Chapter 7 #2
“She wanted to follow her dreams. Reminds me of someone I know. She majors in computer programming and philosophy.”
“That’s great. You must be proud.”
“It wasn’t the path I would’ve chosen for a lady, but Gwen has never been much like me.” Charlotte’s lips pursed, and her eyes fell to the floor. “Can we, maybe, talk in private later?”
He lifted a brow. “How much later?” He wasn’t planning on staying very long. In fact, he hoped to get out of there within the hour.
“After everyone leaves?” she suggested as his mobile began vibrating in his pocket.
It was his work line, which meant Jessica or Luke needed him ASAP. They wouldn’t call him during the wake otherwise.
“I’m sorry,” he said while producing his mobile, “but I have to step out and take this.”
“Oh-okay.”
He turned and brought the mobile to his ear as he went back outside. He moved under an overhang to stay out of the rain that had refused to let up.
“I’m so sorry to call right now,” Jessica said when he answered.
“It’s fine.” He didn’t want to be there anyway. “What’s up?”
“Can you hop on a flight to Romania within the hour? It’s a time-sensitive operation.”
“Of course,” he answered, not needing any more details. Anywhere was better than London. “Leaving for Heathrow now.”
“You’re a lifesaver, thank you. The rest of Echo Team will meet you there. I’ll message you the flight details,” she said. “The guys will fill you in when you arrive.”
“What kind of target are we talking?”
“Remember the guy who sold intel that brought a Black Hawk down in twenty-sixteen?” she asked.
How could he forget? It was also the guy Natasha Chandler had been after.
“We think we found his location. Still don’t have a name, but if the intel is correct, he’s in Romania. Three hours north of Bucharest. POTUS needs him taken in alive. He’s also sold intel to multiple terrorist and criminal organizations over the last few years.”
“So, a gold mine. Got it.” He started down the steps after ending the call, in a rush to get to his rental, but then he paused and glanced back at the home.
Could he leave without saying goodbye? Yes, but he also didn’t want to be a royal prick, so he pivoted back around.
He had five minutes. He should see his parents and say goodbye to Charlotte before jetting off.
He swiped the water from his hair once he was back in the entrance hall.
He spied Charlotte talking to a cousin of hers. “Charlotte.”
She turned to face him, her brows pulling together as if sensing something was wrong.
“Listen,” he began, reaching for her elbow once he’d closed the distance between them. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to need to have that conversation another time. I have a work emergency.” Before he could say more, he spotted his parents en route to his location.
“Call me?” Charlotte asked, and he nodded, no idea what she wanted to talk about.
“Wyatt.” His dad’s voice was low and growly, full of spite. “You actually came.”
“I thought I saw you at the funeral.” His mum squeezed his arm, her version of affection, and he nodded, not sure what else to do.
His dad adjusted the knot of his black tie, and his brows moved inward as he studied him. No hug. No warmth. Not expected, anyway. If his mum didn’t hug, his dad sure as hell didn’t.
“I’m on my way out,” he said, not in the mood for dissecting his life, which would be inevitable if he stayed.
Charlotte had caught him off guard with his mum’s “proud” comment, though, because he usually heard the opposite from her.
If you’re going to serve, you should’ve gone with the Royal Navy.
But really, why do you kill people?
Don’t you worry you’ll end up in hell?
I think there’s something quite wrong with you. You seem to enjoy killing.
Maybe you should see a therapist. No, never mind, someone might hear about that, and the gossip would be . . .
“I came to pay my respects, but I have to head out.”
“Sure. Just pop in, let people see you and whisper about—”
“Mum,” he cut her off, his voice a soft plea. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t even recognize you,” his father said, his voice stiff, his eyes cold. “You dishonored me by changing your last name. We’ve seen you a handful of times in twenty years. Why even show up here today?”
And here we go. Why in the bloody hell would he want to stick around and engage in a conversation with them?
He pushed his hands into his pockets to hide the curl of his fingers into fists.
To restrain his anger. He’d told himself over and over again their comments didn’t bother him.
Expecting something different from them was like being surprised to find out a terrorist set off an s-belt after promising not to.
He stabbed a finger at his dress shirt beneath the dark jacket. “It’s my name now, get over it.” Wyatt hadn’t intended to snap at his father like a surly teenager, but he refused to get involved in a pissing match.
His mum stretched a hand out and pressed it to Wyatt’s chest. “Don’t make a scene.”
He didn’t miss this life.
Not at all.
His team was his family, and he was good with that.
“I have to go,” he said through gritted teeth, doing his best not to let his irritation take another misguided route out of his mouth. He swallowed the knot in his throat and ignored the swell of pain in his chest. “Goodbye,” he said as casually as possible and took off.
It’d been a mistake to come back, to try and pretend he could be the man they wished him to be for even five minutes.
He was Wyatt Pierson now. He’d shed his title, his name, and his past. If his family couldn’t accept that, then he’d go be with his brothers who would.