Chapter 20
Zeus
The drive back is silent. We have no clue what they did to our vehicle while we were inside that building.
I know Zayne left it unlocked because it would be suspicious to lock the damn thing.
A guy is standing on the front porch when we pull back into the driveway. He's wearing a delivery outfit, but he doesn't look like he's delivering a package so much as waiting for us.
When I open the passenger side door, I realize it's Nyx. Fuck, this dude is so damn intimidating and unapproachable, despite us being on the same team.
He has a small package under his arm but holds out a tablet instead of offering it.
"You have to sign for it," he mutters.
I take the tablet from his hands and pull the stylus from the slot.
The tablet reads, THEY BUGGED THE HOUSE WHILE YOU WERE GONE.
"This is for you," I say, handing the tablet to Zayne so he can read it. I don't know the extent of their surveillance, so it's just a precaution.
Zayne scratches out a signature before handing the tablet back to Nyx.
"Thanks, man," Zayne says, taking the package from his hand.
The guy walks off without a word.
I pull out my key and unlock the front door.
"Fucking perfect," Zayne says. "This is the scope I ordered. Took them long enough to ship the motherfucker. Look."
I glance in his direction to see a scope sitting in the box, but the open flap of the box reads, ONLY THE LIVING ROOM IS BUGGED, LOW-GRADE AUDIO TECH. CONVOS ARE FINE OUTSIDE OF THE ROOM, BUT NOT IN THE KITCHEN.
"That's fucking sweet," I say. "Gotta try it out soon."
"Maybe they have a range they'll let us use," Zayne says, excitement I know he doesn't really feel in his voice.
"Man, I hope so. I need to shoot some shit soon," I reply, rolling my eyes.
I expected it, but I feel fucking violated knowing they came in here and put a listening device in.
I watch as his eyes drift up, focusing on the spot in the ceiling where the laptop is hidden.
Thankfully, he knows more about how these people operate, and he called this one.
I can't imagine what would've happened while we were still at the compound had they found the computer.
I know it's clean. Zayne wouldn't leave anything they could discover other than the laptop itself, but the thing is expensive, and it would've been hard to explain.
"Looks good," he says, dropping his eyes back to mine, a way of reassuring me that he doesn't think the laptop has been discovered.
"Better than that last piece of shit you bought," I say, playing along.
"This is American-made," he assures me, holding the scope up. "None of that foreign shit."
Knowing we're being listened to keeps him in character, and I know all the derogatory stuff he says is for them, not a real reflection of how he truly feels.
"Isn't that why you broke up with that last bitch of yours?"
The words feel bitter on my tongue. Even pretending to hate women makes my skin crawl.
"Yeah," he answers, tossing the scope back in the box. "Spending hard-earned money making other countries great. Stupid bitch."
I huff an agreement, my eyes once again drifting to the ceiling. Our communication with Cerberus has officially been severed, and knowing we're mostly out here alone sets a sense of unease running through my veins.
"I'm gonna get a shower and some fucking sleep before work tonight," I mutter and walk toward my bedroom door to grab a change of clothes.
I'm not a stranger to late nights and early mornings, but there's just something about this job that's draining my energy much faster than others have.
Zayne is no longer in the living room when I leave my room. Although my shower is long and as hot as my skin can handle, I still feel disgusting when I step out and towel off.
Doubt begins to swim inside of me by the time I get back to my room.
The outcome of our work is the main goal.
I'm well aware of that, but maybe this specific type of work, the pretending and the infiltration, isn't something I'm cut out to do.
I wasn't given a choice between Tennessee and one of the other chapters.
Maybe going in and just raining fire on bad guys instead of having to go too in-depth, and personally witnessing what the cartels and sex traffickers are doing, all the while feeling helpless when I can't immediately react, would've been a better fit for me.
I'm in it now, and I know there's no backing out, but the shit we're going to have to do isn't something I want to ever get comfortable doing. I wouldn't even say that Zayne is comfortable, but he sure makes it look easier than it feels to me.
I glance at my bed, realizing I've once again started pacing the fucking few feet I have to maneuver in this room.
My body aches with exhaustion, and I know how dangerous that could be later on, depending on the expectations of the job we're going to get involved in.
I pause at the end of the bed, running my hands over my head, eyes drifting closed. I just need a fucking reset, something else to focus on.
As if the devil himself were inside my head, my thoughts drift back to Zayne and the kiss we shared, the way water droplets glistened on his skin earlier.
Those are all tangible memories, things that happened, experiences I can reflect on.
I growl in frustration when my sleep-deprived mind takes this unguarded opportunity not only to live in the memories but also to mutate those flashbacks, expanding on them in ways I have very rarely let happen before.
I'm simmering, hands noticeably trembling with agitation.
The old me, the one who wanted to point fingers and assign blame, would be pissed that Zayne is back in my life. That man would believe Zayne was completely at fault, but I've grown emotionally since we were teens.
I'm angry with myself.
Not because I'm having the thoughts at all, but because they seem uncontrollable, like there's this draw tugging at every cell in my body, urging me to leave this room and wander down the short hallway.
Not having dominion over my thoughts and urges at this point in my life seems almost criminal. Wanting something is one thing, but having to fight to keep from doing something seems more like an addiction, and that isn't something I've wanted in my life ever.
I tilt my head, the echo of my neck cracking ringing out through the room. Rivet, the psychologist who works for Cerberus in New Mexico, would have a fucking field day if she were in my head right now.
The living room is bugged.
Why that thought slams into me, I have no idea. I shouldn't have to make excuses or justify myself for not doing something. I should simply tell myself it's not a good idea and move on.
But his room is the farthest area from the bug.
I shake my head, fists clenching at my sides.
It's a mere three steps to the fucking door, so I take two more steps back, feeling more than a little off-kilter when my calves bump into the bed, forcing me to sit down.
I glare at the door as if it’s done something to personally offend me.
I'm better than this.
I've spent years getting my behaviors under control.
I no longer lead with my anger and irritation.
I've taught myself to think before reacting, something that I didn't even consider until I was in the hospital, laid up with bullet holes.
"Yeah," I mutter to my empty room. "Think about that shit instead."
Zeus.
The name I earned in the Marine Corps. The one given to me when people called me a god, a hero.
I've often wondered what they would call me if they knew I acted on instinct without considering all the possible outcomes. Had I been able to guarantee that I'd be here today, I probably would've reacted the same way.
But honestly, had I been given more than a split second to think, I may not have covered my men and taken the brunt of enemy fire.
I felt like such a coward having those thoughts during recovery.
When the pain would get to be too much.
When the visits stopped because it took so long to heal.
When my parents wanted to use my injuries for their own personal gain.
There were more than a few lows after getting shot, and I'm not proud of having those thoughts then any more than I am with them popping up now.
I fall back on the bed, the old, used blanket scratchy on my bare back. I let my eyes drift closed, welcoming the phantom stings piercing my skin as my mind takes me right back to my last day on the battlefield.
What the fuck does it say about avoidance where Zayne is concerned that I'm more comfortable thinking about being shot than what could happen between us if I left this room and wandered down the hall?
Blowing out a deep breath, I do my very best to free my mind of all thoughts. I take a deep breath, imagining a line starting horizontally at my head, moving it down a few inches with my exhale.
I repeat the action, moving the line further and further down my body, relaxing every group of muscles it passes through until it reaches the tips of my toes.
Then I start over, fighting the thoughts and ideas that refuse to drift away.
Another deep breath.
Another push of the line.
Rinse and repeat.
I was told once that fighter pilots would do this as a way to fall asleep quickly so they could be refreshed the next time they were needed to fly.
My body feels heavier, my muscles relaxed as I give in to my exhaustion.
I imagine myself smiling for the win, but my face is too lax to make any physical movements.
Flashes of memories, both from war and from my past with Zayne, tangle together in my mind, but I'm beyond the point of being able to control where I'm taken. Instead of fighting it, I give in.