Blood Sky

by S. Massery

  He shouldn’t have been buried without me. I could’ve just as easily died that day, but it’s almost worse that I didn’t.

  I let tears build in my eyes. I’ve hated cemeteries since my mother died. The smell of dirt and fresh rain fills my nose. In a matter of seconds, the dirt becomes mud, and the grass under my feet turns slick.

  There are people I can trust in my family—Lauren and Alexa, definitely—and there are people who fill me with suspicion. Too many suspects. Too many loose threads.

  “Delia,” a voice says behind me.

  I turn and find James. He wears a light-gray suit and holds a black umbrella. His dark hair is slicked back, giving him an older appearance, even though he’s ten years younger than my father. He’s been my father’s consigliere for far too long. His easy smile says as much: he’s not on guard as he should be.

  “James,” I say, letting him see the tears track down my cheeks. “Thank god you’re here.”

  When his smile widens, something dark unfurls in my stomach. I cross my arms over my chest, and the holster presses against my ribcage. It’s not enough safety. It’s not enough to protect me from what he’s already done.

  He says, “My dear, I was worried about you. What are you doing back in Vegas? I confess, when I got your call, I thought it was a trap…”

  I shake my head and try not to jump forward and poke his eyes out with the tip of my umbrella. “I had to come see them. Rumor has it, Margaret was cremated according to her will?”

  He stiffens. “That’s what her family wanted.”

  I nod. “Of course. I’d never met her family.”

  “Are you staying long?” he asks.

  I look at him, my head cocked to the side. “I never should’ve run, James. My family needs me.”

  He kicks the grass in front of him. His snakeskin boots are flecked with mud, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Well, of course. I’ve been taking good care of them in your absence.”

  “Right,” I say slowly, biting my lip. “No one asked you to do that.”

  He frowns at me. “Delia, you’re going to catch a cold out here. Come along.”

  My muscles lock up as he steps forward and loops his arm through mine. What else can I do but let him guide me away from my father?

  Most memories of my father and Margaret include James lingering on the fringes. It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I had my first true interaction with the man. He’d only been around for a few years, and his eyes on me always elicited a shiver. I was naive back then. I didn’t listen to my instincts like I should’ve. Everything important in my life happened at age sixteen—Elton, James, Edgar Castillo—but I didn’t realize the latter would be important until later.

  I was coming to get the fruit platter Margaret and I had made earlier in the day. Outside, my friends were laughing and splashing around in the pool. Alexa was sunbathing. Lauren was already gorgeously tan in her tiny white bikini.

  I opened the fridge and pulled it out, balancing one side on my hip so I could close the door. When it swung closed, I almost jumped out of my skin. James leaned against the counter, watching me. He smiled.

  My gaze went to his hair. At that point, he kept it long and tied back with a strap of leather. I used to snigger to Alexa that he was trying too hard to be like the famous Fabio. If only James had the abs of that long-haired god… maybe things would’ve been easier for him. As it was, his hair was dark and greasy. He had a hooked nose and thin lips. His skin was clear, his teeth were straight and white—the saving graces of his face. He was lean where the men we drooled over were built like tanks. He had a New York accent, when all we girls wanted was someone from the United Kingdom.

  Sixteen-year-olds can be cruel.

  I jerked back, putting the tray on the island and circling around it. It made me feel better to have some distance between us, although I wasn’t sure why. His dark gaze swept up and down my body. I’d stressed for days over what to wear—the coral pink bikini that made my skin look sun-kissed, or the black one-piece with no back and a plunging neckline. In the end, I chose the black, and I regretted it when James’ lips tipped into a smirk.

  “Having fun?” he asked me.

  I shrugged and glanced away, toward the window. I half expected my father to come in. He always made a habit of showing up whenever James was around. Instead, I met Margaret’s eyes through the window. She raised an eyebrow at me. I liked to think that we were in sync most of the time, even if we didn’t necessarily get along. I threw internal tantrums that she could read in one blink.

  I hoped I was putting out the same internal panic now. She looked away, back down at her magazine.

  “Delia?”

  He had come closer without me realizing it. He ran his finger down my arm.

  I faked a smile. “Yes, loads of fun.” The irrational fear made me struggle with the platter’s cover.

  His hands covered mine, and I didn’t jump. Heat flashed through me. I slow-blinked, wondering if touch was all it took to ignite the sort of passion I saw on movie screens. I was incredibly inexperienced in that division. His hands on mine felt foreign.

  Embarrassment took over when he popped the top off and smirked at me, releasing my hands. My cheeks flushed red, and dropped my gaze down to the fruit.

  He picked up a cherry and bit into it. My eyes followed the movement.

  “You should get back to your friends,” he said.

  I nodded dumbly, staring at him until he touched my cheek. I flinched and stepped away from him like the floor was on fire. When I went outside, Margaret didn’t even look at me. I remembered my earlier plea, and I wondered if she knew better than me.

  Later, Margaret took me aside. “I noticed you and James in the kitchen. Italian men… they like to court their women.” She smiled at me like I knew what she was talking about. When I didn’t react, she frowned and added, “In this family, we marry those we know. Insiders.”

  I kept my shudder to myself. “I don’t think—”

  “Of course not, dear,” she said, patting my cheek.

  It was the same one James had touched. Ice dripped down my spine at the thought of marrying him. I didn’t think he’d be a bad husband—but he wasn’t my choice.

  Not then, and not now.

  “Delia, darling,” James says.

  I blink, surprised that we’ve reached his car already.

  “Can I give you a ride?”

  I slip my arm out of his grasp and step away, into the downpour. “But, James, I’m all wet.”

  He rolls his eyes and barks on a laugh. “Always playing games. Into the car. Now.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not how you treat your new boss.”

  “Are you?” His brows furrow, but he has a smile that tells me he knows something I don’t.

  I shiver. Water drips down my hair.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you,” I say. Unlike you.

  The world is filled with lies. The only place I felt safe was with Jackson. I have to shove him out of my mind, stomp him into the recesses of my memories so he isn’t tainted by this. By me.

  “Everyone lies, Delia.” James opens the car door and steps back.

  I weigh my options. In the end, I nod and climb into the car.

  20

  JACKSON

  Five and a half years ago, six strangers sat in a room.

  I looked around and tried not to shift my weight on the metal folding chair. This group interview shouldn’t have been nerve-racking, but my heart kept trying to leap out of my chest. The six of us were arranged in a circle. There was one chair open, but its back was to the door.

  It made sense that no one chose it.

  The man to my left was a giant. He kept jigging his foot, his heel barely touching the floor before it sprang up again. His arms were folded tight over his chest, and his gaze skated around the room. He wouldn’t stop fidgeting, and it was making me fidget.

  I’d already crossed and uncrossed my arms twice and cussed myself o
ut in my head for it.

  The guy to my right was the opposite. He’d been so still, I had a feeling that he liked to be invisible as often as possible. Medusa herself would’ve thought he was already stone if he painted himself silver. Only his eyes moved, traveling around like he was trying to get a read on us without drawing attention.

  My attention went to the person on the other side of the statue. He clicked around on his phone, oblivious to us. At least, I thought he was oblivious. Part of me wondered if it wasn’t a ruse. The one directly across from me had an air of darkness. We all see some shit when we’re deployed, but him? He looked like he had done some shit, too.

  There was one more person. He was relaxed, unlike the rest of us. I resented him a little for that. He smiled at me when our eyes met. I frowned back.

  The silence was broken only by the clock counting seconds on the wall.

  Finally, the door opened. A blonde woman in a long, dark-blue pencil skirt and white blouse walked in and took the last seat. She smiled at us.

  “Welcome to Scorpion Industries. I apologize for the wait. My name is Sandra McCormick, and I’ll be your orientation guide.”

  The fidgeter stilled and leaned forward. “Wait a second,” he said. “Orientation guide? Ain’t this an interview?”

  She nodded. “You’ve all been researched thoroughly. The company is confident in its selection. In order to gain access to the facility, we require you to sign a non-disclosure agreement—”

  “An NDA?” This from the guy on his phone. It wasn’t in his hands anymore, and he leaned forward like the fidgeting one.

  “Yes, Mason. What you’ll learn here is classified.”

  Sandra squinted at those of us who hadn’t spoken. Her gaze lingered on the relaxed man next to her, who gave her an easy smile. It seemed to come naturally to him. When was the last time I smiled at a woman?

  A long fucking time.

  “No more questions?” she asked. “Great.” She passed out the forms and watched as each of us scanned them. It was a classic non-disclosure agreement. Unless there was something detrimental to someone’s safety, our lips were sealed. I scrawled my signature and the date along with the five other men. She collected the forms and exhaled. More people must get caught up on that part. “Let’s go.”

  We got up and shuffled after her.

  I ended up next to Mason. I forced myself to smile and stick out my hand. “Jackson Skye.”

  He slapped my hand. “Mason Dobbs, IT whiz and tech extraordinaire at your service.” He jerked his thumb back. “That’s Zach Laurent. Explosives specialist.”

  I glanced behind me. The big guy who couldn’t sit still shot me a grin.

  “You two know each other from—”

  “Quiet, please,” Sandra called. “This is a public area. While here, you’re to share no information about yourselves. It can compromise private and public safety.”

  Mason sighed. “Oh, please.”

  I snorted.

  She scanned her badge and held open a door for us. We crossed through, and my mouth dropped open. It was a night-and-day difference. The room we had been waiting in had two small windows, gray walls, and a concrete floor. The hallways were carpeted in thin, cheap fiber, and the walls were all painted the same off-white. The lobby was made of glass and metal, with a long desk, but nothing special.

  On the other side of the door was a big, open space. Comfortable chairs and tables were scattered around. The entire back wall was made of glass and looked out onto a courtyard with a bubbling fountain and gardens behind it.

  People milled around, but I had to do a double take. Military-grade weapons were slung over their shoulders. Shirts tucked into dark pants and black boots. Many had tattoos that were clearly done in—or soon after—service.

  “What kind of world did we just walk into?” Mason said, bumping my elbow.

  Sandra led us up a floating staircase that curled around itself. On the second floor, there were glass-walled conference rooms. We entered one, and she pressed a button. The lights flickered on, and the glass wall clouded over.

  “Cool tech,” Mason said.

  “You’ll be briefed by your supervisor in a moment. Please wait here and make yourselves comfortable.” She gave us a tight smile and left.

  “From one prison to another,” I muttered.

  “I’m Wyatt,” the relaxed one said. He leaned back in his chair, boots kicked up on the table. “Did I hear you say your name was Skye?”

  He met my eyes.

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “Heard about you, man. Cool as a cucumber till someone punches you, eh?”

  I shrugged. My temper was an odd thing. I was still trying to get ahold of it.

  “Mason Dobbs,” Mason said. “IT whiz—”

  “Right,” Wyatt interrupted. “How’d they rope you into this? Did they catch you hacking?”

  Mason’s invisible hackles rose. “What’s with the third degree, man?”

  Wyatt laughed. “They’ve got shit on all of us. It’s how they rose to one of the largest military contracting companies inside of two years.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  Wyatt held up his finger and turned to the last two. “Medic and sniper,” he said, pointing to each of them. “Names?”

  “Griffin,” the medic said. He was the one with darkness in him. It made sense—he’d have seen more shit than the rest of us. Held more American lives in his hands than anyone else. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but…”

  Wyatt shrugged again. I was starting to see through the easy facade. There were cracks around the edges. Inside him hid something predatory. I felt a little better because of it, because it meant he was as fucked-up in the head as me.

  “Dalton,” the last said. He stood in the corner, the farthest from the door. The farthest from any of us. “They called us defensive marksmen.”

  “Bullshit,” Zach said. “You’re a fucking sniper. Don’t downplay that.”

  “And you like to blow things up and ask questions later?” Dalton snapped.

  Zach rolled his eyes.

  Wyatt stood. “The way I see it, they’re keeping us together for a reason. Medic. Explosives. Tech. Sniper”—he sighed—“excuse me, defensive marksman. I can’t really get a read on you, though, Skye. What’s your specialty?”

  I glanced at the ceiling, directly into the camera that was blinking at us. “I’m good at getting out of tough situations,” I said slowly. I wasn’t sure what else to say. Six months of unemployment had worn me down. I jumped at every little noise. There was so much energy building inside me, I thought I might explode.

  That was why I was here.

  Scorpion Industries had contacted me a week earlier. They thought my resume was intriguing. I came highly recommended from my squadron’s lieutenant—a man who happened to work for Scorpion Industries as of last month.

  There was no mention of pay or hours or what the hell they wanted me to do.

  I didn’t even ask. I was desperate.

  “What’s yours?” Griffin asked Wyatt.

  “My what?”

  Griffin raised an eyebrow.

  Wyatt grinned again. “I’m like Skye. I can get out of tough situations.”

  Our new supervisor entered the room and shut down conversation. From there, we were briefed on what to expect—specialized training, physical training, gun training, mental aptitude tests. By the time we all stood, my head was spinning.

  For the next six months, we worked side by side. We learned each other’s strengths and weaknesses. We lived at home and commuted to Scorpion Industries’ headquarters. I broke down more than once from the stress of it all in the shower, in my bed, on the drive home.

  It wasn’t until our supervisor pulled us aside and told us we were going abroad did the anxiety in my chest loosen. My smile broke the tension. Griffin smiled, then Dalton. Zach let out a whoop.

  That moment was what we had been training for without even knowing
it.

  The missions ranged from difficult to impossible. My bank account swelled without my knowledge—not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t have access to it until we were freed from our contracts two and a half years later.

  It was an all-expenses-paid vacation, spattered with gunfire and blood. The darkness wore on my soul each time I pulled the trigger.

  There were days that we did good. Days that our supervisor called us from DC and told us that we were being sent to exfiltrate someone from a dangerous country, city, state. Whatever. That’s where Wyatt shined. He could turn himself into someone else with the tilt of his head, glasses, a hat. It wasn’t his physical appearance that changed so dramatically: something inside him flipped a switch.

  He could stroll right by the police who were searching for us, and they wouldn’t bat an eye at him.

  Mason always muttered that it was CIA shit. Maybe it was. Wyatt never explicitly said where he came from, just that he’d been in a few different government jobs. I assumed it was something black ops, like the Green Berets or Navy SEALs.

  But what do I know?

  We smuggled more people than I can count across borders. Some were close calls. Others felt like a walk in the park. There were still casualties. Our bosses didn’t care about the death we left in our wake—they told us not to worry about it. That was how rumors started.

  We each rose toward infamy in our own way over the years. Soldiers whispered about me at night, wondering if someone could defeat me in the ring. I had become known for my temper, for the way I snapped when pushed too hard. Sometimes we chased after gunfights, protecting Griffin as he did his best to save lives. The first nickname they gave him was the Grim Reaper, but people soon realized that wasn’t quite accurate enough. The Angel of Death suited him better.

  Dalton got the worst of it. He was always separate from us. We loved him, but he wholeheartedly pushed us away.

  “Being a sniper is a lonely road to walk,” he told me one night, blowing smoke rings up into the air. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m used to feeling apart.”