Page 72 of Deadfall

I scowled and crossed my arms. “Then, you know exactly what I’m capable of, don’t you?”

Riggs sneered. “You obviously weren’t good enough to stop him from getting killed.”

The words were like a knife through my chest. The magnitude of guilt I felt at not being there to help Sacha was something I’d been continually battling with since that day.

“You weren’t there,” I gasped, hating that my voice wavered.

“You’re right,” Riggs snapped. “I know Sacha probably took down most of them. All he needed was one more gun.” At the look on my face, he laughed darkly. “Yeah—that’s what I thought—you’re either a coward, or dead weight.”

I surged to my feet. “Fuck you,” I exclaimed. “Why are you even helping me then?”

“Better tell her that too,” Lev said.

Riggs looked positively lethal. Red crawled up his neck as he stepped toward me.

“That word you used—sanctuary—it wasn’t just a code word,” he snarled, fighting to get the words out. “It was Sacha calling in the favor I owed.”

“You could have just driven me to where I wanted to go—”

“Unfortunately, it’s a pretty big favor,” Riggs interrupted. “And, once I heard who you were going after, I knew Sacha had put you in my path for a reason.”

He took another step as rage ignited his eyes. “But make no mistake—none of this is for you. It will always be for him.”

Riggs’ lip curled in contempt as he watched the emotions cross my face. I couldn’t speak. My throat closed, thick with emotion. I rushed from the room and Riggs’ harsh scoff of contempt followed after me. I barely managed to make it into the privacy of my room before I broke down.

Sacha had used his last favor on me? The guilt was immense. I knew I wasn’t a coward, but the dead weight comment struck something deep. The part of me that had always felt not good enough. The part of me that had been abandoned over and over and over again. Would Riggs and Lev abandon me eventually too? Only time would tell, but I vowed to work my ass off and prove to them I was worth their time.

32

EMERSYN

Age 18

The next morning, I got up at my usual early hour to get my workout done. I used the remaining time to get in some target practice, thankful I didn’t run into any of the others. When I finally was cleaned up and ready for the day, I made my way to the kitchen, following the smell of coffee and bacon. I hesitated in the doorway when I saw Mouse in front of the stove. He wielded a spatula in one hand and a coffee mug in the other, and hummed something that sounded suspiciously like Beyonce. I moved toward the coffee machine in hopes he’d just ignore me.

“Ah, good morning, Syn,” Mouse said cheerfully. “Bacon and eggs will be done shortly. You’re up early—beat the other degenerates, although that’s not hard. Hangman sleeps like the dead and just as long.”

I poured myself a cup of coffee, intent on escaping the kitchen as soon as I could, when Mouse chuckled behind me.

“Speak of the devil.”

“Mornin’ folks,” Hangman said, cheerfully. “Ah, coffee.”

He squeezed his large form next to me at the counter and poured himself a mug. I casually eased away from him and crept towards the exit.

“Where you off to, Syn?” Hangman asked. “Sit down there.” He jerked his head towards the bar stool. “Mouse makes the best eggs. He puts those little green onion things that aren’t green onions—” He slapped Mouse on the back. “What are they called again?”

“Chives,” Mouse replied.

“Yes! He puts those in there and ohmygod,” Hangman moaned. “Delicious. Sit, sit!”

He somehow herded me onto one of the barstools and sat down in another.

“So, what’s your specialty?” He sipped from his coffee, Levi-clad legs spread wide. I took a sip from my mug, more to steady my nerves than anything. Being around this many men was unnerving, and the comradery even more so.

“Uh, weapons and intelligence mostly,” I said.

“Sniper qualification, by chance?”