Page 66 of Shrapnel

He flinched when Jamie said his name. It sounded so…normal. So plaintive. He wondered if Jamie even rememberedhisreal name. Or if he cared.

“I um…I took some information over to Elijah this afternoon.” Owen couldn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t want to know if they were warm and sparkling, or black holes. He wasn’t sure which one would be worse.

This close Jamie smelled terrible, like sweat and something foul. And blood. So much blood. The strong coppery scent coated Owen’s tongue and he wanted to gag.

“I get that Elijah can be a little dull, but did he bore you that bad?” Jamie attempted a joke.

“He told me,” Owen said as he swallowed past the sour taste. “He told me about you. About the fires and the disappearance. About your mother and the…” he couldn’t finish. The words stuck in his throat, and he had to look up, to see Jamie’s face.

His face was calm, corners of his lips downturned. Owen was so surprised to see the frown on his face that he couldn’t look away.

“Are you afraid of me?”

Owen’s hands shook. He couldn’t look away. “Yes.”

Jamie blinked twice before nodding. He swallowed and looked away, bringing up a bloodied hand to swipe at his nose. When he did, the shirt shifted and Owen caught a flash of fresh blood welling up on his skin. He dropped the door.

“Jamie you’re—”

He waved him off, backing away from the door. His lips curled in a sad smile.

“I’m sorry. I never wanted to scare you, O Face.”

13

Burning Cities and Napalm Skies

A fine drizzlewas coming down as Jackson exited Satex Pharmaceuticals. He grimaced at the way his boss clapped him on the back and asked how his shift went. Jackson was a thermos full of instant coffee and a bland ham sandwich away from being a 9-5 working stiff.

The rain wasn’t heavy, but it soaked everything. Grey dawn was still lingering on the eastern horizon—not quite light enough to turn the streetlights off yet. Their halos of light sparkled off the wet asphalt in a way that might have been pretty if Jackson wasn’t so tired.

Why was he still here? It was a question he hadn’t quite answered yet. His Polish contact had already confirmed he could get him into Russia. He had a way out, yet he was sticking around in Weaver territory.

For someone who always had one foot out the door, he was loathe to leave. It started before, a sort of strange need to linger for once. But then he had spoken to Rhett. The quiet young man’s words had been swimming in the back of his mind since he had run into him outside the ammo shop.

Jackson couldn’t even be mad at the guy. He had butt into his personal life, something that should have earned him a black eye at the very least, but there was an earnestness about the way he had done it. Like he genuinely cared about Evan and his relationship. Which made sense. They had been working together for a couple of years now, and Rhett had the same energy as his brother— a soft exterior covering a backbone made of steel. Jackson didn’t understand that. He had come out of the womb big and mean. All hardened edges and an explosive temper. Even as a child people would cross the street when they saw his face.

Lowering his guard was not something that came naturally to Jackson. He had only done it twice in his life. Both times had hurt, and the wounds had never quite healed.

The forest green SUV he had been using was parked at the far end of the lot under one of the brighter streetlamps. He didn’t have the keys—stolen cars rarely came with a key fob—so he had left the doors unlocked.

“You’re bleeding on my car.”

Jamie smiled tiredly. “Like it’s your car.”

Jackson crossed his arms. Jamie was leaning on the driver’s side door. Leaning might be too strong a word, as he was partially draped over the car. Only his locked legs were keeping him upright. His clothes and hair were soaked, plastering against his skin. Jackson didn’t need to see the blood dripping onto the pavement to know he was injured. He could see it in the hollows under Jamie’s eyes and the way the streetlamps illuminated his pallid skin.

Rain clung to his eyelashes, beading up and dripping down his sunken cheeks.

“Why are you here?”

He blinked sluggishly. “Because you’re not afraid of me.”

Jackson sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. He grabbed the kid by the back of the neck, steering him around to the passenger side. Shoving him into the seat, he jerked up his shirt up to check out the wound. It was gnarly, but the bleeding had mostly stopped.

Face only inches from Jamie he scowled. “Who’d be afraid of a little asshole like you?”

Jamie didn’t answer, just flopped his head back on the headrest and let Jackson start the car. The heat blasting from the vents was uncomfortable, but he suspected Jamie was chilled to the bone. The kid was asleep in seconds with his forehead pressed to the window, breath fogging up the glass.