“No one believed me. No one listened,” she sobs.
“It’s okay, darlin’," I murmur into her hair, which smells of cheap motel shampoo and hair dye, but is still somehow irresistible. "I've got you."
She turns her face into my shirt, her tears soaking throughto my skin. Her body trembles against mine, but she keeps her sobs quiet, conscious even now of the thin walls and the danger of drawing attention.
I hold her, my hand moving in slow circles on her back. The military trained me to always use the right tool for any task. And I can’t think of a worse tool to comfort her than myself. I’m designed to bring war, not peace.
But I do the best I can.
Gradually, her sobs subside. Her breathing slows, her body relaxing incrementally against mine.
"Mary," she whispers after a while, her voice rough from crying. "Is she real?"
It takes me a moment to understand what she's asking. Then I remember the story I told the fake marshals about having a girlfriend waiting for me in town.
"Yes," I say softly.
“Oh,” she says quietly. I must be imagining it, but it sounds like she’s disappointed.
"But I made up the part about her being my girlfriend. I don’t know her all that well.”
She doesn't respond. After a moment, I notice the change in her breathing. She's fallen asleep, exhaustion finally claiming her.
I should move back to the chair. Keep watch as I promised. But her weight against my chest feels right in a way I can't explain. The warmth of her body against mine, the trust implicit in her falling asleep in my arms—it makes it impossible for me to find the will to get up and leave her.
I don't know if it’s right or wrong to stay here in bed with her. Don't know if I'm the right or wrong man to help her. All I know is that I will. And that I'm not going anywhere.
Ten
Logan
Logan Black hates hospitals, but not for the same reasons most people do.
Logan hates them because they’re cathedrals that worship weakness. The unnatural antiseptic covers failure: sickness and death. The sterility is a lie. Humans are walking bags of filth and disease.
Drugs are a mask when pain is information. Suffering is a teacher.
And Logan Black is an excellent student.
"Excuse me. You can't go in there." Logan turns to find a young nurse, her hand out to stop him.
He looks down at her. At six foot five, he looks down on everyone. "Are you sure?" The question is like a deep lake. Cool on the surface, but a threat lurks in the darkness beneath. The nurse looks into his eyes, and her face melts from mild bureaucratic annoyance into fear. He knows what she sees. Deep within his black pupils, those depths will swallow and drown her. And he can see in her eyes that she isn't sure. Isn't sure at all.
"He's with me," a sharp voice calls from within the room.The nurse flees without another word as Logan steps into the room.
Logan Black stares at the man in the hospital bed. A mountain of a guy, with tubes running in and out of him, desperately trying to keep him alive. His face is so swollen and discolored that it barely looks human.
Then Logan’s eyes fall on the woman who dismissed the nurse: Isla Graves. She’s petite and in her early sixties, but her dress and features are as sharp as her voice. He has been working for her for the past few years. Often, there is friction between them, given Graves’s distaste for Logan’s methods despite her need for them. "What happened to him?" Logan asks.
"Gunshot to the chest, punctured lung, broken ribs, severe blood loss, and a throat laceration just shy of the carotid," Graves replies clinically. "He's lucky to be alive."
Lucky isn't the word Logan would use, looking at the bag of meat lying before him.
"Who is he?"
"This is Travis McCord. He and a small team were sent to clean up a little mess."
Logan scoffs. "Doesn't look little."
