27 Lies

by Mj Fields

  He will feel my wrath.

  I roll to my back and sigh.

  I hope she’s happy. I truly do.

  Apparently, my dreams don’t get the message because, when I am shaken awake in the abandoned warehouse the three of us have been living in for the past three weeks, I know my sleeping mouth was running, saying shit it shouldn’t.

  “Birdman, wake up,” I hear and know it’s Trigger or Killshot.

  When I open my eyes, both are looking at me, their eyes showing concern.

  “Who’s Piper?” Trigger asks.

  I jolt upright. “What?”

  “Well, we know who Ava is, but who is Piper?” Trigger asks.

  “Why?” Why did I mention Harper’s daughter?

  “You were talking about them both in your sleep,” Kill says, patting my shoulder. “You good?”

  “I’m fine,” I grumble. “I’ll take watch.”

  “I got it,” Kill says.

  “No, I’ll take it.”

  “Head in the game? This could be our lucky night, Birdman. Get him, get out, get home.”

  “Will do,” I say as I walk across the dark room toward the window.

  “If you need a few days, we can call someone else in,” Kill offers.

  “No, this motherfucker is mine. All fucking mine.”

  I look at the small hand-held receiver for the CCTV camera I installed in the building next to Sandman’s hideout. We have been looking for him for four years, and finally, we got him.

  Two hours pass and dawn is about to break when I see the vehicle we have been waiting for.

  “Time to roll, ladies,” I tell my brothers, ducking out of sight.

  Trigger and Kill are up immediately, checking their weapons, and I do the same. Then I send an encrypted message, telling the guys in the sky to prepare.

  We head down the stairs and out through the back. I’m in front, where I like to be, when Kill grabs my shoulder.

  “I’m number one today.”

  I know damn well why he is saying that.

  “I’m one hundred and ten percent.”

  “I’m one hundred and eleven,” he retorts.

  Not wanting to argue, I fall back and let him lead.

  We round the building and see four guards, same amount as every other night we waited, until the one we pinned as the leader of the guards walks inside. We have thirty seconds before the gate closes and locks behind him.

  We are quick, we are effective, and we are lethal. Three guards down, and we are inside the gates of the Sandman.

  We have done our homework, so we know there are ten men inside the house at all times, add Sandman and his personal bodyguard, and there are twelve. No women. No children.

  We use the back staircase, knowing it leads to where the meeting will take place. We are quiet, more so than the mice running around the fucking warehouse that we will be leaving as soon as this assignment is complete.

  When Kill stops and holds up his hand, signaling five, and then two more fingers, we know seven are already in the room. That means five more are coming.

  He then motions forward, and I am pissed. My style is storm when his is sneak. I fucking hate it. We need to wait until the entire crew of fucks are in the room. The others could easily be alerted, and then all is for naught.

  He goes in, and we follow. Within seconds, they are eliminated.

  “You’re one lucky son-of-a-bitch,” I tell him in a low tone.

  He winks. “Skill.”

  I shake my head as I scan the room and see two laptops. I grab the SD card out of my pack and go to work.

  “We’ll grab the computers later,” Kill snarls.

  I don’t listen. Instead, I hold up two fingers, telling him to give me two minutes. The damn thing is right here, so I’m going to get what I can. You never know if you will get a chance like this a minute from now, and the information on these computers could save lives.

  I toss Trigger another SD card, and he plugs it into the laptop next to him.

  My heart bangs against my chest as I wait for the information to download. That’s when I hear a click and two shots.

  I quickly turn to see two more bodies, men we didn’t know about, lying dead in the doorway.

  “Time to move,” Kill says and starts without us.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” I hiss then nod to Trigger to go.

  Ten seconds later, I pull the SD card out and quickly walk over to the other laptop. It’s done, too, so I pull it out then jet out the door.

  I hear them downstairs. Shots are fired. I lean over the railing to see a man with a gun. Trigger and Killshot have no fucking clue he’s behind them, honing in on them.

  When I get a better look, I know who the fuck is, and I only have a split second to either overtake him or shoot him when I know the directive is to bring him in alive.

  Sandman.

  I jump down the flight of stairs separating us and onto his back. We crash to the ground, and he fights as I easily strip him of his gun. Then he reaches under his robe.

  “You move, motherfucker, you die,” I warn as I restrain his arms and yank him up. “One word, and I will blow your brains all over these fucking walls.”

  I walk through the room quietly, and he starts fucking chanting. More gunshots, and I push him in front of me as I round the corner, using him as a human shield.

  Killshot and Trigger nod to the side door, and I follow them with Sandman.

  Outside, Sandman screams and chants as we hurry him down the pre-planned route. Trigger is on the phone, giving coordinates to the guys in the sky for evacuation, as he and Killshot go back inside the building we were occupying to grab our equipment.

  Again, Sandman puts up a fight, and I am forced to the ground with him. That’s when a whistling buzz pierces my ears, followed by an earth shaking explosion.

  The building has been hit!

  The ringing in my ears is horrific. The pain I feel as brick and metal hit me is allowed for...five, four, three, two, one, and now I dismiss it.

  Sandman easily pushes away from the grip I have on him because, lucky for him, he was covered by my body. When I grab him, I quickly realize my shoulder is dislocated, but fuck if I let him go, not after we spent years looking for him.

  I hear Trigger yelling, but I have no idea what the hell he’s saying with the ringing in my ears.

  I look back at Sandman, who has a sick smile on his face, and push him to the ground before looking back for my team. Trigger is a mess. Blood is everywhere as he pushes parts of the building off of him. I don’t see Killshot.

  I am caught in a moment of needing to help my men, yet not wanting to release my captive.

  I look back at Sandman who knows the conundrum I am faced: his live capture or helping my men. What he doesn’t know is who I am.

  Another whistle and another explosion rocks us.

  I pull out my piece and look at the sick fuck before pulling the trigger, shooting him point blank in the head. Blood and brain matter fly out of him, spattering everywhere.

  I turn to help my team, pulling Trigger to safety then handing him his weapon to defend himself. Then I push myself to get back in that fucking crumbling building while being attacked by cowards as gunfire surrounds me. I don’t know if it’s them or us. All I know is that I need to get Killshot the fuck out of here.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I can handle it. - C. Bohannan

  AVA

  I watch as Dad and Tessa pull away from the curb, the place where Thomas Hardy, the love of my life, smiled at me before he took his last breath. I was so sure it wasn’t his last, and I was as sure that him being on life support would eventually mean he would wake up and tell me he loved me again.

  Standing erect atop the gray sidewalk is the light pole that he was crushed against, pinned between it and a car, while on his way to get me a Snickers bar that I didn’t need.

  No, I need him.

  I stand on the balcony and take in a calming breath. The babi
es are sleeping inside, freshly bathed, adorned in the cutest clothes money can buy, swaddled in their very own Bingos that I have in triplicate because my father insists I need them that way. Their bellies are full, and they have been rocked asleep in my arms.

  There is no way they can actually be affected by my pain, my anger, my sadness. I never want them to. Therefore, if I keep my grief to their sleeping hours, I know they will be okay. I close my eyes tight and pray they will be okay.

  Praying. Why do I still bother?

  I place my elbows on the brick overhang, peering down at that spot where black meets gray, where the love of a man and a woman got taken away in the blink of an eye.

  But it’s not gone. My love. T and my love will never go away. We have a forever love.

  I stand back and wrap my arms tight around myself, letting out a low groan and releasing the pain, the anger, the hate, and all the ugliness in a place I know I can, where it will not affect a soul.

  Emotions come to a roiling boil as the clouds use this time to part, the sun peering through and shining down on me. I shut my eyes, seeing Thomas smiling back at me.

  The sun...The sun is T, my T, my love and my pain.

  Really, there isn’t anything I look at that doesn’t remind me of him and the insurmountable love I have for the man who loved me so much. He lied about the pregnancy so my pain wasn’t as severe, making me believe he was the father of both our children.

  There are lies in love, just as much as there are truths.

  A man will tell the woman he loves that she doesn’t look fat in that dress, or that she is the best he has ever had, or that she is the most beautiful women on the planet. It may not be true, but he believes it enough to tell her those things, to make her happy and feel beautiful, and not fat, and not the best he has ever had.

  A man like Thomas Hardy would do that for a girl like me.

  The pain of his absence is so copious it makes me sick. Sick to my stomach to the point I do throw up. My body can’t take the sickness it feels while it breathes in the air that surrounds me, in a world without T.

  I slowly lower myself to my knees and cover my face as the tears spill out, the way they do when I am on this balcony that should have a rooftop garden that we grew together. A garden that grows and blooms, and comes to life, surrounded by our love.

  I sit back against the brick wall as I take in the comfort of the pain’s release. I cry until I can’t anymore, and then I take a deep breath and stand up. I close my eyes once again, one last time for now, and picture him and all the beauty that is him.

  Inside, I walk into the kitchen where I have moved everything back to where T had it before I moved in. I stand there and try to make sense of the way he had things put away. It’s stupid. I know it is. Somewhere deep down, though, I keep hoping he will come back, and I will want to fix it up for him.

  However, he’s not coming back.

  Not ever.

  I take my multivitamins then force down the damn shake that Dr. Kennedy brought here after passing her in the hospital when Chance and Hope had their four-month checkup. She came to the apartment and told me I better take care of myself so I can take care of my children.

  She oversteps in ways that are infuriating, and I get angry every time I see her, though I know I shouldn’t. I know I am directing my anger at her, but she asks for it, and it’s certainly easier than being angry at T for leaving me.

  That’s another lie that happens when you love someone. Somehow, during the grieving process, you get to a point when you feel betrayed by the one who left you. Like it was a choice they made. No one wants to die and leave behind a mess.

  During one bout of anger, I opened his closet and tore his clothes from the hangers, throwing them all over the floor. Then I turned to walk out and get a garbage bag to shove them in, but when I returned, I saw the mess I made, and I crumbled into a pile of his things. I sobbed into his shirts that still smelled like him, like home and happiness and love.

  I could never be mad at him for leaving me when it wasn’t his choice. He was taken away by some fucking drunk who stole a car and will never be punished for his crime.

  Thomas Hardy loved me until his dying breath, just like he said he would, and I will love him until mine.

  That day, in the closet, I cleaned everything up, put it all back where he had put it—or, at least I let myself believe I did—and I continued to cry.

  Now I walk toward the laundry room, intent on doing something that involves taking care of our—yes, our—children.

  I flip on the light switch, but there isn’t a damn thing to do. All our clothes are clean, folded, and put away. I am thankful for the help Mom offered through the nanny, but it gives me too much free time.

  Chance and Hope almost sleep through the entire night, only waking for one feeding each. They take two naps a day, each two hours long. There is hardly an occasion when one of them are asleep while the other is awake except the night time feeding.

  When they are awake, I feed them, hold them, and simply love them. God, how I love them. They are my life, my loves, the reason I breathe, even though it hurts, and we watch TV.

  Movies on TV.

  Home movies.

  Ones of Thomas Hardy in concert and interviews.

  I walk into our room, mine and T’s, not mine and the babies, and sit on the bed that Thomas and I spent endless hours in. If I close my eyes, I can picture him here. If I concentrate, I can hear him laugh. If I let the pain go, I can smile, remembering how he took his time showing me just how much he loved me. Until reality sets in, and the pain starts all over again.

  I consider taking a shower, but then decide against it. I can sleep for nearly two hours straight if I go into the babies’ room now.

  I look down as I enter, knowing if I look at the mural he painted first, I will cry. I will cry because it’s unfair that he is gone. It’s so unfair that I almost hate God. That’s why I look instead at what he left me.

  Our two beautiful children. I will always be grateful for them. Always. But would He take them, too?

  A chill runs down my spine at that thought.

  As I am about to climb into the bed between the babies’ cribs, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  I quickly walk out of the room as I look at the screen. Harper.

  “Hi, Harper,” I whisper.

  “Ava, how are you?” she grunts out.

  “Good. Why are you talking like that?”

  “I’m in labor,” she says with a groan.

  “Oh, my God,” I gasp.

  “Don’t tell anyone. I just want to know when Mom and your dad left to come home.”

  “About three—”

  “You’ll come home, too?” she interrupts.

  Panic—no, fear—no, terror shoots through my body. I don’t want to go back there. I can’t go back there. I won’t go back there.

  “Ava?”

  I feel sick to my stomach. I can’t breathe. I’m going to be sick.

  The thought of leaving our home, the thought of taking Chance and Hope on a plane full of people and exposing them to germs, and...people, the thought of everyone meeting my—no, our children, Thomas Hardy and my babies, terrifies me.

  “Ava, please,” Harper whispers.

  “I can’t.”

  “I need you,” she says breathlessly.

  “They need to be here. Their doctors are here. The apnea machines, the—”

  “They are healthy and four-months-old,” she says.

  I am about to respond when I hear Maddox in the background.

  “Sweetness, tell Ava I’ll have a private plane sent for her.”

  “I can’t,” I say again, on the verge of vomiting and tears, and then I hang up before running to the bathroom and letting everything go.

  Four months. It has been four months since I lost the only man I will ever love, the only man who ever loved me, the only person in the world who loved me enough to...lie.

  How do you keep the
people you love safe from everything and everyone outside of your control?

  You don’t.

  At one point in my life, I believed that love was enough, that making people happy was enough.

  That was a lie.

  When all else failed, I believed that God would handle it all. “Give it to God.” That’s what Maggie Ross and Tessa told Harper on more than one occasion. And even though the advice wasn’t directed at me, I stole that hope and stored it in my heart for when I felt my life was out of control. It was a rare occasion when I pulled it out and used it. And when I did, when I needed it the most, it failed. It failed epically.

  Thomas is gone and never coming back. Thomas’s lie, for the sake of love, is my burden to bear, to love, to protect from...him. But he isn’t a burden. He is a blessing, topped with beautiful dark hair, blue eyes, and wrapped in a soft, breathable, blue blanket.

  How do I keep him safe? How do I keep him my blessing? How do I do that when they fight me at every turn?

  God, I need him, I plead in my head. But, for some reason, God isn’t listening to me. He hasn’t been, and maybe he never really did.

  I slap the tears from my face as I look around, hoping this is all just a bad dream. It’s not. It’s a living, breathing nightmare with a dusting of happiness whenever I hold our babies in my arms.

  What I wouldn’t give to be wrapped so tightly in Thomas’s arms, back to being loved and safe because of him.

  His arms. They would have kept us safe, all of us. And his love would have given us all we ever needed. It is still keeping me alive.

  When I call Harper back, Maddox answers.

  “What time will the plane be here?” I ask.

  “Two hours.”

  “Okay.”

  “She loves you, Ava.”

  “I love her, too.”

  ***

  I look down at them, my children, wrapped up and in their car seats. I have to do what the old Ava would do and make sure I am there for my friend who, even though she has never needed me, is requesting—more like demanding—I be there. I just can’t help worrying that it’s for reasons other than me meeting her child.