Penny Candles

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…“You can use your other shirt to dry off,” Rafe said as he approached. “Do you have a change of pants, or do I need to go scrounging for some of those, too?” Sullivan didn’t speak until he practically stood in front of the man. Rafe tried not to stare. He’d been imposing inside, but Rafe had assumed that was due in part to his being the strange face in the crowd. The mind filled in the threat. Not so, in this case. The threat had already been there, broader than any man had a right to be, so finely honed it was no wonder Strike soldiers were considered the deadliest weapons at the government’s command. A few wispy hairs curled around flat, dark nipples, and a similar trail arrowed down the center of his stomach to disappear into his pants, but the muscles didn’t need any further proof of testosterone to get their message across. They said, Don’t fuck with me or I will rip your head off and drink from your brain stem. He masked his morbid thoughts with a smile, waiting for Sullivan to respond. “These are all I have.” His voice was softer than it had been inside, a distant rumble before a summer storm. “I’m sorry they’re so dirty.” “That happens when you’re sleeping in ditches.” When Sullivan made no move to reach for his other shirt, Rafe bent and scooped it up for him. “We’ll find something for you. Don’t worry.” No contact this time when Sullivan took the garment. He dropped into negative space again as he backed away to have room to finish what he’d started. “I don’t like taking advantage of your hospitality. Can I do something to pay you back?” Rafe wished Mama had come out to hear the unsolicited offer…

ALSO BY VIVIEN DEAN Blood Of Souls Born To Be Wild Bridge Over Troubled Water Crave Interlude Ruby Red Rebels Still, Life What We May Be Wranglers (The Collection) Wranglers: Discovery Wranglers: Judgment Wranglers: Voir Dire Wranglers: The Defense Rests Boys Of The Zodiac Series Aries: Riddle Me Wicked

CANCER: PENNY CANDLES BY VIVIEN DEAN

AMBER Q UILL PRESS, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com

CANCER: PENNY CANDLES AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2010 by Vivien Dean ISBN 978-1-60272-708-3 Cover Art © 2010 Trace Edward Zaber

Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Cancer: Nurturing, sensitive, and emotional. When a Cancer falls in love, he does it with everything he is.

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CHAPTER 1 June, 2184 Sullivan Eberle found it ironic that after almost failing the physical to enlist because he had abysmal night vision, he was now forced to do most of his traveling after dark. He’d tried walking during the day. While his time was better, the fear he encountered in every stranger’s face wasn’t worth it. Scared people acted irrationally. It was a risk he wasn’t willing to take. The journey might have been easier if he had a fixed destination in mind, rather than a name that meant nothing to him and puffs of memory that evaporated when he tried to catch them. He walked on instinct, catching the occasional faded sign and steering his course in a new direction. The slip of paper in his 1

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pocket got heavier every day. Taunting him. Begging him. Screaming at him to get there, damn it, who did he think he was dawdling like this? The screams were the easiest to block out. He’d trained too many years to fall prey to such manipulative tactics. Strike would be proud of him. At one point, he debated losing the uniform for something less noticeable. Civilian clothes would help him blend. He might be able to risk journeying during daylight hours then, provided he also had a hat to hide his shaved head. But he’d left his money and credit behind, ties he’d cut without knowing why, and nobody in their right mind would trade for a Strike set. That left thievery. Somehow, in logic he knew was twisted, that was too much. He couldn’t justify crossing that line. At least his other crimes had been officially sanctioned. He refused to break this particular law. On this, he had a choice. He marched along deserted highways under pitch-covered skies. Only once did a vehicle pass him, but the roar of its archaic engine proclaimed its presence long before twin beams pricked the darkness. He hid in a wet ditch until it passed, vaguely wondering where they got the fuel to make the vehicle run. Brackish sludge seeped inside his boots, his pants hems soaking even more, but he remained stationary long after the night was silent again. When he resumed his trek, the oppressive silence tried to flatten him into his own grave. The earth was more than ready for it, which bothered him on a whole lot of levels. At the fronts, they had to burn the dead, in pyres, with throwers, anywhere they could find. Even before the current insurgences, he didn’t know anyone who’d died who hadn’t been cremated. There was just no place to put the bodies. People wouldn’t have to worry about that out here 2

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in the middle of nowhere, but then again, he didn’t know how people could live where it was so quiet. In the beginning, he’d hoped he’d hear crickets, not that he was really sure what crickets even sounded like. Story was, some rural areas still had them. There had been a kid from Ohio in his squadron who spent hours telling him and anyone who wanted to listen about growing up on a farm. Nobody ever told him to shut up unless a ranking officer was in earshot. That kind of life seemed like a fairy tale. Sullivan probably wasn’t in Ohio, anyway. That was farther north and east. But if his search proved fruitless, he might consider going there instead. His hair would be growing back by then. He could leave his career behind him. Where it belonged. *

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He was always hungry. His discharge came with a month’s rations, but he had no idea how long he would need to reach his destination. He split one serving of whatever he pulled out—dried fruit, smoked meat, the leavened protein wafers they used to feed to stray dogs—over an entire day. Sometimes, he supplemented his scant meals with greenery he found along the way, but after the third bout of hard cramps that left him weaker than before, he gave that up. It was better to be hungry. It gave him an edge. At this stage, he took everything he could get. Water was a different story. Water was precious. He knew what chemicals lingered in the atmosphere and how toxic rainfall could be. He’d been taught never to trust natural sources. But on his own, he didn’t have access to a Personal Filtration Unit, and no funds to waste on processed water after the first week. 3

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He had no other choice but to dip into streams. He chose only sources that seemed healthy, where life teemed and thrived in recognizable patterns. At those, he refilled his two canteens, to save in case he didn’t find another one quickly. He almost always emptied them before spying a new source. On the eleventh day after his discharge, he had to use a different hole on his belt to keep it tight. When dusk broke on the sixteenth, he trudged alongside a sweeping field of long, tawny grains. His pace slowed. In the midst of battles, when the only organic elements around him were blood and body parts, it was easy to forget there was another world beyond the ones he’d always known. Plants grew in pots, not the ground. Anything stretching taller than him was made of steel or glass. Breezes carried chemicals and death. Wind didn’t exist to make the slender fronds of identifiable grasses whisper to him in the night air. He touched one, and when it didn’t feel like much of anything, he caught its center and held it still long enough to break part of it off. He brought it to his nose and sniffed. It smelled like the dusty road he traveled, the one cutting through the field’s heart. His tongue darted out, but his tentative lick only sent a prickling sensation into his teeth. Against his better judgment, he nibbled at the broken end of the stalk. Faint moisture, sticky and a little sweet, clung to his lips. Whatever it was, it tasted like the warm sunshine that inevitably found his daily hideaways. He chewed at the stalk for the rest of the night, using the sharp edges to pick at his teeth when he found a ditch to sleep in for the day. A use for everything. Nothing wasted. Some military lessons could apply to life, no matter where he 4

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was. *

*

*

Voices woke him. They were muffled, mostly blocked by the fabric covering his ears. Every dawn, before he went to sleep, he wrapped his thin coat around his head. It gave him extra padding as he slept, but that was a secondary purpose. There were two better reasons he did it. One, with his head wrapped, he wasn’t immediately identifiable as military. His hair was long enough to stipple across his palm when he ran it over his scalp, but it wasn’t nearly long enough to look normal, not yet, not to really protect him. The fact that he’d have to live up to who he was and what he’d done when he found what he was looking for was an irony he refused to consider. His other purpose was just as practical. Covering his ears protected them. Nothing could crawl in this way. Strike didn’t teach that in basic. That was a lesson learned in the field, away from barracks and allies, where finding a safe corner to grab a short nap often meant the difference between living and dying. He could stomach a lot, but the first time he’d had to watch a medic pull a roach out of a soldier’s ear, he’d had nightmares for a week. He never left his ears exposed after that. Even with the coat’s protection, however, the voices were sufficient to rouse him to the day. “…too paranoid.” “She’s a dog. It’s what she does.” “And if she chased down a rabbit? Would you make us go after that, too?” 5

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“Only if you’d brought your gun with you.” “Then you’d be the one accusing me of paranoid.” “If the gun fits…” He opened his eyes to cool dusky shadows. The sun was low enough on the horizon to skim over the surface of the deep ditch, but the crunch of footsteps getting louder meant it wasn’t as safe as he’d hoped. Any second now, he’d be spotted, unless he got lucky and the dog got distracted. A sharp bark practically overhead announced it was too late. Though he rolled to his feet in ready alert, he was pre-empted by the sudden appearance of a golden retriever leaping into the ditch. The men accompanying her appeared moments later, though they remained on the upper ridge. Both were old enough to be his father, skin leathered and chapped from a lifetime exposed to the sun. One was taller, with one of those pot-bellied forms that always seemed to hit skinny men in old age, like it was impossible for them to gain weight anywhere but in their gut. His almost simple smile vanished when he saw what their dog had cornered, and his blue eyes dimmed. His friend was a lot less subtle. “Definitely should’ve brought my gun.” Slowly, Sullivan brought his hands up, palms out to show he was unarmed. “I was just taking a nap.” “Nobody naps in a ditch.” The taller one nudged his buddy. “He’s wearing a uniform.” Shorty’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no fighting around here, son.” He bristled at the nickname, though years of experience had him biting his tongue. “I don’t fight anymore.” “Run away?” 6

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“Discharged.” Shorty snorted. “You think I look stupid? The government’s not about to let an able body walk away. And you look plenty able to me.” “It’s the truth, sir.” “Maybe he was too dumb for service,” the taller man said. “Look at the way he’s got his coat wrapped around his head.” “They’re all too dumb for service.” Shorty waved Sullivan forward. “Get your ass up here. You’re not worth busting up my knee to drag you out.” He had no fear of either man. Even tired and hungry as he was, he was pretty sure he could take both of them if things got physical. It was the dog he didn’t trust, and short tempers that might order the animal to attack, just because. He moved slowly, first unknotting the coat sleeves to switch it from his head to tie around his waist. His pack came next, and he shrugged it on under the twin scowls boring into him. “Hurry it up,” Shorty said. The dog barked in agreement. The loose grit of the steep banks forced him to dig his toes into the dirt if he didn’t want to fall in front of them. If push came to shove, he’d defend himself, but what he really wanted to do was get out of there as soon as possible. From the sun’s position in the sky, it was nearing sunset anyway. An early start would get him farther away from men who weren’t afraid to demonstrate exactly how they felt about the military. “Pat him down, Joe,” Shorty instructed. “We don’t want him surprising us.” Sullivan didn’t need a blade or a gun to take these two down, but he lifted his arms obediently, setting his jaw as he stared 7

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straight ahead. Indignity was nothing new to a soldier, and Joe didn’t have the same rough technique any number of his commanding officers ever had. He’d prove to them he wasn’t a threat, then be on his way. In the opposite direction they were going. He flinched when Joe reached his hips and his fingers slid into Sullivan’s front pockets. He’d extracted the tiny slip of paper before Sullivan could think to stop him, but when Sullivan tried to snatch it back, the dog growled at him, edging forward to provide a barrier for Joe to hide behind. His blood ran cold when Joe opened it up and read it. Joe’s eyes went wide, and he looked back at Sullivan for a long, assessing moment. “What is it?” Shorty asked. He grabbed the paper from his friend’s fingers and scanned it over. The distrustful eyes he fixed on Sullivan echoed any number of the nameless faces who regularly haunted Sullivan’s dreams. “What’s your name, son?” “Eberle, sir!” He barked it automatically, coloring slightly when he realized he’d straightened at the same time. Rather than bring even more attention to the fact he recognized his behavior, he stayed utterly still, waiting for whatever would come next, wishing he’d chosen someplace to sleep for the day. “There’s no Eberles around here,” Joe commented. “Never had any soldiers, neither.” Shorty stuffed the paper into his front pocket, scrutinizing every twitch Sullivan might make. He didn’t dare react. The dog looked ready to spring, even without word from its owners. “So what’re we going to do with this one?” “I’m not looking for trouble.” It was important to get that out there, whether they believed him or not. He held his hand out, keeping his fingers loose to appear as unmenacing as possible. “If 8

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you’ll just let me have my paper back, I’ll be on my way.” “Oh, I don’t think so.” Even Joe seemed surprised by Shorty’s denial. People outside of the cities made it clear what they thought of Strike and anyone associated with it, but few were bold enough to be so blatant about their hatred. Sullivan avoided civilization as much as he could because he didn’t want to witness their fear. In the face of open hostility, his body went on alert, hand dropping, senses sharpening, tempered only by the same survival instinct that had had him rolling into the alleyway the split second before the bomb went off that put him in the hospital. He didn’t actually need the paper. The name scrawled across it had long ago been etched onto his brain. But he wanted it. It was his, one of the few things he could claim for his own. Having it honed his determination to keep going, regardless of the fact he was probably more lost than ever. He held his ground and stared Shorty in the eye. “That’s not yours.” Shorty shrugged. “You really want to have a fight about a piece of trash, be my guest. But Leviticus there has sharper teeth than you. Something tells me you’d be the one missing some body parts if push came to shove.” “It’s not trash.” He wanted the words back as soon as they came out. Weakness wouldn’t help his cause. “What is it, then?” Sullivan held his tongue. The one answer he had was the one he refused to share. “You should go,” Joe said. “We don’t need your kind around here.” “I don’t serve anymore.” 9

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“Once a soldier, always a soldier.” He wanted to refute that, but the truth of the matter was, he couldn’t honestly say Joe didn’t have a point. He’d known most of his life he would be a part of Strike. He’d started preparing for it before he turned ten. If he hadn’t been hit, he would still be on the front, killing whoever was necessary. That knowledge didn’t make him feel any better about his current predicament. “We let him go, we don’t know where he’ll end up,” Shorty mused. Joe frowned. “What’re you saying? You don’t want to take him back with us, do you?” Alarm shot through Sullivan. The last thing he needed was a bunch of civilians, ready to exact their personal brand of revenge because he happened to be handy. He’d been too careful about avoiding confrontation to get caught at this point. When he took a step backward, ready to run, however, Leviticus growled and raised his hackles. He halted, stopped as effectively by the returned attention of both distrustful men. “Look at him.” Shorty swept an age mottled hand at Sullivan. “That mangy cat that keeps dumping dead rats on my doorstep looks better fed than he does.” “But—” “No weapons, right? What’s he going to do to us Leviticus can’t stop?” The thin smile he leveled at Sullivan wasn’t friendly, in spite of the words that came next. “Besides, anyone with eyes can see you’re in need of some good Christian kindness. Some hot food, maybe a shower, and you’ll be a brand new man.” Joe looked as unconvinced as Sullivan felt, but he stopped arguing. He waited for the response as patiently as Shorty did. 10

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The notion of any kind of beneficence coming from these men, Christian or otherwise, would have made him laugh only a few weeks earlier. Maybe more than that, if he took into consideration his hospital time. They didn’t like him. Nothing good would come from agreeing. He’d be at an even greater disadvantage with more people around. But wasn’t this part of his rationale for leaving the security of the city in the first place? He could have gone home. His family would have welcomed him, perhaps not with a hero’s return but certainly with some honor. He’d been injured in the line of duty. That mattered. The possibility paled in light of his chosen task. And if he wanted to see it through to its end, he needed to leave his past behind him. “A hot meal would be nice,” he admitted. “There you go, then.” Turning around, Shorty began walking along the edge of the road, heedless of the rest of them. “We hurry, we can beat the sun. C’mon, Joe.” After a moment’s hesitation, Joe snapped his fingers. The dog broke free of its guard position on Sullivan and loped to his owner’s side, following in Shorty’s footsteps. Sullivan did the same. Some battles were better left unfought. *

*

*

Shorty’s estimation on how long it would take was off by more than a few dozen stars. The moon glimmered in a thin crescent near the horizon, but there was still sufficient illumination for him to read the sign at the town limits. 11

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You are now entering Chadwick, Kansas Population: 653 The numbers were brighter than everything else, the paint fresher. Someone in town kept a close eye on who came and who went. In Sullivan’s mind, a little too close. Shorty and Joe’s pace had slowed throughout the trip. Now, their shoulders sagged in obvious exhaustion, leaving Sullivan and the dog to keep them going. Ironic, when he hadn’t wanted to tag along in the first place. At some point, Leviticus had decided Sullivan must not be too much of a threat after all. He loped along beside him, tongue lolling, whenever he didn’t run off ahead. The first time he took off, Joe whistled him back, but Sullivan was the one he returned to. Remnants of what Chadwick must have been like before still dotted the terrain. Abandoned power lines like collapsed veins. Faded billboards depicting food so washed out it was impossible to tell what it might have originally been. A traffic light, now dead, standing as silent sentinel to an era the town might never see again. Not everything was as lifeless, though. They walked along a cracked sidewalk, past houses that should have merged with the darkness. Instead, lights glowed from inside, candles flickering against closed curtains, bringing ghostly inhabitants to form. The faint thud of a bass line sent his senses into automatic alert, too much resembling the dull roar of constant mortar fire. He must have reacted in some way, flinched or breathed differently or something to make Leviticus growl deep within his 12

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throat. So much for détente. “Look,” he said, speaking up for the first time since they’d started. His voice seemed to echo back at him, reflecting off the world like it wasn’t even there. Neither Joe nor Shorty even glanced back. A little bit louder, “Where are we going? Because it looks like we’re already here.” “Mama Maria’s.” Joe might not have reacted to Sullivan’s query, but he sure as hell did to Shorty’s answer. “Really? You think that’s such a good idea?” “Boy needs to eat.” “There’s other ways.” “It’s public. Safest all around.” Sullivan listened to this odd exchange in silence. Safest for who? He wasn’t armed. They were clearly taking him someplace with other people. He thought he’d been the model of propriety so far. He almost turned on his heel and ran then, uncaring of what Leviticus might do. This wasn’t part of the mission, not part of the plan. He needed to find the path again and stick to it, see it through to the finish no matter what the result. Reminding himself that the promise of civilization was why he’d agreed in the first place was the only way he could stop from fleeing. Chadwick was small. A good training ground. It would help prepare him for however this ended. The residential neighborhood merged into taller, heavier buildings with signs announcing everything under the sun for sale. These weren’t relics from the past, like the spectral watchmen at the town’s border. These businesses thrived in the present, with handwritten notices announcing sales and flyers mounted inside 13

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the intact plate glass windows. A hardware store was still open, in fact, with a man squatting in front of a display taking a moment to wave at Joe and Shorty as they passed by. So many questions rambled through Sullivan’s head, none of which had answers. He hadn’t been a great student, and while he knew a lot of other soldiers who could recite entire timelines about the country’s history, he didn’t know very much about what had transpired for all these people. Most of what he’d collected over the years came from the media, but he’d known for most of his life how untrustworthy they were. He’d never bothered to question it before. Now, he wondered just how much of what he knew was truth, and how much of it wasn’t. A small thrill ran through him. Passages from behind the divide had been trickling open for the past two decades, but other than the kid from Ohio, he’d never personally known anyone to actually come through it. He might have spent the past month wandering over the terrain, but now he had the opportunity to find out how the survivors actually existed. Firsthand. That made it all worth it. Mama Maria’s was a block past the hardware store, lit up brighter than anything else in the vicinity. The music was louder here, the unmistakable tones of laughter drifting into the night every time the front door opened. Sullivan shifted his pack on his shoulder as they approached, trying to quell his racing nerves. A real test of whether or not he was deluding himself about escaping the city. A smarter man would probably be more scared. At the door, Joe snapped his fingers at Leviticus and pointed to the ground. The dog sat without hesitating, then stretched out on its stomach, resting its head on his front paws. A common command, obviously. Sullivan’s attention jumped between Leviticus and the 14

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door as Shorty led the way inside. The scents assailed him first. Spicy and rich, they promised delicacies he hadn’t savored in years, not since before enlisting. His stomach grumbled loud enough for Joe to frown at him, but Sullivan didn’t care, not with the way his mouth watered. He could practically taste the hot food already, and he swallowed hard, stifling the urge to bolt for the kitchen. The restaurant wasn’t as packed as the noise and brightness would lead outsiders to believe. Half of the tables were empty, but those that had patrons catered to a wide variety of people. Men, women, children, seniors, shades of skin every color under the sun with a hodgepodge of clothing to match. When a nearby girl, barely out of teenage, glanced at him and froze, Sullivan did the same, voiding his features of any expression, willing away his hunger. Safest for who? he wondered again. It took a few minutes for others to follow the girl’s example, time enough for Shorty to disappear through a door and a statuesque Hispanic woman in jeans and an apron to come around the end of the long counter. She approached them without fear, wiping her hands off on a towel as she moved. “What’ve you gone and found this time, Joe?” She didn’t sound angry, but rather amused, like it was normal practice for Joe to bring home strays. Still, she stopped several feet away and never let go of her towel. Safe. “He was sleeping in a ditch.” Joe edged closer to the nearest seat at the counter, separating himself from Sullivan whether consciously or not. “And it wasn’t me. It was Leviticus.” “You can’t blame everything on that damn dog.” Her dark eyes 15

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narrowed in assessment, never straying from Sullivan’s. She wasn’t as young as she’d first appeared. Lines radiated from the corners of her eyes, and a deeper furrow between her thick brows told of years of worry. Wispy strands of gray were nearly hidden in the hair she swept back into a ponytail. “Though you smell bad enough for even Joe to sniff out, young man.” Unexpected shame burned high in his cheeks. “Sorry, ma’am. I can go—” “Without eating something? I don’t think so.” She snapped Joe with her towel. “Move over. You can keep him downwind since you’re the one who brought him here.” With a grimace, Joe rose, but as he slid onto the adjacent stool, the door through which Shorty had exited opened again. Shorty emerged and promptly scurried past the woman, but the man who came after him stopped and blocked Sullivan’s path to his seat. In his hand was the scrap of paper Shorty had taken from Sullivan’s pocket. “Looks like we have company, Mama.” Though his statement was clearly directed at the woman, his gaze never left Sullivan. He was young, though Sullivan suspected older than him, and while he was the same height as the woman, he lacked the same thick solidity. His shoulders might have been broad, but his hips were slim, his hands long and almost elegant at his sides. He had the deepest brown eyes Sullivan had ever seen, too, dark enough to be black, with a hint of a slant at their corners. High cheekbones and a wide, full mouth gave him an air of exotic sensuality that his burnished coppery skin only added to. A jolt of familiarity shot through Sullivan’s gut, but as soon as he tried to grab onto the memory, it ran away. When he chased after it, his left eye started to throb, so he let it go, unable to concentrate. Regardless of the 16

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impression, though, he knew in his heart he’d never seen this man before. There was no way he would ever forget that face. When Sullivan remained silent, the man smiled. It wasn’t a big one. His lips never parted. But it reached his eyes, banishing any thought they were as fathomless as they appeared. Sullivan couldn’t look away. “What’s this about?” He held up the scrap of paper between two fingers without glancing at it. “This isn’t you, is it?” “No, sir.” The sir just slipped out, a conditioned reflex in too many ways. The man’s eyes lifted a fraction, and his smile vanished. “Then what do you care about the name Raphael Hamada?” The room seemed quieter now, the customers more aware of the exchange occurring near the door. Sullivan steeled against the scrutiny. “I’m looking for him.” “Why?” For all the questions that had both plagued and excited him, this one left Sullivan floundering. Too much seemed to hinge on it, a pass/fail he hadn’t expected, a choice to make that would alter everything to come. He’d learned to trust his instincts in the field. Life and death weighed upon simple, instantaneous decisions. He’d come through alive, if not entirely intact, so he needed faith that responding would not fail him now. He’d come too far to lose his way. “I don’t know.” He paused. That didn’t feel like enough. “I wish I did.” A longer pause elapsed. It was the other man’s turn to assess his words. Sullivan refused to fidget or break the stare, but each passing second weighed heavier on the back of his brain. 17

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Finally, the man dropped his arm and took a step forward, holding the paper out to Sullivan. “Then it looks like this is your lucky day.” Their fingers didn’t touch as Sullivan took the scrap, but the other man didn’t lower his hand, keeping it there in obvious greeting. “I’m Rafe Hamada.”

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CHAPTER 2 Rafe had seen too many Strike uniforms in his lifetime not to have the sight of one—even dusty, torn, and oddly ill-fitting— make his blood run cold. None had ever shown their faces in Chadwick, but he’d learned a long time ago anything was possible. This one was here now. This one would have to be dealt with. As soon as Rafe figured out why this stranger would be looking for him. He didn’t recognize the name Luther had given him, though he wasn’t sure he was expected to. He doubted the first name would make much of a difference, either. But when he met the man’s eyes, a pale, piercing blue, his trepidation had eased, vanishing completely when the soldier admitted his uncertainty and weakness. 19

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Nobody in Strike would dare do such a thing. Not even a man that looked like this one. He completely blocked the restaurant door, though the way his clothes sagged meant he had at one time been even larger. Sixfour, maybe even six-five, with the sculptured physique Strike was so damn proud of. His hair was starting to grow back from military baldness, the same light blond that scruffed his angular face, but beneath the shadows was a healing scar that jagged from over his ear to the base of his neck. No suture marks. Top-notch surgeons had fused the skin back together after treating whatever had happened to Eberle to get him discharged. Mama’s gaze bored into Rafe, as did everybody else’s, as he waited for Eberle to accept his handshake. He wasn’t sure what they expected from him. If Luther hadn’t wanted him to meet the man, he shouldn’t have brought him into town. Did they think he’d pass on the opportunity to discover what was going on? As far as they all knew, he knew as little about the realities of Strike as they did. “I didn’t expect this.” Eberle’s voice was raspy from disuse. Rafe wondered how long he’d been on his own for it to disintegrate like that. He finally broke his alert stasis to glance down at Rafe’s proffered greeting. Slowly, he switched the paper from his right hand to his left, then engulfed Rafe’s with his own. “Eberle. Ser—Sullivan Eberle.” The man’s struggle to not include his rank surprised Rafe. A swell of respect for the stranger made him smile again. “Why don’t you have a seat?” Releasing his grip, he stepped back toward the kitchen, Sullivan’s eyes tracking him the entire way. “Luther said you needed a decent meal. I should see to that.” “I don’t want to impose.” He paused. “I don’t have any money 20

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or credits.” “Nobody’s asking you to pay.” Rafe ignored the murmured ripple that swept through the restaurant. “You can be my guest tonight. I don’t get visitors every day, you know.” Mama made it easier for both of them by sweeping an arm toward the stool next to Joe. “You’re going to need both hands to eat what Rafe fixes you. How about I get you some coffee while you’re waiting?” “Better do as she says,” Rafe said. “Mama gets even bossier if she thinks she’s being ignored.” Sullivan started to do as he’d been ordered, then hesitated. “I should clean up.” He shifted his pack awkwardly on his shoulder. “It wouldn’t be right to take advantage of your hospitality like…” The sentence trailed off, but his discomfort was obvious. Mama took charge. “Joe, take Mr. Eberle out back and show him where the well is. I’ll see if I can find something that’ll fit him.” The possibility of a clean shirt startled Sullivan into straightening again. “You don’t—” “What’s the point of washing up if you just put on a dirty shirt again?” When Sullivan glanced at Rafe, Rafe shrugged. “I told you she gets bossy. Go on. Food’ll be waiting for you when you get back.” His permission seemed to be all Sullivan was waiting for. With a grateful nod, he followed Joe to the back of the room, and out the rear entrance. Ignoring the curious looks from the customers, Rafe returned to the hot kitchen, Mama’s voice drifting behind him. He blocked out her friendly call for refills and focused on putting together a plate for Sullivan. Something hearty. Considering he didn’t have any 21

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money, he probably hadn’t a decent meal since getting discharged. Rafe ignored the possibility that Sullivan was lying about everything. What purpose would that serve? It only took someone with eyes to see how hard the man had pushed himself. Joe and Luther might not trust him, but they saw the uniform, not who was wearing it. Rafe’s gut told him there wasn’t a deceitful bone in Sullivan’s body. Otherwise, he would have made up some excuse for looking for Rafe. At the very least, he would never have let it show how frustrated he was by his own inadequacies. What boggled Rafe was how Sullivan had found him. It had been over fifteen years since they’d left Miami. Anybody who might have remembered them certainly wouldn’t have told Sullivan to go inland. Mama had told everybody she was going back to Cuba, that Rafe needed to get away from American hypocrisy and learn some decent values. He still remembered sneaking out of their house in the middle of the night and boarding the train for Raleigh. They’d been hours early, but they’d had a private car, and Rafe didn’t see another human being until they switched trains in North Carolina. There, nobody knew who they were. Even better, nobody cared, especially since they were traveling inland. So the question remained, how had Sullivan known? Luther wouldn’t have thought to ask, but he knew Mama would be curious, too. Because if an unknown soldier could track down a pair of nobodies like them, what else could Strike do? He hadn’t recognized the handwriting on Sullivan’s scrap of paper. Anyone could have written it. What he’d noticed was how soft it was, the edges curled from constant touching, the lettering smudged slightly from the transfer of oils from skin to ink. He imagined Sullivan slipping his hand into his pocket, maybe to 22

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confirm he still had it, maybe to take it out and read again. The paper was significant to him. Luther had explained how tense he’d become when it was taken away. And he’d relaxed when Rafe had given it back. Another interesting conundrum in the mystery of Sullivan Eberle. He was in the middle of ladling adobo sauce over a steaming portion of pork when the kitchen door flew open. Mama marched inside, her jaw set, all humor from earlier fled, and went straight to the large cupboard on the back wall. “Where are those shirts from last summer’s carnival?” she demanded, scanning the packed shelves. Rafe couldn’t resist a smile. “Not in the kitchen, that’s for sure.” Her eyes flashed as she glared back at him. “Don’t get smart with me.” He’d only been teasing, but if her tone was anything to go by, it had gone completely past her. “If you didn’t want him to stay, you should’ve kicked him out.” She snorted. “He already knew who you were. What would be the point in that?” So he wasn’t the only one concerned about Sullivan’s foreknowledge, though he’d known Mama would be worried. Nobody had ever protected him like she had. The fact that he was closer to thirty than twenty now didn’t seem to matter to her. He swiped away a drop of sauce that had splattered on the rim of the plate. “I don’t think he’s here to hurt me, you know.” “He’s Strike.” “Ex.” “You can’t believe that.” 23

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She hadn’t gone back to her search, staring at him in disbelief from across the room. Rafe forced himself not to quail like a child under her stern gaze. He understood her reactions, but this time, he didn’t necessarily agree with them. “Did you see the scar?” he asked. “Whatever happened, he almost lost his head.” “And now he’s wandering behind the borders for his health? Don’t be stupid, Raphael.” Only Mama called him that anymore, and only in private. Which reminded him of how curious he’d found it, seeing his full name scrawled on that piece of paper. Everyone in Chadwick knew of him as Rafe. Luther had put two and two together, but he doubted anybody else would have if the situation hadn’t been forced. He tried to lighten the mood again. She would never show her agitation in public, but even Maria Hamada had her limits. Drying his hands on a towel, he abandoned the plate he’d put together for their surprise guest and went to her side. Their eyes met, his only an inch or two above hers. She was tall for a woman, an imposing personality. Sometimes, he wondered if that had been his father’s attraction to her in the first place. Rafe smiled. “You don’t want me smart, you don’t want me stupid. What do you want me, Mama?” The solemnity of her gaze cut through his joke. “Alive.” He bundled her into a hug, unsurprised when she returned it with a fierce strength. “I don’t plan on dying any time soon.” “It’s not your plan I’m worried about.” She patted him on the back before releasing him. Just that simple contact seemed to erase some of the lines around her mouth. “I’m going to send for the sheriff. We’ll be safer if our guest is locked up.” 24

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Alarm cut through his moment of respite. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.” “He will. Trust me.” “Because he’s Strike?” She lifted a triumphant finger to his face. “See? Even you see him like that. Not this ex nonsense.” “Fine.” He’d grant her that. “But that still doesn’t mean you should have him arrested. What would that say about us, locking up a man whose only mistake was to fall asleep in a ditch too close to Joe and Luther’s walking trails? And I know you don’t want to give him a reason to turn against us. Not that I think he will,” he hastened to add when it became apparent she was going to throw that back at him. “But if we don’t try trusting him, how do we expect him to do the same?” “Soldiers never trust civilians.” “Then how do you explain him walking away with Joe and Luther? He didn’t have to. He didn’t know I was here. And he’s a big guy, Mama. He would’ve been able to get away, even with Leviticus there.” Her mouth pressed into a hard, thin line. She could be more stubborn than anybody else he knew. That strength was what had kept them alive as they fled Miami. It was entirely possible she would agree to his face, then walk right out the front door and do exactly as she pleased anyway. He loved her, but sometimes, she was entirely too frustrating. “Give him a chance,” he pleaded. “If he does something, I’ll even go with you. But he just might surprise both of us. Wouldn’t that be best for everyone?” She looked unconvinced, so much so he thought this was going to be it. He couldn’t blame her, not after everything. She’d seen 25

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much more of Strike than he ever had, than he hoped he ever would. But it would be disappointing if she didn’t trust his opinion, just this once. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll be gone in the morning,” she said. “You don’t want to be repainting that sign already anyway.” Rafe laughed, more out of relief than any humor at her small joke. There was still every chance she would do what she wanted, but her begrudging acquiescence was a good sign Sullivan was safe for the interim. “I think I know where those shirts are.” As he backed for the door, he gestured toward the waiting plate. “Can you put some pastelitos on there? I have a feeling that won’t be enough to fill him up.” He didn’t stick around to see her annoyance. He was out the door, behind the counter, and into the storage room, where he found the sack of shirts wedged behind a bag of dried beans. Joe was back on his stool when he emerged. Their eyes met, and Joe nodded toward the rear exit. Rafe suspected it had been Sullivan’s idea to wait outside. His earlier wariness had been too real to be an act. The night whispered illicit promises he rarely found the power to ignore. The rich smell of compost filled the air, carried on the slight breeze coming in from the west, and the soft hum of the few generators still going at this hour created a comforting lullaby. There was no rear light to the restaurant, but he didn’t need it to make out the hulking shadow near the well. It was the alien in an otherwise familiar setting, the only thing that didn’t belong. “You can use your other shirt to dry off,” Rafe said as he approached. “Do you have a change of pants, or do I need to go scrounging for some of those, too?” 26

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Sullivan didn’t speak until he practically stood in front of the man. Rafe tried not to stare. He’d been imposing inside, but Rafe had assumed that was due in part to his being the strange face in the crowd. The mind filled in the threat. Not so, in this case. The threat had already been there, broader than any man had a right to be, so finely honed it was no wonder Strike soldiers were considered the deadliest weapons at the government’s command. A few wispy hairs curled around flat, dark nipples, and a similar trail arrowed down the center of his stomach to disappear into his pants, but the muscles didn’t need any further proof of testosterone to get their message across. They said, Don’t fuck with me or I will rip your head off and drink from your brain stem. He masked his morbid thoughts with a smile, waiting for Sullivan to respond. “These are all I have.” His voice was softer than it had been inside, a distant rumble before a summer storm. “I’m sorry they’re so dirty.” “That happens when you’re sleeping in ditches.” When Sullivan made no move to reach for his other shirt, Rafe bent and scooped it up for him. “We’ll find something for you. Don’t worry.” No contact this time when Sullivan took the garment. He dropped into negative space again as he backed away to have room to finish what he’d started. “I don’t like taking advantage of your hospitality. Can I do something to pay you back?” Rafe wished Mama had come out to hear the unsolicited offer. “We can work something out, if it’ll make you feel better. How long are you staying?” “I don’t know. I know I’m not welcome.” 27

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“Luther’s that way with everybody.” “It’s not just him.” For several seconds, the only sounds were the rustle of his shirt over his skin and the buttons occasionally knocking against each other in tiny clicks. “People don’t like Strike. I know that.” “You said you weren’t enlisted anymore.” “I’m not.” “So you’re not Strike.” “That’s not what people see.” The shadows stopped dancing, and then there he was, the shirt dangling from his hand. “That’s not what you saw.” It was dark enough for him to lie without worrying it would read in his face, but he couldn’t defend Sullivan to his mother and then refuse to trust him himself. Rafe was a lot of things, but a hypocrite was not one of them. “But then you told me the truth,” he said. “It’s just a matter of making sure everyone else knows the truth, too.” Sullivan traded him shirts without a word. His unwavering gaze only broke from Rafe’s when his head passed through the neck opening. “Your uniform’s going to be a problem if you stick around for any time.” Rafe tried to assess him without making it clear he had more than a passing interest in Sullivan’s physical presence. It was a lot harder than he would’ve thought. Nobody behind the borders cared about sexuality anymore, not when history had given them more lethal things to worry about, but he knew the border cities were a lot more conservative. The last thing Chadwick needed was a Strike-trained soldier, furious that someone had the balls to be attracted to him. And it was a good thing his mother wasn’t around to witness his appraisal, or she’d be hauling Sullivan off to the 28

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sheriff’s, Rafe’s requests be damned. “I’ll have to wait until morning to fix that, though.” Though Sullivan nodded, it seemed he did so by rote. Rafe expected him to make noises about going inside, or about the food, or even to push past him to go for the promised meal himself, but he stayed in place. Waiting for permission? That’s what he’d done inside. But Rafe didn’t want to order him around like he was some kind of a superior officer. He didn’t want to treat Sullivan like a soldier. He’d left it behind for a reason, and Rafe would not be the one to impose that role back upon him, even if he asked for it. “How did you get here?” he asked. “I walked.” Rafe blinked. “You…walked?” At Sullivan’s nod, his eyes widened even farther. “But there’s trains now.” One broad shoulder lifted in a reluctant shrug. “They need to know where you’re going. I didn’t.” “You said you were looking for me.” “Yes.” “So let me get this straight. You just…walked away from Strike—” “The hospital. I got my discharge while I was still in recovery.” The clarification didn’t actually matter. “Okay, the hospital, then. And you didn’t know where you were going, or why you needed to find me, but you did it anyway?” Another nod. “That’s insane. Do you have any idea how big it is behind the borders? And how small Chadwick is? How did you ever think you were going to find me?” His barrage of questions flustered Sullivan, his gaze shifting to stare off into the darkness, focusing on nothing, or everything, or 29

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maybe just anything that wasn’t Rafe. “I followed my feet. They’ve never let me down before.” He paused, utterly still. Not even his chest moved in time with his breath. “They didn’t let me down this time, either.” Mama would call him a liar. His story was preposterous at best, blatantly false at worst. Doubt replaced some of Rafe’s earlier convictions, even though he didn’t want it to. Sullivan seemed sincere. He didn’t sound like he was covering his ass, or making up stories to get Rafe to trust him. Hell, if that was what he wanted, there were a lot better stories he could come up with that would do the job. But how was he expected to believe any of this? It invited disaster, and he cared too much about his home to bring a lion into the fold. The only problem was, the lion in question stood in front of him as meek as any lamb. He wasn’t aggressive. He wasn’t mean. He seemed in no way predatory, as Strike soldiers inevitably had to be. The lion was lost, and he’d sought guidance from the only name that seemed to matter to him. The whys wafted like dandelion spores across the fields in light of that. Rafe couldn’t just turn him away. “Where’d your feet start you out from?” “New Orleans. That’s where they shipped me back to.” He wasn’t even from Miami. Rafe didn’t know if that was good or bad. It’d be a point in Mama’s favor, though. “Well, your feet must be killing you by now,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “Come on in and take a load off. I’ve got enough food in there to make you sick.” As he turned his back on Sullivan to lead him back inside, he heard the other man’s nearly silent footsteps close the distance between them. Rafe didn’t flinch when he fell into place next to 30

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him, and he offered a crooked smile when he opened the door to let Sullivan enter first. Answers would come. Eventually. They always did. The trick was not to invest too much in any one result. Rafe was still learning that lesson.

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CHAPTER 3 His tongue burned from all the spices, but the small pastries he’d saved for last helped soothe the worst of it away. Joe called them pastelitos, and everybody seemed to love them as much as Sullivan did. The filling was cream cheese and some kind of fruit he couldn’t identify, but its sweetness countered the pork he’d savored every bite of the way. At the first taste, he’d wanted to toss aside the fork and gobble it down in one fell swoop. The weight of Mama Maria’s gaze on him, as well as a little bit of common sense, forced him to take it slow. He was comfortably full now, more sated than he could remember being in a very long time. Heat radiated from his belly, and he had the urge to loosen his belt another notch to make room for it. Good manners drove his hands to his lap, but now that he 32

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wasn’t hungry anymore, he itched to do more than sit there. Rafe had said they could work something out in exchange for the food, an offer Sullivan absolutely needed to make sure he followed through on. As much as he’d needed the meal—and as much as he’d enjoyed it—he didn’t like how beholden he felt for accepting their hospitality. Nobody spoke to him. Joe had his own food to focus on, and after a few minutes of sideways glances and muted whispers, the rest of the restaurant patrons had largely ignored Sullivan. Only Maria gave him any attention, but he recognized a potential threat when he saw one. In spite of her invitation, she regarded him with the same wary gaze Leviticus had at the start, the guard dog unsure and untrusting of how he might move next. He even understood what she was protecting. Rafe never came back out of the kitchen. The sounds of his cooking drifted out, and every time Maria went in to retrieve steaming plates of food, Sullivan heard the soft cadences of his voice, but the man himself didn’t return. Sullivan knew he had a job to do. Rafe cooked, while Maria served and played hostess. But after their exchange behind the restaurant, he’d hoped for something more. Foolish, yes. He’d been upfront about his lack of reason for seeking the man out in the first place. It was no wonder Rafe would regard him as insane, though if he knew the extent of the memories that refused to coalesce, he doubted Rafe would allow him to stay at all. It was just disappointing. He’d had this meeting built in his head for weeks. Raphael Hamada might not be the man he anticipated—younger, friendlier, definitely more exotic—but that didn’t change his desire to learn exactly why he was so important to Sullivan. When Maria passed behind him to go into the kitchen yet 33

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again, Sullivan twisted on his stool toward her. “Ma’am?” She stopped and met his gaze. Directly. He appreciated that more than he thought she knew. “You need some more coffee?” “No, thank you.” She’d plied him with enough coffee to keep him up all night, even if he hadn’t slept through the day. “I was wondering about what I can do to work off what I owe you.” She frowned. “Who said anything about that?” “Me, actually. I earn my way, even if it doesn’t look it. Your son said it was all right.” Mention of Rafe had her eyes flickering back to the kitchen. After a moment, she nodded brusquely. “Come on, then. I’m sure I can find a use for you somewhere.” His pulse accelerated in excitement as he slid off the stool, picking up his empty dishes at the same time. He followed her out of the dining area, his step lighter, and immediately scanned the room for Rafe. The kitchen was deceptively large, with large chest freezers lining one wall and counters spanning the adjacent one. A hulking wood stove occupied the center space, big enough for someone to cook on each side of it, with a chimney as big around as Sullivan climbing to the ceiling. It disappeared through a hole cut out especially for it, but the heat coming off the stove was still stifling. Beads of sweat popped out on Sullivan’s brow before he spotted Rafe at a large sink, almost hidden by the stove blocking his line of sight. “I thought we were done serving for the night.” Rafe spoke without looking back, the muscles of his back flexing as he washed whatever he had in the sink. “Whose dinner was ruined this time?” “No, no more orders.” With a flick of her fingers, Maria gestured for Sullivan to come with her as she skirted the edges of 34

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the room. “Our guest is going to take care of all the washing up tonight. Show him what to do, and then you can go. Enjoy some time for yourself for a change.” Rafe paused then, forearms plunged into the soapy water, his head turning almost in slow motion to see Sullivan. Water had splashed onto his shirt front, sticking it to his taut stomach, but the half-smile he offered was far more distracting. “How was your meal?” he asked. “Good. Great.” “So which was it, good or great?” Sullivan flushed in embarrassment, but was saved from a response by Maria slapping her son on the shoulder. “Always fishing for compliments, this one.” She smoothed over the spot she’d hit, though Sullivan didn’t think it could have hurt that much. “Don’t forget to put away the adobo sauce tonight. That last batch spoiled.” “Yes, Mama.” Both men watched her leave, though when Sullivan turned back to Rafe, the other man was smiling at him again. “They teach you how to wash dishes in Strike?” More teasing. Sullivan wasn’t accustomed to it, or at least, not the good-natured way Rafe did it. Soldiers were cruder, their targets more direct. He knew how to deflect those. He knew even better how to dish that sort of treatment out. He was still trying to figure out how to deal with Rafe. Rafe moved out of the way, grabbing a towel to wipe off his hands. He pointed out the basics, the pump that drew cold water from the well, where to put everything once they were clean and dry. Sullivan went straight to work, plunging his hands into the soapy water, absorbing every detail like he was about to go on a 35

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mission. This wasn’t life and death, not in the way his existence had been before, but it was vital to the way things ran around here, and he appreciated a well-oiled machine as much as the next man. The last thing he wanted was to abuse Rafe’s hospitality by doing a slipshod job, too. “Where are you planning on sleeping tonight?” The question was so unexpected, he almost dropped a plate back into the water. “I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t know if I’ll need to sleep at all. I slept most of the day.” “You’ve been traveling at night?” “It seemed best.” He resisted the urge to turn around and see what Rafe’s ensuing silence might mean. He went through two huge pots and a load of silverware, each utensil slippery within his grasp, before Rafe brought it up again. “Mama won’t like you hanging around the restaurant. And I don’t see Joe or Luther taking you in, either.” “They don’t need to.” The thought of staying with either older man left his stomach churning. “I’ve got my pack. All I need is a patch of ground.” “I don’t know what they’ve been telling you on the other side, but we’re not all a bunch of animals in here.” His tone had gone cold, sharp enough for the back of Sullivan’s neck to prickle. “You’re not staying outside. Not even Leviticus has to sleep outside.” “I don’t have anywhere to go, though. And I don’t have any money.” “So you’ll stay with me. That’s why you’re here anyway. Just don’t tell Mama. Let me do that.” “You don’t—” 36

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“I don’t have to do a lot of things, but I am not about to let someone without a bed sleep on the ground when I’ve got a perfectly good couch just going to waste.” A cupboard opened and closed. Sullivan wished he had the balls to see what Rafe was doing, but he feared losing the calm mask of his demeanor if he did so. “When you’re done here, walk down to the corner. There’s a church there called Holy Angels. Wait for me out front.” “Are you—” The kitchen door slammed behind him. Sullivan finally found the nerve to turn around, but Rafe was gone. *

*

*

He took comfort in the mindlessness of the physical labor, scrubbing diligently at all the pots until they gleamed, sweeping the floors, mopping down the cracked tile of the dining room without Maria ever uttering a word to ask him. Though he’d walked all those miles to get to Chadwick, that only used his legs. His back would be in torment at the beginning from all the hours carrying his pack, but as it had lightened, he’d stopped noticing any pain. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the constant activity of soldiering until now. The clock on the wall said twelve-fifteen when he’d finished. Odd to care what the time was after the weeks of not knowing. He waited patiently as Maria inspected his work, keeping his smile hidden when she would nod her head in approval. “It’s nice to see Strike hasn’t forgotten the basics,” she said. “You do good work.” “Thank you, ma’am.” For some reason, that drew a sharp frown. “We don’t do 37

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breakfast. But if you come back at lunchtime, I’m sure we can work out an arrangement.” “Yes, ma’am. May I go now?” She waved him off, but as he reached for the door, her head snapped up again. “Where are you spending the night?” Don’t tell Mama. Rafe clearly hadn’t spoken to her yet, though. And Sullivan didn’t know enough about Chadwick to lie effectively. “I don’t know. I’m not actually tired.” “Don’t you sleep?” “Yes, ma’am. But I’ve been sleeping during the day. I’m used to staying up all night.” “People around here won’t appreciate you wandering around when they’re all tucked away in bed.” “Do you have a recommendation on what I should do?” “Honestly?” He wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t curious what she would say. Maybe there were other options than meeting up with Rafe, ones that didn’t leave him alternately terrified and excited. “Yes, ma’am.” “Leave. I don’t know what Strike thinks it’s doing by coming after my son, but they can’t have him, no matter what anybody says.” He’d almost expected the request to go, but the rest of it made his jaw drop. “That’s not how Strike works.” “Really? You joined of your own free will?” “I wanted to enlist.” “That doesn’t actually answer my question.” His mind scrambled to piece together exactly what she’d said. When he took too long, she sighed in exasperation and shook her 38

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head. “Just go,” she said. “Find another ditch to call home for the night. Sleep or don’t sleep. But don’t even think about going anywhere near Rafe. He doesn’t need you, or your promises. He’s got everything he needs, right here in Chadwick.” He left with his thoughts in a muddle. None of what she said made sense, but he didn’t dare ask what she meant by any of it. The one part he did understand was the one he was already preparing to ignore, because he was more nervous about facing Rafe in the morning with stories about sleeping outside than he was Maria and the invitation Rafe issued. He didn’t remember passing a church when Joe and Luther had brought him into town, so he turned in the opposite direction and walked farther down the main road. The noises from earlier were gone, as were all the lights. Behind him, Maria pulled down shades that blinkered her restaurant to the world, and all Sullivan had left to guide him was the moon above. That wasn’t entirely true, though. At the end of the block, faint illumination flickered in a tiny window of a building cast in shadows. The glass swam like it was melting, and as he neared, he realized it wasn’t clear. The panes were broken into jagged, colored edges. He didn’t need to read the sign out front to know it was Holy Angels Church. Rafe had asked him to meet out front, but the street was deserted, the sidewalk more so. His only companions were the wildflowers that trimmed the wide walkway that led to the front door, folded in on themselves as they waited for the morning sun. Sullivan took two steps up the path, then halted. He had no business going inside. This wasn’t his church, or his town, or his responsibility. Part of him might want them to be. He 39

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wouldn’t have come along with Joe and Luther, or agreed to everything Rafe said if that wasn’t the case. But it didn’t matter how lonely he was, or how tired. He was still an outsider. The Strike soldier nobody trusted or wanted. There wasn’t any seating to be found, so he picked out a spot on the grass in reach of the motionless flowers. Stretching out on his back, he ignored the dampness already seeping into his clothing in favor of staring up at the sky, memorizing the speckled patterns. The stars were different here than in Egypt, though the same sense of eternity blanketed the earth. It shouldn’t have been reassuring, but it was, giving calm the way only the familiar could. It banished the fear he’d been holding in check, and left behind the thrill that came from expectation, like those minutes on Christmas morning when he’d been forced to stare at the gifts under the tree in wait for the time family descended to open them. How much time passed like that, he had no idea. It felt like a breath. The distant click of a door brought him back to earth, and he craned his neck in time to see Rafe coming down the walkway. “Aren’t you cold like that? The grass looks wet.” Sullivan rolled to his feet, scooping up his pack in a single, graceful motion. “I’m used to it.” “You should have come inside. I wouldn’t have taken so long if I’d known you were done already.” “I didn’t know that was you.” When Rafe began walking toward the road, Sullivan did the same, the flowers the sole barrier between them. Their paths converged onto the sidewalk, but Sullivan paused, unsure where to go next. “I live around the corner.” Rafe brushed past him to show the way, his arm glancing 40

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across Sullivan’s. The contact was brief, barely a touch at all, but the electricity that shot through Sullivan was anything but minuscule. He’d felt it before, when they’d shaken hands at the restaurant, but he’d dismissed it then as nothing, just the manifestation of his excitement that he’d reached the end of his journey. It was still nothing. He was lonely. He’d admitted as much while he’d been waiting. As far as journeys went, this one was short. Around the corner wasn’t a euphemism; it was fact. They walked less than two minutes before Rafe angled off the sidewalk and across a single, empty driveway. The house was tiny, butted up to the back of the church property. Rafe opened the front door without a key, more testimony to the community’s belief in their isolation. They trusted each other, just not outsiders, though Sullivan wasn’t sure if that was from ignorance or wild assumptions. Inside was more darkness, but rather than ward him away, it sucked him in, molding around him until he belonged as much as its owner. “This used to be the rectory.” Rafe’s disembodied voice beckoned him closer, soft and surrounding even as it moved. “But Father Thomas got married and the house is too small for a family.” “Married? But he’s Catholic.” “The Church gave up on everyone behind the borders a hundred years ago.” A flare of a match illuminated Rafe on the far side of the room as he set the flame to the wick of a kerosene lamp. “We’ve made and abided by the rules we thought appropriate ever since. It’s not like the government gives a damn about us.” The small flame expanded within the security of the frosted glass. Most of the room was still too shadowed to make out, but 41

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the couch behind Rafe was in muted relief. A quick assessment said Sullivan was taller than it was long, but its half dozen pillows more than compensated for whatever discomfort might arise from that disparity. “The government cares,” Sullivan argued. “They wouldn’t invest in Strike if they didn’t.” “They care about the perimeter.” He pointed toward the other doorway in the room, an open arch Sullivan couldn’t see through. “Bathroom is just to the right, kitchen’s to the left. If you can’t sleep, help yourself to any of the books on the shelves next to the couch. All I ask is that you don’t leave and go wandering around Chadwick.” The white of his teeth flashed as he smiled ruefully. “Most attitudes are going to lean toward Joe and Luther’s. I’d hate to see you get shot your first night here.” Panic shot through him as Rafe headed for the exit that led to the rest of the house. “Where are you going?” When he looked back, Rafe’s features were a hollow mask, the distance and darkness erasing his identity to the point of heightening Sullivan’s sharp anxiety. “To bed. I’ve had a long day.” “But I’ve got so many questions.” “So do I. But we’ll have to save them for tomorrow when I’m not dead on my feet. I suggest you try and get some sleep. If you plan on sticking around, you need to get on our schedule, not your Strike one.” Then he was gone. Sullivan had no chance to correct him. He was too awake to consider sleeping, but reading wasn’t his thing, either. Dropping his pack at the end of the couch, he sat down and took off his boots, lining those up next to his pack. Socks came next, but only because they were dirty and sweaty and 42

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he felt funny putting them on Rafe’s couch. Tomorrow, he would ask about taking a real shower and washing the rest of his clothes. Sighing, he leaned back and allowed the cushions to suck him even farther, until his head rested on the back of the sofa and he could watch the lamp’s light undulating across the ceiling. It would be a very long night. That didn’t feel as dire a prospect as it might have just twentyfour hours earlier.

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CHAPTER 4 Rafe had always been a dreamer. A vivid one. He could play back a nightmare he’d had when he was four, frame by frame, and still evoke some of the feelings it had roused. Some mornings, the residual emotions he woke up with colored his entire day. Mama had been the object of more than one sour mood because of bad dreams. He used to blame it all on the fact that he’d had such a schizophrenic life. Nobody else in Chadwick had any idea what it meant to live in the real USA, the overpopulated edges that never seemed to go to sleep, where people were stacked on top of each other and war was a trillion dollar industry. Mama knew, but then she’d gotten them out. As far as he knew, she rarely looked back at those days, except to remind him every once in a while how good 44

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things were here. So waking up with Technicolor memories of something he hadn’t actually done wasn’t unusual. He just wished his dreams hadn’t been highly sexualized fantasies of the man asleep in his living room. The house was silent when he opened his bedroom door. He knew it was possible Sullivan had left in the night, but he thought it remote. A Strike soldier wouldn’t have walked all the way from New Orleans to find him, only to leave his target behind once he’d been discovered. A horrifying thought froze him in place. Unless Rafe’s location was his primary goal. He almost laughed when the option voiced itself. It was patently ridiculous. How many years had they been gone now? And Chadwick had no contact beyond limited trading with a few neighboring towns. The borders might have been opened, but commerce and travel were tightly regulated, limited to only more urban regions where the government could exercise their heavyhanded control. The nearest train stop wasn’t even in the state. Paranoia still had too many people clutched in its paralyzing grip. No, the possibility that Sullivan might have a more nefarious reason for finding Rafe was more than a tad ludicrous. To prove to himself he didn’t believe his overactive imagination, Rafe ignored the entrance to the living room and went straight to the bathroom. Normally, he would have left the door open to allow steam to escape during his shower, but if he wanted to play the part of a respectful host, he had to do so to the hilt. He held back from locking it, however. He’d consider it a lesson in mutual trust. His erection had flagged during his introspection, but once he 45

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started soaping up under the steady stream of water, it returned, all too interested in the attention he paid it. Images from his dreams filled his head. Like Sullivan’s naked outline in the dark, their fingers doing more this time than glancing across the other’s. Sullivan had pulled him closer and pressed Rafe’s palm flat to his chest, allowing him to feel the thundering heartbeat just beneath the damp skin. He’d been wet, but not from washing up. The moisture clinging to his magnificent muscles came from within, hot sweat that filled the air with its pungency. Rafe had curled his fingers into the hard flesh, scratching over a peaked nipple. Then, he’d leaned forward to lick some of the delicious perspiration away. He moaned in accompaniment to the sounds replaying in his head. Grasping his cock at the base, Rafe squeezed as he bent his head under the spray, gulping for breath. He shouldn’t jack off. Entertaining any lewd thoughts about Sullivan Eberle would be suicide. He didn’t need to pop a hard-on every time he saw the man. But it was that dark allure that prompted his hand to slide downward, pushing over the crown to envelop the tip. The soap eased the way, adding to the illusion of where his dream had gone next, how easy it had been to push Sullivan to his knees and pull his face into Rafe’s suddenly bare crotch. It had been a long time since Rafe had felt another’s warm body, whether it was a mouth, a cock, or something else. People might not care as much about homosexuality as they had before the borders had closed, but he was still in a minority. There just weren’t that many opportunities for him to gain release, or at least, for him to do so with someone he was marginally attracted to. He didn’t delude himself into thinking that would change any 46

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time soon. Even as his hand stroked up and down his shaft, concentrating on the oversensitive head on every pass, he knew his fantasies would stay just that. Sullivan was fresh fuel for his fevered needs, a gorgeous specimen of masculinity whether or not he was dirty and travel-weary, but that was all he was, and all he would remain. If he stayed in Chadwick and settled down to start a family, he probably wouldn’t even be that. Rafe bit his bottom lip to keep from crying out when he came. His legs quaked, threatening to go out from under him, and he grabbed the edge of the curtain rail to keep from toppling onto his face. Thick come splattered against the wall, dripping down to swirl away in the drain. For a brief moment, Rafe willed it back, not wanting his interlude—as wrong as it was—to end so abruptly. The rest of his shower passed in a languor. With the sharpest edge of his desire appeased, he banished any further thoughts on his dreams, choosing instead to focus on more practical matters. By the time he emerged, he had a plan, though how Sullivan would react to his orchestrations remained to be seen. Though the living room was still silent, he didn’t bother hiding his presence as he went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Dawn was fully over the horizon, flooding the tiny room with dappled sunlight. There might not be a lot of space to move around, but Rafe loved it anyway. Kitchens were invariably his favorite places, regardless of the building they stood in. The old-fashioned counters had been torn out several decades back, and replaced with butcher blocks that he kept oiled and primed, and the space that had once housed all the appliances they couldn’t fuel anymore given over to more practical equipment and storage. Breakfast would be simple, but he didn’t think Sullivan would notice. His gratitude for dinner the night before spoke volumes. 47

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Grabbing a basket, Rafe went out the back door and headed straight for the tiny chicken coop. Luck prevailed when he found three new eggs, though Mitzi wasn’t too happy when he disrupted her sleep to push his hand beneath her fat bottom. Next stop was the garden, where an onion and some tomatoes joined his bounty. He was lost in his head, playing out possible scenarios on how his suggestions might play out, when he let himself back into the house. Setting the basket on the counter, he turned to light the stove, only to jerk back, startled, at the sight of a silent Sullivan standing in the doorway. The light of day should have revealed every flaw. It did, in practicality. It showed how vivid the scar was on his head, and the slight shadows beneath his eyes. More marks decorated his bare arms, some of them fading pocks, other fresher scratches. His entire body was a road map for war, both for his time in Strike and the weeks that came after. The hint of what might lie beneath his clothing tightened Rafe’s throat until breathing hurt. Because for all the imperfections, Sullivan Eberle was even more imposing in his bare feet. He would never be mistaken for anything but the soldier he’d been. He might be young in years, but the age behind those blue eyes, made even brighter by the slight bloodshot running through them, was endless. “I didn’t know you were awake,” Rafe said. It sounded feeble, even to his ears. “I never fell asleep.” “Never?” “I wasn’t tired.” “What did you do all night?” A slight frown furrowed Sullivan’s brow. “Nothing. I just sat on the couch.” 48

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“All night. You didn’t read or go for a walk or anything?” “You told me not to go out.” As if suddenly aware of his hands, he tucked them behind his back. It had the unfortunate effect of stretching the shirt more tightly across his broad chest. “And I’m not much of a reader. Sorry.” The apology felt uncomfortably genuine, like he’d let Rafe down in some manner. Rafe’s surprise evaporated. He shouldn’t have made assumptions. “Were you planning on sleeping today then?” With Sullivan awake, the need to get breakfast cooked increased, and he finished what he’d started, striking a flint to get the flame going on the small stove. “Though your life is going to get pretty boring if you sleep all day and sit on my couch doing nothing all night.” “I figured the best way to get on your time was to stay up as long as possible, then go to bed when you do.” His gaze drank in everything Rafe did, from cracking the eggs into a bowl to reaching for his good knife to chop the vegetables. “Your mother invited me back to the restaurant for lunch if I was interested in more work. I’d planned on taking her up on it.” Rafe couldn’t say he was all that surprised at his mother’s offer. In her mind, it would be the best way to keep tabs on Sullivan. How he was going to let her know he’d invited the man to stay with him, though, he had no idea. “That’s a long time to be awake. You sure you can handle the job when you’re going to be exhausted?” “I’ve gone forty-eight hours without sleep before, and still managed to function. I’ll be fine on twenty-four.” A ghost of a smile softened his wide mouth. “Just as long as it doesn’t become a regular thing.” He allowed himself to laugh, even if Sullivan wasn’t. “If you 49

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want to take a real shower before breakfast, you’re welcome to use the bathroom and anything you find in there. You’ll have to put those pants back on, but I’m going to run out this morning and find you some more. You won’t have to walk around naked while they’re getting washed, then.” “Thanks. But if you don’t mind, I’ll wait.” “Your choice.” “Can we…I have questions.” As tempting as it was to give Sullivan his full attention, Rafe concentrated on his preparations. “I haven’t forgotten.” “And?” “You’re in a rush to bring it all out right now? You don’t believe in wasting any time, do you?” “It feels like I’ve wasted a lot of time already.” That did the trick, when his simple statement had not. Rafe paused in tossing the onions in the sizzling butter, and met Sullivan’s gaze. “A few more hours isn’t going to make a difference, then.” He nodded at the cupboard. “Set the table. We can get to know each other better while we eat.” *

*

*

“How did you get hurt?” Rafe posed the query while Sullivan sank his fork into his fluffy omelet, not bothering to wait for the other man to speak first. Whether Sullivan knew it or not, he needed food more than he needed answers. Rafe would have his turn first. His head stayed bent, his left hand tucked away in his lap, the utensil absurdly small in his right. The bite he took was almost dainty, each chew slow and measured. Rafe wondered if that was 50

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his usual way, or a product of his time on the road. The former, he was almost sure. It looked too easy, if a little absurd. “A bomb. The locals weren’t too happy about my team being in town.” “Where was that?” “A village near Deir el-Bersha.” He had no idea where that was, though the serious intonation of Sullivan’s voice made him feel like he should. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.” “Considering it took out three others? Yeah, I was lucky.” Another bite, more concentration on his food. “My gut probably saved me. Something felt wrong, and I ducked out of the way as it went off.” “How’d you end up in New Orleans?” “After my ops, they sent me for evaluation in London. Doctors there denied my return. So I got shipped stateside again.” “You seem fine to me.” Sullivan shrugged. “I am. Mostly. My hearing’s dropped on that side by thirty percent, though, and my response time slowed down.” “They tested you on weapons when you were still in the hospital?” He didn’t know why that shocked him. He should have been more than prepared they’d be that mercenary. “You probably weren’t even close to being healed up yet.” “Didn’t matter. I was done.” Rafe let him eat, and picked at his eggs as he mulled over the new information. It didn’t really tell him much. He didn’t know why Sullivan had chosen to seek him out instead of going home after his discharge, or why he hadn’t utilized more of his means to accomplish the task. He didn’t know where Sullivan was from, or 51

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what job he did for Strike. All he knew was Sullivan was a survivor, both from the explosion and in his trek across the borders. Maybe that was all he needed right now. Sullivan scraped the last of the egg off the plate and set his fork down, waiting patiently for Rafe to finish. “I appreciate everything you’re doing for me,” he said in all seriousness. “But I don’t understand why.” So many ways to answer that. Rafe swallowed and replied, “Because it’s the right thing to do.” “You don’t know me. I’ve probably done things that would give any decent person nightmares.” “But you said it yourself. You’re done. Everybody deserves a second chance.” The sudden flare in Sullivan’s eyes drove Rafe’s back to his plate, unable to bear the heated hope his words had elicited. He believed what he said. He’d lived it, after all. But he hadn’t been prepared for how badly Sullivan obviously needed that validation. “Who gave you my name? You didn’t just make me up out of thin air.” A small smile cracked through Sullivan’s façade. “I used to think I did. When my feet would blister and I wondered what I was doing. I thought more than once about going anywhere else.” “I thought you didn’t know I was here.” “I didn’t. At least…” His gaze wandered off to the side, memories pulling his attention inward. He looked lost, not vacant as that kind of woolgathering could evoke, and Rafe’s heart twisted, hating how helpless he felt. “I remember things. Sometimes. It feels like someone gave me the answers to all of this, and all I have to do is concentrate to figure it out. But it’s like the wind, you know? You know it’s there, you can feel it, you can see what it’s doing to everything, but you can’t touch it, you can’t 52

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see it, and if you try to catch it, it goes away like it was never real in the first place.” He grimaced. “That doesn’t make sense. Sorry.” “No. I think it makes perfect sense.” Sullivan had suffered a head injury. He had the scars to prove it. Of course, he couldn’t trust his memories. Rafe had been presumptuous to think he could. “Looks like your gut came through for you again. Your head might not have known where you were going, but the rest of you did. Now we just have to figure out why.” Relief suffused his open features, bringing him back to the here and now. The speed at which he accepted what Rafe had to offer was frightening. Weren’t Strike soldiers trained to mistrust strangers? The enemy, at the very least. The realization that Sullivan didn’t view him like that at all slammed into Rafe and left him speechless. “I’m not afraid to work,” Sullivan said. “I don’t expect not to earn my way.” With a nod, Rafe speared the last of his omelet and ate it, using the precious seconds to regain control. “That’ll make it easier for you. Everybody has a job to do around here. It’s the only way we’ve survived as long as we have.” Sullivan’s mouth opened, then closed quietly, clearly changing his mind about saying what he’d intended. “It’s okay.” Rising from the table, Rafe picked up both of their plates and took them to the sink. “I know you’re curious how it’s possible. You’ve never been behind the borders before, have you?” “No. Just because travel’s open doesn’t mean it’s encouraged.” “That’s not surprising. People don’t change.” “You say that like you know what people are like there.” His mental debate on how to answer lasted only seconds. Mama would tell him there shouldn’t have been a debate at all, but 53

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then again, she wouldn’t like the fact that he decided to be honest with Sullivan anyway. “I did. I wasn’t born in Chadwick. I moved here when I was a kid.” “From…the other side?” Rafe snorted at how incredulous he sounded. “It’s not like I came from the moon.” Turning around, he leaned against the edge of the counter, folding his arms over his chest. He wanted to see Sullivan’s reaction to his next question. “How else would someone be able to give you my name?” Sullivan didn’t blink or look away, allowing the honest query to sink in. After a moment, he shrugged. “I guess I decided somebody from here had left for the borders. The health requirements have been getting looser the past couple years. Not that many people are very happy about that.” “They don’t want us getting in and contaminating them, is that it?” “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to.” Talk about what happened on the other side of the borders was toxic. Rafe hated it. He hated how so many people could spend hours gossiping or speculating when there was work to be done, and he hated that he knew enough about the reality to know what a waste of time it was. What he hated most, however, was how frustratingly impotent it made him feel. Leaving Miami had been beyond his control. As soon as he’d hit adulthood, he’d asserted his independence and moved out of Mama’s place. That had helped. Sullivan’s presence roused too familiar feelings that he wished couldn’t so easily take root in him. It must have read in his face. Sullivan stood and neatly pushed 54

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his chair beneath the table, offering a shy version of the smile he’d shared before. “Whatever they all think out there, I don’t. I want you to know that.” His sincerity chipped away at Rafe’s walls, hard enough to block out Mama’s voice in the back of his head saying this could all just be an act. He didn’t want it to be an act. He wanted Sullivan to be genuine. More than anything he’d wanted in a very long time. “I believe you,” he said softly, and though it took conscious effort to do so, he held out a hand. He matched Sullivan’s smile when the other man folded his fingers around Rafe’s. “And whatever the truth is that brought you here, I’m glad of it.”

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CHAPTER 5 Though Rafe abandoned him as soon as they got to the restaurant, Sullivan didn’t have time to worry about it. Maria put him to work right away, sending him behind the building to work on splitting and stacking the firewood that had apparently been delivered that morning. He had no experience with an axe, but it only took a handful of swings to find a rhythm. His shirt came off in less than half an hour. As his only spare, he didn’t want it soaked in sweat unnecessarily. Rafe never came out. He tried not to be disappointed. They’d spent some time together that morning after Rafe had returned with jeans that, if they didn’t exactly fit him perfectly, made him look like anybody else in Chadwick when he put them on. Well, almost. His head still gave him away. When he’d caught his reflection in 56

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the bathroom mirror, the scar marking his last injuries shocked him with how vivid it was. He’d avoided mirrors in the hospital, and had no opportunities to use one since he’d left. After turning the light off in the bathroom, he wished he’d avoided this one as well. Clothes weren’t going to be enough to help him fit in. Until his hair grew back, everybody with eyes would know what he’d been. Most of them would think he still was. Maybe that was why Maria relegated him to the backyard. Out of sight, out of mind. Their dirty little secret, though he didn’t believe for a moment that a small town like Chadwick hadn’t heard every detail of his arrival already. Kind of how Strike had always been viewed, if he was honest with himself. He lost himself in the labor, pushing harder than he thought Maria would expect. His muscles burned, in agony by the end of the third hour, and sweat dripped into his eyes to make them sting. He made frequent trips to the well, sometimes swallowing a good quart, sometimes dunking his head. If he spent a little bit longer there than was necessary, he figured he was allowed. It left him practically giddy thinking about indulging in such a simple necessity to his heart’s content. The other side effect to working so intensely was it prevented him from thinking. That was all he’d done all night, and then again that morning when Rafe had disappeared to find him pants. He wasn’t good at it. He never had been. His trek had already given him too much time for ruminations. The last thing he needed was more, especially since he’d had an explosion of questions ever since arriving. One or two had been answered—like discovering the name in his pocket was a living, breathing, startling man—but too many had not. And until he was more accepted in the 57

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community, he didn’t think he would find them without risking more than he was willing to. As the sun slid toward the horizon, his arms began to scream. A couple good meals weren’t enough to fend off weeks of halfstarvation. Add in the fact he hadn’t exerted himself to this degree since before the bomb, and it was no wonder his muscles felt like rubber. Maria saved him. The door opened, and she stood there, framed in the exit, regarding him with those fathomless eyes. The irrational thought, Rafe’s aren’t nearly as dark, jolted him into straightening. “Are you hungry?” “Yes, ma’am.” She surveyed his neat stacks, climbing the back wall. “Wash up. You can call it a day.” He nodded, subduing his joyous relief until she turned on her heel and went back inside. After such strenuous work, he had no doubt he’d be dead to the world tonight. By morning, he should be on Chadwick’s clock, which was a big step in the right direction. Cleaned and presentable for public scrutiny, Sullivan wondered for a moment which entrance to use. Going in the front was polite, but the rear made it clear that he was employed there, if only temporarily. Plus, he didn’t want to startle anyone by seeming threatening with a sudden appearance from the street. If he came in through the back, it was through invitation. Not as many people filled seats, though those that did noticed him right away. The silence was shorter tonight, an improvement in his mind, but he ignored it, hoping dismissal would diminish its importance. He waited patiently while Maria finished taking someone’s order, his body instinctively at parade rest. 58

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“Have a seat at the counter,” she said, waving him toward it as she headed to the kitchen. “I’ll have your food right out.” More sets of eyes followed him as he deliberately perched upon a stool that put his back to the front door. Believe me when I tell you I’m not a threat, he hoped it said to them. What kind of soldier would make himself so vulnerable if he didn’t have to? Every time the kitchen door opened, he looked at it, and every time Maria came out on her own, his stomach fell. He wasn’t sure why he expected Rafe to come out and eat with him. Clearly, he had a job to do, and it damn well wasn’t entertaining the stranger who’d wandered into town looking for him. Still, Sullivan couldn’t help his disappointment when he was forced to eat alone, chewing each bite slowly even though he wanted to wolf it down and demand seconds. The only thing that made it better was knowing Rafe had prepared it. He kept his left hand in his lap as his Grandma Shell had always taught him. Good manners never hurt. He wasn’t a monster, as much as it might feel like he was, or they might want him to be. The monstrous things he’d been forced to do were a matter of public security, necessary evil to keep people safe. Though he didn’t expect the citizens of Chadwick to think that, he hoped at least they could choose to forget what he might have done in his service to Strike. He was finishing the last of the sweet pastries—pastelitos, Maria called them—when someone slid onto the seat next to him. “Hope you’ve left some for me.” Shorty—Luther, he corrected, that was his real name—reached for the cloth napkin folded in front of him. He wasn’t smiling when he met Sullivan’s eyes, but his nod was curt and business-like, less combative than he’d been the day before. “Been a long day.” 59

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“I’m sure there’s more in the kitchen,” he said, monitoring his tone. Two could play this game. “Way I heard it, you’ve had a long day, too.” Luther swept his sharp gaze up and down, lingering for a moment on Sullivan’s boots. “Though maybe not long enough if you don’t look it.” Maria appeared in front of them with a dented pot of coffee in hand. “He cleared out most of that firewood for me,” she said. “Which is more than I can say for that boy you sent my way last week, Luther.” Luther actually blushed at the slight admonition. “Well, now, he promised me he’d take care of it for you, Maria. It’s not my fault he didn’t follow through.” “This one did, though.” Steam rose from both cups as she filled them. “So stop giving him a hard time.” Though he was grateful for the defense, Sullivan was glad when she moved on to help someone else. The desire to please her was almost as great as his desire to get on Rafe’s good side. “You must’ve done something right.” Luther nudged him with a sharp elbow, though his gaze followed Maria as she moved around the room. “You got a special knack for splitting wood, or has the government found a way for you boys to put the hex on people?” “No, no hex.” Though he bridled a little at the intimation. “And I’ve never used an axe before in my life. I just wanted to do a good job. She’s been very helpful.” “She’s something, all right,” Luther muttered. It wasn’t malicious or even contradictory to what Sullivan had said. In fact, anyone who heard might think that was admiration in his tone. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, angling to better face Sullivan. “So what’s your plan? You sticking around, or are you 60

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taking off to find more ditches to sleep in?” Though it was none of Luther’s business, he knew he had to humor the old man. He’d already proven himself a force to be reckoned with by insisting on bringing Sullivan into town. That might have worked in Sullivan’s favor this time, but it didn’t negate the fact Luther had pull in the community and more than enough stubbornness to do whatever the hell he wanted. Sullivan had to respect that. “I’d like to stay,” he said. “Because of Rafe?” Yes. But admitting that out loud invited more trouble than it was worth, especially since he couldn’t elaborate as to why. “Because I’m not interested in going back. People seem nice here. It’s as good a place as any.” Luther’s eyes narrowed, and he harrumphed under his breath. Sullivan couldn’t really blame him. It wasn’t that great of a reason, even if it was most of what he had to offer. “You’ll need a place to hang your hat up, then.” He grinned. “Even if it’s just your turban jacket.” He let Luther make the jab, smiling a little to show it didn’t bother him. “You have a suggestion on how I do that when I don’t know anybody and don’t have any money?” “You know Maria. And me and Joe.” Whether leaving out Rafe was deliberate or not, he had no idea. “That’s enough to get you started.” “I didn’t know you were the welcoming committee.” “I’m not. But I know we’ll all be better off, the sooner we see you settled. And I know how we can go about getting you a room and putting you to work, all at the same time.” It was on the tip of his tongue to say he’d already done that, but 61

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Sullivan bit it back. He had a feeling he would spend a lot of time here holding back his words until they came to accept him more. “How?” The query was simple permission, and Luther lit up. “We do for ourselves mostly, but there’s some of us, can’t very well do so much anymore. North edge of town, there’s a lady by the name of Belle who’s getting on in years. She’s got an extra room over her garage, one she’d be happy to let you use in exchange for you helping her out. Now, it’s not big or fancy, and there’s no real kitchen, but it’s furnished, it’s got a private entrance, and you’d have a roof over your head. Which sounds like a hell of a lot more than what you’ve got now.” It wasn’t more than what he could have at Rafe’s, but then again, Rafe hadn’t made any specific offers to let him stay. Sullivan didn’t think one might come, either. Rafe still had his mother to explain things to, and this arrangement would save him the bother. A small way to pay him back for his hospitality, and Sullivan didn’t really want to leave the small, cozy house, but better for all in the long run. “Do you think she’d be willing to accept that kind of arrangement?” “Think and know,” Luther affirmed. “I had a chat with her before heading here for supper. All she wants is to meet you first.” Sullivan’s spirits fell. “Then she’ll know I was with Strike.” Luther’s laughter brayed around their corner of the room. “Oh, she already knows that, son. There isn’t anyone in Chadwick who doesn’t already know that. She just wants to see what kind of mettle you’ve got. Belle hasn’t lived this long not knowing how to spot a faker when she sees one.” The same could be said for Maria, he thought, though she 62

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didn’t have age as a reason. “When can I meet her?” A tip of his mouth. “Let me just get some supper, and we’ll take right care of that.” *

*

*

Belle Barkey lived as far north as you could get in Chadwick, and still call it living in town. Hers was the only two-story house on the block, and the only one with a fully decorated Christmas tree in the front yard. It lacked a string of lights, but baubles of gold and red dripped from every branch, and an angel in white perched precariously at its uppermost tip. “Winters get a little rough around here,” Luther said when he caught Sullivan staring at it. “Belle loves Christmas so much, it bugs her she can’t do up her outside to match the in. So she does it during the rest of the year instead.” Sullivan wasn’t as fascinated by the unseasonal-ness of the décor as he was that it existed at all. The laws were strict about what could be displayed outside a person’s home, whether it was the front of a house or the balcony of an apartment. Nothing that might provide grounds for discrimination or hate crimes, which excluded pretty much anything. He’d never really understood the mentality of “well, if you can’t play nicely together, you don’t get to play at all,” but it was all he’d ever known. The residents of Chadwick didn’t seem to have the same compunctions. The front door opened before they reached it, and a gnarled hand pushed open the screen door. “Well, you’re a lot bigger than I expected.” He couldn’t see who spoke, though the feminine voice gave it away. “Let’s hope you don’t break any of my furniture.” 63

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Luther held the door open, giving him no choice but to enter first. The interior was exactly as he would expect from an elderly woman, though Belle Barkey was not. She was tiny, yes, barely coming up to his chest, and her posture was ramrod straight, helped by a firm grip on a thin cane. Long, white hair hung in a straight braid down the middle of her back, and though her skin was long past its prime, it glowed from hours in the sun. What struck Sullivan speechless were the tattoos up and down her arms, faded remnants of her youth, sagging and distorted from the effects of age. Parts of the designs were lost. Others depicted more graphic emblems than he would have ever associated with a woman her age. “Eighty-six,” she said. “Just. And if you’ve hit twenty-five, I’ll eat my cane.” He barely managed to restrain his smile. “I’m twenty-two, ma’am.” “And stop the ma’am nonsense. People call me Belle. You will, too.” She kept moving through the house, forcing him to follow. They passed a wide staircase, its risers scuffed but welcoming. The art hanging on the walls more closely matched the tone of her tattoos, hand drawn skulls in charcoal, sharp acrylics in vivid reds and blues, even a watercolor dragon that he wished he could take a moment to stop and examine more closely. Belle didn’t stop in the kitchen. She hooked a keyring sitting on the chipped counter and continued out the back door. “Where—?” Luther’s tight grip on his wrist cut him off. The hard look he shot Sullivan worked as well as a barked order from a senior officer, and they trailed behind Belle, along a narrow dirt path to 64

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the side door of the unattached garage. “Stairs are inside.” She rattled with the ring a moment before sliding a skeleton key into the rusty lock. Sullivan watched, fascinated by the old-fashioned mechanism, not even bothered when it grated loudly as she turned it. “You’ll be in charge of the keys, though, so don’t worry about me sneaking in to come take advantage of you.” The garage was dark and musty, with a workbench lining the nearest wall. Stairs rose in front of them to lead to a second level, closed off at the top by another door, but Sullivan was distracted by the shadowy shape in the bay. He took a step forward, then checked himself, only to find Belle grinning at him. “Go ahead,” she said. “You can look at her. Just don’t pull the tarp all the way off. The dust clogs up her engine.” The shape drew him forward more than anything else. He didn’t have the same fascination with history that other men he knew had, but certain elements were irresistible. Modern vehicles were far sleeker than their predecessors, artificial and cold. He’d only seen the archaic single-seaters in Egypt, where gasoline wasn’t quite as rare as it was in the US. From beneath the tarp, the smell of oiled leather wafted out, going straight to his head. What little light there was in the garage glinted off polished chrome, but the body was painted a dull red. Its front wheel jutted out with an almost human belligerence, and wide handlebars whispered to anybody close enough to hear to hop on and ride. “Her keys aren’t on that ring, so don’t get any funny ideas,” Belle said. “Nobody rides her who doesn’t deserve it.” He couldn’t let go of the tarp, not yet. “It actually runs?” “When I’ve got gas for her, sure.” 65

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“Belle loves that bike more than she does her own kids,” Luther piped up. The sharp whack of the cane reverberated through the garage. Sullivan jumped, finally dropping the tarp back into place, while Luther yelped and skittered beyond Belle’s reach. “You only say that because Eddie’s not here to kick your ass, Luther Clancy. Now go on and get out of here. You’ve done your job.” Luther scowled, but backed toward the door, well away from Belle’s cane. He exchanged one last look with Sullivan, nodded curtly, and disappeared. “Well, come on,” Belle said. “You’re losing light.” The stairs called him, but his feet refused to move. “You’re not really going to let me stay here without interviewing me first, are you?” “Already done that. Unless you’re not interested anymore.” “But you barely said two words to me.” “Are you always this argumentative? I know who you are. My mind’s made up. If yours isn’t, don’t waste my time. There’s no telling how much of that I have left.” Sullivan had a sneaking feeling Belle Barkey was going to outlive all of them, but he clamped his jaw shut. A wide smile spread across her face, and she held the keys out, the ring looped on her stick-like index finger. “Wise boy,” she said. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.” The keys were oddly hot against his palm when he carefully folded them into his hand. Before he took the stairs, however, he just had to ask, “Why?” Lifting her chin, she met him square in the eye. He could think 66

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of more than one general who would have taken a step back just from the strength he saw there. “Because if there’s anybody in this town who knows what it’s like for people to think something untrue about you just because of the way you look, it’s me.” Her eyes twinkled. “And maybe Rafe Hamada. But I’m the one with the extra room, so looks like I get the prize.” There was no doubt she was referring to him, but Sullivan didn’t think he was any sort of prize, not here in Chadwick where his past would likely never be forgotten. But Belle offered him a real chance to survive here, and damn if he didn’t like the old woman’s attitude. Murmuring his thanks, he began the ascent to his new home.

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CHAPTER 6 Though his body wanted sleep, Sullivan’s brain refused to cooperate. He laid in the narrow bed and stared up at the ceiling he couldn’t see, listening to silence he couldn’t block out. A clock sat on the nightstand, but he couldn’t see it without rising and taking it to the window where the moonlight peeked in around the edges of the curtains. It was late. Very late. That was all he needed to know. Belle had retired without much fuss, giving him the handwritten list of chores she expected him to do to earn his keep. Most were simple tasks—maintaining the woodpile, some light cleaning, running errands—while others were more esoteric, like a daily run to a cemetery outside of town. He refused to admit he was looking forward to that. Belle might consider him too weird to keep around. He liked the old woman more than he had expected 68

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to. Not only did she have a way of surprising him, she didn’t much like Luther. Sullivan would do whatever she asked, just for that. After an eternity, he gave up on sleep any time soon. Maybe the problem was he’d spent too long on the road, sleeping during the day, for his body to cooperate unless he was exhausted to the core. Enough time had lapsed since he’d left Mama Maria’s. He’d had time to recover a little. What he needed was a good, hard run. The cold darkness bit through his clothing when he locked the garage door behind him. Had the nights always been this chilly? Maybe he hadn’t noticed because he was always moving at these hours. He recognized the shadows like long lost friends, though, and joined them on the sidewalk, his steps silent as he aimed for the center of town. He had no destination in mind. So much of his journey thus far had been like this. He’d trust his feet to take him where he needed to go. It was no surprise when he found himself in front of Holy Angels. Mama Maria’s had been devoid of life when he’d passed it, offering no hint of what time it could be. But the same light he’d seen last night flickered behind the church’s small stained glass window, and it drew him closer, whispering promises of salvation he didn’t believe in, until he stood outside the front door. Rafe had said he should have entered rather than wait outside. The difference now, Rafe wasn’t expecting him. This wasn’t his church. This wasn’t even his community, not yet, no matter what Belle might say or what he might want. He had no right taking an invitation that had never been extended, and if he had any sense of self-preservation, he’d turn on his heel and go back home. The sudden thought he might mean back over the borders frightened him enough to test the door. It opened easily, like it had just been waiting for him, and he 69

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crossed the threshold with subdued reverence. His family had always taken their religious edifications lightly. Church happened when other events weren’t scheduled, or on major holidays, or when Grandma Shell was visiting. As far as he knew, they had never owned a Bible, and taking the Lord’s name in vain was so ingrained in his father’s vocabulary, the man would be mute half the time if he was forced to take it out. But some buildings commanded his respect, simply by the sheer force of their faith. He couldn’t explain it. Perhaps it was a part of the entire religious experience that eluded definition. He only knew, from a place deep inside his gut, that to treat it unkindly was unfair. The interior was simple, with a closed-off foyer for gathering and a doublewide set of doors leading into the nave. A small window in each gave a better view inside, and he leaned in, cupping his hands around his eyes to try and focus. Whatever light spilled outside came from within, somewhere off to the side. He could see the central aisle dividing the wooden pews in half, but the altar was too far away to make out anything more the vague shape of a massive cross on the wall. Imagining those pews filled up with people like the ones he’d seen at Mama Maria’s was too easy. He held his breath as he tested the door. The exterior could have been unlocked because this one held intruders at bay. But this, too, yielded to his request for entrance, and he slipped inside as unobtrusively as possible, opening it only what it took for his body to clear the space. Candles beckoned from a small alcove, row upon row of them, tiny beacons holding firm and true in the muted lighting. Kneeling in front of them was a man, his head bent, his hands resting on his 70

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thighs. He knew that shape, without seeing detail, without hearing his voice. How Rafe had become so entrenched into his consciousness, he didn’t understand, but he needed no further specifics to know he was right. He might not have recognized Rafe when he arrived, but Sullivan would know him in his bones forever on. The last thing he wanted was to disturb Rafe from whatever he was doing, but the second to last was to leave. Sullivan held still for a long moment, then inched toward the closest pew. He slid onto the age-polished seat, already warm as if someone had only just risen from it. A sense of peace washed through him, more soothing than anything he’d known in years, and he relaxed against the curved wood back, undivined, ready for anything. Neither man broke the silence. If Rafe prayed, he did so without invoking the devotions aloud. Sullivan had little perspective on how much time elapsed, whether it was minutes or hours, but he was more than happy to watch. Perhaps the answers he sought could only come with patience. Rafe lifted his head and reached for a slim tinder resting at his side. He held it in the flame of the closest candle, and a small flare erupted where it caught, burning hotter for a split second before ebbing into its separate blaze. “Couldn’t you sleep?” Rafe’s quiet question floated back to him, clear as anything though Rafe didn’t turn around to address him. “I would’ve thought you’d be exhausted.” Sullivan matched his tone. It seemed the most respectful thing to do. “My brain won’t turn off.” “So you came to church? Thinking’s the only thing you can do here at this hour.” “I was hoping I’d find you.” 71

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Rafe had been stretching to light one of the few barren candles, only to pause at Sullivan’s declaration. “Is something wrong?” “No. No. Everything is…it’s hard to believe things are going as good as they are.” Rafe finished his reach, and the wick burned to life. “It sounds like you’re looking for faith, then, not me.” He couldn’t argue with that. It sounded viable when someone else said it. “You seem to have already found it.” A low chuckle reverberated through the empty church. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Funny, that.” Sullivan waited for clarification, but it never came. Rafe bent his head and fell back into his silent prayers, withdrawing from him or their conversation or something else entirely. He had no idea. He knew nothing when it came to this man, fumbling like an awkward child taking his first steps. But if he walked away, he would never find the truth, not Rafe’s, not his. He hadn’t come so far to give up. It simply wasn’t in his nature. With slow, measured steps, he left the pew behind and approached the alcove, coming to a stop a yard away and dropping to his knees. They ached a little from the sharp impact, but he held his tongue. Sooner or later, Rafe would move on to the next candle. Sooner or later, Sullivan would have another opportunity. “You’re very persistent, aren’t you?” Rafe said, not lifting his head. “Don’t you feel like you’re interrupting?” “If I was, you would have told me to leave already.” His angle gave him the perfect view of Rafe’s profile and the mild cant of the corner of his mouth. “I guess I deserve that.” “Are you telling me to leave?” “I’d never do that.” Maybe he shouldn’t have felt such a rush of pleasure from the 72

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statement, but Sullivan gripped his knees to stave it off anyway. “I don’t know what you’re doing,” he confessed. “Do you come here every night?” “Yes.” In the fresh candlelight, Rafe’s skin appeared even more golden, the dark prickle of a beard only just shadowing his jaw. “I’m guessing you’re not Catholic.” “No. I’m guessing you are.” “Most of the time.” He gestured at the rows in front of him. “These are penny candles. You light one to say a prayer for someone. Usually for the dead.” All of a sudden, the squat candles took on a whole new meaning. A new weight bore down upon Sullivan’s shoulders, like the souls of all those dead had suddenly entered the room. “That’s a lot of candles,” he said. Rafe chuckled again. “You’re the soldier here. You’ve got to have seen a lot more death than this.” “Well, yeah, but…” How to voice what the difference was? And how to do it so Rafe wouldn’t hate what he’d been? “You must have cared about all these people to want to say a prayer for them.” “Everybody should be remembered, regardless of how you cared about them.” Any amusement fled his face as he raised his eyes to Sullivan’s. In fact, he seemed almost bleak now, bearing the same load Sullivan had felt when he heard the candles’ purpose. “How many people have you killed?” Of all the questions he could have asked… “I didn’t keep count. You can’t. You can’t do the job if you think about the specifics.” “And they don’t haunt you?” “I didn’t say that.” 73

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“Then you must have some idea of a number.” Sullivan shook his head. “You can’t understand the scope of it. How crowded things are on the other side of the borders. How blind we were. It doesn’t take hundreds or thousands of people dying to create ghosts.” He glanced at the candles, drawn by their molten beauty. “It only takes one.” A flicker of movement at the corner of his eye brought him back to Rafe, in time to see him turn away from the alcove and edge closer to where Sullivan knelt. He must have come straight from the restaurant again. Sullivan could smell the spices clinging to his flesh, and splatters of something reddish brown stained the hem of his shirt. The urge to lean forward and take him all in tensed every muscle in Sullivan’s body. His mouth even watered. “You’re not what I imagined a Strike soldier would be like,” Rafe said. “You look like one, but you sure as hell don’t act like a killing machine.” His heart skipped. He tried to make a joke of it. “Because I have no desire or need to kill anyone here.” He almost said you. The way his throat tightened, he was glad it hadn’t slipped out. “It’s more than that. And I think you know it.” “Does it matter if I say you’re not what I imagined people behind the borders were like?” “That’s because you had no frame of reference but propaganda.” “That’s all you have, too.” Rafe’s silence was damning. His solemn eyes glowed, mirroring the nearby flames. “How do we figure out why you’re here?” he said, changing the subject. “Now that you have someplace to stay, that should be next on our To Do list.” He hadn’t mentioned a word about his arrangement with Belle, 74

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which begged further questions that would alter the course of their conversation even more. He didn’t want to lead this one. He needed Rafe to do that, so he could feel free to follow. “Whatever it takes,” he said. “I’m willing to do anything.” Rafe’s nostrils flared, though Sullivan wasn’t sure what he’d said that was so provocative. “Maybe if I knew more about you. Maybe there’s some connection we’re missing.” “And you. I don’t know anything about you, either.” “My life is boring compared to yours.” “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to know about it. Is it just you and your mother?” After a moment, Rafe nodded. “She’s the one who brought us here. She wanted a better life for me.” “Where did you move from?” “Where did you come from?” “Originally? Maryland. Annapolis, actually.” It dawned on him Rafe might not know much about geography on the other side of the borders, and hastened to add, “It’s on Chesapeake Bay. About half an hour from Washington.” “I know where Annapolis is.” Rafe said it almost distractedly, an automatic refute of his ignorance rather than annoyance. “You’re a prime, then.” From anyone else, Sullivan wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the connection. From Rafe—or anyone else behind the borders—the observation was out of the blue. “You know what a prime is?” “I told you. I wasn’t born here.” There was no other conclusion to be made than, “You lived on the perimeter. Jesus. And your mom thought bringing you here was a better life?” 75

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The warmth Rafe had been exuding in slow increments froze in a flash. “You know nothing about what my life was like before. Don’t even think to presume you can understand her decision.” “But look at the way you live. No technology, cut off from everybody else—” “And the way you live is any better? If you’re a prime, you’ve been in Strike since you were sixteen, right? And probably training since before that. All you know is how to kill, and the thing of it is, your career is already over because now you’re damaged goods. You can’t do the job for them anymore, so they got rid of you. You’re done, and you’ve still got decades in front of you, provided you don’t do anything stupid. Which I’m starting to think walking across the country to find a complete stranger really was.” The words cut because they were true. Shame drove Sullivan’s gaze down, his cheeks flaring with heat as he tried not to let the direct accusations get to him. He’d allowed his journey to become everything to him, because thinking about the alternatives would have stopped him in his tracks. There was nothing overtly wrong with being discharged with honor, especially in light of his injuries, but everyone he knew would be aware of the specifics. Every time they looked at him, they’d see the failure, the soldier cut down in the field. They’d wonder why he’d saved his skin and faced a half life afterward, rather than take the shell like the others. He wasn’t nearly strong enough to live with that, no matter how well meaning they and his family might be. Rafe sighed. In the next second, a warm weight settled on Sullivan’s shoulder, fingers folding over his tense muscle to squeeze in reassurance. “I’m sorry,” Rafe said. “I’m tired, and I’m still confused about you, and Strike is a sore point for me. You shouldn’t listen to me.” 76

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“Except you’re right.” Sullivan kept his head down, hoping it would spur Rafe to continue the contact a little longer. “I’m the intruder here. I shouldn’t judge the way you live, especially since I’m asking to be a part of it.” The pressure began to roll, Rafe slowly massaging the kink out of Sullivan’s tense muscle. “Why? It’s different than everything you’ve known. And it’s got to be harder for you. People here don’t trust Strike.” He risked a glance up through his lashes. “You do.” “No, I trust you. There’s a difference.” Rafe was the second person tonight to ask him why he was staying. He’d held back the whole truth from Luther, but doing it here, in the soft ambient light, beneath the solid grip of Rafe’s hand, he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. “I’ve only wanted one thing since walking away,” he said. “And that was to find you. I don’t know why. My head’s not the same it used to be, for good or for bad. But now that I’m here, now that I’ve met you, leaving seems like the worst thing I could ever do.” The silence that wrapped around them was different than before, as much of a sentient being with mercurial moods as either he or Rafe. It didn’t condemn Sullivan for his confession, or turn him away, but it wasn’t quite the more buoyant teasing before Sullivan had belittled Rafe’s way of life. This no-man’s-land in between should have felt more familiar than it did. Hadn’t he walked in paths removed from both ends of the perimeter norm for most of his life? “I can’t figure you out,” Rafe said. “And it’s not just not knowing what you’re doing here. You’re just not like any Strike 77

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soldier I’ve ever known, and I can’t decide if that’s because you really aren’t, or I’ve changed so much since I left that what I remember doesn’t have any more value.” “How old were you when you left?” Rafe didn’t shy away from the question. “Eleven.” And then, “We lived in Miami.” It was a gift, getting the additional detail. Sullivan gave him a tight, grateful smile. “Thank you for telling me.” The hand on his shoulder dropped, but its absence didn’t chill him as much as he would have expected. Rafe stayed where he was, their legs brushing against the other’s, and that, as much as the more direct contact, heartened his hope the balance between them had been restored. “Nobody knows,” Rafe said. “Mama never told anyone when we got here, and nobody really pressed. She said we came from somewhere near the southern borders, and everyone just accepted it.” “They brought you into the fold.” “Yeah. They do that.” Luther’s insistence at bringing him back to Chadwick appeared different in that context, but Sullivan still said, “It won’t be that easy for me.” “No, probably not.” When his gaze shifted away from Sullivan’s, it went straight to the scar etched along the side of his skull. “It’ll help when your hair grows back. It won’t be so much of a reminder.” Suddenly self-conscious, Sullivan ran his hand over his scalp, the sharp stubble prickling over his palm. “I wish it grew faster. It’s taking longer than I thought it would for the shit to get out of my system.” 78

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Rafe frowned. “What are you talking about?” Talking about anything related to Strike to anyone who wasn’t connected to Strike was strictly forbidden. No missions, nothing about training, certainly nothing about methods they utilized to maintain the most elite private army in the world. Even among soldiers, though, discretion was everything. Sullivan had existed in a world of closed mouths, a façade that had been frighteningly easy to maintain, so his first instinct was to change the subject or provide a non-answer. But he’d provided the first detail without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world to share it with Rafe. And he wanted to do it again. “Enhancement injections. Things to make you work better. We got them quarterly, or as close to that if we’re out in the field.” “They drugged you?” The disdain in his voice was worse than the surprise. “It helped. Honest. Like with hair growth. Something in it stopped it from growing too much, so we didn’t have to worry about shaving or getting it cut. We could concentrate on doing the job.” “What else did it do?” “Helped us not get sick, helped us get by without as much sleep.” They sounded innocuous enough to him. “That kind of thing.” “When was the last time you had an injection?” “Before the bomb. I would have had one in London if I hadn’t failed their tests.” Rafe tilted his head, more deliberately staring at Sullivan’s scar, a frown drawing his brows into a hard, dark line. “With medicine like that, they should have been able to do more for you.” Sullivan didn’t disagree. “It doesn’t hurt or bother me,” he said. 79

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“Once my hair grows back, I’ll probably even forget it’s there.” “You really think you can forget getting blown up?” He smiled. “I’m going to do my damnedest to try.” The bluntness of his response finally softened the lines on Rafe’s face, though his attention remained riveted on the scar. “Our doctor won’t be able to do much for you if something goes seriously wrong. Medicine is very basic here.” “I don’t even get very many headaches anymore,” Sullivan said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” A derisive snort escaped Rafe’s throat. He began to reach out, but when his hand hovered in front of Sullivan’s shoulder, he paused. “Do you mind if I touch it?” Though he couldn’t imagine why, it didn’t even cross his mind to say no. His approval came as a turn of his head, to the side, tilting down, offering the scar up for whatever Rafe wanted to see. He was tempted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t miss each shimmer of movement, the reach of an arm as fingers disappeared from view. The first touch was a feather above his ear, like he’d accidentally brushed against a wispy leaf. His breath caught. A surge of heat blazed ahead of Rafe’s fingers, racing to Sullivan’s nape and down the toughened flesh along his spine. It spread when it hit his hips, rushing to fill his entire body, and he braced against the desire to grab Rafe’s wrist and make him stop before Sullivan embarrassed himself. “I can’t believe it doesn’t hurt.” Rafe edged forward, leaning into Sullivan’s side as he traced it all the way to the back. “What about sensation? Can you feel me when I do this?” He had to swallow once in order to get his voice to work. “Yeah.” 80

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“I’m not sure growing your hair out will do much to hide it. The blond’s too light.” Rafe wasn’t pulling away. Why wasn’t he pulling away? What more was there to see? Or touch? Because even though Rafe’s touch remained as light and respectful as he’d started, it weighed against Sullivan’s skin like a brand, a reminder of all the contact he’d been denied for so very long. He didn’t know how long he could tolerate it before he snapped. And the last thing he could afford at this point was to lose it with Rafe. Closing his eyes helped. He wouldn’t covet what he couldn’t see. But he could still feel, especially when Rafe’s fingertips trailed down the back of his neck, finding the hard knobs at the base. He should have stopped Rafe when he had the chance, because now he didn’t want it to end at all. The small sound refusing to be held back could only be called a whimper. The touch stopped moving. Rafe didn’t abandon his skin, but neither did he continue, both of them locked in a stasis Sullivan didn’t know what to do with. “What do you want from me?” He recognized right away the difference in Rafe’s husky question. This wasn’t the normal confusion about Sullivan’s presence. This could be answered, because it didn’t rely on memories that refused to hold their shape. This only needed an immediate visceral response, one pulled from instinct, not knowledge. “Whatever I can get,” he whispered. Though hindsight unmasked the desire, he knew how impossible it was to have admitted it before now. Rafe had to be the one to hear it first, or simultaneously, as the case may be. “Strike soldiers take what they want,” Rafe said, in the same 81

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reverent tone. “I’m not Strike.” He’d repeat that until the world ended, if that was what it would take for Rafe to ultimately believe him. “I know.” He caught his breath, ready to speak, when Rafe’s warmth shifted along his arm. It grew firmer, spreading the heat, each degree adding to the inferno already beneath his skin. Then, a brush along the side of his neck, two-fold, the breath softening the dry sweep of parted lips, the slight nudge a little higher that could only be the glance of Rafe’s nose. Gooseflesh hurtled down Sullivan’s back and arm, and his second whimper of the night joined in the pounding echo of his blood. He turned blindly, needing more, terrified of not getting it. Rafe’s mouth met him halfway. He couldn’t remember the last time he had kissed anyone, let alone without the taint of discovery hanging over his head. Strike didn’t discourage sex, but even when there was time and opportunity—and the two rarely went hand in hand—soldiers were often too wrapped up in duty to indulge. Release came from jerking off, though thankfully, not always by yourself. But nobody spoke of it in the light of day, and nobody certainly encouraged anything but the most base of performances. Even when you wanted more. The caress was awkward and uneven, teeth knocking in their search for a proper seal. The flick of Rafe’s tongue along his bottom lip made his mouth prickle, and he opened to allow access, silently pleading with Rafe to take it. Rafe had left his hand at the base of Sullivan’s neck, and now, the grip tightened, digging in, taking root, demanding purchase as the world dipped around him. Sullivan hadn’t known how desperately he wanted this until he 82

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had it. In the back of his mind, he wondered how Rafe could possibly have discovered the desire before he had. Just when he started to relax, though, Rafe retreated. Sullivan opened his eyes to see Rafe pull back, his mouth glistening from the all too brief kiss. His gaze was fixed on Sullivan’s lips, like he measured the time it would take to return to them, but after a deep, shuddering breath, he straightened even more, dropping his arm to his side. “I should get home,” he said gently. Disappointment rankled, but Sullivan nodded. “You’ve had a long day.” “So have you.” He smiled. Sullivan’s stomach shocked him by lurching at how beautiful Rafe really was. “Belle’s going to kick you out if you’re too tired to do chores.” “Can’t have that.” Though he wondered if Rafe would take him back in if he lost his place to stay. “Will I see you tomorrow?” The answer was slow in coming, time enough for Rafe to return his tinder to a small tray beneath the rows of candles, time enough for him to stand and wait for Sullivan to join him. They walked to the front door without another word spoken, and stepped into the cool moonlight together. “I come here every night,” Rafe said. “If you can’t make it into the restaurant for a meal, we can meet here. If you want.” Sullivan nodded. His throat was too tight to say the words he wanted to. The corner of Rafe’s mouth lifted. “Eventually, we’ll figure out why it is you’re here.” “Eventually.” But for the first time, Sullivan didn’t think the why was nearly as important as the fact that he simply was. 83

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CHAPTER 7 Rafe almost looked back. It was tempting. So tempting. And it would take such little effort. Just a turn of the head, a glance out of the corner of his eye, and he could watch Sullivan returning to Belle’s, a blot breaking up the sameness he sometimes hated with a passion. Yielding to the temptation, however, would pave the way for turning around entirely, and the last thing he needed—not wanted, because, God, did he want Sullivan—was to complicate this even more than it already was. He hadn’t intended the kiss. When he’d first realized Sullivan was in the church, Rafe had hoped he would just go away if Rafe pretended he wasn’t aware of him. He’d managed to avoid him all day, after all. A few more minutes should have been simple. But 84

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his prayers became disjointed, his thoughts scattering from the people he refused to forget, to the one he knew he absolutely should. Absolutes were fragile, though. They refused to bend, and when reality set in to prove once again that gray was the order of the day, absolutes broke. Like Rafe. Sullivan had been the one to make the first crack. With a simple bow of his head. Rafe’s anger had come on like a flashfire, and he’d lashed out without thinking, years of frustration and hurt striking at the closest available object. Seeing Sullivan’s attrition, without any prompting from Rafe, had turned the mirror back, forcing Rafe to see and hear exactly what he was doing. Apologizing had been the next natural step. He just hadn’t expected the steps that followed. Now, though, his home loomed in front of him, his bed calling him to put his day to rest. Somewhere on the outskirts of town, Sullivan would be reaching Belle’s, and he’d be doing the same thing. Would he lie awake and think about what had happened like Rafe was likely to do? Would his body hate him for not pushing harder, taking what he suspected would have been given freely? Desiring Sullivan was wrought with more pitfalls now that he knew Sullivan would be receptive. He could keep the man at arm’s length a lot easier if he would only fit into the damn slot Rafe wanted him to. He hated this. Part of him really wanted to help Sullivan, really believed him when he said he had no idea why he was there. He looked so damn lost in those moments, watching Rafe like he expected him to lead the way. It was irresistible. But another part, a more cynical, suspicious part, wanted him to go away. Sullivan represented danger, and as bored as Rafe could sometimes be by 85

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Chadwick, it was still the haven he needed and loved. On a whim, he turned on his heel and jogged back down to Main Street. Two minutes later, he was at Mama’s back door, knocking softly in case she had already gone to bed. She opened it with a frown, holding the door wide to let him enter without speaking a word. The kitchen was pitch dark, but they navigated seamlessly around the table and into the front room where a small fire glowed on the hearth. He might have needed a space to call his own, but this house would always be home, etched into memory in all ways, physical, mental, emotional. Collapsing into the wingback chair Mama always kept for guests lifted half the weight from his shoulders already. “Whiskey or water?” Mama asked. The alcohol was tempting, but he’d regret the choice in the morning. “Water’s good.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as she poured out a glass from the ewer she always had on hand. “I thought all the whiskey was gone.” “Luther brought some more around a few days ago.” She pressed the glass into his hand. “I don’t know where he got this batch, but it’s good if you change your mind.” He smiled. “One of these days, he’s going to figure out you only drink it when he’s not around. You’re going to force him to come up with a new way to court you.” “That’s his problem, not mine. It’s not like I’ve ever encouraged the man.” “Mama, you smile at him. That’s all the encouragement a man in love needs.” He heard her annoyed snort, then the creak of her rocker as she sat down. “I’m not the only one with an admirer anymore, so you better watch your tongue with me, young man.” 86

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Mention of Sullivan, albeit indirectly, was all he needed to prompt him into draining his glass. He sighed when it was gone, shifting in his chair to put it in on the small side table, and watched the flames split into its components through the thick glass. “What do you think of him?” he asked. “You know what I think.” “I know what you thought when he showed up. I’m interested in hearing what you have to say now that he’s been here a day.” Floorboards joined in the creaksong as Mama rocked slowly, back and forth. “He works hard. He didn’t complain once today, and I pushed him as hard as I could.” “He was Strike. Aren’t they all used to hard labor?” “Maybe.” He stole a glance sideways, but Mama wasn’t watching him. She seemed just as intent on the fire as he’d been. “He doesn’t know why he’s here.” “That what he told you?” “Yeah. And I believe him.” Her mouth firmed, holding back the words he knew she wanted to say. “They’re trained to lie.” “I know, but…” How did he describe the gut reactions he had without looking like a gullible idiot? Or looking into the man’s face and seeing honesty? “I wouldn’t be surprised if that injury of his scrambled his head a little bit. He might have known once, but I just don’t think it’s in him anymore to lie about this.” “It could be fake.” “No.” On that, he was positive. “That’s a real scar. I felt it.” Mama looked at him sharply. “When did you do that?” Sometimes, her tone made him feel like a child again. He hated that his first impulse was to straighten and apologize for making 87

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her angry. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Not this time. “He came around the church tonight,” he said. “We had a long talk after I was done.” “A talk involves mouths. Not hands.” A poor choice of words on her part. The sudden rush of pressure on his mouth was pure fantasy, concocted from seconds that already felt forever branded on his brain. His erection had ebbed, but the remembered texture of Sullivan’s lower lip, slightly rough from all his exposure outside, brought it roaring back. He was very glad they were both sitting in the relative dark. “I wanted to know if it was real,” he said. “So I asked him if I could touch it. He didn’t even put up a fight.” “How’d he know you were at the church?” “We met there when he was done at the restaurant.” He took a deep breath. Time to come clean with the rest of it. “He spent the night on my couch.” A string of Spanish curses erupted from Mama, driving her to her feet. She paced back and forth along the length of the narrow room, muttering the entire time. He only caught half of it. Mama was the only one in Chadwick who spoke Spanish, and she’d done her best not to use it at all since moving here. “He’s not there now, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He had to say something to get her to stop moving. His head was swimming enough as it was. “He’s staying at Belle’s.” Mama stopped dead in her tracks. “You talked her into taking in a Strike soldier?” “I didn’t talk her into anything. I just asked her if she’d meet him, maybe let him have a room in exchange for helping her out around the house.” “Of all people, she should know better.” 88

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“It doesn’t matter. She liked him enough to say yes.” “And now he knows you’re invested in helping him.” She threw her hands up in despair. “What are you thinking, Raphael? Have you forgotten everything about Miami?” “First of all, Sullivan doesn’t know it was me. Luther’s the one who took him over, and he swore to me he didn’t say a word.” “That doesn’t make me feel any better.” Rafe ignored her distrust. “Secondly, no, I haven’t forgotten Miami. I was thinking it was better for him to be in one place we knew about, rather than wandering around town. Belle can take care of herself.” “She’s an old woman.” “I dare you to say that to her face.” Mama wagged a warning finger at him. “This is dangerous, and you know it. Luther should never have brought him here.” “But he did, Mama. And he doesn’t want to go. Shouldn’t we do everything we can to make him feel welcome? That’s what Chadwick did for us when we got here.” “We weren’t Strike.” “You mean you weren’t.” That shut her up, just like he knew it would. In all the years they’d been gone, Mama had never once mentioned the real reason they’d fled Miami. Even when he’d asked her about it on the train, after everybody else had disembarked, because who was insane enough to go behind the borders and risk death? The government was crazy for thinking it was safe again. The biological attacks had devastated over seventy percent of the country, killing millions of people, exterminating entire species, and nobody in their right mind would leave the comfort of the perimeter. Mama had. He’d knew she do it all over again, too. And just 89

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because she’d never admitted it to his face, he knew why she so fervently smuggled him out of the city. Because she didn’t want her only child in Strike’s hands. Because as the offspring of a Strike soldier, Raphael Hamada would have no choice about the path of his future. Rafe leaned forward. “If you didn’t trust him,” he said in all earnestness, “even a little bit, would you really be giving him work and dinner at the restaurant? Be honest, Mama. At least with me.” Her shoulders sagged, the fight in her fleeing. When she sank back into her rocker, it struck him how much older she was getting. Still in her prime, but every year brought a new line to her face. “He’s so young,” she said. “When I think about Miami, I don’t think about them being like boys.” “He’s not that young.” “He’s younger than you.” “So don’t you think that maybe, we should let go of the fears? He can’t be here to take me back. I’d be useless to Strike.” “Then why? Why show up now? Why does he have your name in his pocket? It’s too much of a coincidence.” She shook her head. “We need to be smarter than him. Which means being careful.” He agreed with her on that point, if not the rest of it. “I feel bad for him,” he admitted. “He’s not going to have it easy.” Her wan smile helped. “You’re such a soft touch.” “I know.” Now, he just had to make sure he wasn’t a gullible one. Because wanting Sullivan while he helped him was the most surefire way to get caught out. They sat together, watching the fire dwindle to a dull glow around the emaciated logs. He was grateful for Mama’s silence. His head was a maelstrom of questions and images, none of which 90

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would put her mind at ease. He kept going back to that kiss, that searing, simple, bewildering kiss, unable to process the why or what next. Sullivan had welcomed him in—hell, his whimpers had been a beacon calling Rafe home, and Rafe had wanted it. He had wanted more. He would have taken it right there in the church if he allowed his desires to take full rein. With form to his fantasies, it would have been terrifyingly easy to forget everything that had transpired, forget who they were and all the confusion Sullivan’s presence created, and get lost in the man’s exquisite body for hours on end. What he couldn’t decide, however, was whether he’d be able to find his way out again. “I’m going to ask Luther to keep an eye on Belle,” Mama said out of the blue. “He’ll notice if something’s wrong.” Rafe turned his head to look at her without lifting it away from the back cushion. “He’ll take that as encouragement.” “Someone has to do it. He’s got a good eye, and the soldier won’t be surprised seeing him hanging around.” “Please don’t refer to him like that,” he chastised. “His name’s Sullivan.” She sighed. “It’s just like all those animals you used to take in. You give one a name, and then there’s no getting rid of it.” “He had a name before he ever got here, Mama.” “I’m surprised you didn’t scold me for calling him an animal.” “That’s because I’m too tired to argue with you about both points.” Mama stood and pulled off the afghan draped over the back of her rocker. She came to his side and spread it over him, covering him from midsection to toe. “Stay here as long as you want. If you want to sleep in your old room, you’re more than welcome.” 91

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When she straightened, Rafe caught her hand and squeezed. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. You trust me on that, at least, right?” Her only answer was to smile. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was supposed to mean.

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CHAPTER 8 Sullivan’s entire life had been based on structure. Being a prime had given his early years focus. There were medical tests and procedures, games with other young primes and time spent with other Strike families. Then, after he’d officially enlisted, there was basic, and then maneuvers, and finally, missions that put to use the skills he’d spent a lifetime acquiring. Of course, he would find a pattern in Chadwick. Given the choice, he would always find order. Mornings were spent fulfilling his duties for Belle. She let him sleep as late as he wanted, but the moment he stepped out of the garage, the back door opened and she beckoned him inside. Breakfast came first, followed by indoor chores. Then, he’d move outside to make sure the woodpile was sufficiently stacked. If there 93

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were errands to be run, those came next, but he always finished his Belle jobs with that run to the cemetery. Belle didn’t always go. It depended on how she was feeling. On the days weariness won, she pressed an ancient pocketknife into his hand and pushed him into the back garden to cut four flowers to take with him, one for each of the graves she demanded be attended. He didn’t ask questions about who they were, and when Belle came with him, he always waited at the edge of the cemetery so she would have her privacy, but he knew from reading the markers they were all relatives. Her husband had died nearly three decades ago, while the other three came long before that. Parents, perhaps, or siblings. Those headstones lacked anything other than the name and years to further identify them. After his lunch with Belle—always thick cheese sandwiches on freshly made bread—he went to Mama Maria’s and spent the afternoon splitting wood. The aches that had tormented him the first day gradually lessened, and some of the weight he had lost in his trek across the country returned. There was always more to be done, so even though his speed and stamina increased, he worked continuously from the moment he arrived to the moment Maria opened the back door and waved him in for dinner. People in Chadwick stopped staring whenever he entered the room. By the end of the first week, he could walk in without a ripple of disruption. Several even took to greeting him as he walked by, though it was always polite and often wordless. Nobody tried to initiate a conversation, but that didn’t matter. Luther invariably joined him where he ate at the counter. Sometimes, the old man chatted without pause for Sullivan. Others, they sat there in silence. Whatever the conversation, the subject matter was mindless. Sullivan learned little more than 94

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gossip in the hour he ate. The worst part about it, it was never gossip about Rafe. Evenings were spent in his apartment, cleaning his own living space or doing laundry. But when the small clock Belle gave him said midnight, Sullivan slipped into the inky night and let his feet lead him to the one place he thought about all day long. Rafe was always there. Bent in front of the candles, silent in his prayers, cast golden in light that refused to cease dancing, long after the church doors shut behind Sullivan. They didn’t speak. The first few days, Sullivan sat in the rear pew and just watched as he had the first night, wondering who it was Rafe prayed for. When the time came for Rafe to leave, he rose, stretched, smiled at Sullivan, and walked out. That was it. No more offerings of conversation. No mention of the shattering kiss that continued to haunt Sullivan’s dreams. Nothing but his mute goodbye and the promise that it would recur the following night. The fifth night, Sullivan decided the distance was too much. Instead of heading straight for the pew, he approached Rafe directly. He knelt at the other man’s side without waiting for an invitation, and his stomach somersaulted at the added heat of his proximity. Though Rafe didn’t break from his prayers, Sullivan saw the faint flicker behind his closed lids, an acknowledgment of his awareness to Sullivan’s new position. He finished as he always did, but this time, when he reached for the tinder to light the next candle, he held it out for Sullivan to take. Sullivan’s hand shook as it folded around the fragile piece of wood. The question as to why Rafe would give him this, why he would invite Sullivan in on what was obviously a privately meaningful ritual, poised on his tongue. He hated stealing it away. But as he met Rafe’s eyes, he realized he wasn’t. This was a gift, 95

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an invitation to share and understand, and though Sullivan didn’t even come close to the latter, he could accept with grace and thank Rafe afterward. From that point on, they alternated. Rafe would light a candle, and then Sullivan would take his turn. He even took to bowing his head when Rafe did, though his prayers had to be different. And when Rafe rose that night to leave, he touched the back of Sullivan’s hand. That was it. Between that and the smile, Sullivan’s pulse refused to slow and his cock refused to go back down until after he’d locked himself back in his apartment and beat off. When Sullivan showed up on the eighth day, he had yet to speak another word to Rafe. He longed to. His questions were just as numerous as before, but the interest Rafe had seemed to have in finding answers was gone. None of the candles were lit, however. Instead, Rafe leaned against the rear pew, his long legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, his hands braced against the wooden back. He smiled when Sullivan entered. “How tired are you?” he asked. “Why?” “Because I have a job for you if you want it. But it means you don’t get to sit all night.” The darkness of the church’s interior blinded Sullivan to the nuances in those dark eyes he was coming to know so well, but the teasing lilt in Rafe’s voice was impossible to resist. “I only sit because you sit. I’d hate to make you feel bad because I could last longer on my feet than you do.” Rafe’s surprised laughter rang throughout the building, warming Sullivan’s skin. “For that, I’m not giving you a choice. 96

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There’s a bucket next to the door there. Pick it up and let’s go.” He had to wait until he was outside again to see what the bucket contained, but the only item immediately recognizable was the paintbrush. “Where are we going?” “You’ll see,” came the cryptic answer. They fell into step next to each other, in the same comfortable silence that always typified their nights together. Occasionally, his arm would brush over Rafe’s, only a glance but enough to hint at the solid body moving so gracefully beside him. Scents from the restaurant were erased by the cool wind rustling down the street. He missed them. He was coming to associate the rich spices with Rafe’s skin, which made eating dinner with Luther increasingly embarrassing. Rafe took him down the same path he’d first entered Chadwick on. Now that he’d been here a week, some of its mysteries were now gone. Like…now he understood the odd dichotomy of old and very old. When the plagues had hit, the buildings had been left behind, derelict, waiting for someone to come along again and fill them with life. Without support from the outside world, the survivors had little choice but to resort to more rudimentary methods—wood for fuel, growing their own food. There wasn’t time or means to tear down defunct technology. Life went on, even when the rest of the world thought them dead or worthless. Sullivan was quickly learning Chadwick was anything but. They stopped at the signpost marking the edge of town. Rafe took the bucket out of Sullivan’s grip, their hands brushing for the most fleeting of moments, and stepped closer to the placard. He traced the broad paint strokes with his fingertips, over and over and over again, like a lover caressing a sleeping partner in the moments before he woke up. Each touch sent a corresponding shiver through 97

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Sullivan. “There’s some matches in the bucket,” Rafe said without turning around. “Can you light one so I can work, please?” There was a candle, too, along with a small, sealed Mason jar, and a long-handled blade of some sort. Sullivan tamped down his curiosity about the other tools and concentrated on the task requested of him, holding the lit taper aloft when he was done. Rafe picked up the blade first, which, in the pale yellow light, Sullivan could better see wasn’t sharp at all. He set the blunt edge to the tip of the last number in the population and carefully scraped the bottom half of the three away. The top half followed, crinkling into shiny shavings that rained to the ground. He had noted the newness of the numbers when he’d arrived, but now, knowing Rafe was the one who maintained it, that awareness took on new meaning. With it, though, came dread, and a sickening lurch of his gut. “Did someone have a baby?” he said, deliberately asking about the positive possibility in hopes it would be true. “No.” Rafe gave him a half-smile as he traded the scraper for the paintbrush. “You’re here now.” He was locked frozen while Rafe set to work unscrewing the paint jar. Him? This was about him? But why now? Had he passed some unknown milestone without knowing about it? Wouldn’t Rafe have told him? They hadn’t spoken, though. And he hadn’t sought Rafe out at any time when they could actually talk about it. He couldn’t complain about the lack of foreknowledge when it was just as much his responsibility to find out as Rafe’s. Rafe worked with precision, the strong lines of the four slowly replacing its predecessor. The paint glistened in the weak 98

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illumination, though it was thick enough not to roll or drip after each stroke. He had the sudden urge to reach out and touch it, to confirm it was real and not a figment of his imagination, but he focused on keeping the candle steady, even after hot wax dripped over his fingertips. “There.” Rafe lowered the brush and returned to Sullivan’s side, cocking his head to survey his work. “Now it’s official. You can’t leave.” Such a simple gesture shouldn’t have struck him as hard as it did. His throat closed, and his heart thundered, and all he could manage was a soft, “As it should be.” Rafe glanced up at him once, but the curious glint could have been a trick of the light. Sullivan didn’t have time to analyze it, because Rafe was already cleaning up, screwing the lid back onto the jar, dropping the supplies back into the bucket. “Come on.” Pursing his lips, Rafe blew out the candle, shrouding them in darkness again. “There’s a little stream behind the houses I can wash up in.” The darkness was better. It hid emotions that refused to stay down, unexpectedly unleashed by Rafe’s actions. He could pretend Rafe didn’t know how hard he fought not to jump at the touch of his fingers when he pried the candle away, and then picked off the hardening wax. He could focus on putting one foot in front of the other and walk like everything was normal, like his entire world hadn’t been tilted onto its axis, all because Rafe had pronounced it so. He could breathe. He’d found a home. The stream was mostly a trickle, but the water was cold and refreshing, the bank hard and lushly grassed. When Rafe was done with the brush, he sat off to the side to give Sullivan the room he needed to rinse away the rest of the wax. He didn’t stand when 99

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Sullivan was done. Sitting next to him was the natural thing to do. “How long have you been doing the sign?” Rafe leaned back onto his hands, his legs stretched out in front of him. “Since we moved here, actually. Nobody had touched it in years.” “Why?” “Because people were still scattered. There was a community here, but only if you were in the middle of town. I thought it would help if we did a headcount.” “A census.” “Yeah, except I couldn’t call it that. People still had all the negative associations with that from when the government did the evacuations.” Though Rafe couldn’t see him, Sullivan frowned. “The government hasn’t done those in a hundred years.” “Doesn’t matter. People remember. It’s not like on the other side. The ones who didn’t die, the ones who got stuck here when the government cut us off, all they had were the stories to tell each other.” “But the borders have been open for a while now. You get all kinds of information now.” “Really? You think so? How much have you seen come through since you’ve been behind them?” The question forced him to stop and think about it, really think about it, not just accept what he’d been told all his life. Life in the cities was fast-paced, access to anything around the world practically instantaneous. Structure was the rule, not the exception. Tests and schedules when you were young, IDs and laws when you were older. He didn’t understand how half of anything worked because there was no need to. Specialists took care of problems 100

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when things broke down. Automatons took care of the rest. The closest he had ever come to what life was like in Chadwick was when he was in Egypt. The poverty on every corner prevented locals from owning much of the technology he took for granted. Black eyes would stare up at him whenever he walked by, and he always wondered if they silently condemned him for what he’d known his entire life. This is for you, he always wanted to say. But he never did. He knew instinctively that would have made it worse. Without a good answer for Rafe, he had to turn it back on him. “So you keep the sign updated for the same reasons you light the candles every night.” “For some of them. Yes.” “Do the others know?” “About the sign, sure. About the candles…” He shrugged. “Nobody talks much about it. Father Thomas knows because he’s the one who keeps the church unlocked so I can get in. And anybody who lives on Main Street knows. The rest of them, it doesn’t matter. It won’t change what I do, or why I do it.” “Good.” The sentiment slipped out, startling him with how quickly it came. At Rafe’s curious gaze, he added, “You should do what you need to do, no matter what anybody says.” His teeth flashed as he smiled. “That’s kind of funny coming from an ex-member of an organization that prides itself on being a well-oiled machine.” “I’m a broken cog. I can risk having an original opinion now.” When Rafe laughed, the world felt easy. Sullivan could join his amusement without thinking about it, and let go in the moment to enjoy his small joke, too. The camaraderie was better than anything he’d ever experienced in Strike, if only because he knew Rafe meant it. This laughter was genuine. This response mattered. 101

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On the momentum of his chuckles, Rafe laid back onto the cold grass, prompting Sullivan to do the same. “When I first came to Chadwick, I used to come out here every night,” he mused. “I couldn’t believe how many stars were up there. Or how bright they were. I thought if I laid here long enough, I could count them.” Sullivan liked the wistful image. “The first night I got past the borders, I thanked God I didn’t have the cities blocking them all out. I wouldn’t have been able to see a thing otherwise.” The grass rustled when Rafe turned his head. “Why not?” “Because under the right circumstances, I’m blind as a bat at night.” He met Rafe’s eyes with a wry twist of his mouth. “It’s probably a miracle I made it this far.” Rafe wasn’t smiling anymore. “Have you figured out why you’re here yet?” “No. I keep hoping it’ll just pop into my head, but no dice so far.” “What about the piece of paper? The one with my name on it?” “What about it?” “You’ve never told me who gave it to you.” “Didn’t I?” His brow furrowed as he tried to replay the conversations they’d had, but nothing came to mind. That wasn’t right. It was too vital to his whole journey to ignore. “Huh.” “So?” It hurt to admit, especially with the soft expectation on Rafe’s face. “I don’t know. I found it in my things after I left London. The time between the bomb going off and getting airlifted out, that’s mostly gone. And there are holes even when I was in London. Things didn’t start getting solid for me again until a week or so before I was discharged.” “And you didn’t ask?” 102

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He shook his head. “I was focused on the tests. On what was going to happen to me.” “But who was there? Who could have given it to you?” “Anyone, I guess.” He wanted to apologize for not knowing more, but he didn’t know what Rafe expected from him. He was doing everything he could to adjust to this new life. Answers might not ever come. “If I ever find out who it was, I’m going to thank him.” “Why?” “Because I wouldn’t have left if he hadn’t. I wouldn’t have looked for you.” I wouldn’t have found you, but the little voice whispering that in the back of his head quickly quieted before Sullivan could think too hard about its significance. Rafe rolled onto his side, propping his head up in his hand. His knees nudged against Sullivan’s legs, but it wasn’t intrusive, more of a promise that he was right there. “Mama doesn’t think I should trust you.” That hurt, though he wasn’t surprised. “I thought things were getting better. She said she likes my work.” “She does. But it’s not about you specifically. It’s about Strike.” Another unsurprising statement. “And what do you think?” A callused hand came to rest on Sullivan’s forearm, the touch firming when his muscles twitched. “That you’re the most interesting thing to ever happen here. And that I’m willing to take the time for you to prove her wrong.” He told himself the only reason he could read Rafe’s face was because they were so close. It was simpler than admitting he saw Rafe everywhere he went, in his bed when he finally fell asleep, out of the corner of his eye every time he turned his head. It was 103

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even simpler to turn his thoughts off completely and act on the blatant appeal in the other man’s eyes. The stretch to reach Rafe’s mouth was inconsequential after the miles he’d traveled to find him. Rafe was ready, warm and open, at the seal of their lips, leaning forward to take some of the strain off Sullivan’s back. It wasn’t necessary. From the moment he tasted Rafe, Sullivan knew he would tolerate the ache and a hell of a lot more to make it last. As the kiss deepened, tongues searching out the other to tangle and weave, Rafe encircled Sullivan’s wrist and guided him downward. His knuckles grazed across a hard lump, until Rafe turned his hand around and he felt the definitive line of Rafe’s erection. He closed around it immediately, wanting it, needing its weight burned into his tight grip. He didn’t realize how hard he was squeezing until Rafe groaned and broke away from the kiss. “Keep that up, and this is going to be over before it starts,” he panted. He pushed a hand beneath Sullivan’s shirt, stroking over the tense abdominals as he neared his waistband. “It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted someone like I want you.” Sullivan blinked and blurted, “I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you.” The bright grin eclipsed everything else. “You Strike soldiers just have to be the tops in everything, don’t you?” “Not everything.” Rafe’s breath caught at the implication Sullivan one hundred percent meant. In the next second, his mouth crashed back down, teeth nipping at Sullivan’s lower lip, tongue demanding and taking everything it wanted. Need like he’d never known existed saturated him, from the blood rushing through his veins, to his shaking hands, to the primal 104

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images rampaging through his brain. He recognized the danger, if not the specifics. It was like being on the verge of a fight, when all he saw was the enemy and nothing else mattered. Instinct won then, which was how he’d managed to survive as long as he had. He couldn’t let that happen this time. He was done with destroying, from letting the power win. Rafe deserved a partner, not a vanquisher. Sullivan would give it to him. He rolled onto his side to better align their bodies, but maintained enough distance to keep Rafe’s cock firmly in his grip. He wanted their clothes off. The scalding heat poured off Rafe, and it would only get better when they were skin to skin. Even more, he wanted to feel the throbbing shaft against his palm, and spread the pre-come he was convinced he’d find all the way down to his balls. A whimper escaped him. Now. He wanted it now. But he held back, determined to let Rafe keep up. Nails scraped across his stomach as Rafe scrabbled with the button fly. It sharpened the lust, especially when he succeeded and cool air wafted along Sullivan’s cock. The difference in temperature only reminded him how much they both already burned. “Touch me.” The words came to him on a husky breath, as much as a demand as they were a plea. Sullivan acted automatically, releasing his flexing hold to work at the pants in his way. Rafe pulled back and waited, though his body quivered in anticipation. The sheer hunger in his countenance satisfied the supplicant in Sullivan, more intense than he ever would have imagined. Yes, he followed orders for a living, and yes, he acted on his own when the situation demanded it, but nothing in his entire life could have prepared him for how wholly he needed to please Rafe. 105

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He wore underwear, wet from where he’d leaked already. On a whim, Sullivan rubbed the fabric into the tip, his heartbeat leaping at the quiver that ran through Rafe. His nails were too short to do what he really wanted, and Rafe’s impatient thrusts stopped him from teasing further, so he abandoned the foreplay to finish what he’d been told. He could practically taste him. Hell, he did still taste Rafe’s mouth, the spices from his food, the sweetness of a pastelito he must have had for dessert. More would be greedy. But God, for once, Sullivan wanted to be completely selfindulgent. Rafe gasped when he curled his fingers around the shaft, his hips locking in the forward momentum. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t ready for more,” he said. “Don’t move yet. Give me a sec.” Staying still was torture, especially as Rafe chose to distract himself by stroking Sullivan’s length. Circle jerks couldn’t hold a candle to this. Those were about getting the job done. Find the release to better focus. They had nothing to do with a beautiful, brown-eyed man wanting him, or with how much he’d give up for that same man. He needed to close his eyes to keep from flying apart, but he couldn’t tear them away from Rafe, from the way his succulent lips kept sealing and parting as he puffed back air like he was drowning. Pre-come dripped into the tight curve of his palm. The back of his mouth craved filling, the head lodged in his throat, the salty texture prickling his taste buds, and maybe he’d get it someday, but right now, he waited for Rafe’s next instruction. It came without words, a nudge of hips, a tightening around Sullivan’s cock, and he eased into Rafe’s rhythm slowly, doing everything he could to match pressure, length, and pace. Rafe’s lashes ducked, his gaze locking on Sullivan’s lips. 106

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Sullivan took the invitation to move, meeting Rafe halfway. Kissing him now was more natural than breathing. He had never been one to need that kind of connection before, but Rafe was devastating every expectation or rule he’d ever held. How many more would fall remained to be seen. When Rafe sped up, Sullivan quickened his strokes. When Rafe mouthed a trail to the crook of his neck, so did Sullivan. He sucked at sinew made harder by the tension winding through Rafe’s body, and licked over the wet skin to soothe it, wondering if he was leaving marks. He was pretty sure Rafe was. His shoulder stung from the force of Rafe’s attention. The best part about these, though, was knowing he didn’t have to pretend they weren’t there. Rafe’s cry muffled against his shoulder. That was the only warning Sullivan got before the vein running along the underside of Rafe’s cock pulsed against his folded fingers, and warm fluid spilled over his hand. The urge to bend down and lick him clean overwhelmed him, but Rafe chose that moment to reach around Sullivan’s hip and cup his ass, digging painfully into his flesh, offering a glimmer of what more they could share if they got the chance. Sullivan thrust one more time into Rafe’s fist and then locked as everything unfurled. His head fell back, the sound of his ragged breathing blocking out all else, while fire replaced the blood running through his veins. He felt Rafe’s mouth abandon him, but didn’t question why. He couldn’t question anything with such exquisite pleasure suffusing his awareness. Coming down took an eternity. His hand fell away from Rafe, and he rolled onto his back, riding out the thudding inside his skin. Weight pressed him down into the hard ground. It didn’t suffocate like he might have feared only days ago. It comforted, because he 107

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knew it was Rafe, curling into his side. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

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CHAPTER 9 Before Sullivan, nobody intruded on Rafe’s time in the church. The few times people wandered in, he always stopped what he was doing and went home, unwilling to be witnessed in what was for him an incredibly personal act. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust others not to mock him. The people of Chadwick were family, and had been for a very long time. He simply needed to keep this part private. His remembrances sprang from patterns set long before they’d left Miami. In a way, he didn’t think anyone in town could fully understand. Sullivan was the exception. As it was turning out, Sullivan was an exception in a lot of ways. But Rafe had never felt threatened by Sullivan’s presence, though he suspected he should have been. Having him around felt natural, and after he’d shown up the 109

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second time and simply hung around without speaking, Rafe wanted him there. His quiet presence buttressed Rafe’s flagging strength, making it easy to go through the entire ritual without falling asleep. Sullivan seemed to know exactly what to do, exactly when Rafe needed it. It wasn’t until he had that unadulterated support that Rafe realized how much he’d always yearned for it. The night after they painted the sign, Sullivan showed up as he always did, slipping in silently and taking his place at Rafe’s side. Rafe was in mid-prayer when the warm pressure of that powerful thigh pressed along his, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. His breath skittered, trying to find a new rhythm. He had the urge to look up, to smile at Sullivan and share a moment of memory of lying next to each other under the night sky, but he tamped it down. Time and place, and neither was here nor now. They continued without a word spoken between them. Their fingers met when he passed over the lit tinder, hot and dry, dryer than beside the stream when sweat and other bodily fluids had glossed their skin. Once, he was able to catch a glimpse of pale blue eyes beneath the thick lashes, and his world sharpened at the heat he saw there, tempting him yet again to forego his duty in favor of satisfying his desires. Only acknowledging how selfish that was stopped him. As he shifted back to the candles, he wondered if Sullivan knew how much he really inspired Rafe to forget all of it. When the last prayer was said and gone, Rafe finally indulged in fulfilling his own wishes. “Did you get any sleep today?” They had been out until almost dawn. He’d had to force himself to get up in time to head into the restaurant for lunch prep. “Not much. But I’m all right.” 110

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And from the looks of it, he was. His eyes were clear, devoid of most of the shadows that had been prevalent since his arrival, and his shoulders were strong, unbowed by the weight of the day. Rafe smoothed his hand along the unyielding line, only to feel the muscles tremble beneath his palm. He smiled. Sullivan had reacted to his touch from the very first contact. It wasn’t visible, but the quivers echoed into Rafe every single time. “Don’t let Mama work you into the ground,” he said. “You don’t have to impress her.” “But I need to prove myself,” Sullivan countered. “I know that.” “Not to me.” At least, not anymore. The softening of Sullivan’s mouth wasn’t quite a smile, but Rafe treasured it just the same. “What about you? You were up as late as I was.” “I got enough.” He stood and stretched. Sullivan’s gaze slid upward, devouring him with every inch, hesitating on Rafe’s exposed stomach when his shirt pulled away from his pants. Rafe held his arms overhead a moment longer than necessary to let Sullivan appreciate the view, then dropped them to hold a hand out to Sullivan. “No extra jobs tonight, though. I’ll never make it.” The clasp of their fingers shot sparks straight to his spine that then chased their way down to his ass. Sullivan didn’t pull away once he was upright, but he waited until Rafe tugged lightly before stepping forward and scooping an arm around Rafe’s waist. Their groins nudged together, hard line to hard line. Rafe buried his face in Sullivan’s neck, inhaling the musky scent of his skin. He smelled like the sun and sweat, with enough fresh hickory added to the mix to make him feel like home. Rafe made a mental 111

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note to make sure Mama’s firewood orders always went heavy on the hickory from now on. “Can you spend the night?” He didn’t want to let go. A soft sigh floated across his ear. “I shouldn’t. Belle needs me. She usually gets up before I do.” For the first time, Rafe regretted setting the pair of them up. He didn’t want to share Sullivan, not even with a woman who needed him in more ways than Rafe did. “She’s lucky to have you.” Sullivan massaged the muscles in the small of Rafe’s back, gently pushing their lower halves together, wittingly or not. “You could…you’re always welcome to come back with me.” His insecurity came through in his tone, his breathing too careful, his words too well articulated. “I’d like that.” “Just like?” He couldn’t resist the urge to tease. He nipped at Sullivan’s jaw before straightening. “I guess our first time shouldn’t have been in the dirt if you only liked it.” Lips parted to speak, then stopped as Sullivan realized he wasn’t serious. Smiling, he used their still tangled fingers to pull Rafe toward the door, gradually separating until only their hands bound them. Once outside, he let go, an absence Rafe felt like the loss of a limb, but he knew it was better this way. Until Sullivan was better integrated into Chadwick, they had to be discreet. Sullivan would be safer that way. At some point, they quickened their pace, practically jogging the last few blocks to Belle’s house. Sullivan chose the most direct path, but at the last minute, ducked around the block to come to the property from the rear. Fewer people lived behind Belle, which meant fewer opportunities to be seen together. Though Rafe was grateful for the caution, it saddened him that Sullivan had likely done it without even thinking. He’d skulked in the shadows for 112

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weeks before finding Chadwick. Arriving should have brought an end to that, but here he was, continuing the same patterns. As Sullivan unlocked the garage door, Rafe pressed to his back, his arms stealing around his waist to lock him in place. He squeezed once, hard. If nothing else, he wanted Sullivan to know Rafe understood. The apartment spanned the entire area of the garage, though it lacked walls to designate rooms. It wasn’t the sheer square footage that struck Rafe dumb when Sullivan lit a lamp. He’d known Belle had ample space for a man of Sullivan’s size. No, it was the amount of greenery Sullivan had brought into it. Plants and cut flowers adorned every flat surface, every corner. An overflowing vase sat in the middle of the tiny table, leaving almost no room for anyone to actually eat. Small pots of herbs sat on the window sill, ready to embrace the morning sunshine when it peeked over the horizon. A row of feathering ferns hid one wall. Sullivan mistook Rafe’s silence for something else. “I don’t have much to offer if you’re hungry.” He gestured toward the small wood stove standing cold and abandoned. “But I can make you coffee or tea if you want. Belle has a small stash she lets me share.” “No, I’m fine.” He drifted his hand along the prickly ends of a small bush Sullivan had sitting near the doorway. “Did you miss sleeping outside so much that you had to bring it in?” In the dim light, Sullivan’s blush turned his skin a rich golden pink. “If it’s too much—” “No, no.” Rafe caught his hand before he could pull farther away. “Just surprising.” Sullivan turned into the embrace without fighting, but the heat bled from his face when he bent and began nuzzling Rafe’s neck. 113

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“The cities are all built up, and I spent most of my assigned time in Egypt. I’d never seen so much green until I started looking for you. I liked it.” Even his voice was embarrassed. No doubt a good part of his cuddling was an attempt to hide his face. Rafe cupped the back of Sullivan’s head and held him in place. He wouldn’t force Sullivan into feeling uncomfortable. “It makes it feel like it’s really your home,” he murmured. His tongue flicked across Sullivan’s ear, eliciting a groan that vibrated into him. “Thank you for letting me in.” Sullivan’s breath caught. “You keep stealing all my lines.” “I didn’t realize you were feeding me lines.” “I’m not—oh, you’re teasing me again.” He relaxed, his hot cheek grazing across Rafe’s when he moved upward. “It might take me a little while to get used to that.” Rafe closed his eyes. Something about how Sullivan engulfed him when his arms curled around his body made his head spin. He felt both safe and exhilarated all at the same time, the security and the threat all rolled into one. Anyone could see how dangerous Sullivan could be if he wanted to, but Rafe somehow knew, beyond the shadow of any more doubts, none of that would ever be directed at him. “You didn’t get teased by the others in your unit?” His teeth caught Rafe’s ear for a moment before letting go. “Not really.” “What about dates?” Sullivan stiffened. “No.” The response caught him off-guard. Rafe drew away, searching Sullivan’s eyes for an answer that made sense. “Why not?” The query drove Sullivan back, his arms falling, his body 114

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twisting as he wandered farther into the room. “No time. First there was training, and then basic.” And then he got shipped overseas, where the world had blown up around him. But that didn’t prevent dating before, or seeing people on the side. Someone like Sullivan should have had anyone he wanted. “That sounds lonely.” Whatever Sullivan had expected, it obviously wasn’t commiseration. Bleak eyes lifted, compelling Rafe forward. He held still for the soft kiss across his mouth. “This is all new for me,” Sullivan said. “I know.” “No. It’s more than that. Last night…” Rafe waited, but the clarification didn’t come. “Don’t tell me last night was a first for you.” His touch had been too talented, his kisses too shattering for that to be true. “Not like that. But…that’s all I’ve done. I’ve never…” This time, the trailing of his words came with a dart of his eyes toward the bed. Rafe got it, then. It shocked him, but he got it. Sullivan was a virgin, in all the ways that mattered. A blushing, nervous, excited virgin. “I don’t care.” Flattening his palm on Sullivan’s chest, he gently pushed until Sullivan hit the edge of the mattress. “Do you trust me?” “Yes.” “Then it doesn’t matter. I’ll take care of you. You just have to let me.” Sullivan’s quiet acquiescence was more seductive than anything else he’d done tonight. He stood motionless as Rafe grabbed his shirt hem, raising his arms to help ease the garment 115

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off. His dark nipples had already puckered into hard, tantalizing buds, and he gasped when Rafe ducked his head to lick over the tip. Salt taunted Rafe’s tongue, spurring him to suck it past his lips, but his hands continued working, too eager to get Sullivan stripped completely down. He’d seen his bare chest his first night in town, and he’d felt his impressive cock the night before, but seeing Sullivan fully in the nude, pre-come rolling over the flared crown was better than all of it put together. Never had he seen a more gorgeous specimen of a man. Even the scars Sullivan wore, badges from war and a life hard lived, did nothing to detract from his magnificence. Trim hips accentuated his powerful thighs and long legs, and the dusting of fair hair at the base of his erection proved Sullivan had been a trimmer before abandoning the niceties of the perimeter. Rafe ran his knuckles across the light fur, taking care not to touch Sullivan anywhere else. “I want to ride you,” he said. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes, please.” “Lay down.” He pushed on Sullivan’s lower abs, the only impetus the other man needed. Spread out on the blue and white patchwork quilt, he seemed even bigger, consuming more space than anyone else Rafe knew. His heavy cock rested flat on his stomach, but he kept his hands loosely at his sides. Rafe took his time undressing. He wanted every second he could to savor the sight, not to mention letting his desire escalate to near painful proportions. He hadn’t forgotten Sullivan’s avowal that he wasn’t dominant in everything. At some point, he was going to return the favor and bury himself in that tight ass. The prospect of Sullivan’s muscular body writhing beneath him, of his name falling from Sullivan’s lips coupled with desperate pleas for 116

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more, was all it took to climb onto the bed. He knelt between Sullivan’s legs. “Does Strike still inoculate against everything?” Surprised curiosity flashed in Sullivan’s eyes. “Yes.” “So we don’t have to worry.” “What about you?” Rafe smoothed his palms over the strong thighs. “The attacks killed off most of the threats behind the borders. If someone survived, they’re immune.” “But you’re not from here originally.” “But everybody I’ve ever slept with was.” He leaned forward, bracing his knuckles on either side of Sullivan’s hips. “Until you.” He gave Sullivan time to tell him to stop, though they both knew he wouldn’t. Without taking his eyes off him, Rafe opened his mouth and ran his tongue up the length of the velvety shaft. Sullivan whimpered, but didn’t move, even when he licked back down to the balls. They were already hard, drawn tight into his body. The rough hair tickled Rafe’s lips, but in the best way possible as he pulled the sac into his mouth. At the throaty moan coming from above, he closed his eyes and savored the weight and texture, rolling them back and forth, back and forth. He could smell everything from here. The musky skin. The tangy sweat. The earthy scents of the woodpile, clinging to Sullivan’s flesh like a wild cologne. His own cock ached. Sullivan wouldn’t be the only one who wouldn’t last. “Rafe…” At first, he thought he imagined it. He was intoxicated by the willing flesh surrounding him, in him, soon to be filling him even more. His hands had joined in the game, pressing Sullivan’s legs farther apart, and now teased up and down the dark crack. He 117

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wanted to delve deeper, to find Sullivan’s hole and give him a hint of what it would be like later, for Rafe first and then him. Restraint won only because he feared not being able to stop once he started. “Rafe, please…” It was the entreaty that worked. He found the wherewithal to desert Sullivan’s cock and saw the man in question propped up on his elbows, staring hungrily down at Rafe. “This might be my first time, but I know I’m not the only one who needs to be ready for this.” He swiped his tongue over his lower lip, his gaze eating Rafe up. “Let me do it. Please.” The constant requests for permission were probably a leftover from Strike, though he sincerely doubted soldiers tacked “please” onto the end of everything. Sooner or later, Rafe would break him of the habit—they were equals here, even if Sullivan didn’t necessarily believe it—but for now, he’d enjoy the thrill of power hearing it gave him. He crawled up Sullivan’s body, letting his cock drag along the way. When they were mouth to mouth, he paused, then bent to let Sullivan get a taste of what Rafe had been savoring. Sullivan’s lip trembled. So did the fingers digging into Rafe’s side. Rafe breathed him in and deepened the kiss, hoping Sullivan would take the fortitude he offered. No reason to be afraid. But even as he thought it, he wasn’t sure if he meant it for Sullivan or himself. Sullivan broke from the caress first and tugged at Rafe’s hips. Rafe complied, his heart racing in excitement, but he wondered what Sullivan’s motivation was. Was he doing this for Rafe or for himself? Though Rafe was all about reciprocation, he didn’t want Sullivan to feel obligated. This wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea. Sullivan hadn’t escaped one stringent life for another. This was one pattern Rafe would refuse to duplicate. 118

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His protests died on his tongue when Sullivan grasped his ass cheeks and pried them apart. Hot breath fanned across his clenching opening, followed by a broad wet sweep. Rafe grabbed onto the wall for balance. His legs were already threatening to give out on him. If he wasn’t careful, he’d come before Sullivan ever got inside him. All of Sullivan’s temerity disappeared. His nose smashed into Rafe’s balls as he dug into his ass, licking first, then sinking inside, repeating the pattern over and over again with unfailing determination. His grip hurt, a precursor to how sore he’d be when they were both spent. He’d ache tomorrow. Every time he sat down, he’d remember Sullivan’s unyielding fingers and pounding cock. Hell, he’d remember just standing up, too. When pre-come dripped onto Sullivan’s brow, Rafe gripped his cock and held it straight up, squeezing behind the head to stave off his rising desire. The pull eased the contact of sac to skin, and Sullivan’s head fell back onto the pillow, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. “Tell me we can be ready,” he begged. “Tell me I don’t have to wait anymore.” Rafe was as loose and wet as he needed to be. “You don’t have to wait.” He slithered down, poising over Sullivan’s hips. Reaching behind him, he found the shaft and angled it upward. The tip slid against his damp crease until the nerve endings around his hole burned from fresh contact. He held it there, swallowed once, and slowly started to lower his body. Everything burned. Eyes, skin, cock, ass. His throat had closed off, and his muscles felt like jelly, but through it all, he never stopped, even when he thought he was never going to get the head past the tight outer ring. 119

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Sullivan never blinked. With every inch, his color heightened, the only evidence this was affecting him at all. He wasn’t even tensing his hands where they guided Rafe’s hips. His control was amazing. When they got past the newness of it all, Rafe would bet anything Sullivan would be able to fuck for hours without either of them coming. The fact that he was already assuming this would be a longterm arrangement didn’t escape him. The moment Sullivan was fully sheathed, they both exhaled. “Oh, hell,” Sullivan muttered. “Don’t move.” Though he had no intention to, he grinned anyway. “You think you’re in any position to stop me?” Sullivan scowled, but it was so obviously put on, Rafe’s smile widened. “It’s a good thing I can tell when you’re teasing me now,” Sullivan said. “Otherwise, I’d make you regret pushing me.” “Promises, promises.” The fullness was almost unbearable. Fire radiated throughout his groin, and his hands shook where he braced against Sullivan’s stomach. Everything honed in on the join of their bodies, dizzying, exquisite. Absolutely electrifying. “Okay.” Sullivan still sounded breathless. “Do it.” Rafe didn’t even consider being contrary. He needed the friction as much as Sullivan did. His movements at first were slow and shaky. On the second stroke, it was easier, the glide smoother, Sullivan’s touch firmer. By the third, anything seemed possible, and he began riding him in earnest. “Fuck, you feel good.” Sullivan released one of his holds to fist Rafe’s cock, pulling it at the same tempo Rafe rose up and down. 120

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“I’m not hurting you, am I?” In the history of dumb questions, that had to rank pretty high. “Never,” he rasped. He cried out when Sullivan dug his thumbnail into the seeping slit. “Does it really look like I’m not enjoying this?” Sullivan’s mouth slanted. Rafe had never seen him look so satisfied. Until Rafe sped up. Their grunts echoed throughout the room. The slap of his balls grew louder, amplified by the sweat coating their skin, and his palms skidded up and over Sullivan’s ribs. The next time Rafe tried to right himself, Sullivan tugged harder at his cock, knocking him off-balance. He fell forward, trapping their hands between their bodies, but Sullivan was the one who kept him there, meeting him halfway to capture his mouth in a searing kiss. The first touch of their tongues detonated everything. His cock throbbed. Come smeared into their skin, but he didn’t slow down, couldn’t slow down actually, not with Sullivan’s near frantic whimpers pleading with him to go on. The world fractured into brilliant pieces, each one more dangerous than the next, and he clung to Sullivan long after his orgasm had passed, clenching on every slam into his flesh. Sullivan’s release was silent, a locking of muscles to stone as he drove upward one final time. Their kisses froze on a single inhalation, while wet heat flooded Rafe’s ass. He had no concept of time, of how long it lasted for either of them. He only knew when Sullivan’s mouth softened, and his tongue quested yet again for Rafe’s. A million and one slow kisses came and went. Rafe was boneless by the time they parted, and his head fell onto Sullivan’s 121

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shoulder. “You’re out of luck if you plan on kicking me out,” he said. “My legs have officially stopped working.” Sullivan wrapped him in a loose hug, mirroring Rafe’s pose. “You’re always welcome here. For as long as you want to stay.” Dangerous words, he thought as he began to drift. He just might take them literally. Then realized…that was exactly how Sullivan meant them.

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CHAPTER 10 Sullivan couldn’t sleep. He kept expecting Rafe to climb out of bed and go home. He should, after all. Nobody in Chadwick knew about the time they spent together, and though Rafe seemed perfectly okay with his sexuality, Sullivan had no idea what everyone else’s mentality was. He didn’t want to complicate things for Rafe any more than they already were. He might not understand why he’d sought the other man out, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let anything happen to him as a result. But Rafe didn’t move. When he climbed off Sullivan, he nudged him over with a knee until there was room for both of them to nestle on their sides on the narrow bed. He spooned in front of Sullivan, dropped a kiss onto the arm he was using as a pillow, and promptly fell asleep. 123

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It astounded Sullivan how trusting Rafe was. He had personal reasons to not trust Strike—Sullivan had gleaned that much from how little he knew of Rafe’s background—and yet, here they were, lovers, sharing the same bed if only for the night. He’d been the first to invite Sullivan over, too. If it hadn’t been for his duty to Belle, Sullivan would have accepted. Not for the sex, though that had been phenomenal. For the company. It was enough for Rafe to just be there. With Rafe’s firm ass nestled against him, Sullivan got hard again. The sticky come that glued them together certainly didn’t help lessening his arousal. The smart thing would have been to get up and clean off, maybe even jerk off to get it out of his system, but he couldn’t drag himself away from Rafe’s long lines, not with how perfectly they fit together or how delicious he smelled. He coiled his arm around Rafe’s waist, buried his nose in the back of his neck, and marveled at how content he felt. He dozed in the place between sleep and wakefulness, familiar ground when you were in the middle of a war zone. Rafe shifted once, but it was only to burrow more onto his stomach, prompting Sullivan to adjust his position to accommodate him. Gone was the mesmerizing scent of his nape. The trade-off was getting to better see Rafe’s outline, the way his hair stood on end where he’d been lying on it, the lax muscles in his shoulder and back. Completely at peace. A concept Sullivan was starting to understand. The niggle that something was wrong came with a flash at the corner of his eye. Sullivan turned his head automatically, searching for whatever could have caught his attention, but the room was too dark to see anything far away. The small window at the front was only a fainter void than its surroundings, the earth too far in its 124

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nightly rotation to allow stars to glimmer through the glass. He watched it for a moment, then sighed and rested his head again. He was tired. He should really get some sleep. Rafe clearly wasn’t going anywhere before dawn, and his senses were going haywire from exhaustion. His eyes never made it to closing before he heard the soft thud. This time, he tensed as he pushed onto an elbow. Chadwick’s silence had always put him on edge, but he’d grown accustomed to the lack of noise over the past ten days. Though it had been like trekking across the country, he’d expected their version of civilization would at least be louder than the vast emptiness of the open countryside. He’d been wrong. Once the town settled in for the night, that was it. Nothing budged until the sun cracked over the horizon to start a new day. Another thump echoed through the walls. Carefully, Sullivan eased away from Rafe, unwilling to wake him. He scooted down the bed and climbed over the footboard, taking his time with each deliberate motion. Floorboards creaked under his weight. His head shot around toward Rafe, and he held his breath to see if the other man would stir. A full minute passed. Sullivan exhaled without a sound. Both thuds had come from the same portion of the outer wall, the one farthest from the house. If they had been on the other side, he might have assumed Belle had come outside for something, but the opposite end of the garage emptied onto open field. There weren’t even any houses in that direction, just the road stretching away from Chadwick and onto the next small town. An animal of some kind, scrounging for food? Perhaps. He was probably overreacting, but his gut told him to check it out. He found his pants crumpled on the floor. The fabric rustled as 125

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he dressed, but Rafe gave no indication of waking. Sullivan didn’t bother with shoes. Out and in. He only needed to confirm that nothing was amiss before climbing back into bed. The instant he opened the door, he knew something was wrong. Between the rising heat and the lack of good ventilation, the room over the garage was always warm. Sullivan didn’t really mind since most of his time was spent elsewhere anyway. But the blast that rolled through the entranceway eclipsed the temperature of the apartment by a good twenty degrees. His exposed skin crisped in unnatural response, and the hair on his chest threatened to stand on end. He even felt it wrapping around his body, an effect that was heightened when he ventured onto the top stair. Outside of the fauna decorating his room, he could better distinguish the smells of the garage. There was more than the usual fumes he associated with the enclosed space. Now, sulfur tinged the air, along with far deadlier smoke. His stomach plummeted. He recognized those aromas far too well. He had to duck his head to see past the stairs and below, but the instant he did, he found the source. Flames licked up the far wall. They spread the entire depth of the garage and by his best guess, already reached his waist. Sullivan didn’t stop to think. His body was trained to react on reflex. “Rafe!” He flat-handed the door open, uncaring of what hinges might break. The lamp had gone out during the night, and though he’d been in the dark for several minutes already, his eyes had yet to adjust. He made it to the bed on spatial memory alone, but Rafe was already waking up, his mumbled “What’s going on?” guiding 126

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Sullivan the rest of the way. “We have to get out of here.” Sullivan grabbed the blankets, knocking against Rafe’s leg in his haste. “The garage is on fire.” The announcement woke Rafe up the rest of the way. “A fire? How? Where?” “Downstairs. And I have no idea.” His foot nudged against something soft, and he scooped it up at the same time he grabbed Rafe’s wrist. “You can get dressed outside. Right now, we have to get out of here.” Rafe followed without question. The heat was even stronger when they came out on the stairs, and a new scent had joined the smoke. “Did Belle tip a lamp?” Rafe asked. They leapt down the last few risers. The concrete floor was already getting hot. He would need his shoes if he didn’t want to burn his feet. “The house is on the other side. Go get Belle out, and then start hauling some water.” When Sullivan turned to go back up, Rafe caught his arm. “Where are you going?” “I’ll be right back.” Sullivan pried him off, using strength when Rafe tightened his grip. “I need my shoes, or I’m not going to be any good putting the fire out.” The light from the fire cast eerie shadows across Rafe’s face, highlighting his displeasure. “You better be down here by the time I get Belle out, or I swear I’m coming up after you.” Sudden joy at the ferocity of Rafe’s intent pierced through him. “I promise.” With the vow firm between them, they whirled in opposite directions. Sullivan hoped Belle hadn’t locked up. He wanted them 127

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both out to safety as soon as possible. His shoes were harder to find, though light from the fire now flickered through the window. He discovered them beneath the table, along with his shirt, pulled them on in record time, and dashed for the stairs again. The night offered no respite from the heat. Sullivan surveyed the wall for a moment. Sparks danced like fireflies into the sky, fading as they cooled, but a cracked cement path stopped most of the flames from going anywhere but up. Water from the well wouldn’t work unless they had an entire stream of people to keep it continuous. The best bet might be to lose the garage entirely and simply keep it contained. How did people behind the border handle these kinds of disasters? He started with the tallest flames, beating the blanket against them in long, powerful sweeps. The hems singed immediately, but he found the right rhythm to snap the fabric, a flick of the wrists that made it fly straight, then a hard swipe to slam it against the wood. Repeat until his arms fell off or the fire stopped. Nothing changed at first. The smell of charred wood clogged his nose. The smoke was climbing higher, thank God, but that, too, worked to cloud his senses. His eyes felt like someone had shoved a white-hot, rotating rifle barrel through to his brain. Sweat dripping from his forehead added to the blur and sting. Sullivan kept on going, though, because failure was not an option. He heard the shouts at the same time he realized the flames didn’t look as tall as they had when he started. At the edge of his peripheral vision, Sam Harmon, a sturdy man in his forties who was Belle’s closest neighbor, began 128

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attacking the fire at the other end of the wall. His three sons came up behind him with bucketfuls of water. Each took his turn to throw it at the inferno, then ran off to get a refill. The water sizzled where it hit the flames, and fresh smoke unfurled into the sky. Sullivan caught Sam’s eye and was shocked when the other man acknowledged him with a nod. Rafe raced around the front corner of the garage. At some point, he’d pulled on his pants, though his feet were still bare. He carried the canvas that normally covered the motorcycle inside, ready to beat at the flames like the others. Fury ripped through Sullivan. “You went back inside? Are you insane?” “Belle’s out.” Rafe ignored his temper and assumed a place next to him. “She’s organizing the other neighbors to haul water.” “That doesn’t—” The reminder of the tarp jerked his attention back to the garage. They were doing an adequate job holding the fire back, but odds were good it would still reach portions of the interior. Including the now uncovered motorcycle. “Stay here,” he ordered. Rafe paused. “Where are you going now?” Sullivan jerked a thumb at the building. “Belle’s bike runs on old-fashioned gasoline. I need to get it out of the fire’s range.” “I think Belle’s more concerned about making sure people are safe than she is about some old relic.” “You don’t get it.” He didn’t have time to waste and argue about this. “Gasoline burns. If the fire reaches it, it’ll explode.” Rafe’s eyes jumped to the bay door. “You open it, and you feed the fire.” “I don’t, and I get a bomb that’ll take out more than the 129

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garage.” More men were joining the fight, and the stream of water carriers now included women of every shape and size, still in their nightclothes. Rafe took one look at the growing team, then thrust his tarp into the oldest Harmon boy’s hands. “You’ll get it out sooner if you don’t have to do it alone,” he said to Sullivan. His instincts told him to get Rafe as far away from the danger as possible. Common sense said Rafe was right. “You get the door.” They marched around the front, past Belle and more than a few curious glances. “I’ll get the bike.” He tested the side door before opening it. Though it was warm, it wasn’t nearly as hot as it could be, meaning the fire hadn’t spread as far as he’d feared. The motorcycle’s chrome gleamed like a demon out of hell, alone and proud in the center of the bay. Rafe skirted the edge and paused at the middle of the door. “Ready?” Sullivan grasped the nearest handle and braced the vehicle as he knocked the kickstand up. He kept as far from the bike and the fire as he could without losing its balance. Any rush of flames would have farther to travel. “Go.” The sight of Rafe yanking the door open swam as fresh sweat rolled into Sullivan’s eyes. People outside shouted, and the fire added a new, stronger roar, but he was most aware of his thudding heart, a necessary metronome for him to perform to the best of his abilities. It had always been that way. The mind shut off, the body took over. He didn’t remember getting to the other side of the street. He didn’t hear the shouts that followed him, or Rafe’s explanations 130

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about what was going on. He didn’t even feel the cooler air afforded by distance, until Rafe appeared at his side and helped him push the bike the rest of the way. Rafe was the one who told him the rest of it, too. Rafe was the one who brought him back to the problem at hand. “There’s a good water line set up.” They stared at the display across the street, side by side, untouching, though Sullivan felt him more acutely than he could the fire. “There’s no telling whether the structural integrity will hold until they get it completely out, though.” “But Belle’s house is safe.” Rafe glanced up at him with a frown. “Yours is gone, though.” “Wouldn’t be the first time.” “It doesn’t bother you?” “I’m more worried about Belle.” She was a pale shadow against the more vivid flames, directing everyone to various jobs. “Is there some kind of construction team around here? I’d like to get started on rebuilding as soon as we can.” “The community will come together.” Like they were now. And Sullivan was again on the outside. It didn’t escape his notice that Rafe was, too, if he was being literal about it. Once his lungs and eyes were clear, he returned to the fight. Rafe came with him, though they didn’t exchange any more words. There was work to be done, priorities that exceeded their own by miles. Though the sun had yet to crest the horizon, the sky was brightening when everyone conceded the fire was out. The entire wall of the garage was blackened, the structure listing to the side. The Harmon boys had hauled extra boards from their home to 131

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buttress the building, to prevent it from collapsing before it could be fixed, and two other men were finishing digging up a trench around the back in case the fire started again. Neighbors gradually traipsed back to their homes, buckets, bowls, and blankets in their tired hands. Belle sat on the front porch, waving everybody off. Her robe was stained in soot, and an ashen streak painted her forehead where she’d swiped at it, but her gaze was fierce, her jaw harder with each additional departure. One gesture from her, and Sullivan stood on the porch, too, feeling gargantuan and filthy in comparison. “Take a good long shower inside,” she said. “I’ll block out the morning light in the guest room so you can get some sleep.” Sullivan shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “It’s a worse idea if you turn my spare sheets black because you’re too tired to wash up.” “It’s not that.” As the fire had waned, his thoughts had become contemplative again, though he desperately wished they hadn’t. “I shouldn’t stay here anymore.” Belle scowled. “What? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, you’re staying here.” “I’m not putting you at risk.” “The risk is gone, in case you haven’t noticed.” “No, the risk is me. That fire wasn’t an accident. Someone’s trying to smoke me out of Chadwick.” Her mouth settled into a dry thin line. For a moment, he saw her how she must have been when she was younger, stubborn and full of spitfire. He would have loved to have known her in her prime. As it was, he was grateful he could at least know her now. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, or what you might’ve 132

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decided for yourself, but Chadwick’s not nearly as perfect as people might want you to think. We wouldn’t need a sheriff if it was. You might’ve ruffled a few feathers, but that doesn’t give anybody the right to do what they did tonight. You run, and they win.” A spark of humor danced in her eyes. “I wouldn’t like you as much as I do if you were a quitter.” He chuckled at that, though he wasn’t swayed by her argument. “You’re going to have people in and out all day. If I stick around, I wouldn’t get any sleep anyway.” “All right. You got me there. But that doesn’t give you permission to push yourself ’til you drop. Don’t think I don’t know that’s what you’re planning.” The porch step creaked behind him. “He can stay at my house,” Rafe said. Sullivan readied to protest, but Belle was already nodding. “That’s good. Some peace and quiet will do him good.” Rafe rested a hand on Sullivan’s shoulder and squeezed. “It’s pointless to argue. Belle always gets her way.” “It’s the one good part about getting old,” she piped in. “People are too scared to disagree because they’re afraid I’m going to croak on them.” “You’re going to outlive all of us,” Sullivan said. “From your mouth to God’s ears.” She shooed them away. “Now go. Before someone decides you’re slacking and puts you to work again.”

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CHAPTER 11 “You should’ve let him go, Belle.” “The boy needs a place to stay,” “And you let Rafe take him?” “Rafe can take care of himself. You’ll see that sooner or later.” “Later. Much later.” Belle sighed. “The smartest thing he ever did was get out from under your roof.” Silverware clattered too loud for Rafe to hear what Mama said in response to that, though he had a good idea it wouldn’t have been very complimentary. When she’d discovered where Sullivan had gone to after leaving Belle’s, she’d promptly stopped talking to Rafe, retreating into her silent, angry world where her son wasn’t a full grown adult harboring a man with questionable 134

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motives. Nothing he could say could shake her from it. The best thing she’d done for both of them was leave him alone in the kitchen to finish lunch prep. “Why aren’t you more worried about this?” Mama said. She’d brought Belle over to have some breakfast, and the old woman had never left. She was probably still seated at the table by the door, helping Mama polish the knives and forks. “They burned your garage down. The next time, it could be your house.” “Whoever did this had no intention of hurting me. Did you see where they started it? As far from my house as they could get. They put some thought into it.” “And if you take him back, they could decide it doesn’t matter who you are because you’re harboring a Strike soldier.” “Maria…” Belle sounded tired. Rafe wondered if he should sneak out and find a ride home for her. He hoped Mama would notice so he wouldn’t have to. “Does he know?” He? Who was Belle referring to? “Of course not. It’s none of his business.” “What if Rafe told him?” Well, he had an answer, and considering what they’d been talking about, he was pretty sure he knew what Belle was talking about. It didn’t make him happy, though. The urge to interrupt grew. “He wouldn’t.” “They’ve become friends.” “When? Not here.” “Ask Rafe.” No, don’t ask Rafe. Rafe doesn’t want to have to fight about it. “Rafe would never talk about it,” Mama said. She sounded adamant. “He knows what we went through. He knows why we 135

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left. The last thing he wants is to bring all that up again.” “Really? Or is that the last thing you want?” He couldn’t listen to this anymore. Belle was cutting too close to the bone, and as much as he wished Mama would trust Sullivan more, he couldn’t take listening to her get pushed like this. Picking up the tray of pastry rounds and the bowl of stuffing, he took them out to the dining room, wearing a wide smile. “Who wants to help make the pastelitos?” *

*

*

By the light of day, Belle’s garage looked even worse. Ash clung to Sullivan’s boots, and the blackened grass crunched beneath his soles. A good half of the wall was pitted and bowed, giving more than a peek inside the garage. There were enough holes in the wall, he wasn’t even sure how the building was still standing. Belle wasn’t around, which worked to his advantage. He imagined Chadwick swarming around one of their own, though it had been someone in Chadwick who had instigated the damage in the first place. But she was being taken care of, which he was glad for. She didn’t need the problems housing him brought. It was his responsibility to make sure she didn’t have those kinds of problems again. Starting with finding who had started the fire. Evidence was nonexistent. Too many people had trampled around the property to guess who might have arrived first. Close inspection of the ground at the garage’s foundation revealed charred filaments that couldn’t have come from the wooden siding. His first thought was that they were burned strands of the various 136

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blankets and tarps that they’d used to beat out the flames. When he smelled them, however, he caught more than the scent of smoke. They reeked of kerosene. Proof it was arson, at least. He wrapped them in a clean handkerchief to more closely examine later. He found nothing else near the garage. Working in widening concentric circles, he searched for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might hint at the arsonist’s identity. He was crouched in a flowerbed, pushing aside the leaves to see the earth beneath them, when footsteps came up the sidewalk. Sam Harmon nodded at him when their eyes met, and stopped a few feet away. “I didn’t think I’d see you around here again today.” Straightening, Sullivan wiped his hands off on his pants before extending one forward in greeting. “The fresher the scene, the better my chance of finding out who did this.” Sam’s gaze drifted to the garage. “I might be able to help you with that.” “Oh?” He kept his voice even. He wouldn’t get his hopes up until he had reason to. “Andrew heard some talk at school this morning.” Andrew was the oldest Harmon boy, and the one Sullivan liked most. Quiet and hard-working, he represented everything Sullivan liked best about Chadwick. “A couple of kids from north of town were bragging about having an exciting night. He didn’t hear names, but when he came home for lunch, he said he was convinced they were talking about you. That they were the ones who set the fire.” It was only a little after two. The schools didn’t get out until three. “Did he tell you who they were?” “That depends.” “On what?” 137

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“On what you’d do with that information if I gave it to you.” Sam didn’t flinch under Sullivan’s direct stare. He wouldn’t. He was no-nonsense and decent, and though he hadn’t condemned Sullivan’s presence in Belle’s home, he wasn’t naive enough to unconditionally accept a stranger in town, especially when that stranger was an ex-Strike soldier. “Belle could have been hurt last night,” Sullivan said. “Burning down the garage to get to me was the coward’s way out. If they had a problem, they should have come to me face to face.” Sam shrugged. “They’re afraid of you.” “They didn’t have to be.” “That doesn’t change the fact they probably thought it was suicide to confront you directly. You’re trained to kill. They can’t even start a fire right.” “Does that mean you’re not going to tell me who they are?” “You still haven’t told me what your plan is if I do.” His gut wanted to enact his own justice. He’d been given permission to do that his entire adult life. But one look at Sam’s face and he knew if he admitted that aloud, he’d never get the names. Hell, one look at his own conscience and he knew he couldn’t look Rafe in the eye afterward if he followed through on his instinct this time. “I’d ask your help in rounding them up so we can turn them in to the sheriff,” he said. “They committed willful destruction of somebody’s property, not to mention putting an old woman in harm’s way. Something about that’s got to be against your laws here.” “It is.” With a satisfied nod, Sam turned back toward his house. “Come on. You’ve got time to wash up before we head over to the school. We time it right, we can catch them coming out of class.” 138

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*

*

*

Lunch was insane, keeping Rafe in the kitchen and Mama busy on the floor. He didn’t delude himself it had anything to do with the food or the day of the week. Word had leaked out that Belle was in the restaurant, and everyone in town was flocking over to get the sensational story of the fire firsthand. Keeping busy had another good side effect. He didn’t spend time thinking too much about the threat against Sullivan. He wasn’t so blinded by the company and amazing sex not to know how the others saw him. He would have hoped, however, they would have been a little more evolved in how they asked him to leave. Whether Sullivan liked it or not, they were going to have to come up with some plausible excuse for why he’d sought Rafe out. The whole town knew that was why he’d shown up in the first place. If Sullivan couldn’t give them the truth, a good lie would have to suffice. Orders were finally starting to slow when Mama appeared in the doorway. She didn’t hand him an order. She jerked her head toward the dining room and said, “Sheriff’s here. He wants to speak to you.” No point asking what it was about. The only thing of note to happen to him lately was the fire. And Sullivan. Sheriff McNamara sat at the table with Belle, chuckling over something she had said. His gnarled hands curled around an empty coffee cup, and his bad leg stuck straight out to the side. On bad days, he couldn’t bend it without a lot of pain. An accident in his youth had crushed his leg, and though it had healed, it was never 139

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the same again. He’d been the authority in Chadwick since before the Hamadas had arrived. After a lifetime of witnessing physical perfection and the men who used that perfection to maintain order, Rafe had thought McNamara the worst possible choice for the position of power. How could he keep the peace if he couldn’t even walk right some of the time? All these years later, his leg was even worse, but Rafe understood now why he was the perfect man for the job. People respected him. Power wasn’t always a measure of brute force. “Hey, Sheriff.” He grabbed an empty chair from the next table and pulled it up without bumping into the man’s leg, straddling it and resting his arms across its back. “What kind of stories has Belle been telling to you now?” McNamara grinned. The light caught on his gold tooth, a canine that had been knocked out a few years ago at a divorce proceeding that had got a little out of control. He’d made Conrad Kagen melt down his grandmother’s ring to replace it. The way McNamara explained it, Conrad’s ex-wife didn’t need it anymore anyway. “Actually, I’m the one with some news for her. She said I should get you out here, too.” “Eugene made an arrest.” Nobody but Belle and his wife called the sheriff by his first name. Rafe’s brows shot up. “That was fast.” “Don’t look at me. The only reason I’ve got the boys in custody is because of that soldier friend of yours.” Belle looked like a very well fed cat at the moment, though she had the courtesy to shrug nonchalantly when Rafe stared at her. “He’s a resourceful one, that boy is.” He searched for words that wouldn’t make him sound as idiotic 140

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as he felt. “I didn’t realize he was looking for them. He was supposed to be catching up on some sleep.” “Good for me, he wasn’t tired, then,” McNamara said. “He and Sam showed up in my office with the boys in tow, barely said two words before the kids were blubbering like babies.” He scowled. “They think they’re such bigshots, pulling a stunt like that, and don’t even have the balls to man up about it when they get caught. I’ve half a mind to just turn them over to their father and let him be the one to punish them. He’d probably be harder than any time they might serve.” “Did they say why they did it?” “They wanted to scare your soldier friend out of town, make him see he wasn’t wanted around here.” That was the second time Sheriff had referred to Sullivan as his. Was that his assumption, the town’s, or something Sullivan had put into his head? “That boy won’t scare,” Belle said. “Anyone with half a brain can see that.” Sheriff shrugged. “Well, they’re young. They haven’t seen as much as we have.” Rafe’s first assumption was he included Belle in that “we.” But Sheriff looked directly at him as he said it, a kind knowing behind his eyes, and he knew it was more than that. More, he knew he didn’t want to see it again. He’d felt like other for too many years, and managed to suppress how separate it made him feel when they were trying so desperately to make a new home. He’d succeeded, too, until Sullivan arrived and reminded him he wasn’t. The last thing he needed—or wanted—was Sheriff to dredge all those feelings up as well. They weren’t his, no matter what kind of “we” he tried to use. 141

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The fact that he didn’t blame Sullivan the same way only occurred to him after he’d already opened his mouth to aver his ignorance of anything Sheriff might have seen. “You’re not really going to turn them over to their father, are you?” he asked instead. Sheriff smiled, a sad little moue that put years into his eyes. “As tempting as it is, no. They’ll get a proper sentence.” “Jail time?” “If I have my way.” Which was a yes, because Sheriff always got his way. “When that happens, your friend won’t have an easy time of it,” he continued. “People aren’t going to take too kindly to his being free when they’re not.” Rafe frowned. “But he didn’t do anything wrong. They’re the ones who broke the law.” “Doesn’t matter. He’s not the one who was born and raised here. That’s what people are going to remember, not the fact he got burned out of his home.” “He saved Belle’s life.” “Now, technically, you did that.” “He’s the one who thought to get her motorcycle out of the garage before it blew up.” “I know that, and you know that, but for a lot of people out there? It won’t matter.” Sheriff sighed. “Look, Rafe, I like your friend. He works hard and keeps his head low. I haven’t had a real complaint about him since he got here. I don’t see any reason why he can’t stick around. All I’m saying is, the road’s going to be a tough one. And since you two are friends, you should watch your back.” As hard as it was to envision people he’d known for years 142

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acting like vigilantes, he’d never considered he’d be one of their targets. His presence at the fire had been a coincidence. He’d told himself more than once that if they’d known he was there, they never would have started it. Could he have been so wrong? “I appreciate the warning,” he said, fighting to keep the anxiety out of his voice. “I’ll make sure Sullivan gets it, too.” “We need to find him a new place to stay,” Belle said. “I’m more than happy to let him move into the house, but something tells me he’ll turn me down flat.” Rafe was sure of that, too. “He can stay with me until he figures something else out. But you know he’ll insist on still doing for you, right? He feels obligated.” Belle dismissed his assertion with a wave of her wrinkled hand. “Not until he’s had a chance to get back on his feet. I’m the least of his worries.” Pushing back his chair, Sheriff awkwardly rose to his feet. “Just pass along what I said. We’ve had enough excitement around here to last us the rest of the year.” Rafe’s emotions churned. He murmured a goodbye as Sheriff walked away, and while he was relieved to have closure to the fire, the frustration and fear about the aftermath was almost worse. *

*

*

Once he was done at the sheriff’s office, Sullivan politely turned down Sam’s offer to come over for dinner and headed back out to Belle’s. He’d thought he would feel better finding the arsonists, and in a small way, he did. Justice would be served. But the larger feelings still lingered, the unease about his place in town, the fear he’d only make things worse for the people who’d been 143

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kind to him. The smart thing would be to leave. An informed retreat wasn’t necessarily failure. Strike had taught him that. Except in this case, leaving Chadwick would give the arsonists exactly what they’d wanted. And he wouldn’t just be leaving the town behind. He’d be leaving Rafe behind, too. He couldn’t have left when he didn’t know the man. Now that he’d had a taste of him, walking away was impossible. People milled along Belle’s street as he turned the corner, driving him to backtrack out of view. He didn’t want to deal with any more people. Though he couldn’t predict they wouldn’t be as supportive as Sam had been, he wasn’t in the mood to risk it. Instead, he skirted the neighborhood and found a path that led through an overgrown park at the edge of town. Rusted swings creaked as the breeze moved them back and forth, and weeds came up through the cracks of an old-fashioned merry-go-round. There was another park closer to the center of town he’d seen people use, which begged the question why this one had been left to decay. He wandered closer to the playground equipment, remnants of a happier, more peaceful time. Before the biological attacks, middle America had been the wholesome part of the country, the icon the government held up to the world to say, “See how welladjusted we are?” After, officials couldn’t cut them off fast enough. Sullivan’s history knowledge was atrocious at best, but he knew enough to know few people made it past the health checks at the borders. If there was even a hint that someone had been exposed to the threat, or could carry it into the safe zone, they were turned back, left to fend for themselves. Self-preservation, the government called it. Spin for the world. Some countries criticized them for turning their back on a significant chunk of their population, while others applauded them 144

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for acting so swiftly to protect the global community. The outcry against the terrorists had fueled the war for a few years, but then people began to forget—as they were wont to do—and continued losses had forced the government to privatize the military, once and for all. The path that created Sullivan Eberle. Prime Strike. Sixth generation of soldier, trained to fight and only fight. Chadwick had found a different path. Because in spite of the government’s beliefs that the health threats would decimate the populace, some people had survived. Some people always did. Darwin was right for a reason. Chadwick wasn’t that different from the other towns he’d seen along the way, though. Ghosts lurked in every corner, on deserted playgrounds, in abandoned homes. Enough people had died to make recovery slow, regardless of how many supplies were airdropped into disadvantaged areas. No wonder they didn’t trust him. He was part of the system that had slammed the door on their future. Part of Sullivan wanted to scream that it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t had a choice in the matter because it’s worse when you’re prime, but nobody wanted to hear that. It was just another excuse. He was who he was, and nothing would ever change that. Nobody would ever change that. Not even Rafe Hamada with his merciful eyes and beautiful smile. Not even if he was the first person to ever make Sullivan truly feel. He debated sitting in one of the swings for a few moments too long before deciding it probably wasn’t the safest move. They were designed for children, and eaten away by time. Testing them would be testing fate, and he’d done enough of that to last him a lifetime. 145

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He decided to pull at the weeds choking the merry-go-round. Some of them had nettles that managed to burrow beneath his skin, even callused as it was, and more than a few released clouds of dusty spores when they came free of their tethers, but he worked continuously, tossing them into an ever growing pile off to the side, ignoring the burn in his back and shoulders from the added exertion on top of everything else of the past twenty-four hours. Though sweat soaked the back of his shirt and dripped into his eyes more than once, he eased from discomfort to an endorphininduced euphoria quickly. It was simpler to work, then, simpler to block out the events of the last day, last week, last month, last year. He could just be what he’d always been. A machine. Devoid of anything but the need to satisfy physical demands. Pushing his body to its outermost limits, because there, nobody judged, and best of all, any kind of thought fled. Or was destroyed by sheer exhaustion. It didn’t matter which. The end result was still the same. Oblivion. Peace. Blankness.

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CHAPTER 12 Rafe wasn’t surprised when Sullivan never showed up at the restaurant, but when he walked in on an empty house, his stomach fell. Except for the lingering scent of soap in the bathroom, there were no signs that Sullivan had been there at all. His clothes were gone, the bed was perfectly made, and the blanket he’d given Sullivan his first night in town was still carefully folded and sitting on the end of the couch. It wasn’t his business what Sullivan did, but considering someone had just tried to kill him, Rafe wasn’t satisfied waiting for him to show up again. His first thought was to go back to Belle’s and see if he’d taken her up on the offer to move into the house. At Mama’s insistence, she’d stayed for dinner, and then afterward, Sheriff showed up to escort her home. She hadn’t mentioned Sullivan to him again, but 147

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he’d been careful to stay busy in the kitchen. He had too many feelings to sort out. Trying to assimilate even more would only overwhelm him further. He kept his pace even, if a little fast, as he rounded the corner of the church. His heart thumped wildly, anxiety already taking root that Sullivan was missing because he was gone and how insane was he for being more scared of that than the repercussions of everything else? Breathing slowly helped. On any other night, he would have gone into the church and lit a few candles to help provide guidance. Tonight, though, he didn’t have the time. Glancing at the front door was habit. It shouldn’t have been open, not at this hour of night, but it stood ajar, the darkness within somehow inkier than the darkness without. Nobody but him came to the church after hours, not even Father Thomas, and he answered the sudden alarm by altering his course, half-running to the entrance, slipping through the gap to find who would invade its sanctuary. The world tilted on its axis when he saw a familiar set of broad shoulders in the last pew. Without the light from the candles, he couldn’t see very well, but he’d spent too much time here at this hour not to move around easily. He kept his steps light, fearful of startling Sullivan, and walked the length of the row to slide onto the pew from the farthest side. Sullivan’s head was bent, his hands folded in his lap, and as Rafe edged closer, Sullivan sighed. “I didn’t know where else to go.” His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried like the clearest song. “You could’ve come home.” “It burned down, remember?” “My home.” He was in touching distance now. The rich scent 148

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of sweat and fresh earth permeated the air, like Sullivan had spent the day working as hard as he always did. “You know you’re welcome there.” Sullivan shook his head. “I’m not putting anyone else in danger.” “You wouldn’t. Sheriff arrested the guys who set the fire.” He poked Sullivan in the shoulder, hoping the playful contact would break through the somber mood. “You were the one who took them in, remember? Or did you inhale more of that smoke than you said you did?” Finally, he got a smile, and a slow, careful tilt of Sullivan’s gaze in his direction. “I would’ve inhaled more if that’s what it took to save you.” No mention of Belle. Rafe’s heart started its wild ride again, his skin tight, his ears burning. He dropped his hand down to Sullivan’s and caught his fingers, tugging at his implacable arm. “Come home,” he repeated. “You’re the reason I was out anyway. I went looking for you when you weren’t there after I got off work.” “But…” Sullivan swiped his tongue over his lower lip, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. Rafe’s mouth watered to lean forward and taste it, especially with the musky smells emanating from his skin. “You always come here after you’re done.” “Not tonight.” It hadn’t even occurred to him to attend his nightly vigil. If he hadn’t had the rough scrape of Sullivan’s hand against his own, he might have been a little more worried about that. “Can we light a few now that we’re here?” The soft-spoken query startled Rafe. Sullivan might have joined him before, but he had never expressly requested it. “Will 149

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you come home when we’re done?” “Yes.” This time when Rafe tugged, Sullivan stood without resistance, allowing Rafe to guide him out of the pew and over to the alcove. They knelt in front of the display, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Sullivan rested his hands on his bent knees as Rafe reached for the tinder in the darkness. The first flare sizzled in a brilliant orange, and he set the flame to the centermost candle in the bottom row. It caught and danced wildly for a moment, trapped in an unfelt breeze before settling to a steady burn. Warmth radiated through Rafe, as soothing as it always was, and he was more at peace when he looked at Sullivan, his question poised on his tongue. It stayed there longer than expected. Because Sullivan’s appearance stole his voice. Dirt smudged across his face, and more collected in his eyelashes. It added hollows where there hadn’t been any, and more shadows, like a new, almost sinister mask Sullivan had to wear. His shirt was filthy as well, glued to him by the sweat that had dried to his skin. The hand Rafe had taken was broken and bloody, the back scratched, and even more dirt embedded under his short nails. He hadn’t looked this bad at the fire. Something had happened to him today to create this. “Do you want to do this for anyone in particular?” His tongue was like ash, the words difficult to enunciate. Sheriff had said Sullivan had turned the boys in, but what had he done afterward? Sullivan started to shake his head, then stopped. “Just…the others who weren’t as lucky as I was to get out.” He swallowed, his gaze fixed on the single taper. “Whatever reason I might have had to find you, it’s saved me. Even if nobody wants me here.” 150

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The quiet resolution in his tone wrenched at Rafe’s heart. Holding out the tinder, he waited until Sullivan had taken it before murmuring, “I want you here.” The only indication Sullivan heard him was the slight catch in his breath. Then, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. They prayed in silence. The only difference to their normal routine was Sullivan’s lead, and the length of time he took between lighting each candle. Rafe longed to know more about what happened in the interim of Sullivan’s day, but now was not the time nor place. Sullivan needed this, else he wouldn’t have asked. Rafe had long ago learned that if it was important enough to request, it was more than important enough to have. Time disappeared. Though Sullivan lit fewer candles, his prayers spent with each stretched to minutes upon minutes. Rafe’s knees ached when Sullivan finally lifted his head, and his left foot had completely fallen asleep. More candlelight meant a clearer view of the man beside him. Now that he could see better, Rafe noted the scratches on the back of Sullivan’s hands were mirrored on his palms, thin and ragged in random, mindless patterns. His clothes weren’t torn, either, just dirty from labor. He hadn’t been in a fight like Rafe had originally thought. The tension inside him slowly unfurled. He took Sullivan’s hand as he had before. No protest met his efforts, and they rose in tandem, fingers interlaced, bodies close. Their shadows preceded them to the front door, cast in amber from the flickering candlelight behind them, to be absorbed by the night once they crossed the threshold. When they reached his house, Sullivan listed toward him, exhaustion in every step. Rafe was the one who let them in, the one to guide him blindly to the bathroom. He coaxed him into sitting 151

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on the toilet seat, then set about to lighting the kerosene lamp on the counter. “I don’t have clean clothes,” Sullivan said. “Don’t worry.” He pulled back the shower curtain and plugged the tub. “You don’t need to sleep in anything tonight, and tomorrow, I’ll get you some more.” He expected protest, but Sullivan remained mute as he started the water. Rafe crouched at his feet and took his boots first, easing them down over the broad heels, taking his time with the socks that came next. Sullivan’s feet were as hardened as the rest of him, the heels thick with calluses, the toes slightly crooked from the constant wear. They would never be considered beautiful, or even pretty, but Rafe loved the way they looked, the evidence of this man’s perseverance. Holding the left in his palm, he slowly massaged along the arch, kneading at the softer fleshy bits in firm strokes. Sullivan sighed, then whimpered, his Achilles tendon relaxing to let his foot drop forward. When Rafe glanced up, his eyes were closed, his mouth lax as he let the sensations wash through him. Even dirty, there was something compelling about him. Rafe hid his pleased smile and returned to his work. He stopped the massage to turn off the water, then proceeded to the right foot. The bathroom sweltered from how hot he’d run the tub, but by the time he was done, enough had dissipated to let him know it would be tolerable to get into now. Sullivan pulled his shirt off before Rafe could get to it, then let his hands drop to his side as he stood. Waiting for Rafe. His hands shook a little as he worked at the waistband. Satisfaction burned through him, but he was staggered by more than that. Why Sullivan would turn over his power so trustingly 152

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was beyond him, but he treasured it for the gift it was, whether that was the way Sullivan intended it or not. Somehow, he managed to refrain from turning it into something more sexual than it already was, too. Sullivan’s cock was mostly erect already when it sprang free, thick and heavy against his palm, but Rafe kept his touch gentle, merely running his thumb down its side to steal the low throb of Sullivan’s pulse. Sullivan slipped into the water with a sigh, sinking back until his head rested on the lip. He had to bend his knees to fit, but still managed to appear comfortable. Rafe credited that to the lack of tension in his muscles. Grabbing a clean washcloth, Rafe soaked it before reaching for the soap. “Have you seen Belle since this morning?” Sullivan shook his head without opening his eyes. Rafe waited for more, but when it was obvious it wasn’t coming, let it go. “She said you could move into the house if you wanted to.” “I don’t.” “You’ll have to tell her that. She’s worried about you.” “She worries about everybody.” “No, no, actually, she doesn’t.” Sullivan looked at him at that, unmoving as Rafe swiped the cloth down his arm. “She’s lonely. I think you’d be surprised.” “That’s why she’s worried about you. You’ve been good for her.” Snorting under his breath, Sullivan sank farther into the water. “Until those boys set fire to her garage. Yeah. I’ve been just great for her.” An indisputable fact, no matter how much Rafe hated it. He concentrated on cleaning away the worst of the grime, along his 153

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arms, behind his neck. When he reached the hands, he held each one carefully, rinsing away the dried blood until the cuts were stark against his tan. Nothing could be done about the broken skin but smoothing over the worst of the jagged edges. Rafe took extra care not to make them hurt more than they probably already did. “I’ve been thinking about why you might be here.” Among other things. But Mama’s conversation with Belle before lunch had colored everything that had gone through Rafe’s head for the rest of the day. “Have you come up with anything?” “No.” There was more regret in that single word than in the slump of his shoulders. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. You don’t have all the information you should.” “What do you mean?” Rafe rinsed out the washcloth and sat back. “About me. About primes. About why I know about Strike.” Though Sullivan seemed a little surprised, no recriminations about withholding the information came. He simply regarded Rafe steadily, his eyes suddenly piercing and clear, and waited. “When we left Miami, Mama told everybody we knew she was taking me to Cuba. A better life, she said. Nobody questioned her, but they should have. Because it would’ve been impossible for her to get me out of the country.” “Why? Was she here illegally?” Rafe shook his head. “I would have been flagged. She might have been able to smuggle me out, but that was too risky. It would’ve countered everything she and my father wanted for me.” “Which was…?” “A life. One of my own, anyway.” He took a deep breath. “My father was Strike. Which meant I had to be, too, once I reached majority.” 154

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Nobody in Chadwick knew. Antagonism toward the military had always been prevalent, and trading one dreaded life for another was foolish. No more surprise filtered across Sullivan’s face, though, and a slow understanding intensified his gaze. “Mama’s been warning me against you ever since you arrived,” Rafe continued. “Because in her mind, the only reason someone from Strike would show up would be to drag me back and see me court-martialed for desertion.” Sullivan frowned. “Only primes can be punished if they’re not conscripted. And you said you lived in Miami.” “By special arrangement. My father got dispensation, but that ended when I turned eleven.” “The year you left.” “Yes.” Sullivan fell silent. His gaze wandered, growing distant as he rolled these new facts over in his head. Rafe had no fears they would be used against him, but the need to know what Sullivan thought about them nearly consumed him. “I’m not here to take you back,” Sullivan said, his tone still preoccupied. “I don’t have any way of contacting Strike from here, and even if I did, I’d never do that to you.” “I know.” The distance was too much. Rafe rested his hand on Sullivan’s stomach, the water lapping gently over his fingers. “That’s why I knew I could trust telling you the truth.” “But why else would I be here?” His head swiveled back toward Rafe, the confusion so rampant, Rafe’s heart broke a little. “The only person who knows you’re not in Cuba is your father.” “That’s why I wonder if he’s the one who might have sent you.” It was the only logical choice left, though even that logic seemed more than a little far-fetched. “His name is Renjiro 155

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Hamada. When we left, he was a colonel.” Sullivan considered the name for a moment, then shook his head. “It doesn’t ring a bell. I’m sorry.” Rafe was disappointed, but not surprised. “Do you still have that sheet of paper with my name on it?” “Yeah. I always carry it in my pocket.” Sullivan sat up in the water as Rafe turned to root through his pants. “Why?” “If my father’s behind this, he’s probably the one who gave it to you.” He found it carefully folded in the farthest point of the pocket, as if Sullivan always pushed it as far down as he could to keep safe. Opening it, he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It was silly, but he’d almost thought it would look different now that he had an idea about who might have written it. It was exactly the same, though, if a bit more smudged. His regret must have shown. “What about your mother?” Sullivan said. “Would she recognize his handwriting?” “She’s the only one who would. Would you let me show it to her?” “Of course.” Like there had never been any doubt. “I want answers as much as you do.” Carefully, Rafe refolded the slip of paper and tucked it into his own pocket. “Tomorrow, then. Tonight, you’re going to finally get a good night’s sleep.” Though Sullivan drained the tub, Rafe insisted on toweling him off, pleased when Sullivan stood and let him. He took his time, just like he had in stripping him, just like he had in bathing him. Starting at the top of Sullivan’s shoulders, he rubbed the terry down his back first, catching every droplet that tried to escape. Sullivan’s skin wasn’t quite as perfect here. A scar streaked along his lower back, skipping over the dip of his spine. Another mottled 156

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a shoulder blade, creating a stippled patch paler than the surrounding area. Rafe resisted neither of them, and skimmed his lips over each mark once it was dry. It was folly to think of it as replacing one brand with another, but the thought of Sullivan carrying them around his whole life, with nothing better to replace them, forced Rafe to succumb to the romantic notion. At no time in his entire life had Rafe had the opportunity to savor a man’s body like this, especially one he’d been intimate with. He ran the towel lovingly over the taut swell of his buttocks, and even more so along inside of his thighs. When Sullivan’s heavy balls brushed against the back of Rafe’s hand, he turned his wrist to cup them, rolling them gently between his fingers as Sullivan spread his legs even more. He didn’t go further, though he knew they both wanted it. This didn’t feel like the right time for something so blatantly sexual, not for either of them. And Sullivan didn’t protest when he released the sac, which only confirmed his decision. He pressed to Sullivan’s back as soon as he was dry, wrapping him in a tight embrace, heedless of the fact his front was still damp. “No couch for you,” he said. “I want you with me tonight.” Nodding, Sullivan turned his head, meeting Rafe halfway for a tender, lopsided kiss. “Thank you.” “For what?” “Just…thank you.” Raw gratitude laced each word. Rafe tightened the embrace, knowing if he didn’t, he just might lose it completely. His mélange of emotions were already confusing enough, but some of them were making more and more sense. Like his astonishing need to keep Sullivan as close as possible. Not to keep an eye on him, but out of pure selfishness to possess him. 157

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They might not be certain yet who it was who sent Sullivan to Chadwick, but Rafe knew one thing for sure. He intended to keep him, regardless of who might wish otherwise.

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CHAPTER 13 Sullivan felt a little ashamed for sleeping so well. But having Rafe curled around his back for most of the night, a protective arm around his stomach, his sensual mouth pressed to his neck, created the best possible atmosphere, a sanctuary he’d never had before where it was safe to dream and even safer to hope. When the dawn woke him, he couldn’t remember specifics, but the fleeting images from sleep suffused him with warmth, leaving him both languid and ready to fight whatever the day might bring. Rafe had shifted at some point, rolling over to face the wall. Sullivan didn’t remember doing it, but he’d mirrored the pose, too, as if not touching Rafe was intolerable. Now, he gently eased away, careful not to disturb Rafe’s slow, deep breaths, or jar him into waking before he was ready. They had both had impossible 159

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days yesterday. Rafe needed the rest as badly as Sullivan had. He’d just ignored his own needs in favor of satisfying Sullivan’s first. Though he wouldn’t have minded putting on the dirty clothes again, he settled for substituting his Strike shirt for the one he’d ruined digging out the weeds in the park. Without the uniform pants, it wasn’t quite as offensive to the civilians, he thought. He didn’t relish having to wear it for what he intended to do, but given his choices, it was his best option. Guilt assailed him as he dug around in Rafe’s pants for the slip of paper he’d taken in the bathroom. Rafe had said he’d talk to Maria today about the handwriting, but Sullivan wasn’t willing to allow him to finish what Sullivan had started. If he’d only known about Rafe’s father, he would have gone to Maria that very first day. He had no illusions the people of Chadwick would have treated him any differently if they knew, but it might have altered the course of his time in town. Of course, it might have meant he never would have developed this relationship with Rafe, either. So for that small mercy, at least, he was extremely grateful. Though he had never been there, he knew where Maria lived, just as he’d figured out everything else he knew about Chadwick. By watching. Luther was a frequent visitor, though self-invited rather than summoned. He wasn’t sure why Maria encouraged the older man, but he supposed in a town this small, any kind of positive attention was welcome. His nerves struck as he lifted his hand to knock. Maria’s mixed reactions to him now made a lot more sense, and the truth of the matter was, he had only Rafe’s eleven-year-old viewpoint on how things had ended between the Hamadas. Maybe there’d been a divorce, and Maria left for custody issues. Maybe Renjiro Hamada 160

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had been abusive, and she’d left to keep Rafe safe. His motives might not have been nearly as altruistic as Rafe surmised. But if that was the case, it was even more imperative that Maria know her once-husband was on the lookout for his son. He didn’t know what she would do with the information, but above all else, she deserved the warning. He kept his knock quiet, for fear of disturbing what few neighbors she had. Movement echoed from within, and a few seconds later, the door opened. Maria took one look at him, tightened her mouth, and waved him inside. She was already dressed for the day, her hair pulled back into its utilitarian ponytail. The smell of coffee set his stomach grumbling, and she glanced between him and the kitchen with a frown before making up her mind. “Would you like a cup?” she asked. “Please.” He followed because he didn’t feel comfortable waiting in her living room like a guest to be served. Maria didn’t pay any attention to him as she poured a cup to match the one already sitting on the small kitchen table. She added a dollop of cream without being asked. He would have been pleased by the realization she knew how he liked his coffee if he didn’t know it was only because she’d served him so often at the restaurant. They drank in silence for several minutes. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject, and Maria didn’t seem eager to engage in casual conversation. She hadn’t even asked about the fire, which would have been the most natural topic. So he didn’t bring it up. He chose instead to pull the piece of paper out of his pocket and slide it across the table toward her. She sipped one more time before casually picking it up. She 161

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glanced at it only for a moment before lifting her eyes to him in query, but before Sullivan could respond, sudden interest firmed her features, and her gaze jumped back to the paper to stare at it more intently. His heart leapt. She recognized it. The unspoken accusation leapt between them when she met his eyes again. Sullivan shook his head. “Rafe is the one who thought it might be a possibility,” he said. “I didn’t know before last night.” He realized he hadn’t actually heard her confirmation. Her glare might have been because of someone else, though he sincerely doubted it. “That is his father’s handwriting, right?” Maria dropped the paper to the table, though he saw her fingers tremble as they returned to cup her coffee. “How do you know him?” Her voice was even, too. She would never betray more than she had to, because doing so would reveal weakness. Sullivan respected her even more for that. “I don’t.” “You must.” “I don’t,” he repeated. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I just don’t remember anyone in Strike named Hamada.” “You were in the hospital. You must have seen him then.” “Well, yes, but only because I had Rafe’s name when I walked away. But I don’t know when I got it.” He picked it up and ran his thumb along the soft, worn edge. “I wasn’t in Miami, either. That’s where Rafe said you came from.” “That’s where Rafe and I lived, yes. Rafe’s father spent half of every year going wherever Strike sent him.” While this was more information than he’d had, it still didn’t answer some of his greater questions. “Is that what came between 162

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you?” Her swift and sudden frown turned her mood on a dime. “Did Rafe tell you that?” “No, I just…” He refolded the slip as he measured his words. “The last thing I want is to put Rafe in danger. If there’s some reason I need to protect him from his father—” “No!” Her hand jerked with her vehement denial, coffee spilling over the rim. Maria ignored it to lean closer, a bright fire in her eyes. “Ren is the only reason Rafe is alive right now. What he did, he did for his son. Do you understand?” He didn’t, not completely, because he lacked the details of what had happened. But he believed her passion about it, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she meant what she said. “Yes, ma’am.” She gazed at him, unblinking, assessing for herself the veracity of his simple declaration. When she was appeased, some of her ferocity faded, and she sat back in her chair. “It was Ren’s idea we come behind the borders,” she said. “He’s the one who made all the plans, all the arrangements. He had a knack for it, but then again, he wouldn’t have risen as far as he did in Strike if he couldn’t.” “What did he do for them?” “Tactical research. When we were still together, he was one of the few in-house psychiatrists Strike had. Which was why he was the perfect one to analyze soldier stress and reactions, because Strike refused to let anyone from the outside see just what they were doing to their men.” A psychiatrist. And suddenly, the possibilities made sense. Sullivan had suffered from a head injury, and though he tried not to think about it, he knew his memory wasn’t what it used to be. 163

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Hell, it had never been that great to begin with, not for facts. His strengths rested with physical memories, training his body to do what it had to without overt commands. The explosion had messed with his brain even more. He had the discharge to prove it. “When Ren told me about his fears, I told him he was overthinking it,” she said. “He did that a lot. He was too smart for his own good, sometimes. And he was always too smart for Strike. But he was persistent. He wore me down. Even when I tried to argue that he’d kept Rafe safe so long already with his dispensation.” “Safe from what?” “From Strike, of course.” “But…I don’t understand.” Sighing, Maria finally rose and went to the counter to pick up a towel to clean up her coffee. “Rafe’s prime. Did he tell you that?” “Yes.” “But he probably didn’t tell you how he almost died three times before he was two.” Sullivan’s eyes shot wide. “No. Why? How?” “I had complications during my pregnancy. We almost lost him in the delivery, in spite of how good Strike’s facilities were. Both of us were in the hospital for nearly a month after he was born, me because it had been so difficult, they couldn’t stabilize me, and Rafe because he was born with a congenital heart defect. The first operation seemed to be enough for him, but a few weeks later, he started turning blue and he got re-admitted. Strike’s doctors operated four more times after that.” Even more pieces fell into place. Strike’s screening process was one of the most stringent in the world. Most people failed to meet their requirements. Most, that is, except for primes. Primes 164

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didn’t have choices. They had been created and bred specifically for forming Strike in the first place. If they couldn’t pass Strike’s tests and training, they were eliminated. The logic was, Strike owned the technology that had made their lives possible in the first place. They owned primes, whether primes liked it or not. The public didn’t know that. He’d bet most children of primes didn’t, either. That was a fact shared after you were already in, or if you had a father who feared there’d be a chance you’d fail and told you ahead of time how to cheat the necessary tests. Sullivan had always known his night vision didn’t meet the basic standard, but he’d developed other methods to compensate. A heart defect, especially one treated by Strike doctors, could never be hidden. “How did he make it to eleven if they knew about his heart problem?” “Because Ren got us out of Annapolis.” With the coffee cleaned up, she sagged back in her chair, suddenly without purpose. “Because of his position, he had a lot of contacts in the medical community. From all over the world. He found someone conducting experimental procedures on permanently reversing Rafe’s specific defect. He got his special dispensation approved based on the agreement Rafe would be the study’s primary guinea pig.” “For one prime?” “For the possibility of expanding control to other sectors. Strike’s still a business. They saw Dr. Keyes and his research as something to profit from, and not just because it would mean not losing a prime.” “So what happened?” Maria shrugged. “It didn’t work as well as they hoped. Rafe’s heart definitely improved, but not to the point where it was going 165

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to pass Strike tests. When he turned nine, Ren and I sat down to figure out what our options were. None of them were very good.” Sullivan took several moments to let it all sink in. It explained so much. Maria’s protective nature. Rafe’s preoccupation, deliberate or not, with death. Rafe was strong and healthy, but nowhere near Strike standards. Even if he’d made it into basic, Sullivan didn’t think he would’ve survived long in the field. “Why did Strike let you go?” he asked. She fiddled with the damp towel, picking at loose threads along the hem. “Ren and I decided the only way to keep Rafe completely safe was to get him out of Strike’s reach. That didn’t leave a lot of options. The first thing I thought of was going back to Cuba, since Americans can’t get in without a lot of effort. But then Ren hit on the idea of doublebacking.” Her use of the term wasn’t entirely correct, but Sullivan understood what she was talking about anyway. “Let everybody think you were going to Cuba, when you were really going someplace else.” Maria nodded. “Very few people were going behind the border, and the government wasn’t very interested in it at all, even though they’d opened up routes. It seemed like the perfect place to hide. Ren’s plan was to create false reports of our deaths in Cuba in case Strike managed to get in.” She sighed. “I don’t know if he managed that or not.” Sullivan didn’t know, either, but he had the sinking feeling something had gone wrong. The only reason he could fathom a man like Renjiro Hamada sending a Strike soldier after his son would be to continue what he had started. Protect him. He supposed there was a possibility Maria was lying about all 166

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of this, but she wore her melancholy like a cloak, especially when she talked about her husband. It explained why a woman like her had never remarried, either, even when there were obvious suitors in town. In her heart, she still was, and few men would ever live up to the ideal her husband had managed to attain through his selfless actions. “I have no interest in hurting Rafe,” he said. “You have to believe me.” Her sad brown eyes regarded him for more beats of his heart than he liked. The corner of her mouth finally tipped upward, though it failed to banish the shadows in her face. “I do. And I know why he’s so fascinated by you. You’re what he could have been if life had turned out a little bit differently. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy for me to forget about everything we did to keep Rafe alive. Especially since you don’t know why you’re here. Not really.” “But if your husband sent me, it can’t be bad, can it?” “But why now? Why, after all these years? And no offense, Sullivan, but why would he give the order to a man who can’t even remember getting it? If you’re supposed to convey some kind of message, you’ve failed. And if you’re supposed to do something else, well…” She didn’t have to finish the sentence. They both understood his limitations. He had hoped that knowing the truth about who sent him would make his existence here easier, but in reality, it did the opposite. Because now he recognized just how ineffective he was. Protecting Rafe wasn’t hard, but it would be a lot easier if he knew what exactly he was protecting him from. Picking up the piece of paper, Sullivan slipped it back into his pocket and stood. “Rafe will always be safe with me,” he said, 167

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hoping that if he said it often enough, it would weave its spell wide enough to make it true, no matter what. “I’d die for him, ma’am. Without even blinking.” Her eyes widened for a moment in surprise at the vehemence in his voice. “I honestly hope it never comes to that.” With a small smile and a tip of his head, he left her sitting there. He needed to get back to Rafe. The house was still quiet when he returned. He went straight to the bedroom, and stood on the threshold, watching the form on the bed. The blanket had fallen away from Rafe’s upper body, and with Rafe laying mostly on his stomach, reaching for the other pillow like he needed to be reassured of its presence, the sinuous muscles in his back now showed echoes of the soldier he should have been. They sculpted a body any man would have been proud of, regardless of official sanction. They drew Sullivan now, closer and closer, when he knew he should let Rafe rest. Resting a knee carefully on the edge of the bed, he leaned forward as slowly as he could, drawn to the perfect skin, unwilling to disturb Rafe unnecessarily. His lips touched the hollow between his shoulder blades first, a dip of collected salt and soap that had his heart skipping a few beats from the first taste. His mouth trembled. He had sworn to Maria he’d protect Rafe at all costs, and it was true. He didn’t even care if the core reasons rested in some unknown message the senior Hamada had left in his psyche. Finding Rafe might have stemmed from duty. Staying with Rafe came from something else. Loving him. He squeezed his eyes shut as the realization took hold. He had never loved anyone before. He couldn’t even remember having crushes. Not that he would have been censured for being attracted 168

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to men, not even by Strike. If he ever wanted a family, they would just find a surrogate to mother his children. No, his failure to connect with anyone had been based on purely superficial and selfish reasons. There was always training, and missions, and life and death, and love was a luxury better suited for someone not about to die. Love was for people who could trust in their future, not for a soldier who had always known he had better odds getting shot to the moon than returning to a normal existence. Love wasn’t supposed to be found behind the borders, in the shape of a man whose physical heart might have failed him, but whose metaphorical one embraced everyone, including the stranger who should have terrified him. Rafe stirred. Muscles shifted like quicksilver beneath Sullivan’s mouth, tensing then relaxing as he kissed upward to his shoulder. He felt his own breath reflected back at him, adding to that swelter of heat that came from a good night’s sleep. He dropped one more kiss at the curve of Rafe’s neck, then eased back, sliding off the bed before he woke Rafe for real. “Where’re you going?” The sleepy murmur came with a slight twist of his upper body, his eyes blinking open to gaze at Sullivan over his shoulder. A smile curved his pouting lips, everything about him soft and inviting. “I should head out to Belle’s and apologize for disappearing on her.” He smoothed a hand along Rafe’s skin, stealing the intimacy of it while he could. “Go back to sleep.” Rafe caught his wrist before he had the chance to pull away. “Only if you stay.” “Rafe…” His response was a tug that pulled Sullivan off balance, though he caught himself on his knuckles to keep from tumbling onto 169

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Rafe. “We’ll go together later. We have to see Mama anyway.” Now was the window he needed to tell of his morning visit, but Sullivan didn’t want her or the topic of Rafe’s past in bed with them. Rafe’s grip was loose but firm. He would have to use strength to get away from it. Considering he didn’t really want to go, easing onto the bed the rest of the way was his best—and actually only—option. Rafe pulled Sullivan’s arm around his waist, burrowing back against him. “How long have you been up?” “A little while.” He kissed the back of Rafe’s neck, the hair tickling his nose. “I’m here now. Go to sleep.” “I do that, and you’ll disappear again.” “I won’t. I promise.” Promises seemed to come easy this morning, though he knew he meant them from the bottom of his heart. “You’re not going to accept Belle’s offer, are you?” “To move into the house? No. I can’t do it, no matter how safe she thinks it is.” “But you’ll stay here, right?” Rafe’s fingers dug in, holding on like he feared Sullivan would leave right then. He might have said no last night, when he’d been mindlessly wandering away from the park, confused and exhausted and more than a little depressed about his prospects. He might even have said no in the church, though he recognized after the fact that he’d gone there in hopes Rafe would show up. But refusals became impossible after Rafe brought him back to the house, especially after he’d taken the care to tend to Sullivan in the bathroom. In light of his conversation with Maria, and the understanding of his own emotions, he couldn’t even conceive saying anything but, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” 170

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CHAPTER 14 As soon as Sullivan left for Belle’s, Rafe headed to his mother’s house. “So it’s true?” he said without waiting for a greeting. He pushed past her in the doorway, marching to the center of the room. “Dad really sent him?” She looked tired, unsmiling and worn. He imagined Sullivan’s visit, the one he’d finally confessed to when they’d risen for a real breakfast, had been the primary contributing factor. “We have no way of proving that.” He stared at her, wondering if Sullivan had misrepresented their conversation. “We have his handwriting.” “That doesn’t prove he gave it to Sullivan. Anybody could have. For that matter, Sullivan could have stolen it.” 171

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“That’s ridiculous. Sullivan wouldn’t even steal clothes to replace his uniform. He’s not that kind of man.” She shook off his disbelief and brushed past him for the kitchen. “My point is, there’s no way for us to be sure of anything. Don’t go jumping to conclusions just because you like them, Rafe. That’s the easiest way to get yourself hurt.” He trailed after her, feeling like a kid again, eager to get her attention. “And you’re deliberately choosing to ignore what’s right in front of your face, Mama. You’re so scared of what might happen, you won’t see what is.” Cleaning supplies littered the kitchen table, the contents of the cupboards spread out on the counters. She’d been in a manic cleaning mood when he’d knocked. She got like that when she was upset or trying to think things through. If this wasn’t about Sullivan, he would be more sensitive to her feelings, but on this, she was refusing to accept what seemed so obvious, all because of her fears. He wouldn’t let her do that to Sullivan, not after everything he had already done for Rafe. She picked up a wet rag she’d left on the counter and dunked it in a bowl of soapy water. Suds splashed over the rim, and she shook her head in frustration as she wiped them away. “I don’t think Sullivan actually did anything wrong,” she said. “I just don’t want you to forget who he is. What he’s capable of.” “How could I?” he said bitterly. “You remind me every time he comes up in conversation.” “Because you’re not listening to me!” Rafe jerked back when she threw her cleaning cloth at the sink, the sodden fabric splatting loudly against the bowl. Maria followed that up with the sudden toss of her water down the drain, too, every movement frenzied, every moment frantic. He’d never seen her 172

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like this before. This combination of fury and fear was the opposite of her usual demeanor. Usually, she was the epitome of calm and grace, even when she was firm in her discipline or annoyed with problems. Nothing got her riled up. Nothing, that is, but the topic of Strike. Maria whirled around to face him. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, holding him still. The tremors in her fingers vibrated through his shirt, which scared him more than a little. She, however, seemed oblivious. “People are afraid of Strike for reasons,” she said. “Do you really think I would have risked your health by bringing you behind the borders if I didn’t think it was worse on the other side?” “My health is fine.” “Because we’ve been lucky.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders painfully, but he was too frozen to break away. “The doctors said—” “Dr. Keyes said what we asked him to say. But you need to know the truth now, whether I like it or not.” Dread settled in his stomach, a stony, sickening weight. “What truth?” “That your heart was never going to be strong enough for Strike. And they would have killed you if we hadn’t run away.” “You said Strike paid for all my operations when I was a baby.” “They did. Because you’re an investment for them. They’re a business, first and foremost. They don’t care about the people. They care about their bottom line.” She shook him a little, desperation in her dark eyes. “Don’t you see? Sullivan’s a soldier. He chose that life. He’s not going to turn his back on it, just because he happens to be a decent man.” 173

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“He didn’t choose it, Mama. He’s prime, too. He didn’t have to walk away when he was discharged from active duty. He could’ve gone onto training, or recruiting, or any number of desk jobs. He walked away because Dad asked him to. For me.” “Did he tell you that?” “He doesn’t have to.” With a frustrated sigh, she let him go and sank into one of the chairs. “I’m not going to change your mind on this, am I?” Rafe pulled up the other chair as close as he could get and took her hands. He didn’t want this to be a fight about who won and who lost, though he knew that’s how she saw it. “What do you want me to do?” he asked softly. “You want me to forget his friendship? You want me to forget how he saved me and Belle?” He took a deep breath. “You want me to forget how he makes me feel?” She had been stalwart throughout his questions, but when the last fell from his lips, she crumpled. “Oh, Rafe.” Her hands cupped his face, her eyes searching his, already shiny from unshed tears. “You deserve so much more than I can ever give you. More than you can find here.” He caught her wrists and held her still, leaning into her touch like he had when he was a child. “I’m alive because of you. Everything I am is because of you. Don’t think I don’t know that.” He smiled. “If I care so much, that’s because of you, too.” She snorted and shook her head. When she pulled away this time, he let her go. “You’ve always been too trusting,” she said. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.” “Always.” With Sullivan, though, it wasn’t necessary. But Mama would 174

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never believe him. *

*

*

Belle sat on her front porch as Sullivan approached, but as soon as she saw him, she rose and walked down the path. Her cane clicked against the concrete with each step, and in her other hand were the four flowers he normally took out to the cemetery for her. “Come on,” she said as she passed him. “I don’t have all day to do this.” He fell in beside her. Though he would have carried the flowers for her, he knew from experience she would refuse him. “Do you have plans for later?” “The Harmons are coming over for dinner tonight.” The skull tattoo on her wrist shifted with each move of her cane, alternately grimacing and smiling, depending on how he viewed it. “Sam’s taken to hovering again. Damn fire set me back ten years.” “I’m sorry.” On her next step, she jabbed her cane into his toe. “Stop it. You’re not the problem. Those idiot boys are.” She scowled up at him. “Though not moving back is annoying. If you were there, Sam would leave me alone.” “You know I can’t.” “You could. But I’m not so old to think I can compete with a cute young thing like Rafe Hamada.” His cheeks flushed, and his eyes darted away to look at anything but her knowing gaze. “I figured out who sent me to find him,” he said, hoping the change in subject wasn’t quite as obvious as it felt. “His father.” Belle was silent for several yards. “That makes sense.” 175

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He wasn’t surprised by her seeming knowledge of the Hamada family. She’d hinted more than once that she knew more than was obvious. “You think so? Maria didn’t.” “Maria’s too close to it.” “I think she’s afraid for Rafe.” “Well, yeah, that goes without saying.” Belle glanced up at him with a frown. “Did you give her any reason to doubt you?” “No, no, I told her I’d protect Rafe no matter what.” He sighed. He’d thought of little else but what he had to do to accomplish that all morning. “It would be nice to know from what, though.” “You probably do.” “I don’t remember. I told both Rafe and Maria that.” “Doesn’t matter. The pieces are all there. It’s just a matter of putting them together.” Her cryptic response confused him more than anything else. Their conversation lapsed as each retreated into their thoughts, Belle’s to wherever she went when they visited the cemetery, his to the swirling questions that plagued his every waking moment. He wasn’t suited to intelligence missions. He never had been. His strengths had been in following his instincts, and using brute force, because his body was the only thing that had never failed him. Except when it had, and he’d had no other option but to abandon the front. If Renjiro Hamada had been a physician at any of the hospitals Sullivan had stayed at, he would have had access to Sullivan’s records and status reports. He would have known he was the least likely choice to succeed at whatever he wanted for Rafe. Unless protection was exactly why Hamada Senior specifically recruited Sullivan. It was the only answer that fit with Maria’s claims about her 176

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husband. Sullivan had no problem accepting it—he would have wanted to protect Rafe, even if they’d met under different circumstances—but it bothered him he didn’t know where the danger might come from. From someone in Chadwick? That seemed implausible. Obviously, Hamada had known where his son was, since he’d managed to aim Sullivan in the right direction, but knowing anything specific about the people within its borders would have been unattainable. They didn’t trust Sullivan. How would they ever trust a Strike soldier they’d never even seen? Surveillance would have to come from orbit, but without ground support, he didn’t think the technology was advanced enough to give more than the broadest information. If they even bothered aiming their expensive satellites in Chadwick’s direction. A threat from outside Chadwick, then? That could be anything, or anyone, or anywhere. How could he do his job without knowing more? Why wouldn’t Hamada entrust him with even a few more details to ensure the mission’s success? He was still mulling over the possibilities when they reached the cemetery edge. Belle led the way to the familiar headstones, though her pace was slower now than when they’d set out. Her cane kicked up dust as they went, turning the hems of her faded pants even more ashen. They’d be completely coated by the time they got back to the house. She stopped at her husband’s first, resting the flower atop the low, gray stone. “Hey there, Harv,” she said softly. Her fingers traced along the curve, as thin and fragile as the flower’s stem. “I made it today.” Though Belle didn’t always come to the cemetery, she always ended up speaking to Harv when she did. None of the others. Just Harv. Sullivan gave her privacy, but now, as he started to edge 177

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back, she looked away from the headstone and frowned at him. “No. Stay. It’s about time you two met.” Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Sullivan stepped closer, and then closer again when she waved him forward. He shuffled awkwardly in place, but he wouldn’t consider telling her no. This wasn’t that different than sharing prayers with Rafe at church, if he thought about it. Belle just did her communications out loud. “Harv, this is Sullivan Eberle, the young man who’s been helping me out around the house. Sullivan, this is Harv. The best man you ever could have hoped to meet.” When she paused, he realized she expected him to respond. “It’s good to meet you, sir.” Belle chortled and slapped him on the arm. “Call him sir, and he would’ve flattened you,” she said. “First names. I insist.” His mouth twitched. Harv Barkey had probably been the perfect mate for a woman like Belle. “Harv, it is.” “Why don’t you two have a little chat while I take care of these other flowers? Get to know each other.” Sullivan opened his mouth to protest—that was taking things a little too far, even for her—but Belle was already making her way down the row to the other three headstones. His gaze swung from her to the flower marking Harv’s, then downward to the man’s name etched in the stone. He cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure what to say. “Belle hasn’t told me much about you,” he started. “And I don’t pry. It’s not my business. Except, I guess now it is.” The wind caught the flower petals, rustling them against the marker. Sullivan reached and pushed it farther back, centering it better so it wouldn’t blow off. “She’s an amazing woman, but I guess you know that. I don’t 178

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think I’ve ever met anyone like her before. I haven’t been in town very long, you know. But Belle’s one of the few people who never cared about what I did before.” Neither had Rafe, after their initial meeting. They saw the man, not the uniform. “I’m not staying at the house anymore. Belle will probably whitewash it when she tells you, but people don’t like having me around. They think I’m a threat, but I’m not. I was just doing my job.” A job that meant killing people. Nameless faces on an enemy he had never understood. Truth be told, an enemy he’d never tried understanding, because asking questions wasn’t permitted. Now, he could ask all the questions he wanted to, but nobody around town had the answers. Those were on the other side of the borders, with a man who should’ve given him more than a name if he wanted the job done right. “I intend to keep on helping Belle, though, so don’t worry about that. But if you’ve got any advice for me, I’m more than happy to take it. You’re the expert, and I just want to see her happy.” “I am happy.” Belle appeared at his elbow as if she’d never left. “What kind of nonsense are you putting into his head?” “Nothing, I…” He stopped, flustered by the unexpected interruption and the jolt back to reality. His brain had to stop and start again to remember he hadn’t actually had a conversation with her husband. “But you must miss him.” “Of course, I do. Every day.” She leaned heavily against her cane, gazing down at the headstone. “You remember the ones who leave you. Always. But the important part is not to forget you didn’t go, too.” 179

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The words were so similar to what Rafe had said to him that first night in the church, a shiver ran down Sullivan’s spine. Living with ghosts was part of a soldier’s job, though the best ones he knew never gave the dead a second thought. Sullivan hadn’t much, either, until he’d almost become one of them. Sharing Rafe’s ritual had helped him come to peace with his actions, but it wasn’t until now, seeing how vehement Belle was about going on, did he understand what it would mean. The sudden urge to get back to town and find Rafe consumed him. He needed to tell him exactly what he’d told Maria, not just the fact that he thought it was his father who’d sent him. So much to be said, so little time to do it. Because that was the other thing he’d figured out. Rafe was his second chance. He wasn’t going to waste it. He tried not to fidget as Belle said her goodbyes. She seemed to be taking her time with it today, and by the time she kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the headstone, he was ready to sweep her into his arms and carry her back to town. “You’re going to stay for lunch, aren’t you?” she said as she finally turned away. His stomach plummeted. He wanted to lie and say he had to get to the restaurant, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “I hadn’t thought about it.” “I’d like that. I could use the company today.” “You were complaining about the Harmons coming over earlier.” “That’s different. You don’t make me feel like an old woman.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tease her that she was both old and a woman, when a dog barked in the distance. They both turned toward the sound at the same time, both with a frown. Few people 180

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owned dogs in Chadwick. The only one he’d seen more than once was Leviticus. And considering the barking came from the road, the odds of Luther and Joe being with it grew exponentially. “Damn it,” Belle muttered. “I am not in the mood to deal with that idiot today.” Neither was Sullivan. Luther would follow him all the way to the restaurant if he caught up with them. “Then we better hurry it up.” Except telling an eighty-six year-old woman with a cane to move it double-time bordered on ridiculous, even if that woman was Belle Barkey. They had only reached the edge of the cemetery when Luther and Joe’s shouts joined with Leviticus’s barks. A third man Sullivan didn’t recognize followed them. “Hang on there!” The anxiety in Luther’s voice was sharp enough to draw Sullivan to a halt again, though Belle kept walking for several feet before succumbing to it as well. When he saw they’d actually stopped this time, Luther began to jog the rest of the way, his awkward gait resembling a broken scarecrow more than any man. “What’s gotten into you?” Belle scolded when he was within earshot. “Soldiers,” Luther panted. His eyes honed in on Sullivan, narrowed and accusatory. “Strike. Heading this way.”

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CHAPTER 15 “There’s two of ’em, and they’re moving slow, but there’s no mistake. They’re aimed straight for us.” As far as Sullivan was concerned, Luther was milking this for all it was worth. He sat at the restaurant counter, a steaming cup of coffee cradled in his hands, with Maria, Rafe, Joe, Belle, and Sheriff McNamara surrounding him. The man Sullivan hadn’t recognized with the pair on the road turned out to be someone from the next town over, a messenger sent along to spread the word and warn other communities what was to come. He hadn’t stuck around once he’d confirmed everything Luther babbled on the road, and took off east. He still had more people to talk to, he said. The important thing was to get them on alert. Sullivan sat farthest away, by choice if not by design. Luther 182

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hadn’t stopped glaring at him, and Joe wasn’t exactly shy about letting him know he thought Sullivan was the one to blame for this new development. It didn’t matter that he’d protested ignorance at the first mention of Strike. Association was all they needed. “If there’s only two of them, they can’t be a threat, right?” Rafe posed the question from behind the counter, where Maria had kept him even after he and Sullivan had locked gazes. Her arm was still coiled protectively around his waist, and for now, he didn’t seem ready to push her off. “Except first there was only one,” Luther said. “Now there’s two more. Next thing we know, we’ll be crawling with them.” “Sullivan isn’t a part of this,” Belle snapped. “Don’t you dare count him in.” Luther seemed unperturbed by the outburst. “He’s Strike, isn’t he? And we never had any contact with them before he showed up. He’s probably been planning something all along.” “And when exactly was he supposed to do that, Luther?” The surprising defense came from Maria, though she never looked in Sullivan’s direction. “All that boy does is work. He’s never even left town.” “He does those graveyard runs with Belle,” Joe piped up. “And then he comes right back to the house.” Belle slapped her hand against the counter, hard enough to rattle her coffee cup. “Stop trying to confuse the issue, you two. Sullivan’s not the problem. These other fellas are.” “What exactly are they doing?” Sheriff asked. “Are they armed?” “They’ve got a brown truck full of stuff nobody has seen. There’s no telling what they got, but it’s not like any truck anyone’s ever seen before. Asher said it hums.” 183

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“It’s probably an STV.” Sullivan spoke automatically, then wished he hadn’t when all eyes turned to him again. “A surface transport vehicle. They’re not weaponized. The hum is from the navigational sensors. They coordinate with satellites for mapping.” Sheriff frowned. “They’re drawing maps of us?” “Probably not. They don’t need STVs for that.” “What do you think they’re doing?” Rafe asked quietly. Sullivan shook his head. “I honestly don’t have any idea. I never heard of anyone who got deployed mainland. Strike’s purpose is peace, and nobody’s at war here.” Sheriff mulled over his words with a shrewd narrowing of his eyes, then turned back to Luther. “Are they interacting with anyone? Or are they keeping to themselves?” “Interacting,” Luther proclaimed with a smug smile. “They start with who’s in charge and work their way from there.” “But doing what?” Belle shook her head. “People can’t be getting killed. We would’ve heard about it before now.” “As far as Asher says, nobody’s been hurt. So far.” The ominous tone of his clarification silenced the rest of the questions, though Sullivan knew that didn’t stop anyone from thinking them. His certainly raged on, surprisingly angry at being forced into this position by veritable strangers. This was his home, damn it, even if some residents of Chadwick were still adjusting to the idea. Now, everything he’d managed to achieve was being torn apart. Guilt by association. Belle and Rafe wouldn’t be able to protect him when they were the only two willing to stand by him. “We need to find out what they want.” The sound of his voice surprised him. He hadn’t realized just how furious he was until the ideas in his head started taking shape. “The best defense is a strong offense.” 184

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Luther glared at him. “That’s Strike talk.” “And this is Strike we’re dealing with,” he replied. A strength formed with each word, growing in power until he felt ten feet tall. “We have an asset those other towns don’t have. It’s up to us to use it.” “And what asset is that?” Maria said carefully. Sullivan glanced at Rafe only briefly before squaring off with the others. “Me.” “Told you!” Luther jabbed a finger at Sullivan, his eyes flashing. “One of them, that’s what you are. I should have sicced Leviticus on you the second we found you.” “Now, hold on.” Sheriff grabbed Luther’s hand and pulled it down. “What is it you have in mind?” Relief replaced the sharp burst of alarm Luther’s angered response had evoked. Sheriff McNamara was a reasonable man. He’d proven that when Sullivan had turned over the arsonists. “I speak their language,” Sullivan said. “They’re more likely to talk to me than they are to civilians. I still have my uniform, too. I can go meet up with them and find out exactly what it is they’re doing.” “He’s going to sell us out,” Joe accused. Rafe finally broke free of Maria’s arm and leaned over the counter, bracing his palms as he got in Joe’s face. “What does Sullivan have to do to get through to you people?” he growled. “He left Strike behind. He’s putting his life on the line to get the information we want. He is not our enemy here.” “It’s a smart idea,” Belle said. “But if people are going to be stupid about it, we just send someone with him you will trust.” Rafe straightened. “I’ll go.” “No.” 185

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Sullivan said it first, though Maria’s refusal came almost on top of it. When Rafe turned hurt eyes toward him, Sullivan shook his head. “You already trust me,” he explained. He wasn’t going to tell Rafe the truth about why he needed to keep him away from Strike, not in front of everyone, but he had to offer some kind of valid reason for being so adamant. “If I’m not doing this alone, whoever comes with me needs to be someone the entire town will believe. Somebody impartial.” “I’ll do it,” Luther announced. Belle snorted. “The last thing you are is impartial.” “Nobody needs to go with him,” Sheriff said. “If he doesn’t come back, then we have our answers.” “I’ll come back.” Sullivan kept his gaze and voice firm. He refused to give them any room for doubt. “When?” Luther grumbled. “When the rest of Strike comes rolling in?” “It’ll take him a few days to get out there,” Joe added. “Asher said he left them behind last week to start spreading the word.” “Only if he’s on foot.” Belle picked up her cane and eased off the stool. “Sam’s keeping my bike until the garage gets rebuilt. I’m sure he’ll be glad to get his space back when I tell him Sullivan’s taking it out.” “Belle—” She cut him off with a stern stare. “Unless you tell me you can’t ride it, it’s the fastest way for you to move. And we can scrounge up enough fuel for one little road trip. So you better press that uniform of yours until you get paper cuts on the pleats. I’m not changing my mind.” She wouldn’t, either. Sullivan nodded in gratitude. He wouldn’t 186

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even entertain the notion of letting these people down. He owed it to those who gave them their trust. Just like he owed it to Rafe to do everything in his power to keep him as far from Strike as he could. *

*

*

Luther’s wagging tongue spread the word faster than the fire had moved, giving Sullivan no choice but to prepare to leave at the Harmon house. Mrs. Harmon took his clothes away when he asked for an iron, then shooed him out of the house to help Sam and the boys get the bike ready. Less than an hour later, Sullivan was dressed and listening to Belle run through her checklist one final time. “I’d give you Harv’s old gloves, but you’d split the seams just trying to get them on,” Belle said. Sullivan pulled a pair out of his pocket. “I still have my Strike set. I’ll be fine.” “His helmet will be too small for you, too. I don’t suppose you have one of those in your pants.” When he laughed, she patted him on the arm and stepped away from the curb. “Just don’t crash. You won’t have to worry about splitting your head open, then.” With a nod, he settled on the bike, the hard leather seat oddly comfortable. His pulse raced, but he kept his countenance blank. The last thing he wanted was for Belle to see how nervous he was. “Sullivan! Wait!” Rafe ran toward them, his face flushed, his pacing uneven and a little clumsy. When he threw himself at Sullivan, Sullivan twisted in time to catch him close against his chest. The embrace was hot and sweaty, Rafe’s ragged breathing like a furnace in his 187

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ear. He had no time to react this time, before Rafe cupped the back of his head and took his mouth in a frantic kiss. “I know why you won’t let me go with you.” Rafe pitched his voice for only their ears. “And as infuriating as it is, I love that you want to protect me like that.” His arms tightened. “Always.” His own voice was hoarse with emotion, his eyes burning unexpectedly. “But just remember, you can’t protect me if you’re not here.” He rested his forehead against Sullivan’s and closed his eyes. “So you better get your ass home as soon as possible, or I’m coming out to drag it back, got it?” He smiled. “Got it.” One more kiss, softer this time, lingering like a heartfelt apology between them. Then, Rafe pulled back, and Sullivan let him, and the space Rafe had only just occupied threatened to smother him into staying. He had to look away to find the wherewithal to start the bike. It roared to life, protesting months of disuse, and he gunned the motor until it settled into a caged beast beneath him. Rafe waved as he pulled away. Sullivan didn’t trust letting go of the handlebars to return it, but hopefully, Rafe saw his answering smile. The day was the kind of bright that hurt the eyes, especially with the countryside zipping by faster than he’d experienced in months. He hadn’t even had a window seat on the flight from London. The sense of vertigo had exacerbated the headaches that had plagued him for weeks after the bombing. The sun stabbed into his eyeballs, but keeping his head tilted low and fixed on the road in front of him mitigated a lot of his discomfort. At last report, the Strike soldiers had been in a nearby town 188

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called Nasana. Forty miles away, smaller than Chadwick by more than half. According to Belle, it had been formed by displaced Potawatomi, named specifically as a warning to other Native Americans being moved about by the American government. Be careful. He thought it eerily appropriate now. The more miles he traveled, the freer he felt. Journeying to Chadwick hadn’t been like this, not traveling by the dead of night, not skulking about in ditches trying to avoid being seen. This was out in the open, with the sun crisping the back of his neck. So much power within his grasp, raw and ready to be torn away at the smallest mistake. He’d handled any number of weapons in training, in the field, but this was different, better. Older technology was unpredictable. Dangerous. The unknown could be as thrilling as the comfortable. Much like his relationship with Rafe. Nasana appeared in the distance all too soon, a jagged scar across the flat horizon. He slowed down as he approached, unsure of where he’d find the Strike STV. It all depended on their purpose. A central location was perfect for any number of goals, but parking on the edge of town afforded a quick getaway. It was also less threatening to residents, so if their mission was peaceful in nature, that seemed like the best—and most optimistic—place to start. The roar of the motorcycle drew people from low, one-story homes, coming out on their front steps to see him zip past. One little boy waved, but the mother standing directly behind him grabbed his arm and forced him back into the house. Sullivan blamed the uniform. Which didn’t bode well for the other soldiers in town. 189

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The STV wasn’t on the edge of Nasana, but rather parked on a deserted side street near the main road out. Though thousands of abandoned vehicles dotted the world behind the borders, Sullivan had slowly become accustomed to their presence as he’d traveled. They were just more evidence of a world destroyed by both the biological warfare and the government who’d left it behind. On the other hand, the STV, with its modern lines, its fresh shininess in the sun, the sleek electronics implanted along the front and sides, was an eyesore amongst the devastation. Bile rose in the back of Sullivan’s throat at the sight of it. He’d ridden in countless versions of the machine, driven more than a few, but he’d never hated it as much as he did right now. It didn’t belong here, not when it wasn’t wanted. He’d do everything he could to make sure it didn’t stick around. The rear door opened when he pulled up on the other side of the street. One soldier emerged, a solidly built corporal whose sunburned scalp meant he must not have seen much active duty to toughen up his skin. Sullivan took a little bit of hope from that. This wasn’t a search and destroy. The corporal started to speak as Sullivan approached, but the moment he saw the sergeant stripes, he snapped to attention. Sullivan saluted him back, then came to a halt directly in front of him, pulling up as straight and broad as he could manage. “What’s going on here?” he barked coldly. Another attempt at speaking was preempted by the second soldier coming out of the STV. He took one look at Sullivan and straightened, though he seemed less intimidated than his cohort. “I’m sorry, sir, we weren’t informed of anybody joining us,” the second corporal said. Sullivan didn’t flinch. His eyes narrowed as they scanned the 190

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two name badges on the soldiers’ breast pockets. The first one was Rutledge, and the second, warier one was Escobedo. Though they shared the same rank, he knew without a doubt the latter was in charge. “I’m not. Word reached me you were here.” They glanced at each other. “And where were you, sir?” “Nearby. You’re not exactly being subtle.” Escobedo glanced past Sullivan at the parked motorcycle. Though he didn’t say a word about it, his uncertainty flashed across his face, especially as his attention shifted to Sullivan’s nonStrike hair. “Can you come with me, sir?” Escobedo stepped aside, gesturing toward the open rear of the STV. “I’d like to scan you.” Sullivan nodded. If these had been his men, they wouldn’t have waited so long to confirm his identity. Rutledge had been distracted by the uniform and sergeant stripes long enough for Sullivan to take advantage of it, if he’d so wanted. Further proof they were very, very green. Cool air filled the rear of the STV, tinged by the faintly medicinal smell of temperature controls. One wall was lined with computers and communication equipment, while a foldaway bunk took up the other one. They were living in the vehicle, rather than commandeering a local residence. Orders, most likely, though they probably didn’t want to trade their mild comforts for more space. Escobedo gestured toward the print pad on the console. Resting his hand flat on it, Sullivan stared at the corporal while he conducted the scan, not deigning to even glance at the screen. That would show weakness. He wasn’t as nervous as he’d been on the way over, but he knew he still couldn’t allow them to get the upper hand any more than they already had. 191

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The console beeped. Escobedo looked at it and immediately stiffened. When his gaze snapped back to Sullivan, all deference had returned. “My apologies, sir. We weren’t aware anyone had been stationed behind the borders yet.” It wasn’t just the yet that sent a frisson of fear down his spine. It was the implication that Sullivan had specifically been assigned here. “And what exactly is it you’re supposed to be doing?” he asked. “You’ve scared the locals shitless.” “The new census.” Escobedo picked up a nearby tablet and held it out. “We’re the Kansas contingent. We’ve been tasked to scan and count everyone.” Though he suspected he already knew the answer, he posed his query anyway. “Why?” “So they’re ready to be reincorporated once the borders come down.” Escobedo frowned. “Isn’t that why you’re here?” Sullivan focused on the tablet, tapping out some basic commands to look through its files. “No.” The console beeped again, tabling further questions as Escobedo checked it out. It was enough time to confirm his story, though. The tablet’s primary contents were databases of everyone they had encountered in the three weeks they’d been on assignment. Name, age, gender, status…each entry unfolded into another database in the tree, detailing cellular markers and health histories. They were taking blood samples from people. Though the STV lacked the equipment for intense examination, the basic material was there, ready to be tested by a Strike facility back on the perimeter. Sooner or later, everybody would be discovered. 192

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Including Rafe. “Sir?” Sullivan flipped through a few more pages before acknowledging the corporal. “What?” “That was a request for a vidcon.” “Oh. Right.” He was reluctant to give up the tablet, but at least he had what he’d come for now. What Chadwick was going to do about it, though, remained to be seen. “Thank you, Corporal. I’ll get out of your way.” Escobedo stepped away from the console and the proffered tablet. “The request is for you, sir.” His earlier fear came back with a vengeance, paralyzing him from doing anything more than meeting Escobedo’s eyes. “From who?” “Brigadier General Hamada.” He edged around Sullivan, but his constant glances at the screen gave away his nerves. “I’ll give you privacy. If you need anything, just let me know.” The door rang shut behind him, locking Sullivan in. His gaze swung around to the screen, and the flashing symbol for an incoming call. Hamada. Rafe’s father. The answers he wanted—the real ones—were just a click away. Somehow, he sat down. Somehow, he pressed the button to accept the request. Somehow, he remembered to breathe. The picture flashed from black to the sharp beige and brown of a Strike office, an unsmiling man filling the image. His narrow features were too familiar, an older, more angular version of Rafe’s. The bald scalp seemed wrong, though. He should have had Rafe’s luxurious black hair, maybe graying at the temples. 193

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“Did the corporal with you leave?” Sullivan’s eyes flickered to the shut door. “Yes, sir.” “Good. We’re on a secure channel, so you can speak freely.” Hamada smiled, then, and it transformed his face. “It’s good to see you again, Sullivan.” In all his years in Strike, nobody in a uniform had ever called him by his first name. Even his friends on the front had referred to him as Eberle. First names were too personal. When you addressed someone by their first name, it was a lot harder not to mourn when they were gone. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t remember us meeting.” Hamada’s smile faded, though a ghost of it remained. “None of it?” When Sullivan shook his head, he sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I counted on your memory being patchy, but I guess I hoped…” He shook his head. “Well, it’s too late to worry about it. We’ll just have to move forward from here. Starting with getting you on the right road.” That implied he was on the wrong one. He took a risk and asked, “Other than the one to Chadwick?” “You remember that?” “That’s where I was when I heard Strike was here in Nasana.” The look on Hamada’s face changed. Gone was the sad resignation, replaced with a new hope. “And?” “I found him, sir. Both of them.” Hamada nearly crumpled at the simple statements. His shoulders sagged, and his head bowed, one hand coming up to rub at his eyes. Sullivan might not remember getting the order to find them, but he’d never been more glad that he had. The mission had never been malicious. Anyone with eyes could see Hamada still loved his family. 194

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“They have a restaurant in Chadwick,” Sullivan continued. He needed to give him more. “They’re both healthy. Happy. You did the right thing getting them away.” “Did…Maria…?” “No, sir. She still loves you. I don’t think she’ll ever remarry.” “I didn’t…” He shook his head. “As long as she’s happy. That’s what matters.” It wasn’t, but he understood that’s what it was for the general. “Sir, about my mission—” “Is that how you view it?” “Isn’t that what it is?” Hamada’s black gaze pierced through the screen, seeing more than made Sullivan comfortable. “If that’s what it takes for you to go through with it, then I suppose we can call it that. But I chose you because I’d hoped it wouldn’t be a job. Men who care are men who try harder.” “I do care.” “Because of Strike.” “No. Because of Rafe.” Admitting it to anyone other than the man in question was dangerous, especially when he did so to a man with the power of life and death in his hands. But the more he spoke to Hamada, the more Sullivan trusted him. Just like he trusted his son. “I chose you for a reason, you know,” Hamada said quietly. “I’d been looking for someone to go after Rafe for months. Ever since I found out the plans to census the survivors. When I saw your genetic maps and realized you were homosexual, I thought it was too good to be true.” “Why? What is it you want me to do?” “Keep my son alive.” His eyes were bleak. “That’s all I’ve ever 195

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wanted.” He coughed discreetly into his hand, clearing his throat. “The team you’re with is one of five that have been dispatched to start the census procedures. It’s going to take a while to collect all the data, but plans to break down the borders are already under way. The President thinks it’ll be a done deal before the end of her term.” That was less than three years away. “How is it I’ve never heard of this, sir? News like this should be all over the media.” “Nobody wants failure. The fact of the matter is, this administration is ashamed of how little we actually know about the survivors, not to mention the fact that they got cut off in the first place. Stories have been trickling in from those people who crossed the borders and then came back, and the vast majority of them are not pretty. So far, the administration has been able to keep it all under wraps. The hope is that Strike can start the reintegration process under the radar, so by the time they go public, they look like heroes, not like the monsters who abandoned their own to a slow death.” “They saved the contamination from spreading.” “And that’s the spin they’d like the world to continue believing,” Hamada said. “But the truth of the matter is, they could have started this years ago. The only reason they didn’t was because of the war and the pressure Strike put on them to stay in it.” Maria’s words came hauntingly back, her assertions that Strike was a business, that it was only interested in its investments and bottom line. He’d been too caught up in the revelation that Rafe’s father had been the one to send him out to pay too much attention to it, but now, in light of what Hamada was saying, Sullivan felt horribly naïve. He’d never had a choice about his life, but he’d 196

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never even thought to question it, either. He’d gone along blithely, and now, shame he’d never felt before washed through him. “How am I supposed to protect Rafe, if Strike is on their way?” he asked. “It’s only a matter of time, you said.” “Hide him.” Hamada didn’t even hesitate. “Get him out of Chadwick and go someplace Strike will never find the two of you. If the time comes that Strike goes down, you can come back, but until then, you have to run.” “Run?” The idea was so ridiculous, he couldn’t believe the general was even suggesting it. “I’ve never run from anything in my life, sir. I can’t imagine starting now.” “If Strike finds out he’s alive, they’ll execute him.” “Why? He’s healthy, he’s too old to go into training. He’s no threat to them.” “He’s a loose end.” “Do they even know he’s still alive?” Hamada pressed his lips together, assessing Sullivan with a hard gaze. “His file is still open. If someone in Strike takes his print or blood sample, it’ll hit a red flag. Is that what you want?” “Well, no, but—” “Hide him,” Hamada repeated. “If he means anything at all to you, you’ll do whatever it takes to keep him safe.” “He loves Chadwick. That’s his home. You want him to give up everything he’s found for himself.” “I want him to have a life. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” But at the price of giving everything he already had up. Somehow, Sullivan couldn’t see Rafe doing that. And he didn’t want to be the one to ask him. “May I ask a question, sir?” “That’s what I’m here for.” 197

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“Why did Corporal Escobedo think I was stationed here? My records should have shown him I was discharged.” “I changed them after you left.” Hamada reached for something offscreen. A second console came to life, revealing Sullivan’s file. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be taken seriously if you were listed as ex.” Name: Eberle, Sullivan Michael Rank: Sergeant Status: Active Location: Kansas Assignment: Classified, special ops “What special op am I supposed to be on?” “Recon regarding the reintegration. You can embellish it with whatever details you like. Nobody knows about this except me and whoever might look it up in the field. Your base records look exactly the same, so you’re not getting any wages or resources that might call attention to you.” He almost asked how he could get away with that, but then realized if Hamada had made it to brigadier general, he had more than a few resources up his sleeve. Yet, he couldn’t save his son. “How can you change my file and not Rafe’s?” “You’ve had an exemplary Strike career. You never drew a single iota of unwanted interest.” Damning praise at best. “Rafe, on the other hand, has been in the system since he was born. Every single one of his operations is tied into Strike funds and research. Every day of his first eleven years is catalogued and recorded for Strike’s reference. You can blend, Sullivan. Rafe hasn’t blended a day of his life.” No wonder the Hamadas were afraid for their son. His 198

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existence was tied into everything Strike. Being alive was his greatest risk. “Can you do it?” Hamada’s query broke him from his thoughts. Clarification was unnecessary. “I’ll do it. Whatever it takes.”

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CHAPTER 16 The church looked different by the light of day. The stained glass windows glowed from the sunlight streaming inside, and the pews gleamed, the wood soft and freshly polished. Flowers were strewn across the altar, but it was the prayer alcove, its candles lit and flickering that drew Sullivan and the two Strike soldiers. It wasn’t empty. Kneeling in front of the candles, Maria seemed oblivious to their presence, her head bowed, her murmured prayers the only sound to whisper through the otherwise empty church. She wore a simple black dress, her hair tucked into a severe braid, and her hands were folded together in her lap. Rutledge took off his hat and held it loose as he clasped his hands together in front of him. Escobedo was slower to respond, his gaze taking in the entire church before settling into the same 200

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respectful position. Sullivan cleared his throat. Though he kept it as low as possible, it cut through Maria’s prayers well enough for them to immediately cease. Her shoulders sagged. After a moment and a long, ragged breath, she pushed to her feet and turned to face them. Her eyes had never been so cold as they were in that moment. Sullivan held still as she glared first at the corporals, then settled on him. “Sergeant,” she acknowledged. Sullivan tipped his head. “Ma’am.” “Is this really necessary?” “I’m afraid so. My apologies. I know this is a difficult time for you.” Maria snorted and shook her head. “My whole life has been a difficult time because of you people.” The venom in her voice was real. Sullivan knew how this was supposed to play out, but he had to brace against the shiver she evoked anyway. “What is it you want now?” Sullivan gestured toward the other soldiers. “The corporals here would just like to ask you a few questions. For the official records.” She stared them down until Rutledge began to fidget with his hat. Escobedo was the one who took charge, just like Sullivan had warned her, but her belligerent attitude had shaken the young corporal already. “How long have you lived behind the borders?” he asked. “Sixteen years.” “And you brought your son with you?” “Yes.” “How old was he?” 201

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“Eleven.” “Did you have family here?” “Then? No.” Escobedo frowned. “You have family here now?” Maria swept an arm around the church, encompassing the open doors. “This whole town is my family. I built a life here for me and my son. Every single person in Chadwick loved Raphael like he was born here. And they’re all grieving now as much as I am.” “We’re sorry for your loss, ma’am, but you understand why I have to ask. People cannot just disappear. Especially people affiliated with Strike.” “Trust me,” she spat. “I’m well aware of your policies regarding your own. Why do you think I got him away from you?” “Can you tell us what happened?” Her nostrils flared as she looked to Sullivan. “Didn’t you take them out to the house?” “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “They saw what’s left from the fire, and they talked to Mrs. Barkey about what happened that night. They just want to hear your side of the story.” “Because an old woman can’t possibly get it straight, is that it?” She was playing her part to the hilt, balanced perfectly between righteous anger and compliance. “It’s not complicated. Raphael lived over Mrs. Barkey’s garage. When this one”—she jabbed a finger at Sullivan—“showed up and started asking questions, people got scared. A couple of teenagers decided not to wait for the grown-ups to do something about it, and they set fire to the garage in the middle of the night. Raphael didn’t stand a chance.” “Nobody tried to save him?” “Of course, they tried! But by the time anyone even noticed the 202

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fire, it was too late. Belle couldn’t get help fast enough. Have you talked to the sheriff yet? He arrested the boys who did it after the sergeant here found them and brought them in. They’ve confessed to the fire and everything.” The best part about the cover-up was that it was almost entirely true. In the week since he’d been to Nasana, Sullivan had been doing everything he could to ensure the plan he’d come up with would actually succeed. He and the sheriff had talked to each and every person in town to make sure they corroborated this version of events, but all most of them had to do was say Rafe had died in the fire. The garage, the arrests, the physical evidence all supported the story without them having to add to it. It had seemed like the best possible plan. Strike would kill Rafe if they discovered he was alive. So it was up to Sullivan to make sure they thought he was dead. “Did you find any of his belongings at your house, ma’am?” he asked. A muscle twitched in her jaw. “I still don’t understand what you want with it.” “Since the fire destroyed everything, Strike needs something with DNA on it to confirm it was him.” “Because our grief isn’t enough for you, I guess.” When she whirled on her heel to march back to the alcove, Sullivan glanced at the other soldiers and shrugged in supposed solidarity. Their discomfort was growing. Their color was high and Rutledge wouldn’t stop playing with his hat. That was exactly the response Sullivan hoped for. The more Maria pushed, the quicker they’d want to get out of town. “Here.” She thrust a shirt she’d retrieved from next to the candles into Sullivan’s hands. “I hope your machines choke on it.” 203

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He passed it over to Escobedo, who carefully folded and tucked it under his arm. “You have my condolences, ma’am.” Bowing his head, he pivoted on his heel and marched back outside. Escobedo and Rutledge trailed after him, just like they’d done since arriving in Chadwick at dawn. Sheriff McNamara waited for them on the sidewalk. “Everybody’s ready and waiting for your headcount,” Sheriff said. “I rounded them up in the park on the edge of town, just like you asked.” Sullivan nodded. “That’s where you parked your STV,” he told Escobedo. “You should be able to get everything done there today, and be off to your next stop by sunset.” “What about you? Aren’t you coming with us?” “My mission’s done. I’m going home.” The sudden grin that split Rutledge’s face erased years from his face. “Lucky bastard.” Sullivan answered his smile. “You have no idea.” Snapping straight, he dismissed the two corporals with a flick of his fingers, holding the pose until they returned the salute. He didn’t move from his spot until they rounded the corner with Sheriff and disappeared from sight. Maria stood at the altar when he walked back inside, talking to Father Thomas. Both stopped as Sullivan strode up the center aisle, their silence holding tense until he said, “They’re gone.” Maria exhaled loudly, her shoulders sagging. “Finally. My heart can start beating again.” “You did great,” Sullivan assured. “They bought the whole thing.” “It’s not over yet, though.” “What do you mean?” He gazed at both of them curiously, then 204

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with alarm. He thought he’d been so thorough. Planning wasn’t his strong suit, but this had felt like the ideal arrangement. He didn’t want to let Rafe down now, not when they were so damn close. “Did I miss something?” “Just one detail.” The door behind the pulpit opened, and Rafe stepped out. He paused before entering the church, his gaze darting to the back to ensure the outer doors were shut. Sullivan’s heart slammed against his ribs at the sight of him, how relaxed he was as he approached, the warm smile on his face as caught Sullivan in a loose embrace. Sullivan returned the hug, though it still felt a little odd being so affectionate in front of Maria. Rafe’s mouth hovered at his ear, his breath soft and exhilarating. “I love you,” Rafe whispered. “And I will forever be grateful for everything you’ve done for me, for Mama. But what will make all of this perfect is if you do one more thing.” He closed his eyes and focused on how good Rafe felt in his arms. “Anything.” “Marry me. Right now. Then I can take your name, and we can put Raphael Hamada behind us with everything else we don’t need to live our lives.” The suggestion jolted him back to his senses, and he straightened to see Rafe’s smile turned expectant. “Are you serious?” “Never more.” He’d never considered marriage before. Not because of his sexuality, but because of his Strike status. He’d never envisioned a future before nearly having his taken away, and he’d certainly never expected to find it in a dusty Kansas town behind the borders. 205

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But the way Rafe looked at him now, his heart shining in his eyes, Sullivan could imagine wanting little else. It would be more than the ultimate fulfillment of his mission to protect Rafe. It would be the joining of their lives, the knowledge that when he rolled over in the middle of the night because of dreams he couldn’t control Rafe would be there, the certainty that he would never be without this man who made him feel like he was more than he was. When he was with Rafe, he was a better man. When Rafe was gone, the world turned gray. He caught Rafe’s face in the palms of his hands and held him still to seal their mouths together. Swallowing Rafe’s small sound of surprise, he pressed deeper, shaking from the force of new emotions. Rafe dug into his waist, pulling their bodies tight against each other again, and answered with his own rush, his own desire, finally breaking away with a laugh and a jubilant smile. “I’m guessing that’s a yes,” he said. Sullivan blinked to reorient himself. “Yes. God, yes. I’d love that.” He firmed his grip, meeting Rafe’s eyes, hoping what he felt burned as brightly there as it did in his chest. “I love you.” “Then let’s do this before those soldiers come back,” Maria said. She came around to Rafe’s side as they parted enough to include her and Father Thomas. “If you please, Father.” *

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Rafe didn’t remember too much about the brief ceremony. He remembered Sullivan’s strong arm around his back, and the way their sides were meshed perfectly together. He remembered feeling like he was going to explode with how happy he was, and wondering if it felt the same way for Sullivan. He remembered 206

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Mama’s kiss on his cheek, and then being astounded when she did the same to Sullivan, but he didn’t remember Father Thomas actually saying the words, or their I dos, or how they got out the back door of the church to cut through the backyard for his darkened house. As the kitchen door shut behind him, he decided it didn’t matter what he remembered, because Sullivan was with him now, just like Sullivan would be with him for always. Exactly like he’d promised. “So does this count as our honeymoon?” he teased, pushing Sullivan toward the bedroom. “Because I was hoping I was finally going to get a ride on Belle’s bike.” “Well, we have to keep you hidden away until Rutledge and Escobedo are gone. We might as well make the most of it.” Rafe laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it?” They fell through his doorway, stumbling all the way to the bed. Sullivan knocked the wind out of him when he landed on top of Rafe, but Rafe had been expecting it, and reversed their positions with a deft roll of their bodies. Sullivan smoothed his hands down to cup Rafe’s ass. “When did you come up with the idea about the wedding?” “About the same time you came up with the idea about pretending I’m dead.” Propping up on one hand, he began to undo the buttons on Sullivan’s shirt with the other, eager to get to the hot flesh underneath. “We haven’t had to worry about reporting weddings and deaths and births and things like that to the government since they sealed the borders. So it was the first thing I thought of to get out of them recognizing my name. I just get it changed. Problem was, as soon as you said the thing about DNA, I knew it wouldn’t be enough.” 207

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“You’re more than enough,” Sullivan said with a ferocity that would have scared Rafe only a few weeks earlier. Now, he heard the possession in his tone, and knew it was all about how deeply Sullivan felt things. “Don’t ever forget that.” “I’m not sure you’d let me.” Though the shirt wasn’t fully open yet, he slipped his hand inside to sculpt over the hard muscle, finding the taut peak of a nipple and flicking it with his nail. “Though I seem to remember you telling me once you didn’t have to be tops at everything.” Sullivan gasped as he pinched the tight flesh, arching away from the bed for a split second before falling back to it again. “Whatever you want.” His lips gleamed where he swiped over them with his tongue. “I would have devoted myself to you without the vows, Rafe. With them, you can have everything I am and more.” It stunned him how far Sullivan had come in his time in Chadwick, from the almost shy, watchful soldier, to this surprisingly eloquent, thoughtful man. Sullivan had told him how he felt like such a monster sometimes, a cog in a machine he didn’t understand but could operate with frightening ease, and that it took Rafe’s friendship to look past that. Rafe didn’t think the metaphor was entirely accurate, though. Sullivan had been good at his job because of his heartfelt dedication, his ability to see more than was there and use it to his best advantage. All Rafe had done was nurture those tendencies and give him permission to trust them. Sullivan had done the rest. “I want you,” he said. “All of you. Wrapped so hard around me I can’t even breathe.” It was the one thing they had yet to share. They had both expressed desire for it, but with all the preparations of the past week, sex had been a scarily low priority. 208

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Sullivan licked his lips again. Fresh lust flared in his eyes, darkening them from their icy blue. “Please.” It wasn’t just permission. It was a request, a yearning each had but Sullivan found the nerve to plead for. He kissed Sullivan, then, his tongue tracing the fine seam of his husband’s mouth before slipping inside. No kiss had been as sweet as this one, not the first, not the last. This one held a special distinction, the contract sealed between them that each would spend the rest of their lives making the other as happy as possible. In that moment, Rafe wasn’t sure how he could surpass the right now, but if someone could find a way, it was Sullivan. Of that, he had no doubt. They took their time getting undressed, pushing shirts from shoulders first and then spending long minutes simply absorbing the other’s heat. Sullivan let him touch anywhere he wanted, from the scars now mostly hidden by his hair to the hard swell of his biceps. More than once, Sullivan whimpered at the contact, straining upward to compel Rafe to touch harder, or more, or something he didn’t otherwise give voice to, but he never told Rafe to stop, and he never halted his own exploration, his worshiping hands saying everything he did not. When it came time to shed their pants, Rafe rose and did so quickly, devouring Sullivan while he did the same. It wasn’t the crushing desire to get inside him that prompted Rafe to move so fast. It was the absence of Sullivan in his arms, the void only he could fill, that made it impossible to take it slow. He was back on the bed, skin to skin, mouth to mouth, before the garments hit the floor. The first time they’d actually fucked, they’d taken their time. For lots of reasons, not the least of which they both wanted it to be 209

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good for Sullivan. Rafe had the same intent now, though his concern rooted deeper than it had before. As they resumed kissing, he skimmed his hand down Sullivan’s side and caught his thigh, nudging it up and out to the side. The new position shifted the rub of their cocks against each other, and the different angle triggered Rafe’s balls to throb. He ignored his to focus on Sullivan’s, caressing the tight sac up and down, back and forth, until Sullivan squirmed with each brush. Then, it was farther down, into the crease and over the hole, the same gentle touches along the opening without stopping their endless kisses. The muscle relaxed with each stroke, and when Rafe could take no more, he pushed his index finger slowly inside. Sullivan immediately stiffened. “Relax,” Rafe murmured against his mouth. He eased most of the way out and paused, waiting for Sullivan to comply. “It’ll be good. I promise.” “I know.” His voice choked off when Rafe pressed forward again. “Close your eyes. Focus on your breathing and how it feels.” Rafe peeled away to give himself the room to watch, his hand never stopping this time as he worked his way in and out. At first, Sullivan’s face was screwed into hard, tense lines, but when those began to smooth out, Rafe bent down, kissed him, and added a second finger. They were both trembling when he finally felt it was time for the oil on the nightstand. “No more waiting,” he said, reaching for it. He sat up and poured the cool liquid along his cock, smiling when some dripped onto Sullivan’s balls. Coating his shaft, he rubbed his now slick fingers back into Sullivan’s tight passage, his eyes never leaving Sullivan’s face. 210

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Sullivan helped by grabbing the back of both thighs and lifting them away, spreading himself wide for Rafe to appreciate. The short hairs trailing along the crease tempted Rafe into bending down and tasting them, but he was already too aroused to consider stopping at this point. Holding his cock at the base, he guided the tip up and down, skipping over the tight ring only to return and nudge against the muscle. The pressure was excruciating, the heat more so. Sullivan gritted his teeth at the initial entry, and though it killed him not to focus on how amazing it felt, Rafe fisted Sullivan’s cock to distract him from the pain. A shudder rippled through him. The next instant, the muscle relaxed, and Rafe slid forward several inches. “Damn,” Sullivan muttered. His eyes squeezed shut, and he took a deep breath through his mouth. Harsh, ragged laughter followed it. “Is it too late to change my mind?” Rafe stopped pushing, though he continued the lazy pulls at Sullivan’s shaft. “We’ll take as long as you need.” “How does next Tuesday sound to you?” They both chuckled at that, but Rafe watched every nuance of Sullivan’s reaction for the moment when he could move again. It took an eternity for the tendons in Sullivan’s neck to relax, and then even longer for his breathing to smooth out. “Okay.” Sullivan let go of one of his legs to reach for Rafe’s hip. Without another word, he yanked, driving Rafe in the rest of the way on a single stroke. Unimaginable fire raced through Rafe, and the impulse to repeat the thrust almost won. He was halfway out before he regained control. His legs quavered from the fight he nearly lost again. 211

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Sullivan gripped him harder. His strong calf curved around, trapping Rafe in the arc of his body, while his other hand reached for the back of Rafe’s neck. Tugging Rafe down sheathed his cock back inside Sullivan’s ass, and they moaned in the moment before their mouths came back together. It was everything he’d craved, everything he’d hoped for, consumed by Sullivan’s body until he didn’t know where he ended and Sullivan began. He moved first, but Sullivan was quick to follow, finding the rhythm as easily as if this was the hundredth time Rafe had fucked him rather than the first. Bliss, that’s what it was. Tight, scorching, exquisite bliss. Pleasure like he’d never known before, not even on those rare occasions when he’d had the opportunity to fuck other men. Sullivan made it better. Everything else was but a pale shadow in comparison. Sweat shone along Sullivan’s forehead, taunting Rafe with its proximity. When they broke apart for breath, he sought it out, licking his way along the strong jaw, savoring every salty drop. Without breaking tempo, Sullivan chuckled. “That tickles.” “Oh?” To test it, Rafe licked him again, choosing a path down the opposite side of his face. Sullivan laughed harder and turned his head away, trying to avoid his questing lips. “Next time, I’ll have to do some thorough testing for more ticklish spots.” Sullivan bit at Rafe’s shoulder. “Not if I get to you first.” “A challenge. I like that.” “Be prepared to lose. I’ve had years of training.” “At tickling?” “No, challenges.” Their renewed chuckles fueled their strokes, speeding them up though the last thing Rafe wanted was for this to end. It felt good 212

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to laugh, good to feel free enough to do so. They had to adjust their position more than once to accommodate their spirited moods, each time powering Rafe harder and faster. He knew he scraped across Sullivan’s prostate by the sudden widening of his eyes, the burn of raw shock making them glow. “What…?” Sullivan swallowed and dug his fingertips hard into Rafe’s back. “Do that again.” Rafe smiled. “You wouldn’t rather I do this?” Reaching between their torsos, he grasped Sullivan’s cock, lightly, completely. He kept his touch tender, in contrast with the growing fierceness of his drives into that clenching passage, but the rhythm was the same, the same silent scream for release, the same sizzle at the base of his spine as his orgasm threatened to erupt. He kept his eyes locked on Sullivan. He wanted to see his husband come from this. He wanted to be the first thing Sullivan saw when everything detonated. They didn’t last. Between the angle and Sullivan’s desperate moans, neither one of them stood a chance. Rafe coaxed him to the end, murmuring words of encouragement that were more breath than speech, but they proved unnecessary. Sullivan clutched at Rafe’s back and cried out, clamping down around Rafe’s cock as he coated both of them in come. Rafe shattered. But Sullivan’s embrace held all the pieces together, keeping him close until the world righted itself once again. He collapsed against Sullivan’s chest and lost himself in the tandem thuds of their hearts. This was the real gift he’d been granted. This soldier, this man, with the power to give him the world. More than he’d ever expected. More than he’d ever wished 213

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for. Just so much more than Rafe had ever dreamed. Though he’d never forget what it took to get to this place, to this peerless moment in time, he was ready to face what lay ahead of them. Their journeys might have been different, but now that they’d converged, he’d fight with everything he had to keep them entwined. He had no doubts Sullivan would, too.

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VIVIEN DEAN

Vivien Dean has had a lifetime love affair with stories. A multipublished author, her books have been EPPIE finalists, Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Nominees, and reader favorites. After spending her twenties and early thirties traveling, she has finally settled down and currently resides in northern California with her husband and two children. For more information about Vivien and her books, visit her website at http://www.viviendean.com *

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Don’t miss Aries: Riddle Me Wicked by Vivien Dean, available at AmberAllure.com!

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