Page 157 of Shrapnel

“Ian was given a medical discharge because of mental illness,” Grant read from his notes. “Army doctors diagnosed him with a borderline personality disorder. He was obsessed with having clean hands. His obsession with clean hands escalated to the point where he couldn’t function—until another solder befriended him. Ian developed an unhealthy co-dependency with this solder until his erratic behavior was noticed by his ranking officers.”

Jackson sat back, letting his legs splay out in front of him. His boots were caked with mud and looked out of place against the smooth hardwood of Grant’s office. He didn’t really care about all of this. As far as he was concerned, Army doctors were lying shits.

“All right, so he’s submissive. Makes sense. This Dominic comes along and gives him someone to latch onto.”

Grant hummed, continuing to read his notes as if he wasn’t the one who just had the conversation with the orderly.

“He wasn’t compliant with his medication and stopped showing up for his appointments. The VA lost track of him after that.”

“Happens to a lot of vets. They end up on the street. Must be where our Demon picked him up.”

It was a lot of speculation, but it was enough for Jackson. Unlike Grant, he didn’t care about the why, just the who and where.

The little geek had been right when he said Jackson cared about Jamie. He wasn’t in love with the little asshole, but the kid had done something to him. Opened him up to the possibility of…what? Friendship? What exactly did that even mean for someone like him? A person who knew what he was running from and didn’t care? Jackson hadn’t met anyone like that. Everyone who knew what he did, who he was, ran the other way. Or betrayed him.

Jamie hadn’t. He looked Jackson right in the eye and did nothing. Well, he haddonea lot of things. But run wasn’t one of them. And so far, he hadn’t betrayed him either. Because if Jamie had told Grant, their conversation tonight would be a hell of a lot different.

Jackson tapped his fingernail on the leather wrapped hilt of his machete. He was going to save the little asshole. Not because of some warped version of friendship. But because he liked knowing that there was someone in the world who was just fucked up enough to understand him.

The door burst open, stainless steel handle embedding into the drywall. Owen strode him with a pile of papers and folders in his hand. He deposited them on Grant’s desk, careless of the man’s notebook.

“He’s alive,” Owen said breathlessly.

The annoyed ‘might kill you and stuff your body into a barrel full of Drano’ look fell off Grant’s face. “How do you know?”

Owen began sorting through the papers on the desk. He rearranged them until three police reports were facing Grant.

“Three murders in the last few weeks,” he began, twitching a little. Jackson thought maybe they should take the caffeine away. “Killed with the same gun—uh a…” he flipped a page toward him so he could read. “An M24.”

“Those were standard issue Army sniper weapon systems,” Jackson added.

The geek nodded. “Right. And the same type of gun that shot Noah.”

Grant stared down at the papers. “How does this tell us he’s alive?”

“Because every single one of these victims were killed by a sniper with a difficult shot. Even the police were stumped.”

The two men stared at Owen. “There are other talented snipers,” Grant hedged.

He slapped the photos with his palm. “Right, yes, but not like this.” Owen pushed the three police reports closer to Grant. Jackson leaned forward to get a better look.

The driver’s license photos attached to the report showed three, unremarkable men of varying ethnicities and ages. According to the ME, the men had been killed with a clean shot right through the head.

“These three victims were all well known for their general assholery.”

“Define general assholery,” Jackson challenged.

Owen glared at him. It would have been more intimidating without the vibrating. “All of them had people who wanted them dead. Yet strangely, all those people had rock solid alibis at the time of the killing.”

Before either of them could interrupt Owen flipped the fourth report. “Then we have Melanie Baros. A Greek oil magnates’ daughter, she’s richer than God.”

The photo was of a gorgeous older woman. Even Grant looked like he was appreciating her beauty. Jackson just felt his stomach sour at the woman.

“She was attending a fundraiser two nights ago when she was hit with the same caliber bullet as the other three. Another crazy long shot. The only difference? Melanie survived.”

“So you think he’s alive because he missed?”

“NO!”