Page 43 of Reaper
"I've always been good at my job." The anger spikes, hot and jagged, cutting through my exhaustion.
I'm tired. I'm so damn tired of fighting for ground I'm never going to win.
"I don't need your validation. I stopped looking for it four years ago. Are we done with the back and forth? Because I've got shit to do."
Frost's eyes lock onto mine, sweeping over the combat knife, the sidearm, the spare magazines strapped to my thigh.
"Then where the hell are you going?"
"My business isn't finished."
"The broker who ordered the hit." Frost's jaw tightens. The realization hits him—he knows exactly what a lone operator geared up for an assault means. "You go after him alone, you die."
"I'm used to working alone." I shrug, the movement stiff under my damp jacket. "If I kill him, it'll be worth it."
"So you're just going to leave her?" The tactical commander bleeds completely out of his voice, leaving only the older brother staring at a ghost. "Just walk away?"
"Yeah." I meet his gaze, refusing to let the lie crack. "What do you expect me to do? Stick around? Play house while Guardian HRS wraps her in red tape? I've got business to handle."
"She deserves better than that." An undeniable flash of disgust crosses his face.
"So you keep telling me." I hold his stare, refusing to defend myself. It doesn't matter what I do or who I protect. I'll never be enough for him. "Better I leave like this."
I step around him, aiming for the tree line at the edge of the parking lot.
"Wyatt."
The word cracks like a whip.
I stop, the gravel crunching under my boots, but I don't turn around.
"Don't throw your life away."
I look past him to the closed door of the motel room.
"Keep her safe, brother. That's the only thing that matters."
I turn, walk into the dark line of the timber, and disappear.
FOURTEEN
The Truth
ADDY
The cold wakes me.
It isn't a gradual shift. It's an immediate, visceral awareness of the empty space in the bed beside me. The heavy wool blanket is pulled over my shoulder, but the heat is gone.
I open my eyes. The harsh red numbers of the digital clock bleed through the shadows. 0214.
The room is completely silent.
I push up onto my elbows, the chill of the motel room biting into my bare skin. My clothes from the mountain—the damp thermal, the ripped jeans—are folded on the armchair in the corner.
Wyatt's tactical jacket is gone.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs, a sudden, erratic rhythm. I throw off the blanket and slide out of the bed. The threadbare carpet is freezing under my bare feet. I pull the damp thermal over my head, drag on my jeans, and shove my feet into my boots without bothering to tie the laces.
