48. Chapter 48 #2
Who is even talking? It doesn't sound like me.
Miller sneers, hesitating just long enough to broadcast his intention to resist. Typical. Men like him never surrender control willingly.
I'll have to take it.
I holster my gun and lunge before he can react. The mattress dips beneath our combined weight as I slam into him, pinning him with my knees. Miller thrashes like a landed fish. He manages one solid hit, his fist connecting with my left temple in a burst of white-hot pain.
The blow does nothing but fan the darkness that I've let ooze out. I drive my forearm across his throat, just enough pressure to make his eyes bulge.
"Move again and I'll crush your windpipe," I say.
His body goes momentarily slack, just enough for me to wrench his arms behind his back and snap the cuffs around his wrists. The metallic click feels like victory, but it's hollow. Temporary.
A feral rage builds in my chest, a pressure mounting behind my ribs until I can't contain it. My fist connects with his jaw—once, twice, three times. Each impact sends a shock wave up my arm and aggravates my still-healing knuckles, but I barely feel it through the haze of fury.
"You think you're special?" I growl, words spilling out like blood from a wound. "You think money and fame give you the right to hurt people? To own them?"
Another punch. His lip splits, painting my knuckles red.
"You're just another sick fuck who thinks the world owes him something. Who thinks women are possessions. Who thinks power means you can take whatever the hell you want."
My voice rises, the words not even for him anymore.
They're for every commanding officer who sent us into civilian zones with impossible orders.
For every politician who started wars from the comfort of leather chairs.
For every man who's ever looked at a woman and seen property instead of a person.
"You're the same as all of them. The same as the men who start wars, who create the need for soldiers, who put us in positions where we have to make choices that cripple us the rest of our lives. Where our mistakes kill innocent people."
I'm breathing hard now, shaking with a rage that's been building since Wunmi died in my arms. Since I watched Londyn flinch away from my touch. Since I realized how many people I've failed to protect.
"I'm done failing."
My hand goes to the knife at my waist. Miller is shirtless, his chest and back exposed.
I think of Londyn and the scars that pucker her skin.
This bastard will have a scar of his own and he'll look at it every fucking day and think of me.
And from this moment on, I hope he lives in a permanent state of terror anticipating the moment I'll come back for him.
I dig the blade into his shoulder, watching the shock register on his face, then pull it diagonally across his torso, all the way to his hip. He screams—a high, animalistic sound—arching beneath me.
I climb off because the rush of adrenaline is fading. He rolls onto his side, howling and soaking the sheets with his blood. The cut isn't deep enough to kill, but it's going to bleed like hell. It's going to leave a nasty wound.
My hands tremble as I look at the knife and my bloody gloves. Some of the darkness leaves and I'm left grounded in my body again, wondering what the hell I let myself do.
Wondering how I'm capable of this.
All of it looks bad. It's too obvious that he had an attacker. Could Victor still get the police to turn a blind eye? Miller isn't dead, just injured. It could still work. It could still…
Movement behind me. The woman from the closet. She has a gun with a suppressor—Miller's I assume—and she's inching toward the bed. I lunge for her, shouting, "No!" but she fires.
A single shot, impossibly lucky, right to Miller's head.
Blood and bone spray the sheets, and for a second, I can't process what just happened. Miller's body twitches, a final reflex, then goes still. The woman stands there, chest heaving, the gun shaking in her hands.
"He deserved it," she whispers.
I take a step forward, almost like I'm about to attempt CPR to keep him alive. But there's no point. He's dead. While I stare at the wreckage of my plan, a red pool expands beneath him, darkening the white sheets. Just like that, a man who caused so much suffering in the world is snuffed out.
I should feel something. Relief. Vengeance. But all I have is the hollow, sinking certainty that I've just witnessed my own future collapse.
Blood pounds through my skull until it's all I can hear—a persistent roar that drowns everything else. My ears ring with the aftermath of that single shot.
The woman approaches me like she was the one with the plan all along.
She tugs the knife from my grip, my fingers too numb to resist. With a steely resolve, she drags the blade through her palm, wincing as a crimson line appears.
Then she wraps her bloodied fingers around the handle, pressing and twisting until her prints and blood are everywhere.
"I did this," she says, her voice steady despite the tremor in her shoulders. "I did everything. Me and Debbie escaped. Then we attacked him." She looks past me, toward the doorway. "Right, Debbie?"
The malnourished woman—Debbie—stands in the doorway, clutching a blanket around her skeletal frame. She nods, her gaze never leaving Miller's corpse. Her voice is monotone and robotic. "That's right. We did this together because he attacked us. He deserved it."
The first woman turns back to me, and I notice the gold flecks in her otherwise dark eyes. She has determined eyes that have seen too much for her young age. I realize now, that she might only be eighteen. "You weren't even here," she says, "so leave. Just leave because we never saw you."
I can't move. My body feels like it's been nailed to the floor, every muscle locked in place by the magnitude of what's just happened.
What it means. This mission wasn't supposed to go this way.
Miller was supposed to go to jail. Mike was supposed to be released.
Londyn and I were supposed to disappear and raise our child somewhere safe.
I was supposed to have freedom.
Everything's unraveling, threads of possibility slipping through my fingers like smoke.
Debbie crosses the room, her steps wobbly but determined. Her bony hand grips my arm with surprising strength as she tugs me toward the doorway. "Thank you," she whispers. "You saved us. Now get out of here. You have fifteen minutes before we call the cops to report what we've done."
Her gratitude slides over me, unable to penetrate the shell of dread that's hardening. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to get off this yacht, out of this marina, and as far away as possible. Fifteen minutes before the police arrive and the world discovers Alan Miller has been murdered.
How soon before Victor knows?
I nod, the motion automatic and detached. Then I turn. One foot in front of the other. Down the hallway. Through the living area. Out onto the deck where the night air hits my face like a slap, jolting me partially back to awareness.
One jump from bow to dock. I land with less grace than before, twisting my ankle because my balance is compromised by the storm in my head.
Grimacing, I limp forward quickly. The marina stretches ahead of me, a maze of wooden paths and dark vessels.
I move through it like a ghost, my footsteps silent against the planks, my body sticking to shadows.
The guard at the booth is still absorbed in his phone, oblivious to the drama unfolding just yards away.
One jammer after another disappears into my pockets as I retrace my path, removing the evidence of my presence.
Every sound makes me flinch—the creak of a hull against its moorings, the distant laughter of people who live in their boats, the occasional splash of water against pylons. In my heightened state, every sound and movement feels like an accusation and a spotlight tracking my escape.
I scale the fence, wincing from the pain in my ankle but forcing it to hold my weight.
On the other side, I slip through the darkness toward the parking lot.
My car waits exactly where I left it. The key slides into the ignition, but I can't turn it.
My hand just sits there, frozen in mid-motion, unable to complete the simple task of starting an engine and leaving.
Horror slams into me like a freight train.
What have I done?
What have I allowed to happen?
There's one less sadistic asshole in the world. The women are free. But Victor… Victor is going to be fucking furious.
I close my eyes, but all I see is Mike's face, then his wife's, then his children's. I see a parade of innocents who will pay the price for my mistake. And Londyn. Oh god, Londyn. Our child.
What have I done?
The paralysis breaks suddenly, giving way to a wave of nausea so intense I barely get the door open before emptying my stomach onto the asphalt. I heave until there's nothing left, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the taste of acid lingering on my tongue.
What now soldier?
It's not time to wallow in pity or get consumed by fear. I need to act despite the terror and do what must be done.
I can only think of one path forward. I send Declan a quick text: I'm okay, but change my deadline to Friday 11PM. If you don't hear from me by then, leave.
I start the car. The engine rumbles to life, indifferent to my internal collapse and the weight of what I'm about to do.
The dashboard clock glows 11:27 PM. By 11:45, sirens will be wailing toward the marina.
By morning, Miller's death will be headline news across the country. By noon, Victor will know I've failed.
I have to get to him before then.
I pull out of the parking lot, driving on autopilot. The road ahead is a blur through eyes that won't focus. My head pounds with the rhythm of a single thought: Victor wanted Miller alive.