CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Fire takes the mansion, consumes it.
They make it out with only minutes to spare.
Lachlan carries Roman while Danya carries Savannah.
One breathing, one not. Jules stays close to Lachlan, still crying but it’s quieter now.
He holds Lachlan’s belt loops with his fingers and won’t let go.
When they make it to the beach, Lachlan sees a big old OPV offshore waiting for them and five beached zodiacs to get them there.
A heavy-duty medical team is waiting for them too.
When Danya hands Savannah over to them, giving a brief rundown of the basics, Lachlan hears her pained cries as they perform a rapid trauma assessment, applying chest seals and pressure dressings, opening her airway.
Lachlan almost wants to look away. It’s so unlikely she’ll survive, surprising that she’s made it this far even.
Alistair joins the medical team, giving serious, quiet instructions.
Danya walks over to Lachlan. He’s in heavier tactical gear than Lachlan’s ever seen him wear. ‘Why don’t you let me take him?’ There’s no pity in Danya’s voice, only patience.
Lachlan shakes his head, tightens his grip on Roman. ‘No, I’ve got him.’
Danya doesn’t argue, gives a slow nod. ‘We’ll go back for the others, then.’
‘There are no others.’
But there are.
Ariadne Alderwyck is pronounced officially dead on the shore, Mikhail Sorrenko too.
Danya dragged out what was left of Richard Vale, but the crabs and rats had taken their fair share.
Madeline Delacroix is the lone survivor of Alistair’s inner circle.
Once the medics deem her stable enough for transport, Savannah is placed flat on a soft litter and then carefully carried into the first zodiac to leave the island.
Alistair Penhalyx stares at the mansion while it burns.
They start bagging the bodies for transport.
Lachlan is still holding Roman.
When Danya returns, he has blood up both arms, all over his tactical gear.
Savannah’s blood.
‘We need to move now.’ He looks at Jules, manages a shadow of a smile. ‘Hello, Charlie Foxtrot.’
‘Hi, Danny,’ Jules says, voice shaky. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘You need to guard your charge,’ Danya says seriously when he looks back at Lachlan. ‘You cannot do that if you are doing this, OK?’
He’s smart to use Jules, and Lachlan knows it. He’d do the same to get someone to release a body. Pragmatic necessity waits for no man.
Part of him wants to argue, to justify holding this nineteen-year-old who shouldn’t be dead, but if he starts, he won’t be able to stop, so he grits his teeth, blinks back tears and very carefully hands Roman over to Danya.
It’s the last time he’ll ever see him.
He should say something.
Should maybe say goodbye, or sorry.
No words come out.
His arms are light again.
Danya carries Roman away towards the zodiacs.
Lachlan blinks unevenly, can’t think straight.
‘You OK?’ he asks Jules, which is stupid.
What a thing to ask.
‘Not hurt,’ Jules says, wrapping an arm around Lachlan. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Lachlan shakes his head. ‘My fault.’
Alistair is standing alone nearby on the beach, staring at the fire.
A weird part of Lachlan wants to go there, is morbidly curious about whether the old man is experiencing grief or not, but Danya is right.
Jules is his charge.
They need to get off this fucking island.
Jules won’t let go of Lachlan even while the medics check him over.
It’s efficient and thorough. He’s not hurt, although he inhaled a little smoke after the fires infiltrated the ventilation of the safe room.
Jules stays with Lachlan while they sit together in the zodiac.
Then on the OPV to the staging island. Then on the jet.
He stays with him the whole time, refusing to budge.
Even when he needs to pee on the private jet, he pulls Lachlan with him into the tiny, cramped space while he relieves himself.
‘What was it like?’ Lachlan hears himself ask. ‘In the safe room?’
‘It was fine,’ Jules says, washing his hands. ‘Promise.’
‘I bet it wasn’t fine. It’s OK, I want to know.’
Jules shakes his head, starts to cry again. ‘I knew they were hurting you.’
Lachlan pulls him into his arms.
It feels like a piece of him died on that island.
In the water.
In the fire.
He holds Jules tight.
?
Everything about the helicopter journey is a blur.
Lachlan loses time without ever closing his eyes.
They arrive back at the Estate by night.
He hears people around him talking but he can’t process any of it.
There’s information he should be retaining but it’s all just indecipherable noise.
Carrigan on the radio speaking to her Navy contacts.
Madeline screaming at Alistair before they parted ways after the jet landed.
People keep saying it was the Moroz Front, that they did this.
Lachlan can’t retain any of it, let alone react to it. He’s dead on his feet, a bloody wreck with smoke clinging to his hair and skin, but despite everything, his heart swells to see home when they finally land at the Estate.
Safe, solid and impenetrable.
He made it that way.
Mimi is inside the Estate, but he can’t see her right now.
He needs to shower.
Be debriefed.
Take care of Jules.
The first two he only knows because Danya told him.
The latter is branded into him always.
The Estate medical team is waiting to take Savannah straight into theatre. She’s whisked away on a gurney before Lachlan could get close enough to see if she even survived the journey, but he thinks by the way they attach a mask to her face that she did.
Alistair vanishes.
Lachlan doesn’t care where to.
And then they’re in the showers and Lachlan doesn’t remember walking here. These are the South Wing showers, part of the spa. He’s never used them before. Jules is there too.
‘Shower,’ he says, nodding to himself. ‘Yeah, good idea.’
‘Do you need help?’ Jules asks.
‘No, do you?’
‘No.’
The pair are quiet after that.
The water pours, steamy and soothing. The soap smells good.
Lachlan lets hot water pool in his mouth before swallowing it.
He scrubs hard and washes his hair twice and then leans two hands against the tile as this simple act of caring for himself brings up a sore, sinister spiral of unexpected grief that Roman doesn’t get to wash the dirt of the island away, doesn’t get to wash his hair, or dry off with a clean towel, or dress in different clothes than the ones he died in.
Given that Jules is right there, Lachlan pulls himself together, but the boy seems to sense it anyway, moving closer.
‘How bad was it?’ Jules asks Lachlan, gentle hands running over his body as if he can assess it himself should Lachlan decline to answer.
Gentle fingers travel over and around the injuries, mapping them all.
Lachlan is covered in cuts, gouges, electrical burns and bone bruises.
Jules seems determined to learn each and every one.
‘Your skin is burning hot,’ he whispers thickly.
‘Prolonged exposure,’ Lachlan tells him tonelessly.
Jules says, ‘This is really bad.’
‘Not that bad.’
‘Don’t say that. You’re beat to shit. You’re cut up and burned and bruised so bad even I know it’s from broken bones, and I haven’t got a scratch on me.’
‘That doesn’t mean you’re not—’
‘He died protecting her and I was just standing there like a fucking coward, not even moving. I didn’t know what to do so I did nothing.’ Jules’ voice cracks. ‘I was so mean to Roman, and he… he was brave and good, and I didn’t help!’
Lachlan pulls Jules into his arms again, kisses his hair.
‘It wasn’t your job to keep him safe.’
‘It wasn’t yours either,’ Jules croaks. ‘You did your best, I know it.’
Lachlan will never believe that.
Roman Sorrenko deserved so much better, and even though his blood washed away from Lachlan’s skin, it’ll never truly leave. Lachlan will carry the mark of it all his life, a deep scar in the tissue of his heart carved by the failure of his own choices. Killing Mikhail Sorrenko did nothing.
It’s just more death.
?
Lachlan’s hair is still wet from the showers when he sees Blaire.
They meet in a fierce, heartbroken hug.
She feels as much like home to Lachlan as Mimi or Jules do.
The imprint of her necklace against his chest, the smell of her hair.
Blaire doesn’t need to ask what happened when she studies him, hand atop his heart. She knows already and that knowledge immediately halves the weight of what’s behind his ribs and takes it the way only a sister can.
When he feels able to pull away, he asks her, ‘How were things here?’ Lachlan suddenly can’t remember how overdue he is. A week? Two? No.
He was one day overdue only.
They held him for three days.
No more. Christ.
‘All fine,’ she tells him as they walk into the kitchens. Jules, who went ahead, is talking to Danya while he eats soup, gaze fixed on Lachlan. It’s late but skeleton crews operate all over the Estate. ‘Although Priscilla has been somewhat throwing her weight around,’ Blaire adds under her breath.
Lachlan doesn’t care about that for now. ‘How did Danny find us?’
‘He contacted your friend,’ she explains, pushing a bowl of soup towards him as they take a seat at the table. ‘Joanne?’
‘Jolene,’ Lachlan corrects thoughtlessly. ‘How did he—?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ Danya cuts over gently, giving Lachlan a spoon, nodding down at the bowl. ‘My recipe. Very good.’
Lachlan doesn’t argue.
Hot, salty, flavourful and nourishing.
It’s so good he could cry.
‘Does Vasily know?’ Lachlan asks Blaire.
Blaire nods sadly. ‘He knows. Danya called ahead and told us. I was the one who told him. He asked to be left alone. I respected it.’ Then much lower, she says to Lachlan, ‘We need to speak privately soon.’
Lachlan understands even if he doesn’t.
They need Zaitsev to create a wraparound.
‘Sure.’
He finishes his soup and then walks around the other side of the table to Jules who reaches for him like a lover, boyfriend, no thought to hide anything. Trauma will do that, Lachlan knows.