Page 24 of Keeping Kasey (Love and Blood #3)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Kasey

I lie in bed the next morning, waiting for regret to hit me.

I have never talked to anyone about my parents before, and I would’ve been perfectly content to keep it that way. But when Logan asked me about them, the idea of opening up to him didn’t sound so horrible.

And the regret never comes.

What does come, however, is the feeling that I’m in denial.

Without many companions, I’ve never had the luxury of lying to myself. If no one else is there to tell me the truth, it’s a role I have to fill myself.

As a result, I’ve never been prone to delusion.

But it’s starting to feel like I lie when I tell myself that things with Logan are purely physical, and I’m unwilling to force myself to figure out why.

So, I choose to throw myself into work instead.

We arrive at the base early, and Matteo immediately leaves us to meet with his father. Ford and I go to Brandon’s office—the cybersecurity supervisor at this base. He wasn’t around yesterday, but, according to Ford, he’ll be working in his office with us today.

This office is set up exactly the same as every other base we’ve been to, with several rolling chairs, monitors, and a couch against the back wall.

I sit in one of the chairs and fire up the desktop while Ford works on his laptop doing who-knows-what.

We’ve been working in silence for an hour when the door opens, and a tall, scrawny man stands in the doorway. He wears the same customary suit as every other Consoli soldier, though his jacket is wrinkled and slung over his shoulder. His sleeves are tugged up to reveal tattoos covering each arm.

When my eyes wander to his face, I find him watching me with something like contemplation. Just as quickly as I notice it, the expression vanishes, and he looks at his watch.

“About time you show up,” Ford mutters without looking up, and I can guess this is Brandon.

He strides into the room, taking a seat at the computer next to mine. “I was under the impression you’d be here at nine.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as a feeling like familiarity snakes up my spine. I give Brandon a quick once-over, but I’m positive I’ve never met him before.

With only a few feet between us, I decide his proximity is putting me on edge.

“We got in early,” Ford says.

Brandon gestures to my screen. “Don’t you think you should be training all of us on installing this system?”

“I wasn’t hired to be your teacher,” I say flatly.

“I should know how the installation works. If something happens, I’m the one responsible for repairing it.”

“You’ll know how to run it. That’s all that matters,” Ford answers.

“And it won’t need repairing,” I add.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Brandon staring a hole in my head.

“I can’t be the only person having an issue with this.”

“You are,” Ford clips.

“Have you even talked to Consoli about it?” Brandon asks. “The others might not have been interested in learning how this works, but I am.”

Ford heaves a sigh and finally relents to meeting Brandon’s eye. “Why don’t you talk to him yourself?”

Brandon’s expression tightens. “Not all of us have a direct line.”

“That’s because Consoli doesn’t need to be bothered by your whining.”

Brandon looks ready to argue the point, but his phone rings. “Yeah? Of course, sir. I’ll let him know, sir.”

He hangs up and looks at Ford again. “Mr. Antonio is requesting you in his office. Something about reviewing files with Matteo.”

“What files?”

Brandon shrugs. “Didn’t say. I can call back to ask if you’d like.”

Ford waves dismissively. “Don’t bother,” he says, and when he looks at me, I can’t tell if he’s more annoyed by the summons or by having to address me directly. “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Whatever,” I mutter and force myself to focus on the work and not how Brandon is staring at me again.

Awkward silence fills the space, and it’s the first time I’ve wished for Ford to be around.

When awkwardness turns to tension, I get the sudden itch to get out of this office.

As if he reads my mood, Brandon stands and walks to the door, and I thank my lucky stars when he opens it.

But only to peer into the hall before closing… then locking the door.

“What are you doing?” I ask in a measured tone even as my gut twists.

Brandon turns, blocking the door and crossing his arms over his chest. His glare sharpens with an erratic edge that triggers every alarm bell in my head.

“I should be asking you that,” he accuses in a whisper-yell.

I suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to call Logan.

“What are you talking about?” I ask and try to ease my body language so he doesn’t realize how much he’s affecting me. I take a calculated risk in looking away from Brandon just long enough to pull up the Pac-Man program I rigged to message Logan directly.

My chair is yanked from the desk, and true fear floods my veins.

“You can’t be stupid enough to play both sides, so what exactly is your plan?” he asks, and everything about the accusation implies that I somehow know him.

I don’t.

But I get the feeling that playing along is my safest bet. I need to stall until Ford gets back.

I take a steadying breath. “I’m doing the job I was hired to do.”

As if this entire interaction wasn’t weird enough, he smiles at that.

Carefully, I plant my feet and push the chair out of Brandon’s hold, and he lets me. I push myself slowly toward the desk without taking my eyes off his.

“You’re here to delete it, then?” he asks.

The chair bumps against the desk, and my fingers move across the keyboard. Usually, I’d brag about the fact that I can hack into any database without looking, but right now, I’m so shaky I’m not convinced I could type my name correctly.

Still, I have to take my chances contacting Logan blindly because I’m too afraid to look away from Brandon.

If I’m doing it correctly, the chat should be loading.

I think through this wildly bizarre conversation, and try to think of anything that’s vague enough to buy more time.

I go with, “What else would I be doing?”

I should be at the text box now and begin to type a message. I go simple, writing that I’m in Brandon’s office and need help.

Brandon ponders that for a moment, then gestures to the screen. “Then why would you be making it harder for us to—”

His eyes focus on the monitor—on the message I’m writing.

“You little traitor,” he seethes as one hand reaches back, then slaps me across the face.

I have never been hit before.

And I am not a fan.

I kick the chair back on instinct and blindly hit the keyboard, hoping to send the message to Logan, but I have no idea if it works.

Brandon gets a tight grip on my hair, and I yelp just as his hand covers my mouth and tears fill my eyes.

“You realize this screws you over, right?” he says with a manic laugh. “That this little game ends with Consoli putting a bullet in your head?”

His hand doesn’t move from my mouth, so I can’t tell him that I have no idea who he is or what he’s talking about. I do the only thing I can think of and start swinging my arms and legs out, hoping like hell I hit something.

I do.

At full strength, I kick my foot out and hit the metal leg of the desk. White-hot pain shoots up my leg, and I whimper against his hand.

With his grip on my hair, he hauls me out of the chair and throws me to the ground. I barely get my bearings before he wraps one hand around my throat and presses his gun to my temple.

I go still.

No struggling.

No fighting.

No breathing .

“Did you really think you could work two angles and hope he’d spare you?” He breathes a humorless laugh. “Or maybe you’re trading us for your freedom? Is that it?”

I can only stare into Brandon’s frenzied gaze as dread pools in my gut.

This man is going to kill me.

I don’t even have the courage to close my eyes and go to a happy place. All I can do is lock my stare with his and pray for a miracle.

That’s when the doorknob twists.

Ford’s shout is muffled, but my heart pounds too loudly in my ears for me to make out his words anyway.

When neither Brandon nor I answer, I’m so thankful to hear Ford kicking at the door.

Knowing his time is limited, Brandon smacks the gun against my head—hard. I feel my skin split with a force that blurs my vision.

“Does Consoli know who you are?” He emphasizes the question by digging the gun into the freshly inflicted gash, and I cry out at the burning sensation.

Just then, the door is kicked in, and my eyes flood with a new wave of tears. Brandon blocks my view of the doorway, so I can’t see Ford.

I also can’t see Brandon lift the gun—I only hear the shot echo in the small room with a cutting force.

All relief turns to purified horror.

Brandon shoves me to the floor like I’m a rag doll. “Stay down. We’re about to go for a drive, and then you’ll give me the answers I want.”

He towers over Ford, who lies on his back, holding the wound in his stomach with both hands.

I don’t think, or even fully process what I’m doing, but when I see the rolling chair within my reach, I just act.

I shove it forward with all my strength, and it rams into Brandon with a force that distracts him just long enough for Ford to do a kicking maneuver that gets Brandon off balance.

He goes down, falling toward me. What I lack in self-defense skills, I make up for in sheer will to live as I lunge forward and rip the gun from Brandon’s grasp just as he hits the floor.

The moment the weapon is in my hands, I realize I have no idea what to do with it.

I point it at Brandon and pull the trigger, but nothing happens.

What the—

Brandon’s confusion turns to amusement, and he starts to stand. I have no idea where the thought comes from—likely the hundreds of action movies I’ve seen in my lifetime—but the idea to cock the gun hits me, and I do. The jammed bullet pops out of the chamber, and I hold the gun as steady as I can.

Brandon stops, narrowing his eyes from where he kneels in front of me. Somehow, even as I stand over him with a gun in my hands, he manages to make me feel small.

“He has no idea, does he?” A truly manic smile spreads over Brandon’s lips. “Consoli will find out you’re a traitor, and he’ll kill you.”

It happens so fast.

My hesitation registers with Brandon, who takes the opportunity to spring forward.

I pull the trigger.

The bullet flies straight through his chest, and a spray of blood wets my face and arms in an instant. The sensation—the warm splatter of thick blood decorating my cheeks, my nose, even my eyelids—engraves itself in my bones, and I already know that it won’t ever go away.

Just before Brandon goes down, he manages to shove me with all his remaining strength.

I don’t remember dropping the gun, only that by the time I stumble back into the wall—slamming my head into the exposed brick—it’s not in my hands anymore.

My vision goes dark, and I strain to blink back to reality.

The urge to lie back and close my eyes is tempting, and the only reason I fight against it is the strained breaths from across the room that are growing weaker.

Darkness threatens my already hazy vision, and after a few seconds of anticipating another blow, I process those images. It takes a moment, but I finally make out Brandon’s body collapsed onto the floor a few feet away.

He must have gone down right after he shoved me.

I have to force myself to ignore the muscle-locking fear and the revulsion that crawls over my skin like a million ants—I have to get to Jace. Slowly, I push off the wall and move around Brandon, all the while bracing for him to spring up and lunge for me again.

I fight off the dizzying exhaustion and stagger to where Ford lies. His hands are limp over his wound, and though his eyes are barely open, they’re not moving. I push his hands away and apply pressure to the wound, and I’m morbidly grateful when he jolts in response.

At least it’s a sign of life.

I barely notice the tears streaming down my cheeks, how they mix with Brandon’s blood—staining the collar of my shirt red—or the copper taste filling my mouth as my chattering teeth catch my tongue. I don’t register anything aside from the need to keep Ford alive.

Crying out for help is harder than I expect, with fear clogging my throat, but eventually—though I have absolutely no concept of how long it’s been—Matteo and two other soldiers burst into the room.

Matteo pulls me back, and the soldiers begin to work to save Ford’s life, but all I can think about is that odd chord of familiarity Brandon struck when I first met him.

Consoli will find out you’re a traitor, and he’ll kill you.

I’ve never met Brandon before—I’m certain of that—so why do I get the eerie feeling that he’s right?