It’s my fault. My fault my family died. If I hadn’t opened the door. If I had thrown myself at that fucker before he drew the gun. If I’d been suspicious.
It should’ve been me in their place.
With a shout, I jerk upright in my bed, drenched in sweat. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Bile rises in my throat. My heart booms.
Throwing the covers off me, I stumble into the bathroom, drop to my knees and puke my guts out into the toilet, burning heaves that make my eyes water. Then I brace a hand on the wall and pull myself to my feet.
Fuck this. Need this to end. Tear down the nightmare, catch the murderer.
I splash my face, rinse my mouth, swallow some water. Then I go and pull on my clothes from yesterday, jeans and a sweater.
Need to wake up. Stay alert. Stay focused. Call Colt.
My shoulder hurts, the old scar burning like fire, eclipsing the pain from the bruises. I rub it as I pace my room.
No. Stop. Focus on the now.
The gray morning light hurts my eyes. I draw the curtain shut and rake my hands through my hair.
The light is gone, but the black core of my past remains, ruling me. I might as well go after it, seek it, touch it. Kill it if I can. And if that leaves me without a center, without a goal, then so be it.
I can fucking live with that. Or die for it. One way or another, I’m going down.
I wander into the living room and grab my cell from the sofa where I dropped it last night. Twenty missed calls. Fifteen voice mails. Forty messages.
Who cares? More important things on my mind right now. Colt’s phone number written on my wrist winks at me. The clock mocks me. The minutes trickle by too fucking slowly. Four. Four thi
rty. Five. Five forty-five. Five fifty. Five fifty-five.
I mark the number and bring the cell to my ear.
Come on, Colt. Answer. Come on, Colt. Get me into the fight club.
Let us both find the people we’re looking for.
The phone rings and rings, and I pace the room like a caged tiger. Come on, come on. I kick at the bed, bang my fist on the wall. My ribs scream at me. My head is pounding.
“Hello?” a man’s voice says, and I stop in my tracks. “Hello?”
“Colt?”
“Yeah.” A rustle. A cough.
“It’s me, Rafe. Rafaele Vestri. Got something for me?”
The pause that follows is like a vise being screwed around my head. Come on, Colt. Come on, dammit.
“Sorry, man.” His voice drops. “The answer is no.”
No. “The hell you say.”
The line goes dead.
I drop on the bed, the cell bouncing beside me on the mattress.
This can’t be. I’m so close. I put my face in my hands. Hell, I can’t take this any longer. My last threads of sanity are unraveling.
Surging to my feet, I stagger out of the bedroom and into the living room. The furniture is cast in shades of pale gray in the cold morning light.