“I’m fine.”Always am.“Just need a few days away. I’m going to catch up with a buddy from my army days. Blow off some steam in Boston.”
“Blow off steam? You?” Her fingers tighten around my wrist. “Talk to me,” she whispers. “Please.”
I want to. For a few seconds, the urge to confess everything wells up, almost choking me. But I can’t. She’d never trust me again. “Nothing to talk about. I fucked up with Coop, and I need to get my head on straight before we go out on another mission.”
Pulling away, I snag one of the many ID packets from my go bag and shove it into my backpack. “I’ve got some shit to take care of before I head to the airport.”
“Fine.” Her tone says she’s anything but fine. “Have a safe trip.”
Her eyes glisten, but she turns away to punch in her locker code. Unable to stand the awkward silence any longer, I throw the backpack over my shoulder and head for the kitchen.
Royce holds out his hand as I approach, and I force myself to shake. “You solid?” I ask.
“Good as broken.” He offers me a lopsided smile, the left side of his mouth a little lower than the right. “Sorry. Stroke humor. D-didn’t sleep well last night. And…seeing you draw down on Inara—”
“I’m sorry.” Shoving my hands into my pockets, I force myself to hold his gaze. “For everything.”
“You didn’t put the gun in Coop’s hand. Or knock the screw out of his head. The People’s Army did that.” Royce stares at the lockers, and I can almostfeelhis need to go check on Inara. But he shakes his head and focuses on me again. “You don’t need to apologize to me. She’s the one you’re hurting now.”
Regrets crawl up my spine, and I turn, watching one of my only friends fumble through securing her guns, pausing every few seconds to run a hand over her cheeks.
Give me a compound full of armed hostiles and I know exactly what to do. This… My fingers curl around the key to my bike, and I turn on my heel and stride towards the door.
“Ryker,” Royce calls, and I slow for a beat until my demons grab hold and I burst into the cool, dark morning. “Don’t—”
As the door slams behind me, I wonder if I’ll ever feel at home here again.
* * *
Logan Airport never changes.The white walls of baggage claim are scuffed and dirty, devoid of all decoration beyond the rental car posters and the occasional pay phone.
Striding past the throngs of grumpy passengers—an hour delay outbound, turbulence over the Rockies, and a busted toilet don’t make for a happy flight—I sling my backpack over my shoulder and stride towards the T-station. I want a beer and some privacy.
An hour later, the room at the Fairmont has every luxury I could ever want, but I chose this hotel because the insulation is the best in the city, and from my corner room, I won’t hear another soul the whole time I’m here. Cracking open the mini-bar, I pull out a Sam Adams. When in Rome…or Back Bay, I guess.
Before my deployment, I lived five miles from this spot. I grew up in San Diego but did four years at Boston College and a year in the Boston Public School System before 9/11. Now, memories of my former life haunt me in the dark corners of the room.
The kids playing at recess. The smell of pencil lead. Finger paints. The heat of a June afternoon as the last bell rings, signifying freedom…
The beer goes down too easy and doesn’t do a damn thing to silence the voices in my head. So I switch to vodka. When that’s gone too, I strip down to my briefs, set the desk chair against the door, wrap a length of wire around the window crank, close the blackout shades, unplug the clock, and fall face down on top of the sheets, wondering why the fuck I came back here.
* * *
Wren
Trudging into the office a little after ten—this is becoming a habit—I drop my messenger bag at my desk and head directly for Dax’s office. After my customary two raps, he motions me in.
“You shouldn’t be here, Wren.” His gentle tone threatens to send me over the edge. I don’t know if I want to cry, curl up in a ball in the corner, or hit something. Though, with my luck, I’d break my fingers and still wouldn’t feel any better.
Shutting the door behind me, I rest my back against the smooth wood. “Zion didn’t OD.”
“Not this again,” he says under his breath. “Wren—”
“No. This is the part where I talk, and you listen.” I slap my hand over my mouth before I add insult to injury by calling him a self-righteous jerk. Blowing out a breath, I pull the USB thumb drive from my pocket, stumble forward a few steps, and press the small piece of metal and circuitry into Dax’s hand.
“What’s this?” His brows knit together as he turns the drive over in his palm.
“Evidence. Can I…?”
