Page 7 of In You

I'm also a little jealous, but that's neither here nor there. Colin and Olivia's wedding was a sweet affair, and perfect for them. Making me believe that true love really does exist out there, I just haven't found it. Not even sure I'd know what to do with it if I had it.

"No woman still?" he asks, giving my plain house a judgmental glance.

I roll my eyes and suck my teeth. "Nah, man. Sorry it's not all decorated and shit like yours."

He laughs as we make our way out of the house and jump in my jeep, and ignore the lightning and thunder in the distance as we drive to the West side of my property where I have a small personalized range set up. I ignore the rain, eager to let off some steam with my oldest friend.

He hits every target on the nose, and I look over at him, impressed. "Goddamn, man. Twenty-two years out of service and you still got it?"

"Whatever made you think I lost it, asshole?

" He smiles with obvious glee, rain dripping off his dark brown hair and down the slight beard as he stands up in one fluid motion, tucking the butt of his rifle under his arm.

Then hits me with a serious look and I fight back a groan.

"I really came here because I'm worried about you, hermano. "

Offf course.

That's Colin though. When the men in our barracks broke into the on-base psychologist office over twenty years ago and read my files and his clinical notes, I'd never sought out professional help again.

mistrusting of professionals. But Colin stays on my ass, calling me at least once every three months about it.

Even sending me names of psychiatrists, and therapists in my area.

But I never take it, because what's the point when I know I won't be following through?

Even though he knows I won't, it doesn't stop him from trying.

He and our former general, Frank Jackson, are the closest thing I have to family.

They held me together when my sister died, but even still, I feel irreparably broken.

On the rare occasion I bring it up, Colin makes a point to bring up therapy again.

I don't trust them, he knows this.

"Don't bother, Colin," I say quietly, feeling that dead spot where my heart's supposed to be throb uncomfortably.

The silence swells between us as we load our gear in the back of my jeep, the opened hatchback protecting us from the rain.

Shaking my head, I shove the cases further back and slide the privacy screen in place for no other reason than muscle memory.

"You need to worry about your new wife, not me. "

Slamming the hatchback closed, I crunch over the wet leaves to the driver's side and start the engine while he changes the topic and makes small talk about Jonathan, our mutual friend who couldn't make it this trip.

One thing about Colin, whether or not our trio can get together as a trio never stops him from making time for me. He'll come with or without the big guy.

It's only fifteen minutes later when we're back at the house, settling at the wooden table in the kitchen, before he acknowledges what I said.

"You still like it pitch black, right?" I ask gruffly, handing him a plain white coffee mug. "Olivia hasn't softened you up enough to want some frou-frou cream and sugared up Starbucks type shit, has she?"

"Yeah, you know it," he says, shifting his weight on my creaky chair. "Speaking of wives," he says in a light voice, accepting the steaming cup of coffee with thanks.

Leveling him with a stern stare that's one level shy of fuck off, I cut him off before he even gets it out of his mouth.

"I don't want a woman," I say in a calm but sure voice.

"And besides, what kind of woman would want a man like me anyway?

You know I'm too fucked up." I glance over at Colin who, despite my moral conflicts and black stain on my consciousness still shows up for me.

Hasn't abandoned me. Said he knows what abandonment feels like, and will stick with me to the end.

So far, he's stayed true to his promise even after the decades taking us in two different directions.

Colin takes a sip of his coffee and narrows his eyes at me. "Do we have to have this talk again, pendejo? Stop speaking those types of things out loud. You make happen what you say. You are not fucked up. You're a vigilante. Like a walking Frank 2.0, and I admire you for that."

At the mention of our fearsome general from our life way back when, I snort, not even bothering to mention that Frank had a lot more honor than I've ever managed, or even desired to possess. "Is that what they're calling serial killers these days?"

He eyes me. "Don't you remember rule number two?"

"Do I remember…" I say sarcastically, downing a third of my coffee in one go. "Who doesn't?" I fight to roll my eyes.

I swear to God I will never be free of that man and the rules he hammered so deep into our skulls that I have no hope of ever not remembering them. I'll be on my deathbed reciting the shit like a mantra he ingrained them so deep.

Rule number two: Sons, you are the Judge and the Jury. Only kill those who deserve to be killed. Every life is a soul, and every time you take a soul, you'll have to tell the Big Guy upstairs why. Don't you meet him and not have the answers. He's the only thing scarier than me.

His voice reverberates in my brain like it's a part of my very psyche.

Out of all thirteen hundred kills in my career, Frank's voice has been the one I've heard every time.

Not God, and sure as hell not my conscience.

I may not believe in God, but I do believe that when I die, I'm going to meet Frank.

He'll be the one I answer to. We all will.

And help us all if we're found lacking.

So yes, every single kill I've ever done has been a person that has earned the misfortune of dying by my bullet.

And Calvin Figureira is my next mark.