“Whatever happens at the inquest, Than,” Fly said after a moment, his voice rougher now, stripped bare. “It’s been unbelievable. This journey with you.”
Than’s throat tightened. He nodded once.
Fly got back into bed, reached over and turned off the light. The room went dark, familiar shapes dissolving into shadow. Both of them lay still, breathing in the quiet.
Than was pretty sure Fly wasn’t sleeping either.
Relief came hard and fast, almost dizzying. Fly was still Fly. That mattered more than truth, more than absolution. Whatever Than carried in his darker moments, whatever thoughts he didn’t recognize in himself anymore, he would bury them first. This bond would not be the thing that broke.
19
RCMP WILD Headquarters, TOC, Gear Room, Outskirts of Kamloops, British Columbia
The gear room was quiet, the kind of quiet that seeped into a man’s bones after too many hours of adrenaline and not enough water. The others had stowed their gear and peeled off toward the barracks, voices low and fading down the hall. Breakneck heard Boomer mutter something about showers, heard Skull dragging Bones away from a half-empty box of rations, heard Kodiak’s tired laugh. Then even that died out.
He sat alone at the table, rifle laid out before him, the metal cold under the fluorescent lights. Fatigue pulled at him like a goddamn black hole. His torso ached like a son of a bitch, every breath stretching bruised muscle. He was dehydrated, stung with dust, sore in places he didn’t want to examine, and he needed about ten hours of sleep and two gallons of water.
But none of that was what had him rattled.
It was the thoughts from the SUV. The sound of her voice in his ear. The weight of her praise. The feel of her body under his hands when he’d shoved her out of the RPG’s blast path. The way she’d looked at him afterward, eyes sharp and searching, as if she saw something inside him, he never meant for anyone to see.
He heard a scuffle outside the armory door.
“I’m not soft. I just don’t like the way you talk to the kid, Carver. You see the way he handled that RPG? Saved all of them. He’d do the same for us. Show some respect.”
The door opened.
Jones stepped in, stopped short when he saw Break at the bench. He glanced back into the hall, then cleared his throat like nothing had happened.
“You got a Tier 1 crush, Jones?” Breakneck asked without looking up.
Jones snorted. “Slow your roll, junior. I’ll get your autograph later.” He started stowing his weapon. “I see what’s in front of me. Carver can be a dick. That’s all.”
“Okay,” Break said evenly. “But Carver is a dick.”
Jones huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah.” He shut his locker. “Good night.”
The door closed. Break went back to cleaning.
It opened again.
He didn’t have to look to know it was her.
Blair stepped inside, carrying a jar of something in one hand and a packet of painkillers in the other. Her hair was damp from a quick wash, cheeks still faintly streaked with soot, eyes leveled on him with an intensity that went straight through him.
He tried to push down this inconvenient attraction, tried to break down his rifle as he had a hundred times after missions, but his hands…betrayed him. The pieces felt wrong in his grip. His fingers hesitated, misaligned a pin that should have been second nature, fumbled a spring he could normally handle blind.
For one horrifying moment, it felt like he had never cleaned a rifle in his life.
“You’re done,” she said simply. “We’re going to get you slathered in Voltaren.”
“What?” Breakneck asked, genuinely thrown.
“It’s an anti-inflammatory. It reduces pain.”
“You can leave it,” he said, straightening. “I’ll take care?—”
The jar hit the table with a sharp crack of ceramic against metal.
