Chapter 14
The dream was getting worse. Hoot sat in his truck for several minutes after waking, staring through the windshield at nothing. Same dream. Same mission. Same gunshot. Same damn word.
Pray. Over and over. And every time Hoot woke, sweat soaked through his shirt and his heart hammered like he’d just run a mile.
Seeing Calloway at the gala hadn’t helped. If anything, it had made everything worse.
The frustrating part was that Hoot couldn’t find a damn thing wrong with the man. Grant Calloway had been exactly what he was supposed to be. A polished professional. Well-spoken and charitable. And deeply connected, considering the circles he’d moved in with Washington’s elite that night.
At the gala, he’d been there representing Praetorian Strategic Group as a senior executive, not as security personnel.
PSG had contributed to the Whitmore Foundation’s international relief and security initiatives several times, and Calloway had cultivated relationships with influential people in Washington through those efforts.
He wasn’t there to protect anyone. He was there because PSG wanted a seat at the table.
And apparently, Calloway had been very good at getting them one.
Everything about him checked out. And Baker hadn’t been able to dig out anything different. Which made Hoot’s instincts even more irritating. Because instincts didn’t care about paperwork. And his were screaming.
He’d barely made it through his morning workout since the dream had dragged him awake far too early again. Now, at least, he had espresso. Cammie’s espresso was nothing short of manna from heaven.
Hoot stepped out of Flour Power Bakery, cup warming his hand, and started down the sidewalk. Then a smell reached his senses. Gun oil. Maybe something else mixed with it. His steps slowed. The bakery disappeared. Even Bell Creek disappeared, and he was suddenly back in Afghanistan.
Smoke and dust surrounded him. The acrid smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood assaulted his senses.
“Get down!” Bullet’s voice. Young. Too young. Hardly an adult.
Hoot turned. Bullet was running toward him. Fast. Faster than anyone should have been able to move carrying a rifle. “Hoot!”
The shot rang out. Bullet fired. The enemy went down. Bullet grinned. “Good deed for the day.”
A sharp crack echoed through the air again. Bullet jerked. “Hoot.”
He caught him. There was so much blood. Too much for a body to survive.
“Hoot!”
“I’m here.”
“Ho—”
Hoot tried to hold him tighter. “Stay with me.”
Bullet’s eyes searched his. “Pray.”
Hoot shook his head. “What?”
“Pray.” Bullet’s lips kept moving but he couldn’t make out what else he was trying to say.
“Hoot.”
The voice changed. More frightened, almost desperate.
“Cormac.”
Hoot jerked back into the present. His espresso nearly slipped from his hand. He blinked and Bell Creek came back into focus. First, with the sidewalk under his feet. Then the cars and people.
And there was Lark. She stood directly in front of him. Her expression was worried. “Cormac?”
He stared at her. She waved a hand. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for about thirty seconds.”
He swallowed. “Sorry.”
“You didn’t hear me.”
“I was distracted.”
“Clearly.” She studied him. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” The lie came automatically.
Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t believe him. He could tell. But she didn’t push. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“About?”
“It’s easier if I show you.”
That got his attention. “What?”
She glanced around. “Do you have a minute? Can you come with me?”
He nodded, then followed her. Of course he did. It was easier than he was willing to admit to do anything she asked of him. He didn’t think he was ready to unpack the reasons behind that.
Lark unlocked the door to her storefront and held it open. The smell of wood, metal, paint, and something floral greeted him. Hoot looked around. He’d expected a quirky little art shop. He hadn’t expected this.
The work was good. Really good. Paintings hung along the walls. Sculptures occupied carefully arranged pedestals. Handcrafted jewelry and pottery filled display cases. Every piece felt personal.
“This is yours?”
“Some of it. Most belongs to other artists.” She gestured toward the back. “The co-op is back there.”
They passed through the shop into a larger open workspace. Stairs led upward, and Lark climbed them. Hoot followed.
At the top was an enormous studio space. Windows lined one wall, although the gray sky made the room darker than it probably was on sunny days.
Lark crossed to a worktable. Then she picked up a piece of wood. “This is what I found.” She handed it to him.
Hoot looked down and everything inside him went cold.
The symbol was burned into the wood. Half of a helmet inside what was left of a circle.
The same symbol that he still saw in his dreams sometimes.
He knew it. He’d seen it before. Not on a gala guest. On crates on military bases.
Places they hadn’t questioned at the time because they hadn’t had a reason to.
His fingers tightened around the wood. “Where did you find this?”
“On the island.”
“When?”
“A few days before the gala.” She explained about the disturbed earth. The footprints she’d noticed. Then she explained to him about Calloway. “I saw the same symbol on his lapel pin.”
Hoot stared at her.
“I saw you looking at him.”
“I was.”
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t like him?” It still amazed him how astute she could be.
“Yes. But I don’t know why.”
She folded her arms. “Something about him rubs you the wrong way. I didn’t get a good vibe from him either.”
Hoot’s gaze shot to her. “You met him.”
She let out a huff of laughter. “Wasn’t by choice. Apparently, according to my mother, he’s an appropriate man for me.”
“What?” His hand clenched the rough wood, the sharp splinters biting into his flesh.
“My mother is nothing if not consistent. First Bradley. Now this guy.”
“She treats her daughters like whores to be sold off to the highest bidder.” Her laughter rang out, and for a moment, he could only stare, captivated by her.
“Mother wasn’t too pleased when I said the same.”
“I’m sorry she treats you like that.”
“Not the first time. Probably won’t be the last either. I’m used to it. And I’m over it.” She sounded as if she believed her own words, but he could sense an underlying insecurity to her tone. Then her expression changed to something that looked a lot like guilt.
“I should confess something to you.”
He angled his head slightly, his interest piqued. “What’s that?”
“To get her off my back, I kinda told her I had a boyfriend, and it was serious.”
“Okay,” he said, drawing out the word and wondering why she was confessing this to him.
“They asked for his name.” Her eyes dropped to the floor. “I gave them yours.”
At first, he thought he’d misheard, but then her words fully registered in his mind. Then laughter burst out of him. In surprise, her head shot up, her eyes like saucers.
“You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be?”
“Because I used your name in a lie.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, his gaze intense, searching the depths of her green-gray eyes as he uttered a soft, “No. You used my name as a shield.”
She gaped at him. She closed her mouth abruptly, the sound a soft snap, before letting out a bewildered, “Huh. Never thought about it like that. And to think I was feeling guilty all this time.”
“No need for the guilt,” he assured giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be your shield anytime.” He had no idea where the words were coming from, but he knew them to be true. Somehow, Lark Meadows had become someone important to him.
That realization hit Hoot harder than any mission briefing ever had.
He’d known her only a handful of weeks, yet somehow she’d slipped past defenses he’d spent years building.
He found himself thinking about her when she wasn’t around.
He wondered if she’d eaten, whether she’d made it safely to the island, what she was working on, whether that headache had finally gone away.
He even started noticing the little things. She tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. She rambled when she was trying to fill an uncomfortable silence. Even how her entire face changed when she talked about art.
And the strangest part was that he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop it from happening. That scared him more than the attraction ever had. Attraction was simple. It could be acknowledged, enjoyed, and walked away from.
This was different. Lark made him want things he’d trained himself not to need. Words like connection, and trust came to mind. Wants he’d never realized he desired began to surface. Someone waiting for him when he came home. Someone to laugh with.
She made him want to lower his guard, and Hoot knew better than most what happened when a man lowered his guard at the wrong time. Still, when he thought about her, the walls didn’t feel quite as necessary.
He looked at the piece of wood again, a palpable sense of worry manifesting itself, which disturbed him to a greater extent than was warranted.
“Don’t talk about this with anyone,” he requested indicating the board, moving on quickly from his near declaration of something unnamed before she could say anything.
Her expression changed. “Why?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Because it’s classified?”
“Partly.”
She sighed. “And the other part?”
“To keep you safe.”
“Okay. That’s a good answer. But tell me at least this: was Calloway connected to one of your missions?”
Hoot looked at her. “Yes.”
“What happened?”
He hesitated. “A teammate died.”
Her expression softened immediately. “Oh, Cormac.”
He looked away. The way her voice shaped his real name was something he was genuinely growing to enjoy. He decided to give her more. “I had a flashback downstairs.”
“I figured.” She stepped closer. “Is that something that happens often?”
“Not usually in public like that. More often in dreams.”
“I’m sorry.”