Chapter Fifteen
W arren
Warren Bowman studied the small rosemary bush, trying to envision the shape hidden within. The events of the last week had left him feeling restless, and nothing calmed him more than unveiling the unexpected.
Over the course of his military career, he'd tried many, many things in an attempt to stay level. Booze was a perennial favorite, until you reached your late twenties and nothing came easy anymore. The older you got, the more intricate the assignments became, and the more carnage you saw.
The prescribed drugs had been a fantastic way to dull down the pain in his broken body, but he'd started to like them a little too much. In all honesty, he'd loved them, and the docs just kept handing them out like candy. He understood their motivation--the country had been at war, and the Air Force had needed people like him to get in early, usually under cover of darkness, call in airstrikes and get the hell out. The machine needed to churn on.
It'd taken the last round of therapy, where he'd met his SMS brothers and sisters, to discover bonsai, and to eventually kick what had become a raging opioid addiction. But he'd been clean now for over a year, and his house on the outskirts of Henderson had a copious amount of greenery that'd been meticulously sculpted whenever the cravings got too bad.
Now he did it out of habit more than anything else, or when he was stressed out.
Rosemary wasn't something he usually worked with, but he liked the scent of it and had heard placing one near the front door enhanced harmony within a home.
He usually employed more traditional bonsai practices, working with the plant to coax out something that flowed, but for this rosemary, he kept seeing a dragon in his head. So instead of bonsai, he'd dive into topiary. Either way he had his hands full of greenery and goodness.
As he snipped, confidently wielding the razor-sharp topiary shears, he wondered what his friends would think of his hobby. No one from his team had ever been to his home. He wasn't embarrassed, by any means, but as much as he played the charmer, this was who he truly was. Quiet. Contemplative.
He'd watched the world burn more than once and found he didn't need to be in the thick of anything nowadays.
One wing appeared, then a tail, and he fell into the zone, snipping here and there until his vision was realized. He was putting the finishing touches on when his cell rang, startling him, making him lose his grip.
The shears slipped, carving a long gash along his palm. For a moment he stood, shocked, as the blood welled and spilled, then the ring of his phone snapped him out of it and he grabbed a paper towel to staunch the blood.
He looked at his phone, and saw it was the SMS main number. "Bowman," he said, as he put it on speaker and applied pressure to the wound.
Fuck, it hurt like a mother, and he wondered if he was going to need stitches.
"We just got a line on a job," Dev said in his usual cut-to-the-chase manner. "Protection gig for an author that Katie referred to us. I want you on point. Briefing tomorrow at 0900."
"Sounds good," Warren said, "I'll be there." He disconnected and started to peel back the paper towel. As he did, the strangest sensation jolted through him, like a thousand ants crawling inside him.
He pulled the blood-soaked paper away and stared as the wound, definitely deep enough to need stitches, healed before his very eyes.