Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hayes
My confession hung in the air like a toxin, and with each breath she took, it slithered into her body, her heart, and her soul.
The usual shame I’d always tasted when I thought about this day or discussed it with Dominic coated my tongue, heavy, thick, metallic.
I watched her, studied her as if she were under a microscope, searching for even a morsel of disgust toward me.
I found none.
Yes, she’d paled.
Yes, her eyes had widened, giving me a better view of another layer of her endless beauty. A guilty pleasure I had no right to indulge in.
Yes, she’d sucked in a sharp breath of shock.
It was human nature.
Though her reaction to my truth was expected, it still stung.
Down in the deepest parts of me, the sting lingered, because she was Margo and I was me, her Superman.
I could practically see the image of myself that she’d conjured up the moment I saved her from cracking, shattering into a million pieces.
Like the stained glass in a church shattered, raining down to the altar, dismantling all beliefs, all chances of absolution.
“There you have it, baby,” I whispered. “There’s my truth.”
She blinked, jerking back slightly at my words. “Don’t call me that.”
Even though I knew that was coming, it still hurt like a bitch. “I understand—”
“Don’t put that here.” She repeated my words from earlier, setting a boundary. “Don’t call me baby when we’re discussing your pain. I can’t handle that.”
The lump in my throat might as well have been a knife.
As I swallowed, the fucking thing dropped to my chest, holding my heart hostage.
My lungs were burning now simply because I’d forgotten how to breathe.
“What?” I uttered, shaking my head once at the softness of her features, the acceptance painted over them. “What—you’re not—”
She slid off the armrest, her dress falling back around her ankles.
“I’m not doing anything,” she assured me.
My eyes dropped to her lime green socks, watching them as she closed the distance between us.
“I’m not leaving you. I’m not ashamed of you.
I’m not running from you,” she continued, putting her hand on my chest, right over my heart.
She was quiet for a few moments, her eyes on my chest, staring at it as if she could see the damn organ she owned beating wildly for her and only her.
When she lifted her head again, there were more tears in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she pushed out through a sob.
“I’m so sorry you suffered through that—”
I stumbled away from her, my brows firmly etched together, the crease between them aching as my head began to throb.
“Suffered?” I seethed, my chest heaving as my brain locked my heart back into its box.
A prison it should have never been allowed to leave.
“Why in the fuck are you apologizing to me?”
Her arms slowly curved as she placed her hands on her stomach, confusion taking over. “Hayes—”
“I’m responsible for the deaths of thirteen people.”
The declaration, cloaked with guilt and shame, slammed into her. She fell back a step, her chest deflating. “Hayes, you are not responsible for—”
I leaned forward, a sharp growl escaping my chest as I shouted, “I was flying the goddamn plane, Margo! Of course it’s my fucking fault they’re dead!”
“Hayes.”
The past was roaring in my ears now, louder, more potent than the storm raging above us. My heart rate began to skyrocket, my pulse skittering as my blood boiled. Goose bumps spread over my arms like wildfire, my skin remembering the way my flight-suit charred as I crawled out of the plane.
My vision blurred, the beauty before me going in and out of focus as I rasped, “You wanna know the truth, Temper? I’ll give you the fucking truth.”
She said something, but my ears didn’t register. My mind was already in the past, my mouth moving, reciting everything I could remember about that dreadful day…
Classified Location. Middle East.
“Quicksilver is grumpy today, Hop. I’d tread lightly,” Gunner drawled from behind me as I reviewed the flight path for the tenth time. The sun glared down at me through the cockpit windows, highlighting my notes, check marks, and everything else I’d seemed to jot down in the last few minutes.
I shook my head, chuckling. “Fuck off and go check the damn plane,” I ordered over my shoulder, noting the time for takeoff had changed. Pushed back five minutes.
Gunner laughed as he stepped away. As the distance grew, his laughter turned into a whistling tune, a song that had been stuck in his damn head for the last three months. The damn tune distracted me from my curiosity over the change in time.
“Stop whistling, Shakira, you bastard!” Em shouted from the back of the plane. “Because of you, that stupid song is stuck in my head.”
I folded out of my seat, heading out of the cockpit, finding my crew checking the load. At the back, my loadmaster, Johnson, worked in silence, shaking his head. Fourteen people were set to be on this flight, four of them being Army paratroopers.
Gunner wiggled his eyebrows, running a finger over his jaw. “Maybe your hips need to stop lying, Em,” he drawled, shooting her a wink.
“What did I tell you about hunting down ass on my plane, Samuels?” My copilot, Damon, yelled from the back of the plane, walking inside and pulling off his aviator sunglasses.
Gunner paled, his cocky attitude quickly dissolving. Em grinned at me, reminding me of a feral raccoon, and got back to work. “Sorry, sir,” Gunner grumbled as Damon clapped him on the back on his way to me.
“Are you ready for this?” He raised a brow, eyes scanning my face.
I nodded and handed him the flight plan. “Last one for a while.” I sighed, rolling my shoulders.
“Last one,” he repeated on a mumble, looking over the orders, the signatures from higher-ups who didn’t know our names, only the mission. “Two drops?”
“Yeah, the second one got added on this morning,” I reluctantly explained, sighing at the end. “General Stav’s orders. Takeoff got pushed back five minutes.”
“Fucking hell,” he quipped. “Paratroopers?”
I smirked. “Oh, come on, Demon. They aren’t all that bad.”
“I thought we agreed on you not calling me that anymore.”
“And I thought you promised me you’d play nice with the other kids,” I shot back with a laugh, clapping my hand on his shoulder, giving him a shake. “Stop being a bully.”
“I’m not being a fucking bully.” He shrugged my hand off. “They’re cocky sons of bitches.”
“Says the pilot,” Em chimed in, strapping down the load.
He glared at her, watching as she twisted her ponytail into a tight bun at the back of her skull.
It was against regulation to have romantic relationships with members of your squadron, but I needed those two to just fuck and get it over with. I turned and headed back into the cockpit, sighing.
Thankfully, lover boy followed.
“You ready to be stateside again?” I asked over my shoulder.
Damon and I had been stuck together since basic, going through flight school together, and three deployments.
We’d spent the better half of our early twenties together, both of us driven by unchecked motivation to be pilots, and graduated early.
We still somehow managed to be lumped together again at the 437th Airlift Wing in Charleston.
“Not ready to deal with my clan of sisters.” He chuckled, tossing himself into his chair. I took my seat and nabbed my water, taking a sip as he rolled his neck. “Then again, I fucking miss my momma’s cookin’.”
I smirked. “She still owes me a lasagna, by the way.”
“Bitch, you still owe me forty bucks.”
“My ass,” I chuckled.
Forty minutes later, we were in the air, halfway to the drop point, and the sun had finally set.
My eyes dropped to the radar and then slid over to Damon.
The cockpit was drenched in green, the crew in the back quiet, with only a whisper of danger to worry about.
This was a set operation, non-covert, low risk, a damn near perfect final mission for us.
It was a food, mail, and supplies drop to the neighboring military base.
The paratroopers were being dropped beyond that point.
Simple. Easy. Then, tomorrow at 0900, we’d be on a plane to Germany and back in the States by Friday.
Three weeks of freedom and reprieve from this fucking hellscape.
Gunner and Em hadn’t received orders to come back, but that could change at any given moment.
Things in the Air Force were constantly shifting, after all.
“Quicksilver,” Johnson called through the headset, panic lacing through his voice. “I got something.”
“I’m picking something up on the radar too,” Damon tacked on, looking between us.
It was too late. As my eyes met my copilot’s, engine three exploded. If there had been smoke in the air, we wouldn’t have been able to see it. There was no moonlight tonight.
We’d been ambushed.
Seconds later, another strike—from all sides.
The plane lost control, and no matter how hard Damon and I pulled up, it still descended. The alarms blared and distress signals were sent out, but nothing could stop it.
It was too late.
The rest was a blur of smoke, fire, and blood.