by Nico Rosso
The thought of the whiskey on his tongue was worse than the waxy fast food. He ate everything for the necessary calories and balled up the trash. April took it from him and stowed it with hers.
If he wasn’t a soldier or a merc, what was he? Automatik had recruited him to be a protector, and his missions for them had felt like a success. Never enough to outweigh what he’d done with Hathaway, though. Even a well-placed bullet couldn’t change that past. Only April had helped him ease the tension of those scars. Whatever she thought of him now, he knew he wouldn’t stop until she was completely safe.
Chapter Fifteen
Part of her recognized that the desert in winter was beautiful. They’d seen thick rogue clouds in the distance. Small storms had collected quickly to rain angrily, then dispersed on the wind. None of it left an impression on her soul, the way nature should. In the past, on trips, she’d seen landscapes that had made her feel incredibly small and expansive all at once. Mountains that took her breath away and rivers that made her want to run forever like the water. But as they headed west, the last of the sun in their eyes, she was merely mechanical. The world broke down into safety or danger, with no pleasure in between.
James remained mostly silent. He’d made a phone call when they’d been about an hour away from San Diego, but since then, his face had been stern. There were times during their earlier communication that she’d thought she could find him again. He’d receded, giving her no opportunity to access him.
Had it only been three days? Four? Barely any time. But also so much time. In danger. Thrown together. Fighting. Searching. And finding each other. That was why it felt so hollow not being able to talk to him or see the quick understanding in his eyes she’d grown accustomed to. She’d just discovered this man, and now she’d lost him again.
She killed time setting up the second burner phone. When they were lucky enough to get phone service, she searched for news on the Phoenix incident. She scanned and reported, “No new leads. Traffic was fucked for a while around the school, but that’s all they’re talking about now.”
“If they don’t have anything after this much time, they won’t pick up any trails.” He took off his sunglasses and tossed them in the center console. Efficient reserve showed in his eyes. No way in.
“We’re invisible.” Would she ever be able to live in normal society again?
“To some.” James remained grim. “A ghost can hunt a ghost.”
Hathaway was still out there. From the way he’d spoken during the fight, he wasn’t going to quit. She shivered. She was the target. “How long?”
“If he catches a lead, he’s a day away at most.” James drove them into the city of San Diego. “We don’t know what our next step is, so he won’t.” He continued to be terse and remote. She expected more of the same from whatever safe place they were going. In El Paso, she’d only gotten a glimpse of his partner, the man with the red hair. Who were these soldiers of Automatik?
A few miles into the city, James slowed and entered a neighborhood of nice, small houses on narrow streets. It reminded her of home, making a cool sweat break out over her skin. What was happening at her house? It could be burning, her life in ashes. Or Hathaway and his men could be ransacking it for clues. All her secrets and privacy torn apart, while she was hundreds of miles away.
James pulled into the driveway of one house and followed it around back until they were hidden from the street. A man opened a door and stepped out onto a small porch. The only light came from within the house, silhouetting his broad, muscular frame and bald head.
“That’ll be Art.” James shut down the car. The engine ticked down, and she realized that she and the machine had been redlining since Phoenix. She wanted to stay inside the metal shell, the only place that had been safe, but James opened his door and swept the cold air inside.
She got out and breathed in the salty air. James collected their gear, and she walked with him to the back porch. Art’s face was still obscured. He cocked his head for them to enter and stepped into the warm house.
Past a little laundry room, the place opened into a decent-sized kitchen and dining area. The house seemed to be from the ‘40s, with upgrades to take away from the cramped architecture of that era. Instead of quaint, the kitchen was functional with industrial fixtures and well-used pots and pans stacked in organized rows. The door closed behind her. Art locked it. He joined them in the kitchen, where she finally saw his stern face. But a clever light shined in his eyes, and she knew there was more to him than just muscle.
He motioned to the open dining room. “I took a wall down.” He turned to James, brow furrowed. “But you never saw this place before.”
Sadness flickered across James, echoing into her own loneliness. “Never been to the restaurant either.”
Art moved deeper into the house, past a small living room, to where a narrow hallway led to a master bedroom at the end. He pointed at doorways in the hall. “Guest bedroom. Bathroom.”
James placed their luggage in the guest bedroom. When he stepped back into the hall, the wooden floor groaned.
Art walked away, explaining, “I left that creak there so we’d know if someone was in the hall. Do you need any ammo?”
“I’m full, thanks.” James moved with him back toward the kitchen.
She added her small voice to the space. “I’m going to use the restroom.”
Art turned to her. “Everything works like it should in there.” His hard features softened with sympathy. “You hungry?”
“I think?” Her body was completely out of sorts.
“There are leftovers when you’re ready.” He didn’t smile outright, but she did feel welcome in his home.
She used the bathroom and washed her hands for the first time since Phoenix. The tremors of that conflict continued, though the dirt from the street swirled down the drain. She rubbed water over her face in an attempt to return to humanity, but the last few days couldn’t be undone. Hell, since Mark’s death she’d been on the outside, looking in at other people’s normal lives.
All her business in the bathroom was finished, but she stayed inside and leaned against the small vanity sink. A little silence. Solitude. James’s recent distance had left her raw and alone. But she couldn’t pull completely away from him. Everything was a knot, and she couldn’t find the beginning or the end of the thread to unravel it.
She returned to the dining room to find James at the table and Art in the kitchen, spooning food onto plates from a casserole dish. Art asked James, “You see what he was carrying?”
“Glock, .40.” James sipped a glass of water and stared at the table. Did Art know that James had a history with Hathaway? Or was that something he’d only shared with her?
“Pro,” Art responded, stoic. “Ex-military.”
“Coordinated.” James stood to accept the plates and placed them on the table. “Police don’t have a trace.” He pulled a chair out for April.
She removed her coat, body stretching tight against long-held tension, and hung it on the chair before sitting. Was she just one of the soldiers, hitting chow because it was necessary before getting back in the fight? The home around her wasn’t a barracks. There was life here. She picked up a fork and looked at the food, trying to sort herself out.
“I like it cold.” Art came to the counter that divided the kitchen from the dining area. “But I can warm it up if you like.”
James watched her, as if to follow her lead. She cut a piece of the casserole with her fork and tried a bite. Rich flavors of cheese and chicken and potatoes helped ground her. Paprika spice hit the back of her tongue and helped her circulation find all the places she’d shut down since the fight.
“This is amazing,” she said after swallowing. “Never had leftovers like this.”
This was the first real smile she’d seen from Art
. “I’ll tell the chef.”
She and James ate in silence. Art put the rest of the food away and joined them at the table. Her world was in too much turmoil to feel completely safe, but she trusted the capabilities of the men around her.
James finished his plate with a satisfied sigh. “You definitely have to make a reservation for me at the restaurant.”
Art cleared the plates. “No reservation necessary. There’s always a table for the team.”
With a belly full of food, she succumbed to a bone-dragging fatigue. She felt her breath slow and her eyelids were heavy.
James asked across the dining room to Art, “Do you have any denatured alcohol and a rag for burning?”
“Blood?” Art put the dishes in the sink and opened a cabinet further back toward the laundry room.
“The bloke held his knife like a marine.” James cracked a wry grin. “He didn’t have a chance.”
Art returned with a can of alcohol and a rag. “Sounds like a royal marine to me.” He plunked the goods down in front of James. They sassed each other, but didn’t puff up with any real offense.
“Cheers.” James pulled his knife.
She saw the congealed and crusted blood on the steel and stood from the table. “I’m going to lie down for a bit.”
James stood. “You alright?”
“Just tired.” She edged out of the dining room. “Thanks for the food.” Art gave her a nod. “I’m fine,” she reassured James as he continued to look at her with concern.
“We’ll be right out here.” He hadn’t broken out of the reserve that had distanced him from her, but it was clear he was still committed to her safety. Tears loomed just below the surface. She couldn’t steady her voice to answer James.
Fatigue scraped her nerves raw. She closed herself into the guest bedroom and tried to find her balance. A pile of hand weights took over one corner, and a bookshelf along one wall was filled with all varieties of books. She reached for one, just to get out of her head for a minute, but her weary eyes couldn’t even focus on the title. It took all her energy to get her shoes off and dim the overhead light before falling backward onto the made bed.
James’s and Art’s voices rumbled like distant thunder, bouncing back and forth as they conversed in the other room. She couldn’t make out the words. Were they talking about her? Or the mission? The blood on the knife had been too much for her to see, and she focused on the memory of one of the desert clouds in order to distract herself. She drifted up with it, toward a deep blue sky. She was surrounded by James’s echo and fell asleep.
* * *
“You were never the trigger man?” Art bore holes through James with his stare.
“Would that make a difference?” James ragged the blood from his knife. He worked the soaked fabric into the seam where the grip met the blade, carrying away any trace of the man he’d stabbed.
Art glanced at the knife. “It makes a difference.”
James felt like he was cleaning his own blood from the steel after performing surgery on himself. Telling Art about his past opened a lot of wounds. Art just kept staring at him. His body was still, but James knew his mind was turning. The man could explode in a split second. Art had that kind of trigger. James wouldn’t blame him at all.
Art stood. James readied himself to be berated or hated. Art should be contacting the rest of the Automatik team to let them know the worst of James’s redacted file. “I have an old barbecue out back. We can burn that there.”
He started walking without another word, and James sheathed his knife to follow. They stepped into the cold night and Art searched through tall grass in his small yard until he found a small grill. He lifted the lid for James. James pulled a lighter from his jacket, lit the edge of the rags and tossed them in the grill. The alcohol caught in a hot gulp. The fabric curled and blackened. A few moments later there was no traceable evidence left.
Art replaced the lid but didn’t return to the house. “Does she know?”
“She does.” James tried to hold on to the hope he’d felt after he’d told her and she’d still accepted him, but that was before his past had come alive and pointed a gun at her.
Art still didn’t move. “You and her...?”
“For a minute.” James wished he had a pint in his hand and could wet his dry throat. “Before the bullets. Now...” He lost his voice.
Art crossed his arms over his chest. “No thoughts about going back to that life?” He cocked his head and eyed James. “You’re not double booking?”
The first impulse of anger urged James closer to Art, who uncrossed his arms. James was prepared to list all the ops he’d done with Automatik, and Art. But he understood Art’s mistrust and backed off. “I’m never going back.”
“Bueno.” Art rolled his shoulder, his body loose as he returned to his house. James went in with him and tried to let this acceptance sink in. Once they were back in the kitchen, Art motioned toward a high liquor cabinet. “No drink, right?”
“Not on the job.” He really wanted the mission to be over so he could raise a glass with Art and the other Automatik operators. And April.
Art opened a lower cabinet and retrieved a covered bin. “Hayley baked yesterday.” He removed the lid. “Cookie?”
* * *
The mattress curled next to April, drawing her body toward someone who sat there.
“James?” She couldn’t remember where she’d gone to sleep and blinked and blinked against her dried contacts in an attempt to see.
“I’m Hayley,” a woman’s voice whispered. “This is my house, with Art.”
April sat up and focused on the blonde with the sharp eyes. “Thanks for putting us up. And that casserole was absolutely the best.”
Hayley smiled. “Thanks.” She smelled of cumin and pepper. “Is there anything that you need?”
“Is James alright?” She hadn’t been separated from him for this long since they’d met.
“They’re fine.” Hayley stood. “But if you want any of my cookies, you might want to get in there now.”
April’s mouth watered. A simple pleasure like a homemade cookie had seemed impossible. She pulled herself from the bed.
Hayley led the way toward the kitchen. “Hot tea?”
“Perfect, thanks.”
Hayley paused in the living room and looked April over with compassion. “I know where you are. I’ve been there and we’ll all get you through.” The rawness of her nerves had receded, but tears still welled in her eyes when Hayley’s care wrapped around her. April took a second, and a breath, before following the woman into the rest of the house.
James and Art huddled at the dining room table like they were planning an assault on a beachhead. But in front of them was a glass container of cookies. Or what was left of them. When James saw April, he stood. “Good sleep?” He’d taken his jacket off, but still wore his gun.
“Like I hit the off switch.” No dreams. But no comfort either. She felt rested but not refreshed. It would’ve been different if James had lain next to her.
Art pushed the cookies toward her and joined Hayley in the kitchen. She murmured to him about the tea, and the two of them went about putting it together. They moved easily in the kitchen, sometimes bumping against one another, lingering with the touch.
April sat at the table and smelled the cookies. Lavish brown sugar and butter draped like a cloak around her, with an extra edge she couldn’t identify. Burnt caramel? “What are these?” She took one of the marvels in her hand.
Hayley answered from the stove. “Bourbon brown sugar browned butter chocolate chip cookies.”
“Fuck...” April whispered reverently.
James was absorbed with an intricate process on a piece of cardboard on the table. “They’re bloody good.” His mood hadn’t completely shifted
, but she sensed a shift. Like a strong wind that might chase the storm. He squeezed out two tubes of glue on the cardboard and mixed the thick pools with a plastic knife.
The odor wasn’t strong enough to overpower the taste of the cookie as she took her first bite. The warmth of the sugar and bourbon were pervasive, picked up and smoothed out by the chocolate. The flavors went deeper and deeper as she ate. In three bites, the cookie was gone.
“Unbelievable.” April was already reaching for another.
“Thanks.” Hayley smiled, and Art stood behind her and kissed the side of her neck.
April tried to let the cookie overwhelm the lonely pang in her chest. James was just a few feet away, but so much farther. He was too absorbed in his task to see her staring at him. Or he was ignoring her as she tried to reach him. The glue was mixed, then he pulled his jacket from the back of the chair and proceeded to spread the opaque mixture on the gash in the sleeve.
Art chuckled as he lined up mugs. “I’ve been there. Except it was on my arm.” He held up a heavily tattooed forearm and traced a thin white line. “Old rusty bridge cable got me as we scrambled down a ravine.”
James matched Art’s story with his own glued-up chest injury. The water boiled, and Hayley stepped up to the mugs, pouring and nodding. “Glued the tip of my finger back on once. Fucking seafood restaurant was the worst. I don’t know if it was the knife or the oyster shell that did it, but I had to keep working or they’d give my job to someone else.”
“I’m kind of not sorry I’ve never glued parts of my body back on.” April felt soft in the midst of these soldiers and tough chef.
James continued to work on his jacket. “You’ve put yourself back together.”
Hayley arrived with tea for April and herself. “And a lot of other people. Your website is amazing.”