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He turns to face us, yanking off the gloves. Adam is now holding one of the pieces of paper. “This is a list of dog tags,” he indicates. “Socials, religious preferences, initials. All but a few of them have red dots next to them. I’m guessing this is what has you pissed off. Those people are dead, aren’t they?”
“I’m on there. I’m alive, but I don’t have a red dot. I can piece together who a couple of the initials reference and they’re dead. And yes, they have red dots by their names.”
“In other words,” I say, and it feels like a vice is closing on my chest, “you’re on a hit list.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I suspect that’s what your father figured out. That everyone who worked for the black ops project was dying, but you know, whatever on that. Let them come for me. I’ll kill any motherfucker that’s brave enough to try.”
Unless he gets killed first. The idea is too much to bear. He just came back into my life. I can’t lose him again. I close the space between us and catch his arm, giving the rest of the room my back, focusing on him, just him. “You have to take shelter.”
He slides a hand to my neck and pulls me close, kissing me. “I’m good, baby. I promise.”
“You’re not good,” I argued. “No one on a hitlist is good and you’re on edgy. You’re all but pacing and you don’t pace.”
“I’m pissed,” he says. “And I’m damn good and dangerous when I’m pissed.”
“What are Westwood and Keystone?” Smith asks.
“That’s what’s got me pissed off,” Savage says, dragging me under his arm and to his side. “Those are all mission names. And I was one of a handful of men on those two missions. One of those men has a red dot by his name.”
“What were they?” Adam says, and now everyone is standing. We’re all standing in the center of the kitchen.
“I know the names,” Rick says. “I know vague details. They were stateside.”
“That’s it?” Adam presses. “Vague details?”
“That was the window where me and vodka ran the missions together. Apparently, I was better drunk than sober. The good news in this is that I kept details of every mission—photos, disc drives, and documents—just in case I ever needed to cover my ass.”
“Where?” I ask. “Where are they?”
He scratches right above his lip and releases me. “That’s the bad news.” His hands settle on his hips. “I had a few places I hid things. I just can’t exactly remember where the fuck the last spot might have been.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Adam and Smith say at the same time.
“Yes, I’m fucking serious,” Rick snaps. “Do you think I’d joke about shit like this?” He glances at me. “Do we have vodka?”
Now it’s my turn. Aside from him referencing “we,” I’m blown away. “Are you fucking serious, Rick?”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” he scolds.
“Because you don’t deserve it?” I challenge. “You want vodka?”
“I need triggers,” he says. “I need to remember.”
“So, drinking the booze that makes you forget helps how? Think of something else.”
“Give me someone to kill,” he snaps back. “That’ll work.”
“No one handy right now,” I say, “though the coffee shop up the road always screws up my order and the clerk is rude. Maybe you can head in that direction?”
“Aren’t you funny?” he challenges.
“Not usually,” I reply. Someone’s phone buzzes with a text message, but I glare at Rick and add, “And neither are you right now.”
“We have the audio file from the meeting between Pocher and Gabriel headed our way,” Adam says. “I’ll pull it up on my computer.”
Rick grabs me and pulls me to him, giving the other two men his back. “You really are perfect.”
“You know what would be perfect? If you remembered where you put the mission data.”
“I will.”
“How?”
“Completely,” he says. “I’ll remember. I’ll remember it all.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes,” he assures me. “That’s right.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“How?”
“You don’t get to ask that again.”
“You know what else would be perfect?” I ask.
He leans in close and whispers, “You naked and my tongue on your—”
I pull back. “You never drinking vodka ever again.”
“That, too,” he agrees. “But my tongue. Think about my tongue.”
“Stop.”
“That’s not what you would say if you were naked.”
“Rick!”
“That’s what you would say.”
I punch him. He laughs, but it’s not a real laugh. There’s a sharp edge to the sound. Sharp as the blade his brilliant, deadly hands hold to save lives and take them. And right now, I find his skill as a killer far more comforting than I should.
Rick and I are still standing in the middle of the kitchen, and his vodka joke fades into a swift darkening of his mood, a sharp knife of torment jabbing at his stare, there and gone, before he says, “I need to make a few calls.” He strokes my hair behind my ear. “I’ll be right back.” And just that quickly, he’s backed away and walked to the patio door, where he exits.
