Chloe
His mother was alive. His brain refused to make sense of those words.
She'd spent the last two months learning who Vengeance really was beneath the scars and guilt.
Every piece of him fit together now—the nightmares, the constant vigilance, the crushing weight he carried on his shoulders. But this changed everything.
She looked at him, and his face had gone completely blank. It was the same look she'd seen on veterans interviewed after coming home from war. A man whose brain simply refused to process what it had been told.
"Vengeance." He didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on nothing. "Baby." That got through to him.
His gaze slowly found hers. "I don't understand." His voice sounded almost childlike. "My father buried her."
Chloe stepped closer until she could cup both sides of his face. "Maybe he buried an empty coffin."
"He made me watch." The pain in those four words nearly broke her heart. "He wanted me to believe she was gone." His breathing became uneven. "Dante cried."
Chloe frowned. "What?"
"I saw him cry."
She'd never heard him talk about Dante with anything other than hatred. Now, he sounded confused. "He touched the casket." His eyes drifted past her. "He told me she'd gotten sick." His voice cracked. "He told me she died because weak people don't survive."
Chloe wrapped both arms around his waist before he could drift away into whatever memory was threatening to swallow him. "You were a little boy."
"He hugged me,” Vengeance said. She felt him tremble. "It was the only time I can remember him doing that." The realization hit them both simultaneously. "If she wasn't dead—” His voice became barely audible. "Then that was all a lie."
Chloe tightened her hold on him. "I'm so sorry.” He slowly wrapped his arms around her, not to comfort her, but to keep himself standing.
"I visited her grave." She closed her eyes.
"Every year." The thought made tears sting behind her eyes.
He'd mourned a woman who might have been alive the entire time.
Or worse, a woman who had abandoned him.
She hated that possibility, not because it would hurt Vengeance, but because she could already see him blaming himself for it.
"Don't do that to yourself,” she said. He looked down at her. "I know what you're thinking."
"No, you don't,” he breathed.
"You're wondering why she never came for you." He stared because she had apparently guessed correctly.
"You don't know what happened." He looked away. "I should've looked into her death."
"You were six,” she defended.
"I should've questioned him,” Vengeance insisted.
"You were just a child." Chloe hated how Dante had stolen both of their childhoods from them, but there wasn’t a way that she could change the past. She just wished that Vengeance could see that.
He laughed bitterly. “Doesn’t change the fact that I fucked up,” he said.
The radio crackled again, and Bowie's voice returned. "You still there?"
Vengeance reluctantly stepped away from Chloe. "Yeah."
"We're moving,” Bowie said.
"Already?" Vengeance asked.
"We've got company,” Bowie shouted.
His shoulders stiffened. "Dante?"
"Unknown."
"What about the files?" Vengeance asked.
"We've split them up. If he finds one of us, he won’t get all the information,” Bowie said. Chloe thought that was pretty smart. "If somebody hits one vehicle, the evidence survives." Chloe silently admired Bowie. Even grieving Savage and chasing Dante, he still thought three moves ahead.
"I'll contact you again in forty-eight hours," Bowie said.
"No," Vengeance shouted, surprising her. "That’s too long,” he said.
"We don't have a choice,” Bowie insisted.
"You do,” Vengeance said.
"What?" Bowie asked.
"If you're moving, use the emergency frequency." Static answered back, and Chloe worried that they had lost Bowie’s signal.
"I burned that radio years ago,” Bowie said.
"No, you didn't." Vengeance paused. "You kept it."
Bowie sighed heavily. “Savage always said you were too damn observant."
"Still have the frequency memorized,” Vengeance boasted.
"So do I,” Bowie grumbled.
"Good—use it,” Vengeance ordered.
"If we have to." The radio clicked, and the transmission ended.
Chloe looked toward the window. Morning sunlight spilled across the porch they'd spent countless evenings sitting on.
She remembered laughing there while teaching Vengeance how to play gin rummy because he'd somehow made it to adulthood without learning how to play cards.
She remembered watching him struggle to bake biscuits.
He'd insisted measuring cups were "just suggestions,” and the biscuits had been hard enough to break a window.
She'd laughed until she cried, but he'd eaten every single one anyway, because wasting food wasn't something either of them believed in.
Now, they were packing again, and it didn’t feel fair. "How long do we have until we need to leave?” she asked.
Vengeance looked around the cabin. "Thirty minutes."
"That fast?" she mumbled.
"The longer we stay, the easier we are to find." She nodded. Neither of them argued, because there was no use. They simply needed to start moving forward—something that she was used to by now.
She folded clothes while he cleaned every surface they'd touched over the last two months. He burned handwritten notes in the fireplace, collected shell casings from target practice behind the cabin, and removed fingerprints from the windows. Every movement was practiced and methodical.
"You've done this before,” she said.
He glanced over at her and shrugged. "Too many times."
She stopped packing. "How many safe houses have you stayed in?"
He hesitated. "Seven."
She blinked at him. "Seven?"
"Over the last fifteen years,” he added as though that would make a difference.
"You've never stayed anywhere long term, or had a real home?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Not longer than eight months,” he admitted. Eight months. She couldn't imagine living like that—never unpacking, or buying furniture. Never planting flowers because you knew you'd leave before they bloomed.
She quietly zipped her duffel. "No wonder you don't own anything."
His lips twitched. "I own a motorcycle—well, I owned one before we had to abandon it in the woods when I got shot.”
"Will you take the one you’ve been working on?” she asked, nodding to the garage.
"Probably not,” he said. “It will just slow us down. The old pickup that Bowie left here for us will be safer.” She walked toward the bedroom and saw that the bed was still unmade.
Their clothes from last night remained scattered across the floor.
She stared at them for a long moment. They were a snapshot of a normal life.
It was something she'd wanted for years without realizing it.
She picked up his T-shirt and raised it to her face. It still smelled like him—leather, soap, coffee, and something uniquely Vengeance. She folded it carefully. "You okay?"
She looked over her shoulder. "No."
He nodded. "Me neither."
She walked back toward him. "Can I ask you something?"
"Always,” he whispered.
"If your mother is alive—” He visibly flinched. "What do you think she wants with me?"
He didn't answer immediately. "I don't think she wants you."
That wasn't comforting. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"I think she wants something you represent,” he said.
She frowned. "My family?"
"Maybe,” he said. "Or—" His jaw tightened. "Me." She stared at him, waiting for him to explain. "Dante couldn't control me anymore."
“I’m not following,” she said.
"If he couldn't force me to come home?—”
Understanding slowly dawned. "He'd use me to get you to do what he wanted.
Vengeance nodded. "He’d use the woman I—" He stopped.
She smiled softly. "The woman you what?"
His ears turned red, and she thought it was the cutest thing she ever saw. "I think you know."
"I'd still like to hear you say it,” she teased.
He groaned quietly. "You enjoy torturing me."
"A little,” Chloe admitted.
He stepped closer. "The woman I love."
Her heart skipped. "There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
"You happy?" he grumbled.
"Nope.” She slipped her arms around his neck. "I'm ecstatic." He laughed, and she went up on her tiptoes to kiss him—simply because she wanted to. When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his.
"They're not taking me,” she insisted.
"No,” he breathed, “They won’t take you, honey.”
"They're not taking you either,” she promised.
"No, we're ending this." His expression turned serious again. "Together."
She smiled. "Together." Outside, a raven landed on the porch railing and let out a harsh cry. Vengeance looked toward the sound, and his smile disappeared.
"What is it?" she asked.
He was already reaching for the pistol lying on the kitchen table. "The raven."
She frowned. "What about it?"
"It flew away." Before she could ask why that mattered, the distant rumble of helicopter blades echoed through the mountains. Vengeance's head snapped toward the sound and his face lost all color. "Damn it."
"What’s wrong?” she asked.
"Those aren't news helicopters." He grabbed her hand. "We're out of time." The helicopter grew louder, and another joined it, followed by another. Someone hadn't simply found the safe house; they were surrounding it.