37. Nate
37
Nate
T he cab idled at the curb, its engine thrumming beneath me like a restrained predator. My fingers curled against the cracked leather seat, every vibration translating into a low hum of tension in my bones. The air reeked of stale cigarettes and body odor, undercut by the sharp tang of jet fuel seeping through the cracked window.
Ava moved through the airport’s sliding doors, her dark coat draping over her hanging shoulders.
To anyone else, she was just another passenger with a purpose driving her forward—but there was hesitation—the barely perceptible hitch in her step.
A crack in the facade.
A moment of doubt.
"Thanks." I handed him his fare, then stepped out, following her through the crowd, keeping my distance from her scanning eyes.
Through the security checkpoint, I stopped a fair distance from the gate. My heart stuck in my chest, frozen in time as she turned and surveilled the crowd—her brows creased.
She's waiting.
For me.
I'm sorry, my recluse.
"Final boarding call for Flight 7999 to Jakarta."
The weight in my chest settled like a cinder block as the attendant approached.
Ava walked into the boarding walkway, her face paling as she glanced over her shoulder one last time.
Then she was gone.
Swallowed by the sterile brightness of the airport, behind a door that locked her in and shut me out.
Safe .
I exhaled through my nose—my pulse steady, but the war raging in my head inflicted havoc as I battled the one thing I wanted versus the one thing I needed.
A sickness hit my gut as I turned away from the closed doors.
This better be worth it.
The scent of cologne hit first as I walked through the side door—too strong, cloying like it had been sprayed to cover something up.
Darkness swallowed the kitchen like a thick fog in a graveyard with an accompanying heavy, unnatural stillness.
I locked the door as though I were never there and walked further into the home, my feet light on the tile. A glass coffee table sat in the middle of the living room—the leather sectional beside it like a staged showroom, a flat-screen mounted to the wall across from it.
The fridge droned in a low hum, the only sign of life in the entire house. My heartbeat synced to it, pounding in my ears in a suffocating rhythm as I set the final stage.
A car pulled up, the headlights cutting across the living room through the big bay window, casting ominous shadows that moved and writhed.
Show time.
A key entered the lock.
The doorknob twisted, and he entered the kitchen. He flipped the switch, and light penetrated the open sterile space.
My vision narrowed, focusing on his salt-and-pepper hair as he tossed the keys onto the quartz countertop—shadows draping across my face like his reaper come to collect his due.
Keith dropped his mail onto his counter beside his keys, a letter falling to the ground. He bent over and paused, his eyes landing on a scuff of dirt I'd left behind.
Shit.
I lunged from the shadows, slamming into him, his back hitting the island dead center in the kitchen.
Keith yelled out, his head knocking into the high-end espresso machine, sending it crashing to the floor.
We scuffled, his hand pushing at my chin as we rolled to the other counter. A dull thud echoed as he ripped a marble mortar from the spice rack, muscles tensing before he swung.
I dropped low, releasing my gloved hold on him. The heavy stone whistled past my head— CRACK! —it smashed into the backsplash, sending shards of tile raining onto the counter.
Rushing him, I drove my fist into his ribs. A guttural grunt escaped him as he staggered back, colliding with the stainless-steel fridge. The metallic clang vibrated through the room.
"You're strong for an old man." I shook out my shoulders one by one as he braced himself against the fridge, his chest heaving for air.
"This was a dumb move, Barlowe."
"That remains to be seen."
His hand jerked to a drawer, and it flew open. A flash of steel—he gripped the handle of a chef’s knife, ripping it free.
Our eyes locked.
The blade caught the LED white light, gleaming between us like a slasher film.
His breath came fast.
Mine stayed steady.
He slashed the knife through the air, and I jerked back—the blade slicing just deep enough to send a hot sting through my forearm. Blood pattered onto the polished floor.
"Lucky." I mocked a lunge, and he swung again. I took the open momentum on his way back and bound forward, my hand catching his wrist and twisting hard.
Snap!
His fingers spasmed. " Ahhh. " The blade clattered onto the floor.
"Don’t be such a damn pussy, Brentwood." I gritted my teeth. "Thought you had a spine under all that bullshit." I shifted my elbow, sending it straight into his jaw, the impact sending him staggering into the bar stools, his shoulder slamming against the edge with a sickening thud.
With an aggravated growl, he charged, barreling into me with sheer force. My heels skidded backward, momentum carrying us out of the kitchen and into the living room. He shoved hard, his grip breaking as I lost balance. The ground disappeared beneath me—my lower back slammed into the glass coffee table, buckling its four legs, sending me sprawling. Pain flared through my spine, rattling my ribs. I groaned and rolled to my side, my leg snapping out, my boot connecting with his knee, twisting it sideways.
"God-fucking-dammit."
He dropped hard. A strangled gasp tore from his throat as he hit the floor, clutching at his leg, his face contorted in white-hot agony.
I lay on the ground and laughed, my hand holding my ribcage, my breaths rapid. "This is turning out to be way more fun than I gave you credit for," I grunted and pulled myself up to my knees.
He reached out, and I dropped on top of him, pinning him to the floor. His chest heaved, blood smeared across his temple, my forearm dribbling blood onto his shirt. I grabbed his collar and twisted at the throat, causing him to spasm. "You really thought you could sweep that shit under the rug and walk away like nothing happened?"
Brentwood coughed, spitting blood to the side. His grin stayed razor-sharp. "Yeah, I did. And if you had any damn sense, you would've left it there."
I let go, his body slumping as another choked cough ripped from his throat. "Sense? If you had half the sack you pretend to, you wouldn’t be lying here like a boot fresh off the bus, begging for a do-over." I drove my fist into his gut, forcing what little air remained from his lungs.
He folded and wheezed. "No one's begging here except you, boy—just like you begged for your brothers, but they still wound up in body bags. Some Marine you are—couldn’t even bring ‘em home."
I grabbed the rope dangling from the wooden I-beam, the coarse fibers rough against my palms. In one swift motion, I looped the makeshift noose around his neck, tightening it until his body jerked in realization.
Brentwood gargled, spit flying from his bloodied lips. "You won’t make it out of this alive." His eyes burned with fury while his body shook.
"Maybe. But you sure as hell won’t be around to find out."
He sucked in a ragged breath, but before he could gather his strength, I pulled.
The rope went taut.
His body lurched upward as his feet kicked, his toes pressed to the ground, enough to keep him conscious.
"Last thing before we're done here, Colonel, " I spat, wiping the blood from my forearm, then reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the knife that had been with me from the beginning.
I circled him like a predator, his strangled, desperate gurgles quickening as his body convulsed against the rope. The tendons in his neck bulged, veins darkening as his body fought for oxygen. His fingers clawed at the rope around his neck, his toes finding purchase on the tile. Sweat and fear thickened in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood already spilled.
Pausing at his back, my blade pressed against his spine, and with a slow, deliberate pull, I sliced downward, the fabric splitting with a whisper-soft rip. The shirt peeled away, exposing the ridges of his vertebra, the slick sheen of sweat coating his skin. His muscles trembled beneath the cold kiss of the blade, his body shivering like a cornered animal.
I pressed the tip against his back.
His breath hitched.
Then, I carved.
The steel bit into his flesh, splitting the skin in a slow, controlled stroke. Thick, crimson blood welled, spilling down his sides in rivulets. His body seized, a strangled wail clawing its way up his throat, but the rope choked it off into a wet, sputtering gag.
Baker.
Kuznetsov.
Dalton.
Another name.
A deeper cut.
The blade dragged through skin and sinew, carving letters into living, breathing meat. His back arched, his head snapping back. A bubbling sound gurgled from his lips—half a scream, half a sob.
Hayes.
Bushfield.
Voss.
His body twitched, jerked, struggled.
The cuts ran together now, a grotesque tapestry of pain and retribution, each name written in blood, each stroke a memorial to the fallen.
His muffled howls vibrated in his chest, raw and primal, echoing off the walls. But I wasn’t finished.
Not yet.
I ran the blade lower, carving the last name deep enough to scrape against bone.
Barlowe.
His body sagged with a twitch, his knees soft, his fingers flexing, then hung limp.
The silence stretched.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
His blood hit the floor, puddling beneath his toes.
I stepped back, my hands slick with sweat, my ribs screaming, then grabbed the bottle of whiskey he kept on the sleek glass bar cart.
"No better friend, no worse enemy." The words came out hoarse and truer than ever before. My throat tightened, the pressure building, an unbearable thickness sitting right beneath my ribs. I took a swig, the whiskey burning a path down my throat, doing little to wash away the raw tightness in my throat. "Isn't that what we always say?"
My jaw clenched as my vision blurred, a single tear slipping past my defenses, burning hot as it traced down my cheek. I swiped it away, furious, but it didn’t change the hollow space growing in my chest.
I exhaled a long and heavy breath and dug into my small bag, tearing out the matches within, then moved the pre-doused vodka waste bin beneath his limp frame.
"Send it."
Striking the match, I tossed it into the bin—the papers bursting into flame.
I took another swig, the liquor pooling in my mouth before I swallowed it down. Gripping the neck of the bottle, I smashed it against the rug. The glass shattered, the liquid spreading fast, soaking deep into the fibers.
The heat climbed, searing against my skin as the fire raced up his legs, curling around his waist, reaching for the rope. My breath hitched, something thick closing around my throat as I forced my feet to move.
One step.
Then another, my focus set forward, never looking back.