28. Silas
TWENTY-EIGHT
SILAS
Vaughn stumbles back, his face wearing an expression I’ve never seen on him. I pace the room in front of him, my body vibrating with too much nervous energy.
“When I was at college with Rowan,” I say, “I wanted to do something to help people.” I stop pacing for a moment.
“I grew up in foster care—I told you that. And what I wanted was to help people who couldn’t help themselves.
People who were in the system the way I was in the system.
People who were vulnerable because of who they were or where they were or what they didn’t have. ”
Vaughn is staring at me like I’m someone he doesn’t recognize. Like I grew a different head.
“Rowan wouldn’t stop talking about the FBI, so I applied because it seemed like a good way to help people.
Rowan and I did everything together: the applications, the tests, the assessments, all of it.
We trained together. We studied together.
He was twenty-one, and I was twenty-five.
and we were going to do this together … Rowan got in. ”
“And you didn’t,” Vaughn says. His voice is flat. Not unkind. Just flat.
“No,” I say. “But not because I failed. I didn’t fail any of the assessments. My scores were exceptional. The photographic memory, the psychological profile, the physical testing—all of it. I didn’t get into law enforcement because I got into something else first.”
Vaughn is focused on me now, his gaze boring into mine. I have to look away before I can continue.
“There’s an organization,” I say. “Government adjacent. Secret. They receive intelligence about people who commit the worst crimes, the most serious, the most harmful. Things you can’t begin to imagine.
But they can’t be brought to justice through conventional means.
Because of their connections, money, or political protection.
The people who are untouchable by the law because the law has been set to be unable to touch them. ”
I glance at Vaughn but his expression gives nothing away.
“The organization recruits people with specific profiles,” I say. “People with certain skills. No family. No connections. No one who would ask questions. I fit the profile exactly.”
Vaughn just stares at me.
“I get intelligence about a target,” I say. “I go in. I kill them. I leave.” I say it plainly because there’s no other way to say it. “That’s what I do. That’s what I’ve done for ten years.”
Vaughn shakes his head. “No.”
I wait, giving him time to work through the bomb I just dropped.
“No, you’re lying.” He huffs. “Am I in a fucking alternative reality right now? My son is on the operating table, and his best friend, who I’ve been sleeping with for three weeks, is standing in a hospital waiting room telling me he’s a— No.”
“I wish I was lying,” I say. “Or in an alternate reality, but that alternate reality is what I’ve been living with you since I got here.”
He gestures for me to continue.
“I quit before Warsaw. I told them I was done, but with an organization like this, you don’t just hand in your notice and go.
They wanted one last job.” I trace a seam between two floor tiles with my toe.
“That’s why I was in Warsaw. You were the target.
I didn’t know who you were … Usually I have more information, but this time I had nothing.
I occasionally work with a partner. She was the one who had seen your photo. ”
My shoe squeaks, and I realize I’ve been slumped over. I pull myself upright and straighten my shoulders. Vaughn deserves to hear everything.
“When she pointed at you, I thought she was joking. I told her we couldn’t kill you. That’s when I interrupted your date with Seth. I needed him to get out because I didn’t know what was happening.”
“This is surreal,” he says. The words come out quiet and precise, like he’s testing each one before he says it. “This is genuinely surreal.”
“I know.”
“Are you a project manager at all?”
“No.”
“Do you live in Atlanta?”
“Yes.”
“Do you—” He looks at the ceiling for a moment, then back at me. “Your life is a lie.”
“My life isn’t a lie,” I say. “The life I told you I live is.”
He’s quiet, thoughtful.
“You really kill people,” he finally says. “For a living.”
“Yes.”
He nods. Once. Slowly. Like he’s filing it away.
“And you were going to kill me.”
“No.” I mean it with everything I have. “I was never going to kill you. The moment I saw you, I knew I couldn’t do it.
I’m here because I couldn’t refuse the contract or they’d send someone else, and I needed to find out why you were targeted.
” I cross my arms, then uncross them and shove my hands into my pockets.
“We don’t kill innocent people, Vaughn. The organization has standards, if you can call them that.
The targets are people who have done serious harm and can’t be reached any other way.
If you are on a list, there has to be a reason, but I couldn’t find one.
I couldn’t find a single thing that justified it.
So I came here to figure out what was wrong with the briefing and to protect you until I did. ”
“You had to come here to protect me,” he says.
“Yes.”
“This”—he gestures between us— “was that all an act? Was any of it real?”
“No, and yes,” I insist. “Of course none of it was an act. That was all real. Every single moment of it was real. You have to believe that.”
“How?” he asks, and his voice has something in it now, something rawer than anger.
“How can I believe in anything? You’ve been in my house for three weeks.
You’ve been in my bed. You’ve been— You’re Rowan’s best friend.
I thought I knew you. I thought you were a project manager who traveled too much and was lonely and didn’t know how to let people in.
And now you’re telling me you’re a—” He shoves his hand through his hair.
“How do I believe anything you’ve ever said to me? ”
I don’t have an answer that’s good enough. I know I don’t. There isn’t one. There’s only the truth, which I should have given him weeks ago, and the fact that it’s too late to give it at the right time.
“Everything I felt,” I say. “Everything that happened between us. That was—is—the most real thing in my life. These past few weeks have showed me the kind of life I want.”
“Silas,” he says, and my name in his mouth sounds different.
Then the door opens and a man comes through. He’s wearing surgical scrubs and looks at Vaughn, then me, then back at Vaughn.
“Mr. Reeves?” he asks.
“Yes,” he says. “How’s my son?”
The man wears the expression that precedes good news, and despite everything, the ache in my chest loosens slightly.
He introduces himself as a general surgeon, then says, “The surgery went well. The bullet caused significant damage to the tissue in the left shoulder, and we had to work to repair the subclavian artery, which was the primary concern. But we were able to do that successfully. Rowan is in the recovery room. He’s stable. ”
Vaughn makes the sound of a man whose body has been holding on to hope but preparing himself for the worst. “He’s going to make it?” he asks.
“I’m confident,” the surgeon says. “Barring complications, which I don’t anticipate, I’d expect him to be out of hospital in three to five days. He’ll need to take it easy for several weeks after that, but he should make a full recovery.”
“Can I see him?” Vaughn asks.
“He’s still under anesthesia,” the surgeon says. “But yes, you can sit with him. I’ll have someone from our team take you back.”
He shakes Vaughn’s proffered hand and leaves, and it’s just the two of us again.
I take a step toward Vaughn.
“I don’t know how to process any of this.” His voice is quiet. “I don’t know how to—I need to see my son.”
“I know,” I say.
He studies me for one more moment, then another person in scrubs approaches us, and Vaughn follows him out.
I sit down on one of the plastic chairs.
Rowan is going to be okay.
I let that land properly for the first time since the sound that wasn’t a firework.
Rowan is going to be okay.
My best friend, who decided we were going to be friends before I’d agreed to it, who showed up consistently for thirteen years without an agenda, who is the only person I’ve ever trusted completely, is going to be okay.
I rub my eyes and let the tears of relief fall down my cheeks.
Then I wipe them with the sleeve of my shirt and take out my phone, but I can’t talk to anyone just yet.
Silas:
Rowan is out of surgery. Stable. Full recovery expected.
The three dots immediately dance.
Zuza:
That’s excellent news. Did you tell Vaughn?
Silas:
He didn’t take it well. I don’t know where I stand with him right now.
Zuza:
Give him time. That’s a significant amount of information for one evening, considering his son almost died.
Silas:
I know. I’m going to find the sheriff now.
Zuza:
Keep me posted.
I pocket the phone as a man wearing a hat and a badge comes in. He appears to be in his sixties, with broad shoulders and a friendly face. He scans the empty room until his eyes land on me.
“You must be Silas,” he says. “Vaughn’s friend.”
“I am.”
He crosses the room and extends his hand. “Sheriff Dale Briggs.”
“Briggs?”
“That’s right,” he says.
“Any relation to Clayton Briggs?” I ask.
“Clayton’s my younger brother,” he says. “But I’m told I’m the handsomest.”
I smile, and the movement feels strange after the last few intense hours.
“Sheriff Briggs, I was actually on my way to find you.”
“Okay.”
“I’m the one who shot Rowan’s shooter. I have the gun I shot him with. It’s Rowan’s gun. And I also have the shooter’s gun.”
Dale Briggs has the particular stance of a man who is rarely surprised, but the twitch in his nose tells me I’ve done just that.
“Now that’s quite something, son. Let me sit with you here, and you can tell me about it.”
I do. I tell him about seeing the suspicious man and that I saw someone move away after the shot was fired.
I tell him about Rowan’s bag, and the service weapon, and the decision I made in under two seconds.
I tell him about the chase through the side streets, the shots fired at me, the graze on my arm.
I tell him about shooting the man in the leg, the ground fight, and the disarming.
“I tried to get him to tell me who hired him, but he wouldn’t talk.”
I don’t tell him about Zuza. I don’t tell him about the contract or the organization.
Not yet.
Dale listens to all of it without interrupting. He asks nothing while I’m talking. When I finish, he’s quiet for a moment.
“You pursued a man who had just shot an FBI agent and fired at you directly.”
“Yes.”
“You have a physical injury consistent with being shot at,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And you pursued him, engaged him, and restrained him until emergency services arrived.”
“Yes. Well, kind of. I asked someone to call emergency services. I needed to come here for Vaughn.”
“I need to take you in,” he says. “Not to hold you, but to take a formal statement. What you’ve described is self-defense and defense of others, and Colorado law is clear on both.
But there’s a process, and we’re going to follow it.
” His attention on me is heavy. “The FBI is going to be involved given that the victim is one of their agents. They’ll want their own statement. ”
“I understand.”
“Taking an FBI agent’s service weapon without authorization is something they’ll want to discuss with you.
” He holds my gaze. “I’m going to be honest with you.
I don’t know exactly who you are or why you know how to do what you just did.
I have some thoughts about it. But what I know is that you caught the bad guy, you kept him alive, and you’re sitting in this hospital instead of running. That tells me something.”
He shifts a bit on the chair. “You said you have both weapons.”
“In Vaughn’s car,” I say. “In the parking lot.”
He stands up. “Show me.”
We walk out of the waiting room together, down the corridor, through the hospital entrance, and outside. When we get to the car, I open the passenger door and reach into the glove compartment where I secured both weapons for the drive here.
I hold them out to Dale.
“The operative’s weapon will match the bullet they took out of Rowan,” I say.
“If you search around the area the man was found, there will be three shots fired at me that hit the wall of a house and maybe a bullet that grazed my arm. Ballistics will confirm they’re from his gun.
I fired three shots, and they are all in his body. ”
Dale hands me a business card. “I need you to come to the station tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. We’ll take the formal statement then.”
“I’ll be there.”