Chapter 28
It wasn’t that he didn’t remember the days between their deaths and their funerals, it was simply that they didn’t matter.
They were nothing. Just a blip in time when Aberlour had answered questions with a yes or a no, then sent everyone else packing with a fuck you and a scowl.
There was nothing left of Abe to give the world.
The world had taken everything and left behind a haunted husk.
That image—their heads, rolling on dirty ground, their smiles forever erased, their familiar eyes blank with fear and disbelief—it wouldn’t leave him.
Aberlour didn’t try to banish it. He deserved this pain.
This searing, never ending, overwhelming burn.
It was his jailer, his jury, and he hoped—soon—his executioner.
Team Specter was disbanded, and while Oliver and Aberlour were still under the thumb of the US Marine Corps, it was only so they could be properly discharged, complete with psychological evaluations and NDAs longer than they were.
They’d both been shipped back on the same cargo plane as their brothers-in-arms’ coffins. Empty coffins, of course. Their bodies were lost to the US government, and no matter how often and how loudly Aberlour had bitched about it, there would be no retrieving them.
The flight home had nearly killed them both.
It had been silent. Completely, utterly silent.
And their arrival had been much the same.
These were not heroes of war—not soldiers fallen in the line of duty.
They were the tragic victims of an accidental explosion.
They would get a military burial, but not the fanfare that fallen heroes received.
There had been no one waiting for them at the airport. No processions to carry the caskets.
And there had been no one there for Abe or Oli either.
The funerals had been planned for the following day, but most of Oliver’s family was in Alabama.
They wouldn’t be arriving until the next day.
Which meant both Oliver and Abe took a taxi to their hotel in the dead of night.
They were given separate rooms, and they said nothing to each other as they bid the other goodnight with a simple nod.
They both could have gone home. It was only a 30-minute drive from the base to the cemetery, but—no.
A hotel was better. Neutral ground. There were no memories here.
No ghosts haunting the corners, no memories to pull him under.
Which is exactly why he’d spent the entire night awake, staring off into space, chain smoking, a part of him urging the gods to take him, too.
Time was fleeting and inconsequential. He felt no warmth as he watched the sunrise from his window. Just a profound ache at the approach of the three-volley salute he’d have to face at the funerals later that day.
“If you smoke any more of those damned things, they’ll have to bury you, too.”
Oli’s form of greeting was something Aberlour might have said, but coming from Oli, it sounded wrong. He’d heard the man come in—or had he? He couldn’t be sure. Odds were, he’d heard, but hadn’t cared.
With a sigh of exhaustion, he looked up at his oldest friend and saw there exactly what he knew he would.
A broken man faking his way through being okay.
He was doing a shit job at it, that was for sure.
He supposed Oliver didn’t have much practice at this.
Aberlour, on the other hand, had been faking for an entire year.
Abe didn’t comment on his friend’s fuckup. He offered up the cigarette instead.
Without a word, Oliver simply headed towards the small breakfast nook table where Abe had taken up residence. He sat down in the other chair and plucked the cigarette from Aberlour’s fingers. He took a long drag, his fingers twitching with nerves and emotion.
Aberlour took in the world around him, aware for the first time—in hours? days? months? how long had it been? —of his surroundings.
The ash tray was still smoldering, the window cracked open, a sliver of sunlight came through the partially drawn drapes, a thick cloud of smoke filled the room.
“I hate smoking.”
“Then don’t,” Aberlour responded as he reached for the cigarette, but Oliver shook his head and took another puff.
“It’ll kill you one day,” Oliver said, staring at the overflowing ashtray.
“Good,” Abe replied.
The sun was up, finally. Aberlour had been up all night with only his dark thoughts for company.
It seemed fitting.
“How are you so calm? I haven’t slept in four days. Just thinking about it makes me want to puke. Can’t keep anything down,” Oliver confessed, his voice cracking.
Abe didn’t need Oliver to tell him that. His friend looked like roadkill. He had duffle-sized bags under his eyes. Pale, and dull looking, like someone had sandpapered the polish right off him.
Had it already been four days? It felt like—
No.
There was no real way for him to quantify time. No reality to any of it. They were dead. They would always be dead. Days, months, years, the pain would be the same. He’d make sure of that. Time was irrelevant. He refused to think about it.
Instead, he said, “What else am I supposed to do? The time to act is gone, O. They’re already cold.”
If Aberlour had been a bit more like Oli, he might have admitted that he’d had trouble sleeping, too.
No, trouble was not the right word. Actually, he was incapable of even shutting his eyes for longer than a few seconds at a time.
The haunting mental pictures had changed.
Gone was the rotten image of their execution.
Instead, they were there, all four of them, every time he shut his eyes, smiling at him.
Sons of bitches, the lot of ‘em, grinning from ear to ear. He’d have preferred to see them miserable and afraid.
He deserved to remember their pain and be haunted by it, but no such luck.
Somehow he was plagued with images of them at their best. His men at their happiest and most content.
“What are we gonna do, Dumber? I’m losing my fucking mind.”
Aberlour was too, in a way, but he was used to the sinking feeling of losing his grasp on his sanity. He was used to this particular pitfall. The odd vertigo. But this was Oli’s first time.
He sighed and leaned forward to grab the arm of Oliver’s chair. He pulled it towards him so they could face each other, close enough that their knees touched.
“One fucking minute at a time, O,” Aberlour reminded him, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Exactly like before, one minute at a time.”
There was a broken sob. The kind that almost sounded like a hiccup at first. Then Oliver buried his face in his hands, harsh sobs shaking his shoulders.
Aberlour doubted there would be any tears left, since it looked as if he’d cried all the tears a man could possibly produce in a lifetime.
Aberlour knew this because he’d done the same.
With a sigh, he pulled Oliver close so he could rest against Aberlour’s chest. Aberlour played with his hair, remaining silent while pain, regret, and anger wreaked havoc on Oliver.
He didn’t shut his eyes to weather the storm.
The slide show of their faces would be there if he did. Just—waiting.
There must be words he should say. A smarter man would’ve had words. Good words. Smart words.
Marcus would have had words. The kind that made people smile through their grief.
Carlos would have had words. Funny words, intended to ease your misery, at least for a moment.
Aberlour had none of those. All he had was rage and despair, and Oliver didn’t need those on top of everything else.
So, Abe didn’t speak. He just continued to play with Oliver’s hair.
Eventually, Oliver seemed to be calming down a bit, so he pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
Maybe he didn’t have the right words, but touch seemed to do the trick.
“Your parents meeting you there?” Aberlour asked, as Oliver sat up. He didn’t mention Abby. He wanted to pretend she didn’t exist for as long as he could.
Oliver’s face was dry, not a tear in sight as he nodded.
“Yeah. They’re driving straight from the airport,” Oli replied, roughly clearing his throat as he lifted his head from Aberlour’s chest.
Aberlour glanced at the clock. It was only 7:00 a.m., and the funerals didn’t start until 1:00 p.m.
“Come on,” he said, as he got up. He grabbed Oliver’s hands and pulled him to his feet.
“Where we going?”
“To bed,” Aberlour said, tugging him towards the bedroom. Oliver didn’t struggle or resist, but his voice wavered.
“I can’t—it’s not—Abby . . . ”
So many damned words. Aberlour had always loved Oliver’s ability to talk—mostly because when he did, Abe didn’t have to. But just then, he wished Oliver would shut up.
“Sleep, Oli—we both need sleep, or we’ll never make it through, and four is enough Marines to bury for one day.”
The words fell like lead bullets to the carpeted floor, but he ignored them. What did it matter? What did any of this matter? Both of them were already riddled with bullets, only half alive. He wished his words were enough to take him out—take them both out and be done with it.
They weren’t.
Once in the bedroom, he dragged his shirt over his head, dropped his pants, and slipped under the covers of the bed. It was still freshly made. He hadn’t even attempted to get some sleep last night. He’d known it would be pointless. He didn’t wait to see if Oliver would join him. He knew he would.
As expected, Oli slid under the covers to lie next to Abe in his boxer briefs.
Without a word, Aberlour rolled over and wrapped an arm around Oli’s torso.
His hand connected with the edge of the small bandage he still wore over the bullet wound.
It seemed like an eternity ago, yet it had only been a few weeks. No wonder he looked like roadkill.