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PROLOGUE
Dusty stood, his feet wide, and stared down the sight of his weapon at the target, firing round after round, blowing a giant hole dead-center in the paper outline of a man.
“I think he’s dead, Dusty,” Grady informed.
Dusty loaded another clip, ignoring his Tri Star fellow operative.
“Who you tryin’ to kill, brother?” Big Al asked.
“Myself,” he muttered and saw out of the corner of his eye Grady and Big Al glance at each other.
“Brother, maybe you need some time off,” Grady suggested.
“That’s the last thing I need.” Dusty jammed another clip in his weapon.
“Heard you were talking about running with the bulls in Pamplona this July,” Grady said.
“Yep.” Dusty eyed down the sight and fired.
“Who are you going with?” Grady asked.
“Myself.” He paused, tilting the weapon up and studying Grady. “Why? You want to tag along?”
“Nope.”
Big Al slammed a clip in his own weapon and stepped forward, taking aim. “You got plans this weekend, Dusty?”
“Going base jumping.”
Grady cocked his head. “Base jumping? Since when do you base jump?”
“Thought I’d give it a try.”
Big Al nodded and fired, then looked over. “I get that—the thrill. I’ve been halo jumping. But base jumping? Those guys are insane. Something goes wrong,you are fucked.”
“Then I’ll be fucked.” Dusty unloaded his clip and packed up. “I’m hitting the showers.”
“You comin’ by Chris’s place tonight?” Big Al asked, turning.
“Maybe.” Dusty trudged off the Tri Star firing range, headed toward the offices.
He’d thought taking this job would suit him, give him a chance to make a difference, and maybe make up for his past mistakes. But he was second guessing. People got on his nerves these days. It hadn’t always been like this. He could remember a time in school when he’d been the life of the party. Those days were long gone. Now it was a struggle to make it through each day.
Some days, the only thing keeping him moving forward, keeping him from totally losing it, keeping him from sticking the barrel of his weapon in his mouth and eating a bullet were the exact system of steps he’d created for himself. Get up, make the bed, take a shower, dress, eat a bowl of cereal, wash the bowl and spoon, make a protein shake, head to Tri Star, complete the mission, head home, make a microwave dinner, wash the dishes, shower, go to bed. Get up the next day, and do it all over again. On the nights when he stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep, he’d get up and run five miles until he was so exhausted sleep easily found him.
He moved like a zombie through his daily routine, his only release came from doing the missions. That and going out on his off days seeking some new thrill, most of them solo adventures. He was becoming quite the loner when he wasn’t with the team.
Most days he could chase the darkness away, other days he could feel something inside him want to seek it out. Those were the times that scared him the most. He was afraid one day, he might succeed.
***
After Dusty walked off, Big Al and Grady exchanged another look.
“What the fuck was that?” Big Al asked.
“Stuff’s bothering him,” Grady mused.
“No shit, Sherlock. But it’s more than that. I think he’s got a death wish.”
