Page 66 of Viking

“Nick,” I call out, my voice hoarse.

He stops, turning back to look at me.

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.

He nods, a flicker of understanding passing across his face before he steps out and closes the door behind him.

For a moment, I just lie there, the weight of the letter pressing down on me like gravity itself. Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap the light button on my remote and open the envelope.

***

Logan,

If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it back. Writing those words feels surreal, like a bad joke I’d never laugh at, but here we are. And if I know you, you’re probably blaming yourself. So let’s get one thing straight right now. Don’t. Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault. You don’t carry that weight—you hear me? Not for me, not for anyone.

We signed up for this, Logan. We always knew the risks. Hell, we joked about it more times than I can count. But I need you to know that I was never afraid. Not because I’m some fearless badass (we both know I’m not), but because I trusted you. I always trusted you. In the air, on the ground—you were my brother. You still are.

You’ve been my wingman in every way that matters, not just in the cockpit. You’ve had my back through the good, the bad, and the absolutely insane. And yeah, we’ve had some good times, haven’t we? Those memories—they’re what I want you to hold on to. Not this. Not me being gone.

I don’t know where this leaves you, man, but I need you to promise me something. Don’t let this break you. Not for long, anyway. Grieve, scream, punch a wall (preferably not one made of concrete—trust me), but don’t stay stuck there. You’ve got too much life ahead of you to get lost in the dark.

Take care of the flight, Logan. They’ll need you to step up, and if anyone can do it, it’s you. Be the leader I always knew you were. And when you’re ready—really ready—find someone who makes you feel alive again. You deserve that. Don’t let my ghost hang around, keeping you from all the things we used to talk about over shitty coffee at 0400.

You’re probably rolling your eyes right now, muttering, “Damn it, Ryan, why’d you have to get all sappy?” Well, screw you. I’m dead—I get to be sappy. But seriously, I love you, brother. I don’t say that lightly, and I sure as hell wouldn’t say it out loud, but I need you to know it.

Live for both of us, Logan.

Always your wingman,

Ryan

Hampton, Virginia

June 17, 2024

10:30 a.m.

Lila

I actually managed to sleep at home last night. After Ivy and Alinna left, I contemplated going back to Logan’s, but I was tired and I wanted to take a hot bath in my clawfoot tub and sleep in my own bed.

I’m standing in my kitchen watching my Nespresso brew some much-needed coffee. I’ve missed my dark green cabinets, exposed brick backsplash, and the butcher block countertops. The brass finishes sparkle in the morning sunlight, shining through the abundance of windows overlooking my small backyard.

It’s been too quiet this morning, this kind of foggy, humid silence. I’ve tried keeping busy, cleaning the fridge, organizing the pantry, even rearranging the bookshelves in my office, but nothing helps.

My thoughts keep drifting back to Logan.

I reach for my phone, hoping for a text or missed call, but instead, there’s a breaking news alert lighting up my screen.

Attack Reported on U.S. Military Base in the South China Sea Region.

I choke on the words, sending myself into a coughing fit as I tap the notification, my hands trembling. The article doesn’t say much, just that an unnamed U.S. base in the region came under attack late last night. No details.

My stomach twists.

Logan hasn’t told me where he is, but I can’t shake the feeling that I just found out.

I try to breathe, but my chest feels too tight. I set my phone down and start pacing, the worst-case scenarios flashing through my mind.