There’s less than ten feet of space between us, but it might as well be ten million. The first week or so after Ry and his team got me out, I don’t remember much. Fear. Gratitude. Disbelief. Exhaustion. And after that…the gulf separating me from Dax and Ryker was so large, I didn’t know how to cross it. Or how to be…me again.
I’m only in Seattle because I didn’t know where else to go. I could have stayed in Boston, but when I met Josephine—Joey—for the first time as Ripper, the look in her eyes…I would have been a constant reminder of what she went through.
“Wish I’d been there,” I say quietly, “to watch that fucker die.”
Ry heads for the windows and stares out over the city and the wedge of Lake Washington. “You were, Rip. You never stopped being our brother.”
Ryker McCabe doesn’t talk about his feelings. At least he never used to. “You’ve changed.”
He turns back, a half-smile curving his lips. “Yeah?” At my nod, he chuckles. “Finding someone who loves you will do that. Before I met Wren, I hadn’t laughed in…well…since before Hell.”
The gaping maw Faruk carved out of my soul aches as I realize that’s one thing I haven’t done since I got out. I can’t muster the emotion.
Gesturing to the unopened computer box on the table, he arches a brow. “You ever going to crack the seal on that damn thing?”
“No.” The word escapes with more force than I expect or intend, and Ryker’s expression softens—as much as it can. I head off any attempts to convince me otherwise by holding up my hand. The scars around my wrists won’t ever fade, and I kick myself for picking a short-sleeved shirt. “I can’t, Ry. All those years…everything I did… Shit. I’ve…blocked it all out. If I pick up anything more complicated than a phone, I’ll disappear into that dark well that holds all my crimes, and I won’t ever come back.”
“You could do something good with that tech.”
“Like what? Find all the people killed by the weapons Faruk sold to the Taliban? Search for the graves of the women he had kidnapped and sent to the auctions? There’s so much of what he made me do I don’t remember. And…it’s better that way. I can barely live with the guilt over what I do remember.”
“Rip—”
“End of discussion. You want me to go to breakfast? You’ll shut the fuck up until we get there.” I grab my jacket, the air in the apartment suddenly too thick, too choking, too cold, and head for the door. “Lock up for me, will you?”
I don’t stop until I’m out on the street, and I brace my hands on the bed of Ryker’s truck, sucking in fresh air to remind me I’m free.
He doesn’t show for so long, I push off his truck three times with the intention of heading back inside. But each time, I stop. I don’t want to know if he’s going through my shit, looking for contraband. Drugs, weapons, signs I’m sinking into a deep depression…
Faruk never cared about that last one, but he rifled through my tiny room all the time. Or had Zaman do it.
By the time Ry shows up, five minutes later, I’m ready to take his head off. Except he’s got over a hundred pounds on me. Fucking giant. “Find what you were looking for?”
“Give me a little credit, Rip. If I wanted to go through your shit, I’d do it when you were sleeping at the church. And no. I haven’t. Not once. Get in the goddamn truck.”
I do as I’m told, hating how easily I give in. We don’t speak again until Ry pulls up to a small breakfast spot in Greenwood. I stalk in ahead of him, then stop. It’s not just Dax sitting at the table within ten feet of the exit. Ford’s there too.
“Ripper,” Ford says as he rises and holds out his hand. I stare at it for a full minute before I can force my arm to move.
“How’s Joey?”
He smiles through our brief handshake. “Good. She went back to work last week. It helped.”
I take the empty seat with the best view of the restaurant. There’s nothing between me and the door, and it doesn’t escape my attention that Dax and Ry purposely arranged things this way. Shit. As I scan the room, I understand exactly what they’ve done.
Around our table, there’s a buffer zone where every four-top has a Reserved sign on it. There aren’t any words to explain my gratitude and frustration. I don’t want to be this person. So damaged his friends have to protect him from himself—and the rest of the world.
“Ford,” I say, “you get a pass. But the other two of you… What the fuck is going on here? This wasn’t the plan.”
Dax flinches, but Ryker’s face is set in stone. Doesn’t much matter. The guy conveys more emotion by remaining perfectly still than he’d like to admit—to those who know how to read him.
“We have news,” Dax says as he slides his hands towards one another on the table until he finds his coffee mug. “And we wanted you to be the first to know.”
I clench my own mug hard enough it shakes a little, but manage to take a sip of coffee without spilling it. I don’t like surprises. Not after the past six years. Surprises are…bad.
Ryker clears his throat. “I moved to Seattle after my discharge because being in Boston…it was too hard. Dax and I…weren’t talking. My fault. Only reconnected three months ago.”
Coffee sloshes over the rim of my mug, burning my hand, and I hiss out a breath, swear, and grab for my napkin. “Shit, Ry. You wasted all that time?”
He bristles and shoves his chair back from the table, drawing up to his full height. “You’re my goddamned brother, Rip, but you’re also getting on my last fucking nerve.”
“Enough!” Dax says as he slams his coffee mug down on the polished wood. “We’re past it now. Got it? Everyone.” Despite being unable to see much more than hazy shadows, he looks right at each of us, and we all mutter our agreement.
“So what’s this news?” I shouldn’t be allowed to be around people at all. Not even those closest to me.
Ryker rubs a hand over his shaved head and then takes his seat again, meeting my gaze. “Hidden Agenda and Second Sight are partnering up. Offices and training facilities in both Seattle and Boston.”
I turn my attention to Dax. “So, you’ll be out here on the regular?”
“Yes. Evianna can work from anywhere, and Beacon Hill Technologies is growing too. She and Cam are talking about a merger.” His face softens whenever he mentions Evianna’s name. I’ve only met her a couple of times—wasn’t fit for human contact when we got back to Boston—but she’s obviously good for him.
“Rip?” Ryker leans forward, his elbows on the table. “I know what you said earlier. But we need you, man. Wren’s so busy with her work for Second Sight, and Hidden Agenda needs its own expert. Plus…I don’t want her to have to face that darkness every day. She gets enough of it living with me.”
“No.”
Dax takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose before setting them on the table and turning towards me. Up close, in the light, the scars around his eyes look so much worse. Shiny, burned skin, irises so pale, they’re almost gray. Yet, I swear he sees me. All of my shame, everything I did. He knows. Even though I refused to tell them much of anything. Couldn’t. It’s hard to confess what you don’t remember.
“I know it’s only been a couple of months, Rip. It’s not fair that we’re pushing you like this. We had years to get ourselves straight. And we did a shitty job of it.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, and if my crimes weren’t playing in a loop in my head, I might let myself smile.
As the server drops off our food, I stare at my short stack of pancakes. Ford, Dax, and Ry all have huge plates of food. Me? I barely eat. Most days, it’s all I can do to force down the bare minimum of calories to keep myself alive and give me enough energy to work out and spend the daylight hours walking. Reminding myself I can go anywhere I want.
I stab a small wedge of pancake and swirl it in the lake of syrup. “The last time I touched a computer, even though I wrote a whole program to obscure the kid’s GPS location, I ended up giving Faruk everything
he needed to find Lisette, Mateen, and…” I risk a glance at Ford, “Joey.”
The marine straightens and waves his fork at me. “If you think for one minute that Joey and I blame you for anything that happened, you’re wrong.”
“You should.” I push back from the table and stand up. “I’m the one who tracked her in Turkmenistan. I’m the one who researched Alpha Thalassemia and found out she was the only expert in the world who might be able to help Mateen. She was taken because of me.”
Ford rises and gets right in my face. I have to tip my head up to meet his gaze. My heart rate skyrockets, and I take a step back. “Don’t,” I whisper, and the look in Ford’s eyes…he realizes how close I am to losing my shit.
Ford rests a hand on my shoulder, and for once, I don’t pull away. “Ripper, I’d give anything…everything…to erase what happened to Joey. To make it so she never had to experience those horrors. But…” he shoves his hands into his pockets and smiles, “it brought her back to me. You brought her back to me. You got us all out when Faruk’s men were after us, and you bought Nomar enough time to get Lisette and Mateen to Kandahar.”
“But—”
Ford frowns. “But nothing. We’re square. More than square. I owe you…everything. But if you disagree, consider joining Hidden Agenda—or whatever off-the-wall name those two come up with—a way to pay me, Joey…anyone you think you wronged…back.”
“Rip?” Ryker stands next to Ford, and fuck. I didn’t realize how tall the older marine was. “You don’t have to decide now. But…think about it?”
I’m too tired to argue with him. Too ashamed to admit all my reasons for refusing. And for the first time in a while…hungry. So I nod and sink back into my chair. Maybe for an hour, I can pretend to be a normal guy, sharing a meal with his friends.
Chapter Fourteen
Cara
I’m on edge as the Saturday breakfast crowd thins out. Too many people, too little sleep, and one of the dishwashers reeks of cigarettes today. The constant cloud of nicotine surrounding him makes my stomach roil, especially when mixed with the scents of eggs, cheese, and toast.
I miss my routines. The relative silence of the JSOC kitchen when I’d arrive at 5:00 a.m., my staff filing in one by one, each one of them able to adapt to my…unique challenges.
How I can’t concentrate with music playing. How I depend on lists. How interrupting me while I’m speaking is like sending a horde of shiny squirrels to distract me, each of them playing a different musical instrument.
Even with all that, though, I was the best. And they all knew it.
“Cara, get a move on!” My boss slaps the metal counter three times and makes me jump.
“Dammit, Barry. Don’t do that. If I’d had a plate in my hand…” He might be my supervisor, but I can give as good as I get—most days. “And how the hell do you think I’m going to deliver the Benedicts when Louie hasn’t finished them yet? The hollandaise needs another thirty seconds.”
Louie tips his head. “Nice catch, Cara. You should be behind the stove.”
If only…
I wave him off. “This is enough for me, Chef. I get to watch you work your magic every day.” It’s not, but I can’t risk anything else. I only let myself cook at the food truck because they pay me under the table.
“Well, I am pretty damn talented,” he says with a smile as he finishes the hollandaise sauce and pours it over two dishes containing poached eggs on English muffins, then wipes off the splatter before handing me the plates.
In ten minutes, I can take a break. Hide out in the employee locker room and put on my headphones, launch my meditation app, and for a few minutes, pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Except, after I drop off the Eggs Benedict, I notice the customer sitting alone at the end of the counter. Crap. He wasn’t supposed to be here until closer to noon. Taking a deep breath and throwing my shoulders back, I march over to him.
“Hi! I’m Cara and I’ll be your server. What can I get you?” I ask brightly.
“Just coffee,” he replies. His fingers tap rhythmically against the Formica counter, and as I set a cup, saucer, and napkin down in front of him, he meets my gaze. “Price went up. It’s two-eighty.”
My hand jerks, and the coffee splatters over the counter and soaks the napkin. I glance around, making sure Barry’s still back in the kitchen trying to micro-manage Louie. “But…I only have two-hundred.”
“Then you’re only getting ten days’ worth.”
“Please.” My voice cracks as I wipe up the spill, then use both hands to hold the coffee pot steady enough to pour. “I can barely afford them as it is.”
“I’ll give you the full order today, but you’ll owe me the extra eighty. And if you don’t pay up in two weeks, it’s fifty percent interest. That’s the best deal I can offer. Take it or leave it.” He starts to slide off the swivel-mounted chair, and I rush to pull out my order pad.
“I’ll…take it.” Scribbling his coffee order on the top sheet, I tuck it into one of the leather envelopes we use to deliver the bills, then drop my hands to keep my next moves hidden behind the counter. The two hundred-dollar bills in the pocket of my apron slide into the side pocket of the bill sleeve before I pass it over to him.
Once he pulls the folder into his lap, he offers me a self-satisfied smile. “I knew we’d see eye-to-eye. See you in two weeks, sweets.”
I can’t grab the leather folio fast enough when he sets it back down, and the small plastic bags with my daily meds—all the pills that make it possible for me to function like a normal human being—fall into my palm.
Clutching them tightly as my dealer—I don’t even know the asshole’s name, just his email address—saunters out of the diner, I rush into the break room and open my locker. A small, hidden compartment in the bottom of my small messenger bag hides the pills from anyone not specifically looking for them, and I sink down onto the bench.
When I left Fort Bragg, Leland helped me convert fifty thousand dollars of the inheritance from my grandmother into cash. But when I had to leave Tulsa with a broken arm and a gunshot wound to my thigh, I blew through three grand. After I got to Seattle, another two thousand covered the deposit on my crappy apartment.
And now…I’ll have to dig into my stash every time I need meds. Before long, I won’t be able to keep up. I have to find a better job—but every time I give someone my stolen social security number could be my last.
If I didn’t depend on such highly regulated drugs to survive, I could find a health clinic, get myself a legitimate prescription. But my very unique needs—Adderall, a beta blocker to keep my heart rate under control, Zoloft, and clonazepam—are what led Jessup to me in Tulsa. Pharmacies computerize records, and Jessup and Parr run searches for anyone filling all these prescriptions at once. Even going to Mr. Pills-On-Demand is risky, but I’ve been using him for over a year now and so far…I’ve been safe.
Mentally calculating how long I can go without something going my way, I play with the lapis pendant hanging just below the hollow of my throat. It spins within a silvery cage, calming the racing thoughts telling me I’m screwed, that I’m useless. That I might as well give up.
I’ll find a way. I have to.
Ripper
The sign over Safe Haven Animal Shelter proclaims, “Every Animal Deserves a Home.” Set on almost half an acre of land in Woodinville—about an hour from Seattle—it offers sanctuary for dogs, cats, horses, birds, and more. My shrink put his foot down after six weeks and told me I had to find something to do with my time besides walking and sitting by the lake staring out over the water, replaying the few crimes I could remember over and over again.
“Hey, Rick. Good to see you.” The shelter’s owner, an older woman named Melissa, greets me with a smile. “Come with me, and I’ll show you around.”
My shoulders tighten at her use of my fake name, but it’s not her fault. It’s the only one I can give her, so I blow out a breath and follow.
She leads me through the main building, showing me the volunteer break room, the intake and adoption forms, the filing system, and finally takes me out the back door where two other buildings bookend a large, fenced patch of grass maybe a hundred feet across. “On the left we have our cat condos. At any one time, we shelter fifty to a hundred cats from six weeks to twenty years old. You’ll find detailed notes on each individual condo that list which cats can be out in the main play area together, which are in quarantine until their medical tests come back, and which are best when they’re the only cat in the room. You’ll primarily be working with the dogs, but feel free to visit the kitties at any time and give them some love.”
Melissa turns right and opens the door to the kennels. The loud yips, barks, and whines, along with the sight of the metal cages, hit me like a punch to the solar plexus, and I stagger back.
“Rick? You okay?” Melissa asks.
I force myself to lock eyes with the closest dog, a big German Shepherd with only one good ear standing at his kennel door, not making a sound. “Yeah. Sorry.” I can’t move, and I think the dog is the only thing keeping me sane.
Melissa’s gaze softens, and she takes a step closer. “I’ve seen a fair number of veterans come through here, you know. Volunteering or just looking for some non-judgmental companionship. Charlie there…he’s a peach. He’d probably like to meet you.”
“What…uh…happened to him?” I drop to one knee, and Charlie lowers his head and sniffs when I bring my hand closer to the door.
“We don’t know. He came to us like that. He’s about the nicest, sweetest dog in this entire place, but no one wants him because he looks…a little different.” Sadness laces Melissa’s tone, and she sighs as she checks her watch. “I have to run back up front cover for Sandra while she’s on lunch. Why don’t you spend some time getting to know the dogs. Leashes are hanging on the wall. Feel free to take one or two of them out into the exercise pen. When I’m done up front, I’ll show you what we do to clean out the kennels.”
Fighting For Valor Page 10