Chapter 24
Colt
“You told someone, David.”
“I didn’t!” he screams, sweat pouring down his face.
His pants are damp with piss and he’s on his knees, bloodied and bruised, his hands secured behind his back.
He breathes fast, his eyes glassy. “I swear, Colt—” He cuts himself off as I hold out my hand to Taf.
My friend approaches and hands me the cannister.
David’s eyes widen. “What are you doing?”
My footsteps echo through the warehouse. It’s an enormous empty space, the cement floor stained with the blood of too many men, most from the last few weeks.
Weeks without her.
There’s never a moment when I become accustomed to the agony of Denver not being by my side.
No moments of peace, or seconds where I forget.
It’s a constant wound in my heart, the twist of a blade in my vital organ.
I’ve searched, we’ve all searched, weeks of endless hunting, and I go home at night with blood on my hands and that endless, bitter ache.
There’s no relief without her here.
But I can share that pain with those who created it.
David managed to escape my wrath by hiding in his mom’s basement for four weeks. I found him three hours ago, and he’s bled for two and a half.
“You had an anonymous wire transfer for twenty-five grand the day after I rented your hotel. You’re telling me you know nothing?
I’ve worked my way through every staff member who was supposed to work that night,” I say, unscrewing the cap from the cannister.
“They said they didn’t know anything. If I believed them, I let them leave.
If I thought they were lying? If they had received money like you had?
” I step closer. “Can you guess what I did?”
His fear does nothing to me. It doesn’t make me hope he’ll confess. It doesn’t reignite the conscience that I’d allowed to grow in the short time I had Denver. There’s no rage, no acceptance, no peace.
There’s nothing in me.
“Who did you tell I’d be at the hotel?”
“No one!” he shouts, breaking into sobs. “I swear to God!”
God. There’s no god in this room. No salvation. No one who could save him, even if he was worth saving.
I empty the contents of the cannister over his head. He splutters, squeezing his eyes closed.
“Someone has my wife, David. Someone took my fucking wife. And you’re going to burn alive if you don’t tell me the truth.”
His sobs become wails. “I fucking swear!”
“Colt,” Taf says quietly. “Maybe he doesn’t know.”
I keep my focus on David as he sobs, his chin dropped to his chest. The patter of rain on the warehouse roof drowns out some of his cries, but not all. I stand before a man who might be innocent. He might know nothing.
I don’t care either way.
I take out the lighter, snapping my thumb down. The flame bursts to life.
“Last chance, David.”
“I don’t know any—”
I step back and throw the lighter.
Screams fill the space. Wails of horror, of agony, the smell of putrid burning flesh. David screams until his voice breaks, until he can’t scream anymore, and I watch him as he dies, until he’s a mess of melted flesh on the ground.
I can feel Taf’s eyes on me. “What now?”
My gaze travels over the still-burning body. “Bring in the next one.”
I stare past the trees. Past the blur of people coming and going. Past the normality of the day, the sun, the breeze, the realization that we’re leaning into spring.
Past everything, in hope I’ll see her.
It’s strange to be in a crowd but only be looking for one person, but I feel like since the day I met Denver, I’ve searched for glimpses of her in everything.
Maybe that’s falling in love. Seeing the person in every part of your day.
Holly’s giggle fills the air as Wesson chases her, bouncing on his paws as he eagerly waits for her to throw the tennis ball. My niece looks over at me and waves excitedly, and I smile for her.
It’s been almost five weeks since I meant a smile.
I struggled to understand Wilder’s pain when he lost Marnie. I knew it hurt, could identify the agony, but I never stepped into it. I could never truly know what he was going through.
Now I do.
And I understand the temptation to unravel.
More than a month without her. Five weeks of searching, of blood on my hands, of sleepless nights and endless scenarios slicing through my mind.
Of what she’s going through.
If she’s even still alive.
Part of me knows she is, like maybe a light would go out in me, too, if she were gone. And also because I know Spider wants me to wonder. Wants to use her.
My phone vibrates.
UNKNOWN: Nothing in VA.
I close my eyes, letting another dead end wash over me, and try to hold back the urge to scream.
UNKNOWN: FL?
I run my hand down my face before answering.
ME: Cain’s men are still there. Nothing yet.
Cal reads the message but doesn’t respond. He’s looking for her, too.
It didn’t take long to figure out Ranger didn’t have her. I called him the moment I was out of surgery, promising his violent end if he didn’t bring her back. His response was filled with the same stone-like anger and fear I felt.
“What do you mean, someone took her?”
We tore through the country for her. We killed. We burned. We scorched the earth for her.
So far, it’s resulted in nothing.
“Uncle Colt, can we get ice cream for Wesson?” Holly asks breathlessly, her cheeks pink.
I force a smile. “We could get ice cream for both of you.”
“Okay, good.” She holds out her hand and I take it, standing. My leg aches, but I focus on taking normal strides. I’ve missed out on my physiotherapy, the hours felt wasted when I could be looking for her, but I’m paying for it now. “Will Denver want ice cream?”
Holly has lost too many people to accept another load of grief, so as far as she knows, Denver is busy, but she’s close by. Holly will go away with my mom again soon, this visit brief. Something to pull me out of the shadows, my mom said. It’s almost worked.
“Maybe another time.”
Holly’s favorite ice cream parlor is in the city, and I keep a firm grip of her hand, the other holding Wesson’s leash as we get out of the car and make the rest of the short journey on foot.
Security is everywhere, dressed casually to not draw attention to us.
People rush by, lost in their own problems and lives, and cars sit in heavy traffic.
It’s a clear day, the air heavy with car fumes and horns blasting.
Music spills from stores we pass, conversation loud and distracting as Holly talks excitedly about going back to the beach with my mom.
I listen. I respond. I smile where I should and laugh when I’m supposed to. We order ice cream. I pay. Wesson chomps on a vanilla cone, his lips peppered in droplets of white, and Holly giggles.
It’s normal.
Painfully so.
It feels so fucking wrong.
Every smile is a knife. Every laugh is a twisted blade. Every second is a second she could be in pain.
My gaze drifts to a limo car stuck in traffic, the darkened windows reflecting myself.
I look like me. Apart from a little weight loss, and the dark circles under my eyes, I’m Colt Harland.
So why do I feel outside myself? Why do I feel as though my life is playing out in torturous slow motion?
Why do I feel as though I’ve died?
The lights change. The car moves on. My reflection disappears.
When Denver was first taken, I maimed, and tortured, and tore people to pieces for information. I took more lives in those first few weeks than I have in my close to two decades in this job.
When that didn’t work, I strategized. I took my time. I hunted for leads. I called in favors. That didn’t work, either.
But maybe that’s the problem.
Colt doesn’t hurt enough.
Maybe in order to get her back, I need to become someone totally different.
Maybe, to take back control, to find my wife, my future, my love, my everything, I need to become an entirely new kind of monster.
Maybe I need to become Ghost again.