I assemble and then disassemble the Barrett M82A1, laying all the parts out in front of me, precisely spaced.
The frantic call to Talon, no answer for ten minutes until he calls me.
“She’s gone. Mrs. MacTav- Afton’s gone. The back gate is open. I couldn’t hit the alarm; I think they had a signal blocker.”
“How long.” My voice is barely human, the crimson, bloody part of me comes roaring gleefully through the walls I thought contained it.
“Barely any time,” he says, “ten minutes at most. I called Georges and Xenia to see if they could track the traffic cameras. There’s fifteen men searching-”
“We’re less than thirty minutes, twenty, maybe from landing. I have a tracker in Afton. Pull as many men as you can together.”
“Mr. MacTavish I am so-”
I hand the phone to my father, and reassemble my rifle again.
“I spoke to the pilot,” Michael sits across from me. “There’s a helicopter waiting for us when the jet lands.”
“Thank you.”
Barrel. Muzzle. Flash suppressor. Handguard. Stock. Rear sight. I lay the pieces back out on the table.
***
Afton…
I was in a car accident when I was sixteen. The giant vehicle was armored, which is the only reason we survived, I was told. The car flipped four times before coming to rest on its side. When I regained consciousness, I could hear the beeping of some machine, smell that disinfectant smell all hospitals have, feel the tube in my arm, and my consciousness retreated. I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want to know if someone died.
This moment is the same. If I wake up and open my eyes, I have to accept that Wyatt, the man I thought of as family, not only betrayed me once, he’s likely also the one who’s going to kill me. I can’t look. I’m going to lie here for another minute, just for a minute.
“I know you’re awake.”
“Of course you do,” I say, forcing myself to open my eyes and look at him. Wyatt is sitting on a bench in front of me, hands resting on his knees, one loosely holding his gun. I’m in a ratty-looking office chair.
I’m not tied up.
That helps.
“You know the worst part?” I say, looking at Wyatt, who does not look well, either. “The worst part was not hearing that my Dad - excuse me, myspermdonor - wants me dead. It’s that you are willing to do it. I hope the checks he signs for you are big enough for how low you’ve had to sink.”
My arms and legs feel rubbery, half-asleep and I cautiously rotate my feet. I could disarm Wyatt. He wouldn’t be expecting it but until I can actually stand up, that plan isn’t going anywhere.
He passes a worn hand over his face. His eyes are bloodshot and he hasn’t shaved for a while. Oddly, it makes me sad. Wyatt was always so particular about his appearance.
“I don’t have a choice,” he finally says.
“There’s always a choice. You could work for the MacTavishes. This is a good family. A much stronger mafia than the Cavendish syndicate.”
I’ve never heard a chuckle so humorless. “Do you really think they would take in the bodyguard who betrayed you, and was sent to kill you? I know you’re smarter than that.”
“You haven’t killed me yet.”
We’re in a warehouse space, not a big one, maybe the second section of something larger, based on all the big, rolling doors. It’s mostly empty, a few pallets stacked in one corner and random boxes. The moonlight shines through the dirty windows, washing everything with a sickly glow.
There’s a pins and needles sensation in my feet and fingers. Good. The feeling is coming back. Rotating my feet again, I watch Wyatt. He still hasn’t moved from his position on the bench.
“I’m so angry at you,” I huff out a sharp little laugh. “I’m furious. But I refuse to believe our friendship was one-sided. You were there for me too many times to be false.”
“It was my job.” It comes out flat, uncompromising and I tighten my fists.
