Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN_
HAZARD
The groan coming from Decaf in the back seat of a random, beat-up, old wagon cuts deep. Makes me feel helpless.
I don’t even know where Trav got this pile of junk. Any cars registered to us or Mike Bravo or any LLCs under that umbrella are traceable, so it makes sense for him to source another car. But this? I don’t even think it has suspension, and Decaf’s skin is paling by the second.
He’s lying across the back seat, and I’m sitting in the trunk part of the wagon, while Scout rides shotgun.
This is the best we could do to move him? For all we know, his internal stitches are being ripped open with all this jostling. Or maybe it’s worse for me back here, where there’s no seat belt or oh-shit handle.
“Are we almost there?” I ask. “Where are we even going at this point?” We’re out past San Bernardino, heading toward Idyllwild-Palm Cove. We’ve been traveling for over two hours, and I don’t know how much more he can take.
“We’re almost there,” Trav says.
Where I’m expecting to pull up to a medical center, rehab facility—somewhere immediate help is accessible—we arrive outside a cabin. In the middle of nowhere.
Because that’s not the worst idea in the history of ideas or anything. I’ve seen this horror movie before.
“What is this?” I ask.
“A safe house that can’t be traced back to us,” Trav says.
“What happened to taking him to somewhere he can get treatment?”
“Scout can take care of his recovery.”
Scout turns from the passenger seat. “Why else did you think I was here?”
“I don’t know? To get away from Zeus’s kids for a beat?”
Decaf cuts in. “I don’t care who’s here or why. I need a proper fucking bed as soon as possible.” He looks like he’s about to vomit.
“Let’s move him,” Scout says. “Fast.”
“There should be supplies inside,” Trav says. “I had it stocked with all the medical shit you’ll need. Haz, go see if everything is there. I’m sure I asked for a wheelchair.”
“Key?” I ask.
“Should be unlocked.”
I jump out of the car and run into the cabin.
There’s cheap furniture, and it’s staged like a vacation rental.
It doesn’t look lived in at all. The only thing out of place is the hospital bed centered in the middle of the living room.
Then my gaze lands on— “Wheelchair,” I say like it’s some eureka moment.
Decaf looks even worse by the time I get it unfolded and outside.
I’m really worried that moving him so soon is a mistake, but at the same time, we were lucky to have the week without being found out.
All these smoke-and-mirror tricks—registering him at the hospital under a fake ID, using an untraceable car—they only last so long.
It’s just daunting seeing Decaf so weak.
From reading about him in my dad’s journals to how strongly stoic and unemotional he was before finally letting me in, not to mention how he threw himself in front of that car bomb for me … He’s been almost mythical levels of strength in my head.
Now, seeing him shaking and pale and so vulnerable, on the verge of fucking tears from the pain, it’s the stark reminder that Decaf is just a human.
He’s made mistakes, carries around so much guilt, and tries to protect himself by shutting everyone out.
It’s why he’s trying to push me away again—by telling me to leave and make sure I’m safe.
There’s no way I’m leaving. We’re finally making progress. He’s letting me in, little by little. I’m not going to give that up for a false sense of safety. Because the reality is, no matter where we go, they’re not going to stop looking for us. If their black ops can’t find us, the CIA can.
Depending on how adamant the government is that we’re a real threat to them, they might chase us down until every last one of us is gone.
As soon as we get Decaf inside, and Trav and Scout help lift him into the hospital bed, he rambles something about wanting to be put out of his misery already.
A couple of weeks ago, I would’ve volunteered. Now …
“Can you give him something for the pain?” I ask. No, more like demand.
Instead of getting right on that, Scout turns to Trav. “I swear on Decaf’s life, if Haz is going to act exactly like Decaf did when Haz was hurt, I’m out.”
“What, you mean sneaking me the good painkillers so I didn’t have to deal with any pain at all? I’m thankful for that.”
Scout’s gaze darts between Decaf and me. “You did what?”
Oops. “Is that not what you were talking about?”
“Do you know how dangerous that is?” he yells at Decaf. “What if I had decided he needed something stronger and accidentally gave him an overdose?”
Decaf doesn’t even seem to notice or care that he’s being scolded. His face is bunched up in pain, and he’s holding on to his abdomen.
“You can fight about it later. Get the man some pain relief. The good kind so I don’t have to break your rules later and sneak him stuff that actually works.”
Scout opens a bag of medicine that’s been stashed next to the bed, mumbling to himself the whole time, “This is going to be exactly the same as when Haz was injured, and I don’t have the patience or the alcohol to deal with that.”
“You’ll be fine,” Trav says. “If you’re all set, I need to get back to Rogue. We’ll check in with you in a couple of days.”
“You’re leaving us here? Just the three of us?” I ask. “What if they find us. How are Scout and I supposed to get Decaf out of here? How are we—”
“Haz,” Trav says slowly. “You’re safe. No one knows you’re here. And trust me, in a month or two of being here with nothing to do and nowhere to go, you’ll be begging for someone to show up and try to take you out just so you can get an adrenaline rush.”
I doubt that, but only because I’ve never been that kind of adrenaline junkie. I didn’t join the military for that high. My urge to serve my country was out of some false sense of obligation or wanting to follow a ghost.
“Do you really think it’ll be that long before we can get Decaf out of here?”
“There’s nothing stopping you from leaving sooner,” Decaf says, sounding a little more lucid and less in pain. Scout has already given him an injection for pain, and it must be fucking fast-acting because Decaf’s facial features have gone from scrunched in pain to slightly less scrunched in anger.
“We’re not starting that argument again.”
Before he can, in fact, start that argument again, I walk Trav to the door to see him out.
“You really will be okay here,” he says when we’re out of earshot. “A lot less risky than being in that hospital.”
“We have a lot less medical access here, though, and he just went through major surgery.”
Instead of jumping in on my concern or trying to reassure me, Trav fucking smiles and then covers his mouth like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Why is that funny?”
“What you said isn’t funny, but after listening to you both bitch about one another for almost a year, I find it funny you’re his biggest advocate now.”
“He saved my life. What am I supposed to do? Turn my back on him?”
“A lot of other guys would. I thought you would.” Trav cocks his head. “Is it weird to say I’m proud of you for swallowing all your issues with him and are trying?”
Only if it’s weird that him saying that makes me giddy. I really, really, really need to see a therapist about my affliction for praise from older men. Then again, do I really? I already know the source of it. My dad.
It’s why I find Decaf so attractive. Why I preen under praise from Trav. And why I can’t read into the draw I have toward Decaf.
Because it’s not about him. It’s about my issues.
Issues I should probably deal with. Preferably without getting inappropriate with my godfather.
I need a good sleep and a phenomenal fuck. Then I should be able to get through Decaf’s recovery without thinking about offering up my hand for him to jerk off with, seeing as his dominant hand is smashed to pieces.
My mouth needs to remain closed about that.