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ALEX

“Try not to put your dick in this, it's fucked already.”

I hand Thatch one of the sat phones, the last one on the shelf that should’ve been replaced long ago. That just figures.

“I should just bring my phone,” he grumbles, “it probably gets better service.”

“Could be worse. You know I had to buy this body armor myself before I shipped out for the Corps?” I chuckle to myself as I snap my Glock into its holster.

“Bullshit,” he laughs.

“Straight up. Shit was so slow that they couldn’t issue it to us in time. It took four fucking months for supply to cycle around to us. Then when they realized we were buying our own, they spouted all this bullshit about how they couldn’t guarantee its effectiveness because it didn’t come from their approved supplier. Like it mattered if the alternative was raw-dogging it down range.”

Thatch tucks the scuffed-up sat phone into his pocket and throws open the driver’s side door with a roll of his eyes. Apparently, things really are the same all over.

It’s about a 10-minute drive to pick up Abd, the interpreter I’ve worked with for almost two years, then another 30 to pick up LaCrosse, who’s responsible for all operations in this province. There are plans to build a new road between two of the main shipping hubs here.

However, this particular road will run straight through a village sandwiched between two mountains, whose leadership has ties to rebel groups in the area. And that’s a problem, because the rebels here hate us. So, we escort people like LaCrosse to make a deal, usually involving money and access to aid and supplies.

I only care about these missions so far as I complete them, because that’s why they hired me. I left my honor back at home on the same hanger as my dress blues. Mercenaries don’t get military honors when they’re killed. To be clear, I’m here for the money. That’s it. It’s the fastest way to get what I want with the skills that I have.

I’ve come full circle, though. I spent the better part of four years in cyber intelligence only to voluntarily end up doing patrols and serving as an armed escort. Not that I don’t get to use other skills I’ve picked up along the way. No one on my team speaks Arabic, but I do, at least enough to blend in when I need to.

I assume this will be a relatively quick trip, as usual. The second vehicle behind us hangs back on the outskirts of the village while we continue on. No less than six men are waiting outside the brick and adobe house. They’re dressed like locals, but carry semi-automatic weapons. Moments later, another man emerges from the house to meet us. Abd finishes telling me how he’s going to wipe the floor with me at the next poker game and then, in the same breath, turns to greet him with exuberance.

The house is on the ostentatious side for the area, but it’s also to be expected. Favors are favors, and the more you curry it, the better off you are. Alliances are fluid, much more so than anyone would like to admit, and not limited to tribal communities or war zones. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Back home, we call it corruption, but elsewhere it’s necessary for survival. And it can change by the second.

The man leads us through the house, to a room where the sheik is waiting. Two more men wait with him; one standing just off to the side and the other next to the door. Pleasantries exchanged, Thatch and I step back as LaCrosse begins the meeting. It goes like any other; back and forth, hemming and hawing, gripes and commiserating…

“I have authorization for a four-year investment.” Code for a cash influx. “And we’ll supply your security force.” Code for an arms deal.

After six years, I’ve perfected my dead-behind-the-eyes look, which is why when I pick up on the change in Abd’s tone and him using phrases that have no business in this conversation, I start paying more attention. I catch Thatch’s eye on the other side of LaCrosse. I don’t have to move a muscle, but he understands.

This isn’t a negotiation anymore, all but confirmed when I hear one word.

Liar.

“Abd.” He goes quiet at the unexpected sound of my voice.

The guy by the door quietly turns to grab the knob and my eyes meet Thatch’s for a split-second before he draws his firearm and shouts for him to step back. I catch movement in my periphery and draw my Glock before a deafening shot rings out. I pull the trigger as LaCrosse falls to the floor. Another shot, and blood spatters onto the wall behind the sheik before he collapses onto the tile.

Shit. I killed the fucking sheik. This will not go over well.

I pivot as someone lunges at me and a bowie knife slices through the air, right between my vest and my shoulder. The blade tears through my shirt and across my chest, but then catches on my vest, ripping it from his grasp. I throw my elbow, clocking him in the jaw before another two shots ring out and he stumbles back and falls to the floor.

I lunge forward and grab Abd by the collar of his shirt and shove him to his knees next to LaCrosse’s groaning body. He starts pleading as I take aim at his forehead, trying to convince me he didn’t just tell the now deceased leader of this village that LaCrosse would screw him over and taking him hostage would be a more lucrative endeavor. I’m sure Abd had a price in mind for his traitorous efforts.

There’s a bang and our eyes dart to the hallway, where muffled yells drift in from outside. Then, another bang against the front door.

“It won’t hold for long,” Abd warns, as if it’ll deter me from executing him right here.

“Neither will your head!” I shout, taking aim again.

Everyone’s seen what can happen to hostages, especially contractors. Grotesque images of unrecognizable bodies immortalized as graphic testaments to the strength of ideology. And, suddenly, I no longer care about Abd betraying us, we just have to get out of here. Now.

“Alex!” Thatch barks as he rushes to LaCrosse.

I look down at the blood seeping through my shirt and I know it’s only a matter of time before the entire village descends on this place like locusts.

I lower my weapon and quickly help Thatch hoist LaCrosse up. He’s bleeding like hell, but still alive, for now.

“Isn’t there a cellar?” Thatch asks.

“With a door in the back,” I confirm, giving a nod across the hall.

As soon as I slam the door behind us, I see a 2x4 leaning against the wall beneath a couple of metal brackets to create a makeshift lock. Apparently, someone else thought this would make a good escape route. After firmly barricading the door, we nearly tumble down the stairs in our hurry to find the cellar door. But when we do, we’re met with an ominous sight.

Another 2x4 barricades the door, except this one is bolted in place.

Thatch helps me prop up LaCrosse before I turn and give the door a swift kick. And then another. And another. But nothing happens and the wood holds firm.

Thatch plants himself in front of LaCrosse as blood starts pooling on the dirt floor. He draws his weapon and takes aim at the stairs before pulling the shitty sat phone out of his pocket to call for reinforcements.

There’s a thud at the top of the stairs and muffled shouts behind the door. I dart past Thatch and scan the room for anything useful. Soon, I find what I’m looking for. Knocking over a couple of box fans and tossing some tools and junk parts aside, I reach in a rusty barrel and grab a wooden handle, revealing the head of an ax as I tear it from the jumble.

“How long will that door hold?” Thatch asks as I dash past him.

“Not long enough.”

Adrenaline dulls the pain as I reel back and swing the ax over my shoulder, sinking the blade into the wood.

“Ten seconds!” Thatch calls.

I swing the ax over my shoulder, hacking at the wood, trying to collapse this door before the other one does.

“Eight!”

I swing again.

Six…

And again.

Four…

“Break it! Now!”

Two…

There’s a crash at the top of the stairs and I hear the footfalls just as the cellar door finally gives way, splintering and knocking the lock out of place. I give another kick and the door bursts open just as Thatch fires his gun.

I whip around to see one man tumble down the stairs and another set of feet retreat back to the top. Grabbing LaCrosse, we escape up the steps and into the courtyard.

“Did you get through to anyone?” I look over my shoulder, making sure no one has followed yet.

“Yeah, but it cut out. Piece of shit! So I don’t know if they got our location.”

Our vehicle is at the front of the house, so that’s out. We need another plan, and quickly. Seeing a chain and padlock around the gate, I duck out from under LaCrosse and make sure Thatch has a good grip before I let go. Then I get a running start and leap onto the fence, grabbing the top to vault over to the other side.

But then there’s a jolt and a pop in my ears. My body goes rigid, and suddenly, the lights go out.

●●●

“Alexí! It’s time to come in!”

My mom’s voice is a distant echo punctuated by rustling leaves and the call of a mourning dove before it fades into her melodic singing.

“Joy to the world… ” I don’t even think of Three Dog Night whenever I hear that song anymore, only her voice.

“You’re unstoppable.” My dad’s voice, brimming with pride, cuts in from somewhere behind me. “You’re too fast for them, like you got wheels instead of legs.”

A cacophony of laughter starts out high-pitched, like kids calling to one another. Then the voices get deeper, until they sound like Adrian and Luca, back when there was laughter.

“SUCKAAA!” Mason’s voice echoes somewhere in the distance, followed by a splash and more howls of laughter. I haven’t heard that since we were kids, some random word we chose to scream when we flew off the rope swing into the creek.

“Beasts of waste!” His voice is deeper this time. “Beasts of desolation!” Now I can hear all their voices like a roll of thunder.

“You’re like Ponyboy…” I’m startled by this voice. It’s distant, but I recognize its velvet tone. “I don’t want you to leave…” My heart starts pounding and crescendos to a hammer in my chest. “I want you to stay here, and be my boyfriend…”

I’m not ready to go.

I’m still not ready to go.

“CLEAR!”

The last voice booms, this one much deeper and so loud that I think my eardrums will burst. Then there’s a punch to my chest and it feels like my heart explodes against my ribcage. My muscles twitch and all I can hear is a loud rumbling and Thatch shouting above me. It sounds like he’s crying.

I’m lying on my back, and it feels like we’re driving over a boulder field at 90 miles per hour. Gat and Adair hover over me, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. I think Gat’s holding the defibrillator paddles. Then I catch a glimpse of Keller in the driver’s seat.

If I’m not already dead, I will be soon. Keller can’t drive worth shit.

But something smells burnt, like a bad sunburn, or singed hair. I glance over at Adair hurriedly wrapping my hand. It looks like it’s in shreds, but I can’t feel anything.

Apparently, direct contact with a high-voltage electric fence will do that. And bleeding profusely from a stab wound doesn’t help, either. I don’t know how I’m still alive, but the voices keep playing over and over. They keep calling to me as I drift in and out.

Calling me back.

LaCrosse survived, thanks to our backup getting Thatch’s call before the sat phone shit the bed. From what I understand, Keller went beast mode and rammed the truck straight through the wrought iron fence, which is how they were able to drag my ass out of that courtyard while I was unconscious—well…

Dead.

For eight minutes, I left this mortal coil while my body lay in the back of an armored vehicle racing through a dusty valley on the other side of the world. If they hadn’t gotten me out, I would be just another corpse, a casualty destined for an unmarked pit where my bones would join those of others who served as cannon fodder in futile wars and forgotten “skirmishes.” Maybe my skull or my spine decorating the village gates would’ve served as a warning to future colonizers.

I wake up in a hospital far away with doctors and nurses constantly checking my heart and waking me up at all hours to make sure I’m still breathing. On video chat, Thatch recounts how it was no livestock fence I grabbed onto, which was why I couldn’t let go when it started frying me. I don’t ask about the fallout, and he doesn’t volunteer the information. All I care about is that we’re all still alive and no one on our end is getting screwed by management.

But even in that hospital bed, I still feel the vibrations of the rocky terrain beneath me. I still hear that one voice that sticks out more than the others right before it’s interrupted by the screams.

Now, it’s months later, I’m back in the U.S., and I get the same feeling while following a dirt path jutting off a county road between a line of thick woods and vast spans of ag fields. The GPS directions end at the mile marker on the road and the Australian voice on my phone states that I’ve arrived.

I sure as fucking hell have not.

But I know that my destination today can’t be as bad as that one mission that finally put me on a plane back home.

Home.

Do I have one of those anymore? I left three days after graduating from high school and haven’t stayed in my childhood home for more than one night since then. But at least I know there aren’t insurgents lurking behind the brush or an ambush at the next oak. But when Aiden told me to meet him at the Rhodens’, I nearly refused.

I’m not sure why; rumors, stories, legends conjured up over a matter of years that’ve taken on a life of their own? But now the ground beneath my truck feels like it did the last time I walked into a trap, and my body isn’t about to let me forget it. The road seems to go on and on until I drive through a thick grove of trees and reveal into a rolling hillside that backs up to the forest.

I approach a black iron gate with a large H forged into the middle of the arch.

I knew it. I fucking knew it.

Hunter’s Landing. I always suspected that the Rhodens were associated with the Hunters somehow.

The gate is flanked by livestock fences, where black angus cattle congregate under the shade trees across the pasture. The cattle stunt, prom, and the speculations swirling around who caused it…I’m not sure how it’s connected, but I’m sure I’ll find out eventually.

When I reach the gate, I notice a figure dressed in black pants, a black t-shirt, and sunglasses standing motionless next to the entrance. A semi-automatic rifle hangs across his chest, immediately putting me on edge.

I don’t need a flashback right now.

I’m about to lower my window, but he gives a disinterested wave and allows me to pass without a word. I continue on the path to a black building with the same architectural style as the barns and outbuildings that lead up to the main house—a veritable fortress on the hill—and that’s where I finally see Aiden’s Lexus parked in the gravel.

When I walk through the heavy black door, it looks like an office with two heavy wood desks and leather chairs sitting in front of bays of CCTV screens. It’s deserted, but distant voices drift down the hallway. When I follow it to the source, I find Aiden sitting in a black leather chair, his head cocked to the side while a guy who’s almost as tall as him tattoos the side of his neck. He’s talking to two other guys lounging on a black leather sofa, who I recognize as Brantley and Wesley Rhoden.

Back in high school, they looked like a couple of rednecks that would skin you alive and make your hide into a pair of boots, but they’ve cleaned up slightly since then. Wesley still has the same long dirty blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, but it’s not as unruly as it used to be. His sharp clean-shaven jaw is set hard so his mouth is affixed in a perpetual snarl. Brantley’s expression has always been less severe, with a glint in his blue eyes that betrays his formidable front. The two of them could pass for twins, only discernible by Brantley’s short hair that looks much blonder in the light.

Aiden’s face looks the same with his jet-black hair, porcelain skin, nose piercing, and lip rings just beneath his canines. The rest of his body, however, is completely covered in black tattoos. The last time I saw him, his neck was devoid of ink, but now it’s nearly filled, extending all the way up to his hairline at the base of his skull and along his jawline.

“Look who it is,” he drawls as soon as he sees me. “Michael Myers himself.”

Wesley tips his head back and peers at me from under the bill of his cap. “Who?”

“ Oh, ” Brantley slowly nods, “ you’re the hired gun.”

“They finally managed to kill him, but he just keeps coming back,” Aiden grins.

“Something like that,” I reply as I smack Aiden’s palm with mine. “Meantime, I’m still trying to figure out why anyone would let you fly one of their planes.”

For some reason, I still can’t wrap my mind around it. I don’t know what I envisioned Aiden doing, but becoming a pilot for an organized crime family wasn’t on my bingo card.

“What can I say? I just have one of those faces people can’t help but trust,” he grins and then gives a nod to Brantley and Wesley. “I’m sure you’re familiar with these losers.”

It doesn’t surprise me that Aiden Rafferty can call a couple of Rhodens losers and they don’t bat an eye. In many ways, they’re probably more like family than his own parents.

“Irish twins needed another Irish brother,” Brantley smirks.

“This is Cotton,” Aiden introduces the guy tattooing him. “How are you related, again?”

“Uncle by association,” Cotton mutters in reply, “under duress.” But Cotton doesn’t look like a Rhoden. He’s older, probably in his early 40s, and with his black hair and extensive tattoos, he looks more similar to Aiden.

“Alex.” I give him a nod and then turn back to Aiden. “You’ve been busy,” I comment, studying the intricate designs on his neck.

“No thanks to you,” Aiden sneers. “I can finally finish this piece now that I don’t have to keep an eye on your kitten anymore.”

“Don’t lie,” I smile, “she’s grown on you.”

He’ll never admit it, but I know I’m right. Dallas was safe as long as Colson was still around, but as soon as he blew town without a word to anyone, I knew I needed eyes on her until I was stateside again. And Aiden came through.

“Where is Col now, anyway?” I ask. “He barely answers his fucking texts.”

Aiden glances up in thought. “I think he’s in Canada.”

“ Why? ”

“He told Mase he was going to stay up there because he needed a change ,” he shakes his head with irritation. “Lies, fucking lies. Apparently, he sits in the tundra all day on polar bear watch.”

“Polar bears? Is he still a ranger?”

“No, he went private for some Arctic security company. If you ask me, it’s just so he can carry more firepower,” Aiden snickers. “But he has a dog now. He’s pretty cute, reminds me of Arlo.”

I’m pretty sure the only way Aiden would call anything cute would be in reference to his deceased dog, Arlo, which is also the only reason he would care about anyone else’s dog.

“He has a dog?”

“Yeah, a black German Shepherd.”

“That’s cool. What’s its name?”

“Pony,” he scoffs. “He said it’s short for Ponyboy or some shit. He said Ole Dally named him.”

Ponyboy? From The Outsiders?

“Dallas named him?”

She named her brother’s fucking dog after me?

It might be endearing, cute even, if I didn’t already know Dallas. I must’ve pissed her off something awful. She could’ve named the dog Johnny, Darry, or even Soda. She might be sweet, but she’s also petty.

A little hellion.

Now I have no idea what’s waiting for me.

“You want a job?” Brantley interjects.

“What kind of job?” I ask out of curiosity more than anything.

“Security. It’s better than patrols in the desert and Raf says you’re a good shot.” When I don’t respond right away, he flashes a sticky, syrupy smile. “Pays a lot.”

I bet there’s still a chance I’ll die all the same.

“Thanks, but I’m set.”

“Well,” Brantley shrugs, “our gate’s always open.”

“No, it’s not,” Wesley scoffs, making Cotton chuckle as he runs the needle back and forth over Aiden’s neck.

I arch one brow. “If by open, you mean I’ll get a bullet through my skull.”

“Only if you don’t call first,” Brantley shrugs. “But don’t worry, I’ll give you our direct number.”

“Security for what?” I ask.

He casts me a smarmy grin. “When you’re on payroll, then I’ll tell you.”

I suppose you don’t maintain a compound with its own warehouses, fleet of trucks, airstrip, and hangar by running your mouth to someone you’ve only known for five minutes.

“Anyway,” I turn back to Aiden, “I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me shit. But I’ll tell you what, get some ink,” he nods to Cotton, “on me. I don’t have any skin left, so this is your last chance to squeeze more money out of me.”

“What money?” Cotton scoffs. “Last I heard, Old Man Rafferty cut you off for being seen with the likes of us.”

“Rumors. Take it up with your niece, ” Aiden taunts through slitted eyes. “I’ll be in the will at this rate. Besides, we have some time before we need to get out of here.”

I can’t tell if Cotton is looking at Aiden like he’s a petulant child or he’s about to snap his neck. Either way, it’s on brand for Aiden.

“So, contract killer ,” Cotton turns to me, “what do you want?”

Initially, I was going to decline. Unlike most people I know, I don’t have any tattoos—at least not the traditional kind. Nothing else seemed important enough to etch into my flesh.

Until now.

Suddenly, my pectoral muscle spasms and I wince as the tremor pulls at my scar. I hate looking down and seeing it, of being reminded of what happened every time I look in the mirror. Without a word, I reach into my pocket and retrieve my phone. After searching through my photos, I find the one I’m looking for and extend my arm to show him the picture.

Cotton takes the phone and studies the image. A few seconds later, his eyes flick to me and then back down to the screen.

“Wow.”

●●●

When I step into my old bedroom, it feels like I step through a portal. After six years, everything is still the same. Even when I came back for Luca’s surgery, I barely stayed in this house for 24 hours. But instead of touring the museum of my youth, I go straight to the closet and throw open the door. I flip the light switch and crouch down to examine the bottom of the wall.

The jagged hole in the drywall is still here.

I don’t know what I was expecting or why I feel the need to look at the gaping hole that used to hold all my secrets. They aren’t there anymore. They’re somewhere else, with someone else, and I know they’re safe. I’ll see them again, just like I’ll see her again. But not yet. I still have things to do before then.

What matters is that I don’t belong in this room anymore, just like I planned. But when I shut the door and head back to the living room, I come face to face with a ghost. Not a ghoul with decaying flesh or a blob of transparent mist; this one is dressed in tailored pants and a Navy button-down. And the mere sight of him sends adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Luca’s a far cry from how he looked the last time I saw him in this room. His hair is longer, his tattoos peeking out from his rolled-up sleeves, but he looks…brighter. Maybe because there’s not a darkness lingering behind his dead eyes or an aura of malice shrouding him like a thousand-year curse.

“Hey, Alex,” even his voice sounds lighter, different from the gritty rasp he used to have.

“Hey,” I deadpan. There’s nothing else. My mind is blank.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be here.” He cracks a smile. “But I saw a truck out front and I figured it was you. I just came from work.”

“Where do you work?” I ask, realizing the only job I ever knew Luca to have was back in high school at some garage in the shitty part of town that I’m positive was a chop shop.

“For a civil rights attorney.”

I just stare back at him blankly. I must’ve flown through a portal somewhere over the Atlantic and landed in an alternate universe. My brother, Luca, doesn’t go to work at a law office dressed business casual every day. And he certainly doesn’t give a shit about anyone’s civil rights.

“I just stopped by to drop something off.” He’s also strangely unbothered by my lack of emotion.

“I’m sorry, Alex,” he blurts out after a few seconds.

“What?”

“Yeah, uh…” he hesitates for a long time, looking down at the floor like he’s deciding what to say.

Still dead behind the eyes, I watch him with low-key suspicion. I haven’t forgotten what happened the last time we stood here face to face. And, this time, if things go south, I’ll be the one choking him out and stepping over his body on the way out.

“During my surgery,” Luca finally breaks the silence, “I had to stay awake so they could monitor my brain activity. The surgeon told me if I couldn’t think of anything to talk about, I should just sing a song. So, I started singing that song Mom liked. You remember it? The one about the bullfrogs and wine that she used to sing to us all the time?”

Of course, I remember it.

I set my jaw and pull the armor up.

“Afterward, he said that the tumor was pressing on my frontal lobe so hard that they were surprised I could still walk upright. And even though he removed it and I was healthy again, things just got worse. I felt different, like I didn’t belong in my body anymore. After a few evaluations, they all agreed that the tumor caused the changes in my behavior and contributed to why I was incarcerated—why I did the things I did.” He takes a breath. “What I did to you.”

I just stare at him, still not knowing how to respond. This man doesn’t look like my brother, and he doesn’t sound like my brother, but I know he is my brother.

“It’s not an excuse, but when I tell you that I’ve changed, it’s because my brain is different, and I’m not just bullshitting you.”

Stone-faced, I just nod. Maybe I just need time to process this and verify that Luca’s not some alien plant. Meantime, I glance at a square cardboard box sitting on the coffee table.

“What’s that?”

“Oh,” Luca picks it up and offers it to me, “I was going to send it to you a while ago, but then I found out that you were coming home.”

It’s not taped, so I start pulling the flaps open.

“It’s kind of corny and I know it’s not a replacement, but I wanted you to have it.”

At first, it looks like a small pillow, but when I pull it out of the box, I realize it’s a folded-up blanket—a small quilt with little orange lions and green fronds all over it. I clench my jaw tighter, tamping down the whirlwind of emotions.

“I know it’s mine,” Luca continues, “but you deserve to have it instead.”

The quilt feels just like mine; feather soft, faded, and worn with both love and time. It never occurred to me that he would still have it, like everything associated with him was erased with each day he transformed into someone I didn’t recognize.

“Why?” I ask calmly, “What’s to replace?”

Because, as far as I know, Luca doesn’t know what happened to mine.

I lock eyes with him and wait, relishing the heavy silence.

“I let her in the house,” he confesses. “She was mad at you for the Marines and I saw her take it. She told me what she was going to do and I didn’t care. I didn’t stop her.” He doesn’t have to say who her is, because we both know. “I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I was mad at you, too. Everything seemed so easy for you. You never needed anyone and you could just… leave. It was kind of like how you didn’t need her, and when it came down to it, you didn’t need me, either.”

Easy…

“Honestly,” Luca continues, “after the surgery, I hit rock bottom. I remembered what happened, and what I did, and all I could think about was you, and—” he pauses when his voice catches, “and Mom. There’s not much left of her…” Luca trails off.

He must not be bullshitting me, after all. He speaks in a gentle, even tone, letting me take in his words instead of poking and prodding and looking for a fight. I hate that I don’t hate Luca. Maybe because I’ve lost too much of my family already. Or maybe it’s because it feels like the Luca I hate isn’t even standing in the same room as me.

“So, yeah, I didn’t mean to dump all this on you right away,” he says after a heavy silence. “I have to get going, but if you’re not busy tomorrow night, I’ll come over again.” He heads for the door, glancing over his shoulder as he goes. “Adrian said something about smoking ribs and I told him I’d bring dessert.” He opens the front door. “Anything you want. And none of that dry, crumbly shit. I promise.”

He flashes me a smile I haven’t seen since we were kids and then pulls the door closed behind him.