Page 7 of Ash Storm

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Ash

As a Sergeant First Class deployed in Syria, Ash had traveled a lot, sometimes in commercial planes, most of the time in military transports.

He still wasn’t used to the relative silence of a private jet.

He looked at his watch—still an hour to go—and closed his eyes. He’d learned early on to sleep when he could, and eat when he could. One never knew when the next chance to do either might come.

It was no use.

He couldn’t get the young woman’s smile out of his mind. Even if they found her and managed to extract her from Afsan’s palace—or even when they found her, he corrected himself—it was foolish to think this experience wouldn’t leave its mark. Ash wondered if anyone would ever see that radiant smile again.

He had an idea—fuck, so many ideas—of what she could be going through, and every time he closed his eyes, a new, terrifying scenario struck him.

Eventually, he gave up on sleep and got up, making his way to the bathroom at the back of the plane.

He passed by Dark and Rogue, who were sitting together, discussing something on the screen in front of them. Griffin and Slate sat in the next row. The two brothers weren’t talking, but they weren’t throwing verbal darts at each other, either. It was as if they’d momentarily made peace, though Ash knew that could change anytime.

He locked himself in the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror—tired brown eyes, one jagged scar running from his left eyebrow down to his cheekbone, a friendly reminder of his time in prison. He was damn lucky he could still see out of that eye.

Ash was always the odd man out. And he understood why nobody wanted to sit with him.

Hell, he wouldn’t sit with himself, either, if he had a choice.

Because of what they think you did.