Unmade (Hillcroft Group #2)

Prologue

March 30th, 2018

Leighton Watts

I remembered when I was…maybe five or six years old. I asked my mom why I didn’t have a dad—and that was the first time she shared the shortest bedtime story ever, but somehow it brought me enough comfort to put me to sleep.

It was the evening I became my unknown father’s wingman.

“You do have a dad, my love. He’s… I’m trying to find him. And the day you meet him, he will love you instantly. You know why? Because he once told me he couldn’t wait to have a little wingman by his side.”

Over the years, as I got older, the story changed.

I was twelve when I learned my dad was dead.

“But you know what, sweetheart? That means he can see you from heaven. He can look over you and be proud of his wingman day and night.”

Now I was old enough to understand that Mom had had a fling with a man she’d barely known, and she’d realized she was pregnant after he’d gone home again, leaving behind too little information for her to find him. At least for a few years.

It made me wonder how many men were out there who had no idea their one-night stand or fling the other year had resulted in a kid.

I scratched the side of my head and let out a breath.

The minister droned on and on about how God had a plan, and I was like, you don’t fucking say? Evidently, his plan had been to give my mom cancer and kill her off a week after I turned eighteen.

Say hi to my dad from me, I guess.

Who was gonna be my wingman?

I glanced around the pews, meeting the sad looks on the faces of Mom’s friends, her cousins, my aunt who’d offered her guest room to me, my half-drunken uncle, some coworkers, and our downstairs neighbor who had filled our fridge with casseroles the past two weeks.

None of them was wingman material.

I didn’t wanna fucking live with my aunt. She smelled weird and had four ferrets. She also loved to cook but had no idea she was horrible at it, and I didn’t wanna hurt her feelings by telling her I’d rather eat roadkill.

* * *

April 2nd, 2018

“How much for this?”

If someone asked me that again today, I’d shoot myself.

He was holding a box of Christmas ornaments.

“Just take them and get the fuck out,” I said. He was the last one lingering in the apartment.

I was done. I’d made three hundred bucks on trinkets, kitchenware, and our ratty living room furniture. The rest, I was moving to my new apartment next week. It was the last thing my mom had been able to help me with before she’d died. I had a semi-affordable studio in Arlington Mill waiting for me.

First and last time I ever let strangers come into my home and have them treat the living room like a thrift store. No number of casseroles could forgive my neighbor for her shitty idea. One creep had wanted to buy a picture of my mom. I’d forgotten to hide it in the closet in the hallway, which was my next destination.

I had to go through our personal crap before I could leave this apartment behind.

I swallowed hard as I locked the front door.

My chest felt tight, and I hated this so much. I didn’t wanna feel anything.

I hadn’t cried yet, and I was kinda hoping I could skip that part because I sensed it was going to be ugly.

In the back of my mind, I’d had the same fear running on a loop since Mom had told me she was terminally ill.

How are you gonna make it? You’re alone. You’re a damn mama’s boy who can barely boil an egg. You don’t like people, your job pays minimum wage, you didn’t make it to college, you can’t fucking do this.

I let out a shaky breath and rubbed at my chest.

Could I figure shit out in four months? That was when I’d run out of money.

I swallowed again, feeling nausea creeping upward, and I abruptly opened the closet and stepped inside. A big part of me wanted to peek between my fingers, but it was already too late. I was assaulted by Mom’s perfume and the sight of the family photos my aunt had stacked in here the other day.

Get it over with.

Armed with a roll of garbage bags, I started throwing belongings out of the closet. Keep, keep, throw out, throw out, throw out. Clothes, bedsheets, pictures, old drawings, photo albums… I tore open one box filled with my report cards, tests, and science projects from school. Next box, even older shit from when Grandma passed away.

I wanted to throw up.

You have nobody. You don’t belong anywhere.

I gnashed my teeth and felt my vision blur.

One day, I might regret getting rid of so much, but I just couldn’t bring myself to sort through item by item. I kept a small eagle figurine from my grandma. I remembered playing with it when I was little. A few random photos too. The rest ended up in a bag.

Another box. I got down on one knee, wiped some sweat off my forehead, and flipped open the lid.

What the hell?

It was an envelope addressed to me at the top. Mom’s handwriting.

I opened it and pulled out a note.

My sweet boy.

I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

I was terrified you might want to follow in his footsteps.

He accidentally left the business card behind.

I love you so much.

I’m sorry.

“What?” I mumbled.

I lifted a shoebox out of the bigger box and opened that too.

Follow in whose footsteps?

The shoebox didn’t have much in it at all. An old newspaper?—

Shit. A small card fell out when I picked up the newspaper. The business card. She’d mentioned a business card.

The Hillcroft Group.

There was something written in Latin below the logo. I turned it over and cocked my head. Someone had jotted down a name. Bo Beckett. Who the fuck was Bo Beckett? What the fuck was the Hillcroft Group?

I returned my attention to the newspaper, and it was folded to immediately show me an article about some people dying in Afghanistan. It was a half-page story, with grainy photos of a bunch of soldiers.

I was terrified you might want to follow in his footsteps.

My…my dad?

The name under one of the pictures made me blanch. Sgt Jacob J Quinn . My dad’s name was Jake, but Mom had said his last name was Smith.

I shook my head, fucking confused. This didn’t make any sense. She’d told me he’d died in a work-related accident. I mean…was that what you called it when a soldier died on active duty?

This couldn’t be real. Quinn. Smith. Quinn. Smith. Sgt Jacob J Quinn. He looked familiar, kind of. The photo wasn’t good quality. Definitely a soldier, though. He was in uniform in the picture.

I swallowed hard and sank down onto the floor.

I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

Sergeant Jacob Quinn and his unit had died in an act of heroism, saving civilian lives… Wait, there was one survivor from the unit.

A strangled noise escaped my throat, and my vision blurred. How many goddamn times had I tried to look up a fucking Smith ? Had she lied to me? Had she picked that last name because it was so damn common?

She wouldn’t do that to me.

I was terrified you might want to follow in his footsteps.

My breath hitched, and I quickly wiped at my cheek.

I grabbed the business card again and eyed the name scribbled on the back.

Bo Beckett.

I let out an unsteady breath and pulled out my phone. I wanted to know what the Latin words meant, so I entered “Quod incepimus conficieus” into the search field.

The result came up right away.

What we have begun, we shall finish.

Well, that was un-fucking-helpful, so I looked up the Hillcroft Group instead.

I felt my forehead wrinkle as I clicked on the website.

Private security. Risk assessment. Personnel protection. Cybersecurity. A bunch of these words just stared right back at me. Government training. Protection of assets and…

It was a private military agency based here in Arlington, for fuck’s sake.

I had to go there. I had to ask if they knew—if they’d known my dad. If they knew where he was from. And who the hell this Bo Beckett was.

* * *

April 3rd, 2018

The barista had spelled my name Layten…

I’d only come here because it was Mom’s usual morning stop on her way to work. And because I didn’t want to meet up at my aunt’s place. She’d offer to cook lunch.

“She didn’t say anything about this to you?”

Aunt Laura shook her head, visibly confused, and studied the Hillcroft business card. “The only thing she ever divulged was when she found the article about your father’s death in Afghanistan. She was beside herself because she didn’t know what to tell you. You were still so young.”

I guessed that part didn’t matter anyway, because once Mom knew, she’d become afraid I’d follow in his footsteps to…join the Army? Go to war?

It was so stupid. I’d flunked out of every sport I’d tried because I had shitty coordination skills and spaced out too easily. Why the fuck would I become a soldier? I’d get distracted by some random thought or trip over a rock in the desert, and I’d blow myself up somehow the first day of my deployment.

“I honestly thought she told you the truth eventually,” Aunt Laura added. “I wish she and I had been closer the last few years. Maybe if I’d known, I could’ve made a difference.”

I wasn’t sure. My mom had always been overprotective of me. Case in point, Jake had died in 2008 or something like that, according to the article, and Mom had waited another few years to tell me he’d died in a “work-related accident.”

I feared it was going to make me angry. I could already feel sparks of resentment when I thought about how she’d sheltered me sometimes. But I didn’t want to be mad at her; she’d been all I’d had. And, I mean, Aunt Laura… There hadn’t been any animosity between her and Mom or anything. They’d just been busy with work, and Aunt Laura had moved back to DC from Houston shortly before Mom got sick. Which changed everything. Rather than catching up and whatnot, every conversation had centered around chemo, preparations for worst-case scenarios, and hospital visits.

“Mom must’ve held back from searching too much,” I said. “She had the card. Why didn’t she just go over to that Hillcroft place and ask?”

“Maybe she did?” Aunt Laura offered. “The card doesn’t exactly say much. And these private military agencies are so secretive. It’s highly possible they wouldn’t have given her any information.”

Maybe. Either way, I was gonna give it a go. “I’m heading over there after this,” I admitted. “I have to try.” Even though it’d been close to nineteen years since that business card had been given to my dad for whatever reason.

Aunt Laura nodded in understanding and slipped the business card back to me. “Do you want me to come with you? My shift doesn’t start till four.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s okay. I doubt I’ll be there long. I’ll just ask if a Bo Beckett works there.”

She pursed her lips and tilted her head a little. “You know, if I were you, I’d approach the matter a bit more assertively. I wasn’t kidding when I said they’re secretive at these places. So, rather than asking if the man works there, simply tell them you’re there to see him. It’ll give off an impression of you having business there.”

Huh. That wasn’t a bad idea. I’d do that.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” I picked up my coffee mug and took a sip even though I didn’t like it. They’d put way too little sugar, caramel syrup, and creamer in it. “What are they so secretive about? Do you know what they do?”

“I mean, I know the gist, not much else,” she chuckled. “There are a few of those agencies here in the DC area, and they essentially take on assignments much like soldiers. Only, sometimes it’s a regular security guard job, sometimes they’re delivering sensitive information, and sometimes they deploy combat units with specific tasks.”

Basically what I’d read last night, then.

She leaned forward and put her hand over mine on the table. “I really wish you’d come stay with me, Leighton. It would give you time to study more. Take a couple college classes…?”

I chewed on my lip and shifted in my seat. She was super nice and all, but I couldn’t. Right now, I was stuck in limbo, where one part of me wanted to retreat and never see another person again, and the other part was itching to find a place where I belonged.

Regardless, it wasn’t with Aunt Laura. Now that Mom was dead, my aunt was literally all I had left, and I didn’t want her quirks to annoy me to the point where I caused friction between us. I’d rather visit from time to time and subtly convince her we get takeout. And that we ate on her balcony where her vicious ferrets weren’t allowed to roam free. Lastly, the fresh air on the balcony would mask the strange smell that followed her around like a cloud. It was one portion hospital smell, one portion ferret, and one portion of a way too sweet perfume.

“I wanna see if I can make it on my own first,” I said. “I’m gonna try to find a second job.”

I’d done the math. I’d stay afloat in my new apartment if I could find a way to make another four hundred bucks a month. Granted, I’d be working, like, ten to twelve hours a day, but…

* * *