Page 81 of The Lies We Tell

One by one, everyone steps forward.

“Let’s ride,” King says.

And I’m ready.

Because vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.

29

SAINT

“Saint,” Spark says as I collect what equipment I can to deal with trip wires and any other explosive devices we might find at the warehouse this time. It’s the most likely option of where they have taken Iris.

“How are you holding up?” I ask, shoving wire cutters into the bag of supplies.

His face is stricken, pinched. “Sick to my stomach. I need ...”

I place my arm on his bicep and squeeze. “Just say it.”

“I need hope, preacher man. Because right now, I ain’t got any.”

I think back to my father’s preaching, but it’s the only verse I ever learned from Mom that comes to mind. She’d say it in those quiet hours when we ate pancakes and Dad slept off his anger. I paraphrase the quote. “But since we belong to this day, Spark, let’s go get Iris, having put on the breastplate of faith and love and a helmet of hope and salvation. A version of 1 Thessalonians 5:8.”

He swallows hard and lets his head drop.

I place my other hand on it, closing my eyes and praying that the confidence and hope I carry passes through to him.

“We’ll get her back,” I say.

Sparks breathes deeply, then lifts his head. “Thanks. Breastplate of faith and love. Helmet of hope. Got it.”

He walks out of the armory, and King walks in. He starts grabbing ammunition, but he sees the things I have laid out on the table. “You wanna tell me how you know so much about explosives?” he asks in the dim light of the windowless room.

“Spent a lot of time assigned to bomb disposal.” It’s not a lie. I was. I keep it vague.

“Didn’t think chaplains were allowed in the field.”

“They’re not.” Again, it’s the truth. But in between the two truths are so many lies of omission, and I struggle to hold my president’s gaze.

King stares me down and takes another drag on his cigarette.

Cillian’s voice carries through the bar to us. “That man is dead. A soldier who can’t follow orders is a liability.”

King runs his tongue over his teeth. “Those might be the only wise words from that Irish man.”

And with that, he steps away.

King is suspicious.

Whatever happens next, this will be my last night with the Iron Outlaws.

It needs to count for something.

It takes an hour to get everything assembled. We park our bikes over the rise, so the engines don’t give our arrival away. Slowly, we creep our way into the building. I deal with trip wires, and Vex takes out proximity sensors and cameras.

Bates deals with the two men at the small security building. A line of blood sprays along the window. Someone picks the lock, and we’re slowly making our way through the rear corridor to the main warehouse space.

Screams ricochet throughout, then go silent. Spark starts toward a set of double doors, but Bates grabs him around the middle and holds him back.