Page 2

The deafening silence from the other end has me pulling the phone from my ear only to stare at the blank screen.

Shower?

Coffee?

Fuck no.

I need to get hammered all over again. Maybe then whatever story Raider is on his way to tell will be easier to hear.

Still staring unfocused at the phone, an unwelcome thought jumps in. If Drake sent someone, in person, it must be so terrible—horrific, even—that they're nervous about what I'll do, to the house or maybe to myself. I can't blame them. I'd be cautious too. I'm a fucking ticking time bomb.

How could I not be at this point? I can't sleep. When I do, dreams like earlier yank me awake. Every night the sheets are wet with cold sweat. Every night I jolt awake, terrified. Then when reality sets in, so does the hate, revulsion, and depression. Because when I wake up safe in this nice bed, fancy-ass house, I'm smacked in the face with the reminder that I got out. I'm alive.

And she isn't.

At least every night I pray she's not. It's the merciful thing to pray for in the fucked-up situation we found ourselves in several months ago. Believing she’s dead, out of pain and away from the bastards she gave herself over to, is the only thing which keeps me from putting a damn gun in my mouth.

Not that I haven't thought about it. But every time I get too far away, too deep in my own misery, the memory of her laugh or her soft whispers in the night pull me toward... hope.

Drake’s words run on a loop, chasing me around the room as I stagger to the bathroom in search of Tylenol. It's only when I'm staring at my own reflection, at the hollow brown eyes, shaggy beard, long greasy hair, and greenish-tinted skin, that I realize even though I’m physically here, I’m not mentally. No, mentally I'm still stuck in that damn shack in Africa, lying on the ground, bleeding out and unable to help save her.

Failing her. Because that’s what it amounts to. I failed her in every way possible, and I’m left here to deal with the aftermath of my failure. My self-imposed purgatory.

But today. Today I'll get the answers that will, hopefully, help me move on.

Answers.

After four damn months.

Finally, I'll have some answers.

**

FOURTEEN MINUTES LATER, an echoing beep sounds through the first floor of the house, signaling a perimeter breach. Of course they’re here right on time. Drake times everything to the nanosecond, and so do his men. Well, everyone except me. I tried in the Army, but the whole idea of life being dictated by the clock was never a way I wanted to live.

I glance out the bedroom window and watch two black Suburbans make their way up the gravel drive. Drake never laid concrete, the gravel ensuring if the perimeter alarm had failed, or been disarmed, an approaching car could still be detected. Paranoid bastard. He has his reasons; you don't build a successful company like his without making a few—hundred—powerful enemies.

Striding across the bedroom, I finish buttoning the fly on my dirty dark-wash jeans. Before heading out to meet my unwanted company, I snatch an old concert T-shirt off the floor and give it a sniff. I sneer in disgust. But hey, maybe if the smell is too stank, they'll dish out the news and then leave. It's worth a try.

I pull my dark hair up in a tight bun and toss a new rawhide to the bouncing dog. Hopefully it’ll keep him from chewing on another tennis shoe.

Damn dog. More trouble than he's worth.

Instantly regretting the thought, I give him a good scratch behind the ears and shut the door behind me.

By the time Raider and Tex step out of the first black SUV, I'm leaning against a wooden porch post, waiting.

My gaze bounces between the two as they continue their approach.

"Raider, Tex," I say, then look to the other SUV to see who’s inside, but no one steps out. "You two look good. Really good. Are those new sunglasses?" Human contact outside family has been scarce lately, making my small talk sound forced. I swipe my sweaty palms down my jeans in case they want to shake.

They shoot an unreadable look to the other, then stare back to me.

Raider’s the first to take a step closer, removing his new sunglasses so I can see his disapproving glare. "You look like hell. When was the last time you showered? Or shaved?"

"Beards are in," I say with a shrug, feeling anything but casual.

"Not in our line of work. Shave it off."