Chapter 2 #2
Ansel stood there, brown eyes solemn, blond hair a little messy, wearing mismatched socks and holding a glass of water like he’d been stationed there on purpose.
Breakneck scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, buddy. I’m…a dumbass. Shit…sorry. Sorry for the language. Don’t repeat it.”
Ansel shrugged, unconcerned. “I’ve been a dumbass before.”
Breakneck huffed a laugh, then winced when it hurt. “Fair enough.”
The kid stepped inside, glancing behind him like he was checking for Taylor. Then he held out the water. “I’ve seen my dad like this before,” Ansel whispered. “He was always thirsty when he woke up.”
Breakneck took the glass with both hands. Drank until it was empty. Wiped his mouth. “Thanks.” Ansel nodded like he’d done something important. Breakneck set the glass down, exhaled slowly, then blurted before he could stop himself, “You…lost your dad to an overdose, right?”
Ansel’s mouth tightened. “Yeah.”
Breakneck regretted it instantly. “Kid, I—”
“No, it’s okay,” Ansel said softly. “He was always sad. He needed something to help.”
That was…too close. He cleared his throat. “Do you ever…worry that maybe you’ll be like him?”
Ansel went a little pale. Looked down at his hands. “When I was in Portugal, yeah. I worried a lot. My grandmother wouldn’t let me be…me.” He swallowed. “But here with Boomer and Aunt Taylor, I feel different.”
Breakneck let his eyes close. A breath dragged out of him, heavy and jagged. “That’s good,” he whispered. “Really good.” His chest tightened. “Do you…remember him?”
Ansel scrunched his face, thinking hard. “It’s hard now. But I remember his hands, the way he sculpted, his laugh. Do those count?”
Breakneck reached out, squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Yeah. Those count.”
Ansel looked up at him. “Did your dad die too?”
The question hit like a blow. Breakneck swallowed. “Yeah. When I was seven.”
Ansel nodded slowly, as if recognizing a brother-in-arms. “I’m really sorry for you. I know how that feels.”
Breakneck’s vision blurred for a second. He blinked fast.
Ansel studied him, head tilted. “Did you have your mom, though?”
Breakneck’s stomach twisted so violently it felt like he’d been punched. “Not really.”
Ansel nodded, solemn and certain. “Then you’re an orphan like me. It’s a good thing we have Boomer and Taylor.”
The words landed in Breakneck’s chest like an arrow, clean, painful, true.
Then the memories crashed over him in a single, sickening wave.
Crying all over Boomer, the confession, the woman in the bathroom, the emptiness, the whiskey, the man’s throat under his hand, the pleasure in the violence. The shame.
His stomach lurched.
He shot to his feet, stumbled past Ansel, barely made it to the bathroom before he hit the floor and vomited violently, body shaking, hands braced on cold tile.
Behind him, in the doorway, Ansel stood silent, small, steady, patient in that uncanny way he had, just a quiet presence, the way Breakneck had once been for Boomer.
God help him, the kid didn’t flinch.
Breakneck rinsed his mouth, splashed water on his face, and didn’t look in the mirror. He already knew what he’d see there—a stranger in his own skin. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Ansel was still in the hallway, small and steady and too knowing.
“Thanks,” Breakneck muttered, voice raw.
The kid just nodded. Like he understood. Like he didn’t judge him.
It almost broke Breakneck all over again. He grabbed the vest and jeans, grimacing at the memory of how he’d dressed himself up like bait. He didn’t even want to put the clothes on, but he also didn’t want to get pulled over for indecent exposure or stopping traffic with his fuckable body.
He could hear it now. Sorry, officer, I didn’t mean to cause an accident.
Even his own joke fell flat.
He couldn’t face Boomer. Couldn’t face Taylor. Couldn’t face the kindness or the questions or the goddamn worry written all over both their faces. So he murmured a thank you that barely made it out of his throat, ducked his head, and slipped out the front door before either of them saw him.
Outside, the morning light was too bright, too sharp, too real.
He retrieved his bike from the driveway, the Harley’s chrome glinting like a mirror he refused to look into. His hands shook when he put on his helmet. His stomach twisted when the engine roared to life. He rode home fast and silent, the cold air punishing his skin, exactly what he needed.
He showered the second he stepped inside, scalding hot, steam filling the tiny bathroom until the walls dripped. He scrubbed until his skin hurt, until the woman’s perfume and the bar stink and the cheap whiskey were gone.
None of it washed off the shame.
He forced himself into uniform after that, something solid, something structured. The fabric, the weight, the patches…all of it reminded him of who he was supposed to be. Who he desperately wished he still was.
He headed straight for the cages.
The minute he opened the metal door, the familiar scent of oil, metal, and gunpowder hit his bloodstream like oxygen.
Breakneck sat at the cage table, towel rolled under his forearms, watching the silence settle around him the way it always did here, steady, familiar, clean.
His weapon lay where he’d left it. Not just a rifle. His rifle. His anchor.
Most guys on the regular teams took whatever loadout they were assigned.
In Tier 1, the sky wasn’t the limit. Breakneck was.
Every operator built his platform from the ground up, but Breakneck had tricked out this beauty piece by piece, tuning her with the same obsession some guys reserved for bikes, cars, or women.
He reached for her, fingers brushing the cool metal like greeting an old friend.
The chassis was a custom McMillan A5, dense, rigid, built for recoil management and precision stability.
A carbon-fiber barrel shroud he’d fitted himself, vented just enough to keep the heat signature low.
The bolt assembly tuned down to ounces, smooth as butter, quiet as breath.
He ran his thumb along the fluted contours of the barrel, remembering every hour he’d spent honing this weapon to his hand, to his shoulder pocket, to his accuracy.
The Nightforce ATACR optic sat mounted with a cantilever rail, zeroed at 300, his preferred middle distance. He adjusted the elevation turret out of habit, not necessity, watching the numbers click under his fingertip. Every line. Every modification. Every ounce of weight distribution. His design.
Breakneck swallowed hard, jaw tightening. Elevating his precision. Sharpening his kills.
He gritted his teeth at the last thought, that last word, and his gut twisted. Not because he regretted a single shot. Not because he questioned his purpose. But because he felt nothing.
Not a goddamn thing. Every mission. Every confirmed hit. Every life he’d ended from 800 meters or more. All of it should weigh something. Should leave some scar. Instead, his conscience stayed silent. Emotionless. Cold zeros.
He shut his eyes. A short, harsh breath tore out of him. Then he snapped open the breech and began his routine. Bolt out.
He gently wiped the bolt face clean, then the receiver. Bore guide inserted. Bronze brush down the barrel, smooth, even strokes, listening to the soft rasp echo through the steel.
Then patches were soaked in solvent, withdrawing one after another until they came out clean.
Each step steadied him. Focused him. Pinned his brain to something concrete.
This…this he could control. This, he could do right. He fit the bolt back in, tested the action, cycling it once, twice, feeling the perfect marriage of metal on metal. His breathing finally leveled. His heartbeat slowed. The weapon lay across the table, gleaming under the overhead cage lights.
Piece by piece. Motion by motion, repetition settled into his bones. His breath syncing with the rhythm of the brush and swab. Focus dragging him back from the edges.
His rifle. His craft. His only constant. The one thing in his life he knew he handled right.
It grounded him, but not enough.
He hadn’t stumbled into this life. He’d been honed into it, carved down, sharpened, tempered, until there was nothing left but the weapon Uncle Sam needed him to be.
He’d made the sacrifices. Physical. Mental.
Gave up sleep, comfort, fear, hesitation.
Learned how to breathe in four-count increments, how to make his heartbeat an ally, how to let silence burrow deep and stay there.
A lot of guys got nervous pulling the trigger the first time. He hadn’t.
Anyone on the other side of his scope was trying to end American lives. Trying to end his brothers. Breakneck’s teammates were his first, final, nonnegotiable priority.
His shots were always true. The enemy went down. Didn’t get up. That was his fucking job. That was war.
He could live with that.
What he couldn’t live with, what gutted him now, was the fact that he was questioning it. Questioning himself.
That goddamned Derrick had gotten into his head so deeply he’d made Breakneck doubt the one pure thing he’d ever done in his life. His job. His purpose. His kill-shot clarity.
His head pounded. His stomach rolled. He needed control. He needed pain. He needed something to drown out the shame clawing at his ribs.
So he changed into nothing but a pair of compression shorts, sending conversation after him as he stalked straight to the base training facility. It was blessedly empty at this hour, just the hum of overhead lights and the faint rubber scent of mats and iron.
Perfect.
He went straight to the pull-up bar. No stretching. No warm-up. No thought.
He grabbed the bar and pulled, explosive, clean, full extension, over and over until his lats screamed and his arms trembled. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. He lost count.
His breath tore out of him in harsh bursts, sweat rolling down his temples and burning the cut on his jaw he barely remembered getting. Good. He wanted the burn. Wanted the ache.