Family, friends, colleagues, small children, elderly adults, animals—he had an effect on them all. When he was here.
His frequent work trips took him away from Steele Ridge. She had never questioned her brother’s absences before, but Coen’s situation cast a whole new light on Way.
Did he suffer as Coen suffered?
Had his stress turned into a disorder?
“Are you good at compartmentalizing?” she asked, holding her breath.
His hands stilled. “Yes.”
She waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, she went back to her task. Questions hung in the air like a thick, choking fog. For the first time ever, she experienced a lengthy, awkward silence with her favorite brother.
If only she could come up with a witty comment to reestablish their easygoing bond. But her mind remained stubbornly stupid.
She was about to blurt out an apology when Way finally spoke.
“Whoever he is, Riley, he’s not a wounded dog who’ll mend with a few clean bandages. He’ll need years of care—professional care—if he’s brave enough to seek it out.”
Throat thick with emotion, she nodded.
A large arm wrapped around her shoulders, and she turned into her big brother’s hug.
“It’ll take an equally brave and determined woman to weather the storm. At the end—”
“I’ll find a rainbow?” she whispered.
“No, Ry.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know.” He rested his chin on her head. “Reach for the rainbow, if that’s your thing. But I’d recommend setting smaller, more attainable goals. Then maybe, just maybe, your rainbow will appear.”
She closed her eyes, wishing Way would’ve dug deeper into his inspirational repertoire. But it wasn’t his style to hand out false hope. Being a realist was as much a part of his makeup as being a born leader.
“Would your mystery man happen to be Coen Monroe?”
“How do you know Coen?”
“I don’t. Not really. I overheard Reid and Britt discussing him.” His chest rose on a deep inhalation. “The brother in me wants to warn you to stay the hell away.”
“What does the Marine in you want?”
“For you to fight like hell to save him.”
The pressure on her chest eased, and she drew in a shaky breath. Way nudged her chin up until she met his gaze.
“Make no mistake, little sis. Coen’s reliving a scene that no man—no matter how well trained—should ever have to live through once, let alone dozens of times.”
“You know what happened to him? Can you tell me? Please.”
The brother warred with the Marine for a good long time. In the end, his duty to country won. But his loyalty to family didn’t completely jump into the back seat.
“If he’s having night terrors about one of his missions, he’ll be dangerous and lethal during those moments. Don’t ever touch him. Do you understand?”
She nodded, glad she’d followed her instincts last night. “I understand. Thank you, Way.”
His arms tightened a second before he stepped away. Rather than finish packing his box, he strode toward the door.
“You’re leaving?”
He swiped a hand over his cheeks, pausing at the door. He didn’t turn around. “Be careful, Riley. With both your person and your heart.”
“You said a strong woman—”
“Some wounds are so deep that they can’t be repaired.”
She stared after her brother long after he was gone. His ominous words tearing into her heart.
22
Thrump!
Coen’s blade landed in the outer rim of the bull’s-eye. Good, but not where he’d aimed.
He lined up again and sent the knife flying.
Outer rim.
Two more knives followed.
Same result.
“Dammit,” he bit out. “Pull it together, Monroe.”
Rolling his shoulders, he prepared to send another blade down the forty-yard lane when he caught the whisper of a boot heel against the grass behind him.
He whipped around, weapon raised—
“Whoa!” Reid Steele held his hands in the air. “It’s just me.”
“Son of a bitch, Steele.” Coen lowered his arm. “You know better.”
“I wasn’t sneaking up on you; you weren’t paying attention, Sarge.”
“Drop the sergeant bullshit, or I won’t check myself next time.” He’d achieved the rank of Sergeant First Class only weeks after hitting his twenty-fourth birthday and had earned his Ranger tab the year before. He was damn proud of both accomplishments. But neither compared to making selection as a Delta Force operator.
He hadn’t thought anything could be more grueling than Ranger training. But Delta Force selection challenged the mind and body in ways that few could handle. Of the 159 men who started selection, only ten became operators.
His friend nodded to the target. “How long’s it been?”
“Obviously too long.”
“Wanna up the stakes?”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“The first person who hits dead center wins a Triple B steak dinner.”
Blues, Brews, and Books—known as Triple B by the locals—did many things right. Owned and operated by hometown girl Miranda “Randi” Shepherd, the shop had a great, down-to-earth vibe, promoted local artisans and brewers, and catered to a wide variety of customers’ desires. But nothing topped Randi’s prime bone-in rib eye.
Reid had treated him to a rib eye dinner on his first night back in the States. Although the meal had been delicious, he hadn’t returned to the B.
His mouth watered. He came close to saying yes but forced himself to remember what had happened last time. Randi’s bar and restaurant was one of the major gathering places in in the area. Folks came from several towns over to grab a coffee, sit on one of the cushioned couches and read a book, or wrap around a table with a bunch of friends and shoot the bull.
Laughter and conversation pulsed within those walls, making his nerves fire like rockets beneath his skin. He wasn’t ready for that kind of socializing. Didn’t know if he’d ever be again.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“You’ve been back close to three weeks. Time to get your ass out of the woods.”
In some ways, his last mission felt like a dozen lifetimes ago. In other ways, it seemed like his boots only touched down on American soil yesterday.
“I’m aware.”
“It’s not going to get any easier.”
“Probably not, but I’m not ready to make nice with everyone.”
“Then fucking compromise.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Believe me, I know. Wait until you’re engaged. Compromise will become your middle name.”
“Not a chance.” He waved his fingers in a bring it on movement. “Shoot.”
“If I win, we eat steak at Triple B. If you win, we’ll have steak by your campfire.”
He stared at his friend, trying to locate a loophole in Reid’s wager. He knew Coen was the better thrower. So why suggest a fool’s bargain?
When no obvious pitfall came to mind, he gave himself a mental shrug. If Reid wanted to eat his dinner by the fire, who was he to stop him? He would normally balk at carryout steak, but he’d take Triple B’s rib eye any way he could get it.
“Deal.”
Reid picked up a throwing knife and flipped it in the air. He caught it with ease and smiled. “Let the pummeling begin.”
“Pretty girls first.”
“I won’t be the one whimpering when this is over.”
Coen raised a brow. “Stalling?”
A second later, Reid’s first throw landed dead center—in the ring outside the bull’s-eye.
Coen whistled. “If only you were two inches higher, the bet would be over.”
“Warm-up strike. How many throws?”
“Your game, your c
hoice.”
“Best of seven then.”
Coen loosed a blade. It thudded into the outer rim, next to Reid’s.
“Looks like we found our G spot.” Reid’s second knife slammed into the target. One inch closer to the bull’s-eye.
Coen’s next throw found its mark a quarter inch below Reid’s. Concern fluttered to life in his chest. Some maggot had punched holes in his hand-eye coordination.
They took turns, back and forth, pausing only long enough to replenish their stock of knives. A weight slowly lifted from his chest. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed himself without enduring bone-crushing guilt?
Without hearing Kendra’s screams?
At that sobering thought, he said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For talking your brother into letting me camp in his woods. For allowing me to have free rein of this facility.”
Reid’s state-of-the-art training academy sat on the southern edge of the Steele megacomplex, which also contained several family homes, the wildlife research center, and the conservation area. The training academy attracted law enforcement and special operations units from all over the world as well as pro athletes.
Reid shrugged. “It’s worth the steak dinner I’m about to win.”
Realizing this was their last throw, with three wins each, Coen steadied his breathing and concentrated on the target. Visualized his knife sinking into the onyx center.
Extending his arm back—
“You know,” Reid said at the exact wrong time, “my sister, Evie, talked me into introducing yoga into the training program.”
Coen aborted his throw and sent the pecker a kill stare.
Unaffected by his imminent death, Reid continued, “I admit, I laughed at her at first. Downward dogs and tights didn’t exactly fit the vision I had for this place.”
“She won the battle?”
“Yeah, the little twerp recruited Brynne and Gage. No way to win against those odds.”
Not understanding why Reid was sharing the story, he said, “Never hurts to try new things.”
“The instructor”—Reid’s tone turned more hesitant—“she specializes in post-trauma. Gives the trainees coping tools.”
Realization dawned. “You want me to sign up.”
“Couldn’t hurt. According to Gage, it’s more about calming the internal chaos than contorting your body into animal poses.”
As good as Reid made it sound, he couldn’t bear to sit before another stranger and pour his sad story into her hands. Every other time had been a huge disappointment, and the aftershocks were more disturbing than the trauma itself.
“Thanks, but no sense getting started with something I can’t finish.”
Reid studied him for a dissecting moment before nodding. “If you change your mind, let me know.”
Focusing on the center again, Coen let loose his blade on a slow exhalation.
Bull’s-eye!
He couldn’t hold back his smile of triumph.
“Too early for smug, my friend.” Reid held up a knife. “Prepare for defeat.”
Coen curled his arms together and braced his feet apart. His smile didn’t waver. He could almost feel the warmth of the fire on his face while he savored his first bite.
His stomach growled. Loudly.
“Trying to distract me?” Reid asked. “Not gonna work.” His knife went flying and zinged into the target.
Dead center. Not slightly to the left like his.
Reid swung a shit-eatin’ grin his way.
Son of a bitch. The bastard would never let him live this one down.
“Meet me here tomorrow night at five. I’ll take you back to my place for a proper shit and shine before heading to the B.”
The thought of a hot shower kept his smart-ass retort behind his teeth.
Reid started cleaning up, and Coen waved him off.
“I’ll take care of this.”
“After you practice some more?” Reid winked and barked out a laugh before striding away. “Remember, tomorrow. Five o’clock. Stand me up and I’ll hunt you down and beat your ass.”
Still at a loss for words, he responded with an upraised bird to his friend’s back. Not at all satisfying, but it was the best he could muster with his gambling debt now looming over him.
The prospect of being in an enclosed space with all those loud, ask-a-thousand-questions townsfolk milling about made his throat close.
A pair of gray-blue eyes flashed through his mind, and he wondered if he’d see Riley there.
He picked up a knife and sent it flying.
It knocked Reid’s bull’s-eye shot to the ground.
A perfect throw.
23
Costa Rica
11:59 a.m.
Camilla strode into the large store and yanked a cart from a long line of its friends. She meandered through the aisles, inspecting articles of clothing and household knickknacks while making steady progress toward the back, where they kept the electronics.
Once she reached her destination, she halted before a modest display of Try Me and Take Me Home phones and tablets. She tested a few out and waited.
A minute and a half later, a baritone voice that hadn’t reached its full potential yet asked in Spanish, “May I help you?”
She smiled at the young clerk. “Gracias, no. I am only browsing today.”
“If you have any questions, let me know.”
Nodding, she slid to the next device, following the clerk’s movements out of the corner of her eye. When another customer caught his attention, Camilla tapped on the tablet’s browser and pulled up a social media site.
Clicking on the search field, she typed in a name. The wheel of death churned at the top of the screen. Tension weaved across her shoulders, and she glanced around to find the clerk. She found him removing one of those activity trackers from beneath the counter.
Several agonizing seconds later, the display refreshed, but none of the available options was her smiling blond-haired, blue-eyed friend.
Frowning, she typed in Lauren’s name again. Same result.
She entered a second name and tapped her fingers on the counter through more spinning, refreshing, and scrolling.
A picture of Leo standing on a rock formation in front of an endless blue sky and a sea of trees, his powerful arms outstretched as if to embrace every challenge thrown his way.
Leo the Lightbringer. Somehow he managed to bring smiles and warmth into every room he entered. She read the caption.
It is with great sadness that we announce the death of our beloved brother, Leo Giovanni, who died in a tragic accident yesterday…
Ice seeped into her blood and spread like wildfire through her body.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing in another name. A deafening drumbeat took root in her chest. The only one of her senses that appeared to be working was sight, though it grew blearier by the second.
An image appeared of a dark-haired woman holding a large red flower in front of her face, obscuring the bottom half of her features. Knowing black eyes peered over the flower, daring the observer to lean closer, learn more.
Camilla’s throat ached as an odd sense of homesickness swept into her heart. Odd, because she’d never had a true home, not until the past couple of years, when a scientist who understood more about plants than people had plucked her off the streets.
Wrenching her gaze away, she scanned for news on her bright-eyed colleague. A ball of dread rammed her in the gut, forcing the air she’d kept pent up for the last minute from her lungs.
The scientist’s last entry was a selfie of her and Camilla, the day she’d left Costa Rica and returned to India. Not a single post in weeks. For some, this might not be unusual. But Farha used social media to chronicle every minute of her life.
Entering one last name, she held her breath until the next page loaded. She scrolled down the newsfeed, stopping on an image of blue-misted mountains in the backgroun
d and laughing, blue-framed eyes in the foreground. Time-stamped today.
A tear tracked down her cheek, and she forced back the relieved sob that welled in her throat. With trembling fingers, she closed the social media site and deleted the browser history and cookies before returning to the tablet’s home screen.
She gripped the cart and, with an unhurried gait, made her way to the front entrance, where she dumped her prop and exited.
Her world clouded more with each mechanical step. It wasn’t until she plopped into a seat at the back of the transit bus that she allowed the tears to fall in silent rivers down her cheeks.
What had she done?
What had she done?
Killed them, that’s what.
Killed them all.
But one.
24
Riley stabbed her fork into the mound of spinach leaves, bacon bits, boiled eggs, and warm vinaigrette dressing. She shoveled the heap of goodness into her mouth while trying to listen to her favorite band, Scarlet Glitterati, playing in the background.
But her loudmouthed brothers kept overshadowing the music as they carried on about some testosterone-laden activity they were going to try out at Shep’s adventure company—Prime Climb Tours—that weekend. If it had been any other time, she would’ve participated in their conversation.
But tonight the sting of Nick’s revelations about Endurance and Hathaway’s rejection still burned.
She rinsed down her bite with a gulp of ice-cold water and dug her phone out of her purse. “If you knuckleheads spent as much time expanding your minds as you do your bodies, you’d all be freaking Einsteins by now.”
“Someone’s in a foul mood,” Cash said, his penetrating brown gaze skimming over Triple B’s evening crowd. “Do you think all it takes to become a firefighter and paramedic is muscle?”
Way poked at Cash’s bicep. “Are you calling those puny things muscle?”
Cash threw a wadded-up napkin at Way’s head. “Don’t make me whup your ass in public, little bro.”
“How about I show you what a real bicep can do to your perfect nose?”
“Not if I—”
“Oh, for the love of God,” she cut in, scowling at her brothers. “How have y’all managed to secure gainful employment when you’re stuck in adolescence?”
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