before her eyes open and focus on me.
"Morning," I say quietly so as not to be rude this early and right as she's waking. "Just got some shut-eye. I'm ready to get back on the road."
She sits up slowly and winces at the stiffness in her neck from sleeping against the door. Her hair has come loose from the ponytail she wore yesterday, and she runs her fingers through it while blinking away the remnants of sleep. "What time is it?"
