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“Did it matter?”
His brow furrowed.
“Any of it?” I asked. “Farkas is gone. The machine’s at the bottom of a river. We almost died trying to save something that didn’t make it out. So I just . . . I need to know. Did it matter?”
He looked down to where our hands were joined, then at the ceiling, then at me.
“She’s alive,” he said. “Eszter is alive.”
I nodded.
“He gave his life to protect her. We gave everything to pull her out. You kept me alive. Egret got through his own hell. Sparrow never stopped fighting.”
He paused and swallowed. “We mattered.”
“But the machine—”
“Isn’t worth more than a girl,” he said, gently but firmly. “Besides, we kept it out of . . . our uncle’s hands.”
After another long moment, I said through grinning lips, “You fucking got shot again.”
His smile was immediate—and beautiful—and everything.
“Sorry about that. I’ll try harder next time. Maybe you can take the bullet for me?”
My eyes bugged. “How about neither of us gets shot? Doesn’t that sound better? Why would you even suggest—”
He leaned up and pressed his lips to mine, cutting off whatever smart-ass comment I was about to make.
When our lips parted, and I longed for his taste again, he dropped his voice into a whisper and said, “I’d do it again, Will, every single part, even knowing how it ends.”
My throat tightened. I bent until our foreheads touched.
“Me, too,” I said. “Always.”
63
Thomas
Thewallsoftheconference room were painted in that bland, beige shade governments seemed to prefer—an aesthetic designed to discourage emotion or thought. The chairs were metal-framed and stiff. The table was wide, but not wide enough to feel like a barrier.
Will sat beside me, his arm draped along the back of my chair. Sparrow was across from us, hands folded in her lap, her posture still stiff from days of tension. Egret leaned against the wall near the door, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. He hadn’t shaved since the river. It gave him a manly, lumberjack vibe that I was sure Sparrow enjoyed.
Manakin entered without fanfare. He was thinner than I remembered, his face drawn, the lines around his mouth deeper. His gray coat was damp from the late Austrian drizzle, and the brim of his hat was dripping when he took it off and laid it on the end of the table.
No one stood. We were well past silly protocols.
He didn’t sit right away.
He just looked at us.
We were four battered survivors who’d come back from something most never would.
He took a long breath and sat, opening the black folder he carried as though it contained either the gospel or the gallows.
“This is your official debrief,” he said, voice flat. “The room has been swept, the music’s volume in the hallway has been increased, and there are Marines standing guard outside. You may speak freely.”
“As if Egret knows any other way to speak,” Will jabbed, earning a grin from the wooly mammoth leaned against the wall.