Chapter Nine
Blade
D riving away from the shithole bar in Liberty City, hating Miami traffic, I replayed the image of those two chicks stumbling out to the sidewalk.
Something was off.
Or I was fucking off.
Eyes gritty, sleep deprived, my head fucked—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten laid. I was also still trying to process the bullshit lie every single guy on Church’s Team had fed me about being on an Op.
Not one of those fuckers had a scratch on them, and Church had come home in fucking pieces.
I hadn’t bought their story then, and I still wasn’t buying it now.
Church wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. Neither would any SEAL on his Team. Those fuckers would’ve had at least one injury between them if an explosion had taken out Church.
Turning south toward Little Havana, wondering what the hell two hot chicks were doing at that shit bar during the day, I drove to an address I’d gotten in the intel dump off Church’s cell. His wife’s place.
Or fiancée.
No one could confirm they’d gotten married, including myself. And that was the shit that was eating at me, along with the fucking lies about where he’d been. Both were pissing me off and fueling guilt.
I should’ve been there for his wedding.
I should’ve been a lot of goddamn places over the years.
But Church getting hitched should’ve been a priority. The second he’d told me he’d met a woman and was getting married, I said I’d take leave. He’d told me not to. She didn’t have family, and God knew we didn’t. He’d said they were eloping. Fucking Bali. Told me he’d catch me on the flip side of the honeymoon. Introduce his woman.
That was the last we’d spoken.
Days later, I was carrying his casket off the transport. No one knew about the wife. She was a no-show at the funeral, and the address of her place in Little Havana matched GPS coordinates from Church’s cell after one of his texts confirmed a meet at the bar in Liberty City. Other than that, I had a name of an Italian restaurant and the memory of part of my last conversation with Church.
“Fucking married.” Christ . “What’s her name?”
“Summer.”
“Summer what?” I logged in to a secure server our Team had.
Church laughed. “Nice try, big brother. Not happening.”
My thumbs hovered over the screen. “What’s not happening?”
“I know you. If you’re not already logged in to one of the databases, you’re about to be. If I give you her full name, you’ll run a background check so deep, you’ll know what color nail polish she buys.”
“Since when is nail polish in your fucking vocabulary?”
“Since Mom made me go to the store to get her specific colors when I was fifteen.”
What the fuck? “Mom didn’t wear that shit.”
“Exactly. It was punishment for breaking into Dad’s gun safe and using his old Colt 45 for target practice in the backyard with Geir. She sent me to the commissary and told me not to come home until I had the colors she wanted. Turned out, every fucking name was made up. An hour later, after I’d bought every color they had, it was all over base that I had a foot fetish and painted my toenails. I wore flip-flops that entire fucking winter.”
Shaking my head, I snorted out a half laugh. “Sounds like Mom.”
“That woman was insane.”
“She fucking married our old man. What’d you expect?”
“Fair point, and before you ask, no, Summer isn’t insane. You’re not getting her last name, and you’re not going to run any background checks on her. Copy?”
I shook away the memory.
But it kept replaying.
Same as it had the entire drive down to Miami.
Every hour on the road, I’d gone over that last call with Church.
He’d said his woman was a blonde. Nursing student. Met her at a bar.
I’d asked why the hell he was getting married when we both knew our parents had been the exception to the rule. Over ninety percent of SEAL marriages ended in divorce—for good fucking reason.
I’d told him if he loved the woman, then do her the favor of walking the fuck away. He’d said I sounded like our old man and told me to grow a pair. I’d told him to fuck off. Then his last words to me were the brother I’d known growing up.
“I’m marrying her, Blade.”
I fucking inhaled, then asked, “Is this you handling your shit?” He’d know what I meant. It’d been the one thing our mom had drilled into us. Repeatedly.
“She’s not pregnant.”
“Christ.” I exhaled. “Then I don’t know what’s worse.”
“That was always your problem.”
“I don’t have any fucking problems.” Except this call. And his wedding. “Text me where and when. I’ll be there.”
He chuckled. “Like I said, I’ll spare you.” His tone sobered. “I gotta go. Catch you on the flip side. Hooyah.”
“Church.” Fuck .
“What?”
I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Congratulations.”
Church had laughed, then hung up.
I’d replayed that laugh a hundred fucking times in my head because something had been off. It wasn’t until the hundred and first time that I’d realized what it’d been.
Church didn’t laugh.
Not when he was being himself.
Focusing up, I drove past the shit bungalow in Little Havana with bars on every door and window. Circling the block, I slowed down on my second pass.
The dirt yard, lack of signage advertising a security system, and chipped pink paint on the Spanish-style dump wasn’t what caught my eye.
It was the absence of shit lying around.
Every house on the block had debris surrounding it—kid’s toys, bikes, plants, concrete blocks, chairs, vehicles in carports, hanging laundry, satellite TV dishes, stickers in windows warning potential home invaders of security systems. Everything you’d expect from a densely packed neighborhood with houses, multifamily units, and apartment complexes that had a history of gang activity and higher crime rates.
But this bungalow didn’t have a damn thing past the wrought iron fence and rusted gate blocking the short driveway, except the house itself.
Scanning the street in both directions, I turned the corner.
Then I drove three blocks away, parked the rental in a busy apartment complex, and swapped my coyote brown undershirt for a black T-shirt. Pulling a baseball cap down low, I made a mental note to buy some fucking clothes that weren’t military issue. Then I checked my magazine, holstered my piece, and concealed it with my shirt before I got out of the SUV.
Scanning the lot, making sure no one was watching me, I moved out.
Sticking to shaded sections of the streets, weaving through an alley and side yards, I hit the bungalow from the rear and took the steps up to the back door, lockpicks already in hand.
Six seconds later, I was inside the house.
It was fucking empty.
Minus a futon folded into a couch in the living room, a six-pack of beer in the fridge, a can of paint in the laundry area, and a roll of toilet paper in the only bathroom, there wasn’t shit else.
I checked the kitchen faucet. Electricity and water were on.
Pulling out my cell, I ran a search on the address for realtor listings.
Nothing.
I scanned the small space again.
The house was prewar old, but the place was clean, neat. Hardwood floors were in good shape, walls were freshly painted, the kitchen had white tile counters, newer white cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. The bathroom looked original.
Unsure if the house was mid or post renovation, or just fucking abandoned, it didn’t take a genius to see the obvious.
The place had been swept.
My cell rang.