“Life is full of disappointment. Get used to it.”
I wait for one of the guards to kick Dax’s leg or punch him in the gut or something. Instead, Kahlid jerks his head in my direction. The closest asshole pulls a leather strap out of his pocket as the two goons holding me tighten their grip.
After a quick jab to my jaw, the leather is pulled between my teeth and the strap bound tightly around my head. Fuck. One of Kahlid’s favorite games. Torture one of us to make the other talk.
We’re the only two left. Hab only lasted a week here. Ripper…he vanished three months ago. And Gose…Kahlid gutted him right in front of me.
But me and Dax…we always were the strongest. The meanest. The closest. Came up together. Trained together. Had our first kills within days of one another. There’s a bond you can’t break after seven years serving side-by-side in some of the worst conditions on this earth.
The look that passes between us speaks whole paragraphs. And at the same time nothing at all. A mutual understanding. No one talks. No one breaks. No matter what.
We signed up for this. Knew the risks. Left our goodbye notes in our footlockers back at Bagram. The final farewells to our families.
A guard rips open my shirt. Damn thing tears like tissue paper. I don’t look down. The entire right side of my body resembles a map drawn by a second grader. Scars on top of scars on top of scars. These pathetic excuses for men have carved me up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
“Tell us why you and your team were in the mountains. What were you looking for, Dash? That is all we want to know. Help me to help you.”
“Fuck off.”
The hiss of a blowtorch makes us both flinch. As the flames lick across my chest, I bite down—hard—on the leather and try to hold Dax’s gaze.
“Don’t,” I try to say, but I can only manage a guttural moan as the edges of my vision darken. I shake my head, and the agony of burning flesh becomes my entire existence. With my next breath, I let the blackness claim me.
I come to with a jerk and a shout—back in my bed in Seattle, the caves buried under several tons of rocks and six years. My captors are dead. The familiar scent of my apartment surrounds me, and my legs are tangled in the thin sheet.
Sweat chills on my skin as I fumble for my water bottle next to my bed. The damn thing bounces to the floor with a clang, and water dribbles over the cement.
“Fuck.”
The bullet wound in my side throbs. Two weeks after the disaster that almost killed my whole team, I still can’t move like I want to. This forced inactivity is…taking me places I can’t go. Hab’s broken body. Naz begging me to kill him. One of my guards pleading for his life, then shooting me in the back five seconds later.
The hell with Doc Reynolds’ advice. I need to hit something. Do something. Anything but stay here another fucking minute.
I throw open the blackout drapes to reveal the Seattle skyline. When I bought this place, I gutted it down to the studs. It’s a fucking Faraday Cage in here. No electronic signals in or out—except the hardline and the cell repeater. No Wi-Fi. The windows aren’t bulletproof—I couldn’t afford that shit. But the special glazing ensures no one can see in. Not even when it’s pitch dark outside and I have all the lights on.
Refilling the water bottle, I try to soothe my raw throat. Doesn’t matter that the stitches came out four days ago. I can still feel the blood soaking into my shirt. The white-hot pain as Doc fished a bullet fragment out of the wound, the iodine he poured over my skin.
No hospital.
No anesthetic.
No trace.
I’ve suffered through worse. In my line of work, injuries aren’t an “if,” they’re a “when.”
Five times, I’ve been shot. Leg, back, shoulder, side, and arm. You never get used to the sensation. The pop as the bullet enters the body. The distinct lack of pain at first. After a few seconds, you feel like someone just lit a match inside you.
Leaning against the counter, I close my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths. Images of West bleeding out in a veterinarian’s office in Colombia flicker until I shove them away.
Too much blood in my life.
On my hands.
How could I choose this?Twice?I should have gone into private security with a cushy office like Dax, but no. I had to pick K&R. My hands curl into fists when I think about others rotting in the same type of hell I escaped from.
Forcing my fingers to relax, I examine the scars and know, deep in my gut, this was my only option. Doesn’t matter how risky. If there’s a chance—and there’s always a chance—I consider the case.
“Fuck.” I cradle my head in my hands, trying to ease the pressure building behind my eyes. “Since when did I become a liability?”
