Chapter Two #2
He showered in cold water, ate standing up, worked out until his knuckles split open and bled across the mat. When the nightmares got bad, he went for runs at midnight, bare-chested and barefoot, until the soles of his feet burned.
He’d checked in with Bateman once—just once. Dev, twice. Texts. No voice.
They hadn’t pushed.
Just sent back: We’re here when you’re ready.
Marsh had reached out the most. Six texts. Two calls. One voicemail Ricky hadn’t played—not because he didn’t care, but because he did. Because if he heard Marsh’s voice—heard that stubborn, sharp-edged warmth—he might do something stupid.
Like go back before he knew who the hell he was without them.
He hadn’t blocked any of them. That would’ve felt like cutting the cord.
But he hadn’t answered them either.
What would he say? Hey, sorry I’ve been a ghost. Turns out I don’t know how to function outside the wire. Also, I gave my heart to someone who disappeared the morning after like I was some drunken mistake. But, I’m great, thanks for asking.
He wasn’t okay. But the words didn’t come easy.
He was halfway through a shift in a glass-walled surveillance post on the roof of a private hotel, the afternoon sun throwing long shadows across the concrete below.
Dressed in black cargo pants and a ballistic vest, Ricky had one boot kicked up on the edge of the window, hands wrapped around a thermos of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.
Beneath his seat, a duffel bag stayed packed.
Just in case.
When the burner phone buzzed, it was so soft it almost didn’t register. Just a flicker of vibration against the desk.
Ricky glanced down, expecting nothing.
Then froze.
(1) New Message.
From: Unknown.
Subject: I’m sorry
His spine straightened. His fingers went cold.
It wasn’t Bateman’s number. Or Dev’s. But the encryption signature was the same. Familiar. Military.
He opened it.
The encryption signature was right. Scrambled in the exact way he knew Van used, when they’d passed intel back and forth during missions over the past few years.
His fingers hovered.
Then he opened it.
The message hit like a bullet to the sternum.
Didn’t know how to say it before. Should’ve stayed. Should’ve told you. There’s something I need you to see. If this gets to you, I didn’t make it. The list attached—Van’s list—one of them is his. Please find her. Please keep her safe. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Love E.
Love, E.
The words blurred for a second as something thick and electric surged through Ricky’s chest.
He read it again.
Then again.
Each line etched deeper. Like Ezra had reached through the screen and carved the apology directly into his chest. His heart beat a frantic beat behind his ribs.
Didn’t know how to say it.
Should’ve stayed.
Love, E.
Ricky’s hands shook. Not with rage. Not quite. With the kind of ache that didn’t have a name. The kind that built slowly over weeks and months and hardened into a shell—and then cracked wide open with just two words.
I’m sorry.
He exhaled through clenched teeth and opened the attachment. A spreadsheet. No, not quite. A document disguised as logistics—intake data, age ranges, transit markers. But it was more than that.
It was a fucking ledger of stolen children.
Girls. Names. Photos. Birthdates. Paperwork so official it made his stomach turn. Aged five to fifteen. Albanian, Romanian, Serbian. Passports. Visa stamps. Health records. All forged.
And buried beneath that—metadata strings. Genetic signatures. DNA matches cross-referenced to encrypted personnel files.
He scrolled—numb, then sick, and then he saw it, fucking furious.
Knowles, Arina. F. Age: 5. DNA match: Donovan Knowles.
The air left his lungs like he’d taken a punch. Van.
Van had a daughter.
Van—his first mentor, the man who taught him how to hold a line, how to lead without shouting, how to care without weakness—had died before he could find her. And Ezra—Ezra had found the trail. Picked up the torch and followed it across continents, right into the dark.
And now he might be dead, too. Ricky stood so fast, his chair scraped back and toppled.
None of this was abstract anymore. This wasn’t ghosts and guilt and something left unsaid.
This was Van’s blood. This was Ezra, bleeding somewhere, maybe dying—after apologizing.
After finally saying the words Ricky had waited three goddamn months to hear.
He didn’t hesitate. He moved. Bag. Boots. Weapon. Keys. He was out the door and heading for his truck before anyone knew he was leaving. As he moved, he passed on a message to his boss that he had a family emergency, because that’s what this fucking was, and he didn’t want their asset to get shot.
As soon as he got to the truck, he flicked a message to Bateman.
I’m coming back. Van had a daughter. Ezra’s in trouble. Will need extraction, ETA 6 hours.
And as his tires hit the freeway, his jaw set in stone, only one thought remained.
I’m coming, Ezra. I’m coming, and no one’s going to fucking stop me.