Chapter 41
Rav
“Pendragon’s looking for operators with your background,” Percival was saying over the phone. “CIA contracts are good money. I’m back in Afghanistan, working with a group protecting archaeological dig sites, including the Pendragon owner’s son, Arthur.”
That almost pulled a smile from me. But the fog that had settled over my mind this past year stopped my lips from curling.
“They must have loved your call sign.” I kept the phone pressed to my ear while shifting position, trying to find an angle that didn’t aggravate the dull ache radiating from my shoulder down to my fingertips.
“Would you believe his best friend’s name is Lance?”
“Sounds like fun, but…” I stared at the stone fireplace, the centerpiece of my grandmother’s cottage. The fire crackled, warming the open-concept living room and kitchen. Fall sunlight streamed through the windows that hadn’t been cleaned in months, catching dust motes swirling in lazy patterns.
How many summer nights had Declan, Scarlett, and I spent listening to my grandmother’s stories? Learning card games from her, and just escaping from the world? Or commiserating after she passed away four years ago, leaving me all alone?
The silence stretched between us before Percival tried again. “Look, man, you can’t hide away forever. It’s been a year since—”
“Since I fucked up?” My voice came out harder than intended. But no one understood, not even the guys who’d been there. None of them realized how distracted I’d been by Brooke. I should have seen the gunman. Should have taken him out before he nearly killed us.
Another pause. “Have you talked to Brooke at all?”
My throat tightened at her name. “No.”
“You haven’t called her? At all?” Disbelief colored his voice. “You two were—”
“I’m not ready to talk about this.”
“I ran into her a couple of months ago. She was asking about you.” Percival’s tone grew brighter, but it was all an act. “She was only in the hospital for a few weeks. Treatment of the burns went well.”
Burns. I couldn’t even remember what had happened to her.
My last memory was tackling Brooke as the weapon appeared in the window. The crack of gunfire. Then nothing until waking up in a hospital bed, tubes snaking from my body, doctors talking about nerve damage and multiple surgeries.
“If you’re blaming yourself for what happened to her, you’re being an idiot,” Percival continued. “You threw yourself in front of an armed man to save her. If you hadn’t, she’d be dead.”
I closed my eyes. “I need to go.”
“Rav—”
I ended the call before he said more, and I tossed the phone onto the couch. The empty cottage amplified the voice in my head. Failure. Washout. Not good enough.
The physical evaluation after my recovery replayed in my mind. The doctor’s clinical voice explaining that the damage would never fully heal. That I couldn’t meet the basic physical requirements of a JTF2 operator.
I could have done other things. Training. Intelligence analysis. But they didn’t need me for those jobs. I was a broken soldier. What did I have to give anyone?
Four years with one of the world’s premier military outfits, and now I was nothing.
No one.
My thoughts drifted to last month, when Brooke’s name had appeared on my phone screen. I’d stared at it until the call went to voicemail, paralyzed by what to say.
How could I face her after failing her so completely?
I couldn’t.
Because you’re a coward.
I’d deleted her voicemail without even listening to it.
On the coffee table in front of the couch lay my disassembled Glock, next to my one printed photo of Brooke.
I’d cleaned the pistol twice, and when I’d started a third time, all I could think about was Brooke teasing me about my cleaning obsession.
There wasn’t dust hanging in the air here, but I’d kept the habit.
Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to finish the cleaning.
So I’d left the weapon in pieces on the table, just as unable to put it back together as I was unable to put my soul back together.
I’d been staring at those pieces for three days, working through my reasons to continue living—finding none that outweighed the emptiness, the uselessness, or the fragmented memories.
The gun was the easiest solution. The one that would end the replays of gunfire. Of bullets tearing through my shoulder. Of waking up alone. Of knowing I wasn’t good enough for the woman who’d lit up my entire world from the moment I’d first seen her.
Every time I looked at her photo, I heard her laugh. Saw her smile. What would she think? Would she care?
Did it matter?
A knock at the door jarred me from my thoughts.
I ignored it. It was probably just someone lost on their way to the national park down the old highway.
Another knock. More insistent this time.
Sighing, I pushed myself to my feet; the movement sent a fresh spike of pain through my shoulder. Tabarnak. I crossed to the door and yanked it open.
Scarlett stood in the doorway, the evening wind pushing her brown hair around her face. What was she doing here?
“Car trouble,” she said before I could speak. “About fifteen minutes back.” She smiled, the same smile she’d used when covering for me after I’d punched Ryan Miller for calling her father a traitor. “You still hiding any Sortilège in the cupboards? I need a drink.”
The lie was so transparent it wasn’t worth pointing out. “You should walk back to your car and call roadside assistance.”
She ignored me, pushing past into the cottage with the ease of someone who’d crashed on that couch dozens of times. “My feet are killing me. I need to come in for a minute.”
I should have argued. Should have questioned why she was really here. But the energy required felt impossibly distant. Whatever game she was playing, I didn’t have the strength to stop it.
I closed the door, watching as she moved through the space, running her fingers along the back of the couch where we’d watched countless movies. She’d changed since I left for the military—more poised, more intentional in her movements.
More like her mother.
Her eyes landed on the disassembled gun as she slipped off her jacket, but her expression didn’t change. She merely draped the coat over the back of the antique rocking chair Brie had always curled up in when she’d visited.
“What do you want, Scarlett?”
She turned to face me, her smile fading to something more genuine. “Just to see an old friend. Is that wrong?”
“When that friend is in the middle of nowhere and didn’t invite you? Yes.”
She sank onto the couch, toeing her high heels off with a sigh. She should have chosen better shoes for her walk from the car. “I’m tired, Rav. It’s late, and it was a long drive.” She patted the space beside her. “Come sit with me for a bit.”
I remained standing, studying her. This wasn’t a coincidence. Someone had sent her—but who? And why? “Why are you out driving in this area at night?”
“Please?” she added, her voice softening.
I’d never been able to say no to her. After tossing a few more logs onto the fire, I sat on the couch, leaving some space between us.
“Did Declan tell you we’re working for my mother now?” she asked, as though picking up a thread we’d been discussing for hours.
I said nothing, waiting for her to get to the point.
“Reynolds Recoveries,” she continued. “She started it after Declan and I graduated. Emmett’s part of it, and Will and Brie are part-time for now.
” She angled her body toward mine. “You remember I told you about those bizarre family vacations Mum took us on to Europe when we were in high school? Having us figure out escape plans and how we’d get past security and steal the Crown Jewels? ”
Evelyn had always seemed a little odd, as though she were pretending to be a doting mother, but with deep and dark secrets. I’d thought of her now and then since joining JTF2, given some of the conversations I’d had with members of the intelligence community.
“What about it?” I asked.
“I think it was training for this company she’s started. We help people.” She held my gaze. “We find things that matter to our clients. Things they’ve lost, sometimes in complicated circumstances. You’d fit in perfectly with us.”
“I’m in the military,” I lied. “I already have a job.”
“Are you?” She cocked her eyebrow, clearly not believing me.
I looked away.
“We could use someone with your skills,” she said carefully. “Your ability to read situations. Assess risks.”
“My skills.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. “I have a busted arm and a tendency to miss threats right in front of me.”
She didn’t skip a beat, didn’t bother to ask about the injury. Did she already know about it? “I mean your strategic thinking. Your protective instincts. The way you always knew when someone was going to cause trouble, long before they made a move.”
“Why ask me? We’ve barely talked in the past year.”
“Mum suggested it.” She shrugged, a gesture we both knew meant Evelyn Reynolds had connections neither of us would ever fully understand. “She’s been keeping tabs on you.”
Scarlett shifted on the couch, then, without warning, lay down and placed her head in my lap.
I stiffened, surprised by the casual intimacy, although it was a position she’d adopted a hundred times before—during movie nights, after exams, when the anniversary of her father’s arrest made the news again.
“Remember when Sandy Peterson started that rumor about Brie?” she asked, looking up at me. “That she was using money from her dad’s ‘spy fund’ to buy test answers?”
I did remember. Fourteen-year-old Brie’s devastated face, Scarlett’s fury, and my quiet conversation with Sandy that ensured the rumors stopped immediately.
“You didn’t make a scene,” Scarlett continued. “You just made it clear what would happen if she kept it up. No drama, just… looking out for the people who mattered to you.”
“Scarlett—”
“I’ve missed that.” She was quiet for a moment, as though remembering. “Having you around, watching my back. Declan too, but he’s different now.”
I wanted to ask her why she was really here, how she’d found me, what she thought she was accomplishing. But the weight of her head in my lap was strangely grounding, the first human contact I’d had in months that wasn’t medical or transactional.
Against my better judgment, I said, “Tell me more about Reynolds Recoveries.”
She smiled and rolled onto her side, looking at the now roaring fire. “We’re based in Halifax. Small team, specialized skills. Putting everything Mum taught us to use.”
“Sounds like a fancy way of saying something else.”
She laughed, the sound unexpectedly bright in the quiet cottage. “Sometimes. But we help people who deserve it. People who’ve been wronged.”
“Like Robin Hood?”
She glanced up at me as she smacked my knee. “Something like that.”
As she spoke about their operations, her voice grew animated. The work sounded challenging, interesting—the kind of strategic thinking I’d once excelled at. The type of purpose I’d lost.
Her words gradually slowed, her blinks becoming longer. She was genuinely exhausted, not playing a game.
“You should get some sleep,” I said when she stifled a yawn.
“Mmm,” she murmured, her eyes already closed. “Just a little nap.”
Within minutes, her breathing deepened, and her hands dug under my thigh as though it were her pillow. I remained still, not wanting to disturb her. The disassembled Glock still lay on the coffee table, within easy reach—but suddenly remote.
As though Scarlett were a barrier between the old me and what could be the new me.
We’d been friends since we were kids. I was there for her when the whispers about her father grew too loud, and she was there for me when I lost the last member of my family.
She knew.
She had to have known what I’d been planning. She’d walked in, seen the gun, and pulled me back from the edge.
My hand hovered over her hair for a moment before gently smoothing it back from her face. The gesture felt foreign after so many months of isolation, but also familiar. As though we were kids again, hanging out with my grandmother.
I couldn’t protect Brooke completely. I’d taken three bullets, but it hadn’t been enough to prevent her injuries. I’d failed the one person who’d mattered most.
But maybe…
Maybe I still had something to offer. Not as a soldier, but as whatever I was now. Maybe Scarlett and her family’s company could use someone who understood security, who could anticipate threats.
Someone who could make sure they never experienced what I had.
Or what Brooke had.
Scarlett shifted slightly in her sleep, her expression peaceful. Had Evelyn sent her? Was this an elaborate intervention orchestrated by whoever Evelyn Reynolds really was? A woman who’d often known more than she should?
Or had Percival tracked her down? We’d lost enough friends to the ghosts of war that maybe he knew what I’d been planning.
Whatever brought Scarlett to my door didn’t matter. What mattered was the choice in front of me.
The gun on the table represented one path—the end of pain, of failure, of memories that wouldn’t stop replaying.
The woman sleeping on my couch represented another—a second chance, not at happiness, perhaps, but at purpose. At being useful again.
I couldn’t save Brooke from what happened that day. I couldn’t be the man I’d been before Afghanistan. But maybe I could be something else—someone who made sure Scarlett never faced the dangers Brooke had.
Someone who kept her family safe.
Her family?
No.
My family.