Chapter 4 RYDER
RYDER
The motel room smells like bleach and old cigarettes—the kind of place no one remembers once they’ve checked out.
That’s why I chose it. It’s cheap, anonymous, and close enough to the airport that I can leave without thinking twice.
Extravagance attracts attention, attention attracts questions, and questions get people killed.
The sun is just beginning to rise when I shut the door behind me and slide the bolt into place.
The heater rattles weakly in the corner, fighting a losing battle against the December cold.
The bedspread is thin, patterned in some forgettable shade of brown, and the TV is bolted to the wall like it’s afraid someone might try to steal it.
I set the guitar case down by the wall and stand there for a moment longer than necessary, hands braced on my hips, jaw tight.
The silence presses in, heavy and unforgiving now that the city is shut out.
No music, no traffic noise worth noting, just the hum of cheap electricity and my own breathing.
I should feel satisfied.
The job wasn’t completed, but it wasn’t botched either. The window closed—that happens. You adjust, move, and wait for the next opening. Clean and simple. So why does irritation coil so tight in my chest?
I know why. Kate, and those gorgeous eyes.
I strip off my jacket and toss it onto the chair by the door harder than necessary. The memory comes unbidden—warm skin under my hands, the sound she made when she forgot to filter herself, and the way she looked at me like I was something solid in a world that kept shifting under her feet.
I clamp down on it immediately. That was a mistake, not because of the sex. Sex is just sex—a release, a momentary lapse in discipline that I won’t repeat. It was a mistake because I stayed.
I should have left the moment the target boarded that plane.
I should have melted back into the city and erased myself like I always do.
Instead, I stood there and let her talk, filling the silence and getting close enough to matter for reasons that had nothing to do with want and everything to do with weakness.
I don’t do weakness.
I unbutton my shirt slowly, methodically, folding it instead of tossing it aside. Old habits die hard. Control is easier to maintain when everything has its place. I kick off my boots and line them up neatly by the door, then drag a hand through my hair and exhale through my nose.
I peel off the rest of my clothes and step into the shower, turning the water on hot enough to sting. Steam fills the small bathroom quickly, curling around the edges of the mirror, blurring my reflection until I barely recognize the shape staring back at me.
Good.
I brace my hands against the tile and let the water beat down on my neck and shoulders, rinsing away the night. The heat loosens muscles that are still taut from the rooftop, the rifle, and the split-second decision to abort instead of fire.
Her name surfaces again.
Kate.
I tell myself she was just a complication, a variable introduced at the wrong moment.
Nothing more. The thought should settle me.
It usually does. Instead, the frustration sharpens, digging in deeper.
At myself, at the lapse, and the fact that her presence was enough to pull my focus when nothing else ever has.
I tilt my head forward, water streaming down my face, and force my mind back into familiar territory. Procedures. Contingencies. The job. That’s where control lives.
Whatever happened last night ends here. I don’t linger, look back, or carry ghosts with me.
I stand under the shower longer than necessary, water beating down on my shoulders in a steady, punishing rhythm. Steam fills the small bathroom, fogging the mirror until my reflection dissolves into nothing more than a broad outline and shadow.
Better that way.
I drag my hands over my chest, down my ribs, feeling the familiar terrain beneath my palms. The scars are still there. They always will be. Thick ridges of damaged skin, some faded to pale lines, others darker, angrier, refusing to fully disappear no matter how much time passes.
Most of them are hidden now.
Ink stretches across my torso in deliberate patterns—black and gray, sharp lines cutting through scar tissue like a reclamation. Each tattoo was chosen carefully. Not to erase what happened, but to own it. To make sure that when I look at myself, I see something intentional instead of damage.
The water runs hot, but I barely register it. My mind drifts to another life, another version of me.
Delta Force.
Back when this kind of work had rules, uniforms, and men standing beside me who spoke the same language of violence and restraint.
Back when the lines were clearer, even if the cost was higher.
We moved as units then. Trusted the man to your left and the one to your right with your life without thinking twice.
Back before one mission went sideways. Bad intel and worse decisions, leading everything to unravel all at once.
I remember the heat first—the dirt grinding into my skin as I hit the ground hard, and the sound of gunfire too close, too chaotic. Men shouting over comms that cut in and out, voices overlapping until they blurred into noise.
Then the screaming. Someone was hit, then someone else, orders shouted, then contradicted.
The moment when I realized the extraction window was gone and we were on our own.
I remember bleeding into the dirt, pressure useless against a wound that wouldn’t stop, listening to the radio dissolve into static one voice at a time.
Dead comms. Dead men. That was the day everything broke.
I blink, grounding myself in the present as the water continues to run. That was a lifetime ago. I walked away after that—from the flags, command structures, and medals that didn’t mean a damn thing when it counted.
Now I work alone on private contracts—off-the-books solutions for problems governments pretend not to see. A gun for hire, if you want to strip it down to something ugly and simple.
The truth is, I don’t care what they call me. I care that the job gets done.
I shut the water off and step out of the shower, reaching for a towel and dragging it over my head. Droplets slide down my back, tracing the lines of ink and scar alike, disappearing as I dry off.
I step out of the shower and sit on the edge of the bed with a towel slung low around my hips, phone in my hand, watching condensation slide down the cheap window as planes lift off in the distance.
Each one disappears into the low cloud cover within seconds, swallowed whole, leaving nothing behind but sound.
That’s how it should be.
I wait until my breathing is even before making the call to my handler. The line connects on the third ring.
“Report.”
His voice is calm and neutral, the kind that doesn’t ask questions unless it already knows the answers.
“Mission incomplete.”
There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough. “You aborted.”
“Yes.”
Another pause, heavier this time. “You don’t abort.”
“I do when civilians enter the line of fire.”
That earns me a breath on the other end. He’s recalibrating.
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the faint hum of the heater rattling behind me.
I picture him exactly as he is—seated, composed, already pulling up files, timelines, satellite imagery.
He’s not surprised that the job wasn’t completed.
He’s surprised that I didn’t complete it. This is a first for both of us.
“I’ll refund the advance. Full amount.”
“No,” he quickly declines. “You didn’t miss—you lost your window.”
That distinction matters. He knows it. I know it.
“The client understands that. What they don’t accept is delay without resolution.”
I lean forward, forearms braced on my thighs. “Then the parameters need to change.”
“They already have.”
He doesn’t rush into it; he never does. Pressure works better when it’s applied slowly.
“The target won’t return to the States. The exposure was too high. He’s relocating.”
“Where?”
“Somalia.”
The name settles into the room like a weight. That’s enemy territory—unstable ground, too many moving parts. “I don’t operate there,” I decline flatly.
“You have.”
“Not alone.”
“And yet, here you are.”
I exhale through my nose, irritation flaring again—sharp and unwelcome. Somalia isn’t just hostile—it’s unpredictable. Militias, shifting alliances, porous borders. The kind of place where things don’t go wrong cleanly. They unravel.
“The target is Yusuf Aden Barre,” he reminds me. “You’ve seen the numbers. All the lives he’s taken.”
“I have.”
“Which is why we need to act fast. He’ll be attending the peace talks in Mogadishu in two days. It’s public-facing, high visibility. Ironically safer for him than any bunker.”
Peace talks, crowds, media? That’s too many eyes.
“This wasn’t part of the original assessment.”
“The assessment adapts,” he replies calmly. “The objective doesn’t.”
I lean back, staring at the stained ceiling, jaw tight. The towel slips slightly, but I don’t bother adjusting it. This isn’t about comfort.
“This increases risk exponentially.”
“That’s why you’re still on the contract. You were chosen because you finish what others can’t,” he adds. “Barre doesn’t get to survive because geography changed.”
I close my eyes briefly. Somalia is a mess, but Barre alive is worse.
“What’s the cover?” I ask.
A beat. Then—
“Photographer.”
I open my eyes. “You’re joking.”
“Embedded media, international press. Peace talks attract cameras, and you’ll be one of them.”
“That puts me in the open.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t do open.”
“You’ll adapt.”
Of course I will. I always do.
“Timeline?”
“Tight. You’ll deploy within forty-eight hours.”
That leaves no space to sit with it, or room for reconsideration.
“Your credentials will be in place. Name, background, portfolio. All will be handled.”
I don’t respond immediately. I don’t need to, because he already knows the answer. This isn’t about consent—it’s about alignment.
“Send the details,” I declare finally.
“I already have.”
The line clicks dead before I can add anything else.
I lower the phone and sit there for a moment, the decision settling into place without resistance. The irritation eases. The noise in my head quiets. Somalia is enemy territory, but it’s also how I fix my mistake.