That fucking… insane, wild bitch. Did she seriously climb down the ladder on the side of a fucking thirty story building just to get away from me?
I grab my Glock and holster it as I rush out the door, passing the elevator in favor of the stairs. I’m tearing down the stairs as fast as I can, rounding corner after corner blindly, making enough noise to wake the whole building and not giving two shits. Something black blurs in front of my face and pain explodes in my chest.
I’m leveled. Stairs slamming into my back as my full-speed descent is stopped suddenly and without warning. My vision spins but I see a figure looming over me. He’s wearing a thick black jacket and mask, but I can tell even under all the clothing that he’s big. He waits for me to stand, fists clenched at his side. I see the hint of a tattoo on the back of his hand. A snake’s tail coiled around the tip of a sword. It’s the same tattoo Liam used to have on his hand. Exactly the same.
Impossible.
I stand slowly, mind replaying the hiss and trail of smoke as the rocket tore through the dry Middle Eastern air and slammed into the wall. The last two members of my squad were behind that wall. They died behind that wall. I saw the explosion and the rubble. I knew there was no way anyone could survive an explosion like that. I still remember digging through it, trying to find their bodies after the fighting was through. I was stained to the knees in blood, but I dug like a fucking lunatic, trying to find them.
The man stands below me, arm still outstretched from where he clothes-lined me. I crack my neck, flexing my fists. “Where did you get that fucking tattoo?” I growl
He laughs metallically from behind the mask, voice distorted. “You were always observant, Slade.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask, stepping closer to him.
“You can call me The Jackal.”
The laughter in his voice pushes me over the edge. Makayla is out there alone right now and this asshole is wasting my time with his games. I would like nothing more than to make him hurt as much as possible, but I don’t have time. I reach for my gun and he moves in expertly, avoiding my attempt to push him back and twisting my arm under his grip. He strips the gun from my holster and I barely stop him from taking full control of the weapon. My arm is straining in his hold and I can feel the tendons in my shoulder hyperextending. A few more seconds and he’ll have my gun.
Whoever he is, he’s good. He has training. Advanced training. I knee him in the thigh, wincing as the movement yanks my arm even farther out of place, but the distraction gives me time to flick the magazine catch on my G20. The magazine clatters to the ground just as he pulls the gun from me. I know there’s not a bullet racked in the chamber, so the weapon’s useless now. I kick the magazine farther away from him and turn and punch him in the jaw as hard as I can, but the thick mask does more damage to me than I do to him.
He headbutts me, still squeezing my shoulder tighter and tighter until it feels like it’s about to fucking burst. I focus on Makayla and fight through it, bracing myself as I yank my arm free as I roar in pain, throwing my body into him and ramming his back into the wall. I rip the mask from his face, snapping the leather strap behind his head that holds it in place.
We both freeze as I look eye to eye with a fucking dead man.
Liam Hartley.
“You died. I saw you die.”
He grips me by the shirt and pushes me back, turning until I’m the one pinned to the wall now. “Unfortunately for you, I lived.”
I shake my head in confusion, mind replaying everything that happened and coming up short with an explanation. “I looked for your bodies.”
“And then you stopped looking, and so did the rest of the rescue team that came for you. I woke up two days later, nearly fucking dead from thirst. The insurgents pulled me out and… well, see for yourself.”
He shoves me back into the wall and takes a step apart from me, opening his coat and lifting the black shirt beneath. His torso is ripped and corded with muscle, but thick scars crisscross his body in more places than I can count. I realize one of his eyes is cloudy too, sightless. One of his ears is missing.
“Liam…” I say, gut wrenching to think that I did this to him.
“No. You’re right. Liam is dead. I’m the fucking Jackal, and I’m not going to let you off easy by killing you.” He drops my empty Glock and flashes the Desert Eagle holstered at his side.
I push down the crushing guilt and confusion that threatens to overwhelm me and focus on what matters most. Makayla. I can already see it in Liam’s eyes. He’s never going to forgive me. He’s not the same man I left behind that wall. I reach for his gun while he thinks I’m dazed. I slip it from his holder and point it at his forehead.
His eyes are ablaze with the kind of fury only a man who has lost most of himself can muster. He steps into the gun, making the barrel dig into his forehead. His hand grips mine and he hisses through clenched teeth, spraying spittle. “Do it. Fucking kill me twice. Fucking do it.”
As much as I want to end him and ease my mind about making Makayla that much safer, I squeeze the barrel release and flip the safety latch with my forefinger, disassembling the gun in three swift movements. I pocket the barrel and push his chest back, scooping up my Glock and magazine before leaving him where he stands, still sucking in heavy breaths through clenched teeth.
That was for the old you, Liam. But if I see you again, I won’t hesitate to kill you.
34
Makayla
Two of the masked men stand by the door, as if guarding it while the third sits across from me. My heart is pounding out of my chest and everything in me screams to run, but I’m afraid a sudden movement might set the men off. For now, the safest course of action is to try as hard as I can to remain calm and let this play out. Just moments ago I was hoping Jesse wouldn’t find me, and now I’m wishing he would hurry up and get his ass here.
“Makayla,” says the man across from me. His voice is distorted by some device inside the goat mask, just like the man’s voice in the stairwell. “I can’t reveal who I am without risk of endangering myself and my associates,” he says, gesturing to the two men by the door who slightly incline their heads. “But we are not here to hurt you.”
I feel a slight hint of relief, but I’m not ready to believe them. Not yet.
“I wanted to wait until I had more information, but I don’t know if I will have time to learn more,” says the masked man. “But someone you trust wants you dead. The Order of The Goat wasn’t founded to serve as a tool of the wealthy and the greedy, but recent… events have begun to turn our order into something I no longer recognize.”