And then, of course, there was the game itself.
Aberlour came there often to play. He’d realized one day, after a few too many shots of scotch, that it was because he kept waiting to fail.
Dart, after dart, after dart. He kept waiting for the moment when he aim would be off. All he needed was an inch to the side. Just one, and he’d be—well—maybe relieved.
His aim never failed. No matter how often he tried. No matter how much he drank.
It never failed.
Chapter 28
September 2014
It wasn’t that he didn’t remember the days between their deaths and their funerals, it was simply that they didn’t matter. They were nothing. Just a blip in time when Aberlour had answered questions with a yes or a no, then sent everyone else packing with a fuck you and a scowl. There was nothing left of Abe to give the world. The world had taken everything and left behind a haunted husk. That image—their heads, rolling on dirty ground, their smiles forever erased, their familiar eyes blank with fear and disbelief—it wouldn’t leave him. Aberlour didn’t try to banish it. He deserved this pain. This searing, never ending, overwhelming burn. It was his jailer, his jury, and he hoped—soon—his executioner.
Team Specter was disbanded, and while Oliver and Aberlour were still under the thumb of the US Marine Corps, it was only so they could be properly discharged, complete with psychological evaluations and NDAs longer than they were.
They’d both been shipped back on the same cargo plane as their brothers-in-arms’ coffins. Empty coffins, of course. Their bodies were lost to the US government, and no matter how often and how loudly Aberlour had bitched about it, there would be no retrieving them.
The flight home had nearly killed them both. It had been silent. Completely, utterly silent. And their arrival had been much the same. These were not heroes of war—not soldiers fallen in the line of duty. They were the tragic victims of an accidental explosion. They would get a military burial, but not the fanfare that fallen heroes received. There had been no one waiting for them at the airport. No processions to carry the caskets.
And there had been no one there for Abe or Oli either.
The funerals had been planned for the following day, but most of Oliver’s family was in Alabama. They wouldn’t be arriving until the next day. Which meant both Oliver and Abe took a taxi to their hotel in the dead of night. They were given separate rooms, and they said nothing to each other as they bid the other goodnight with a simple nod.
They both could have gone home. It was only a 30-minute drive from the base to the cemetery, but—no. A hotel was better. Neutral ground. There were no memories here. No ghosts haunting the corners, no memories to pull him under. Which is exactly why he’d spent the entire night awake, staring off into space, chain smoking, a part of him urging the gods to take him, too.
Time was fleeting and inconsequential. He felt no warmth as he watched the sunrise from his window. Just a profound ache at the approach of the three-volley salute he’d have to face at the funerals later that day.
“If you smoke any more of those damned things, they’ll have to bury you, too.”
Oli’s form of greeting was something Aberlour might have said, but coming from Oli, it sounded wrong. He’d heard the man come in—or had he? He couldn’t be sure. Odds were, he’d heard, but hadn’t cared.
With a sigh of exhaustion, he looked up at his oldest friend and saw there exactly what he knew he would. A broken man faking his way through being okay. He was doing a shit job at it, that was for sure. He supposed Oliver didn’t have much practice at this. Aberlour, on the other hand, had been faking for an entire year.
Abe didn’t comment on his friend’s fuckup. He offered up the cigarette instead.
Without a word, Oliver simply headed towards the small breakfast nook table where Abe had taken up residence. He sat down in the other chair and plucked the cigarette from Aberlour’s fingers. He took a long drag, his fingers twitching with nerves and emotion.
Aberlour took in the world around him, aware for the first time—in hours? days? months? how long had it been? —of his surroundings.
The ash tray was still smoldering, the window cracked open, a sliver of sunlight came through the partially drawn drapes, a thick cloud of smoke filled the room.
“I hate smoking.”
“Then don’t,” Aberlour responded as he reached for the cigarette, but Oliver shook his head and took another puff.
“It’ll kill you one day,” Oliver said, staring at the overflowing ashtray.
“Good,” Abe replied.
The sun was up, finally. Aberlour had been up all night with only his dark thoughts for company.
It seemed fitting.
“How are you so calm? I haven’t slept in four days. Just thinking about it makes me want to puke. Can’t keep anything down,” Oliver confessed, his voice cracking.
Abe didn’t need Oliver to tell him that. His friend looked like roadkill. He had duffle-sized bags under his eyes. Pale, and dull looking, like someone had sandpapered the polish right off him.
