“Major Nathaniel Rourke,” Maddox deadpans. “Foster wants him pardoned for the war crimes he committed last year. He’s already expressed that plenty of times.”
I shake my head, turning to look at nothing in particular. “If you do that, you won’t get re-elected for a second term. Nate was found doing illegal arms deals with factions of the CCSI.”
“I know what he did.”
“Then you know I can’t ask you to do that. Give him my job, and that’s that. He’ll take it.”
A pause settles between us. My mind goes back to Dove, and it hurts. It fucking hurts to know I failed to protect her. Just like I failed to protect Cole. Just like I failed to protect my motherwhen my father used to beat her. Everyone I love ends up either broken… or dead.
I’m in our cramped living room, holding my breath as my father looks over my report card. Straight A’s, just like he wanted, but the look on his face makes my heart beat fast.
“I bet you think you’re the shit right now.” He scoffs. “But a piece of paper doesn’t make you a man. You’re still weak, Rowan. Everyone can see.”
Weak, he says. But I know I’m not weak. I’m fourteen and training harder than kids twice my age. I’m on track to be valedictorian. I run faster, hit harder, study longer—but it’s never enough.
The memory shifts.
I’m nineteen, bruised and aching everywhere, standing at attention in my army uniform. I’ve just been named the youngest squad leader in my unit. Everyone sees me for who I am, except him.
“Still a kid playing soldier,” he muttered when I told him. “You won’t know true power until you push yourself to the limit, then jump the fucking line.”
Maddox’s voice breaks through the haze of my memories, pulling me back to the present.
“Tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen.”
“Get Secretary Foster to arrange a meeting between me and Mason Fletcher. That’s the name I got, and I know they know each other well enough. Tell Foster I want to strike some sort of deal. I was told Salister wants to work with me, so maybe I can bait him with something like that.”
“You think Fletcher would go for it?”
“He would at least meet with me to find out what I can offer them. That’s all I need, really. Just ten minutes in the same room with him.”
“Consider it done. And Rowan, anything else you need—”
I nod, even if he can’t see me. “I know. I’ll text back later.”
I pocket my phone and rush to find Hawke in the garage. If Foster agrees to arrange the meeting, we need to move fast. But first I need to get to the White House for one last stop.
The next day, I’m standing in front of an old liquor bar in the suburbs of Washington. I don’t know what deal Maddox and Secretary Foster landed on, but none of that matters right now. My fingertips flinch with all the rage flowing through me. I’m about to meet the man who did all of this for the first time.
Mason picked the hour, the exact booth where he wants to sit, and hand-selected his best men to come with him. Me, however? I’m only here with Hawke for now. Not because we’re cocky, but because our plan is much more intricate than simply drawing our guns.
Hawke and I scan the perimeter, then make our way inside. My eyes go around the almost empty room, locking with some tattooed guy in the back. Compared to the old, lonely men drinking at the bar, he stands out like a bull in a china shop. The frail twenty-something server wipes beer off the counter with quick, nervous motions. He knows some shit is about to go down.
Approaching the back of the worn-out room, the guy with the tattoo jerks his head as if to summon me to follow him into a private booth separated by a door. There are three men inside, all marked with the same EFW symbols I’ve come to know like the back of my hand. And there in the middle, at the crooked table, sits Mason Fletcher with a toothpick in his mouth.
Only one chair sits across from him, and I know it’s for me. Not wasting any time, I drag it with a loud screech and plopdown, placing both arms on the table in front of him, my fingers interlaced.
Easy. Easy,I command my mind.
I want to rip his throat with my bare teeth. I want to break the fucking hands that touched Dove, and make him scream until his vocal cords snap. I want him down on his knees, begging for his life.
But first, we talk.
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to remain calm.
“You want something from me. What is it?” I ask, my voice a thunderous break in the silence.
He chews on his toothpick, taking his sweet fucking time.
