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Until Valhalla.
I was aware I’d issued the words. That hadn’t happened since I’d visited Arlington National Cemetery after returning to the States. I’d been still recuperating, barely able to walk more than a few yards without resting, but I’d insisted on going, kneeling by the gravestones of the men who’d served alongside me. I’d been told more than once that they were the lucky ones, never to endure the kind of brutality forced upon me.
They were very lucky in my mind, but not because of the reason the various psychiatrists had mentioned. They’d been blessed with never being forced to return to what others called a normal life.
They’d died with honor. When I died, there would be no one there who cared to remember my sacrifices, even though I’d received a Medal of Honor for them. No one wanted to remember the horror, or the number of lives lost.
Maybe the reason I’d accepted this new position was the ability to die with honor. That is if the entire situation wasn’t swept under a political rug.
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, glancing into the rearview mirror. While I continued searching for any sign our location had been compromised, I was also studying my reflection. I wasn’t certain I liked what I saw any longer.
The goddamn hole had taken away a part of me that had never returned. Aside from MARSOC training for the Raiders, I’d requested captivity exercises, the physical endurance needed to withstand enemy capture a necessity. The officer in charge had been merciless, requiring every task fulfilled. I’d loathed the man, slashing all four of his tires in the middle of the night. But I credited him with being one of the reasons I’d remained lucid, my mind intact after being captured. I’d excelled at the exercise, continually pushing the envelope. While other soldiers had failed, unable to finish the course, I’d asked for more.
The man had been my nemesis at the time, but he’d pulled me aside after MARSOC was over, telling me his story of captivity twenty years before. He’d said something I’d remembered all through the months spent in the hole.
He’d told me that there would always be beauty at the end of the pain. There’d been no beauty in the darkness, no sign of hope. I’d wallowed in self-pity and anger for at least six months before I’d come to realize that beauty came in many forms. Unfortunately, I hadn’t found a goddamn thing that I’d considered beautiful in those torturous months.
As I guided the Mustang into town, I realized my actions had likely terrified Isabella even though she’d put up a brave front. A part of me accepted that’s what I was attempting to do in order to create a divide between us. The fucking shrinks would tell me I was unable to confront my feelings, establishing relationships far too uncomfortable and that I needed to work on it in order to have a fulfilling life.
Bullshit.
Being alone suited me just fine.
I pulled to the curb in front of one of the stores on Main Street, checking the reception. It was still sketchy, but better than I would have gotten at the house without the satellite. I pulled out the burner phone, dialing the handler’s number. I didn’t know his real name and he didn’t know mine. When he answered, he was hesitant given I’d purchased the phone after the meeting with Broderick.
“Yeah?”
“Code name Cobra, six-five-three-nine.”
“Confirmed. Code name Delta One.”
I checked my communications device, corroborating his identity as well as his voice pattern. “Confirmed. Requesting updates on whereabouts of antagonists.”
“Unable to sight. Continue pattern as required,” the handler stated. “However, extreme caution is needed. Infiltration possible in several sectors.”
Which was code for there were more enemy soldiers than originally thought and there was concern they were closing in their target.
Isabella.
Fuck.
“Any additional issues?” I asked after hearing a slight hesitation in the man’s voice. The men and women hired as handlers were well trained in the art of emotionless conversations, never allowing their personal feelings or concerns to invade the inflections in their tone. But I was a masterful listener, a skill perfected during my imprisonment. That had been another reason my escape had been successful.
I’d caught the bastards by surprise.
“The mark’s place of residence was eliminated.”
There were no fancy terms for what he was referencing, and it didn’t take particular skills to read between the lines.
Her apartment had been torched.
“Any casualties?” As if it mattered at this point.
“Six confirmed. Four not expected.” The man had a slight hint of concern, which meant he was new to the job. It took someone with no soul to separate out all feelings and emotions.
“And the lab?”
This is where he took a deep breath. “Destroyed.”
