Past Never Dies

by Cate Clarke

  Taking the rope out of her bag and lacing up her boots, Diana stood at the base of the pillar. She pulled at the shoulders of her black T-shirt and tucked her military pants into her boots. Knee pads, elbow pads but no helmet—too bulky—blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Guns strapped to her thighs, and a dagger wrapped under her sock.

  She wrapped the rope around the stone and flicked it up, gripping her boots against the stone and starting to climb. One flick at a time, she made her way up the smoothed fifteen-foot pillar, keeping her breaths even, keeping as quiet as possible.

  When she got to the top, the guards were still at the doors, looking through. Where was Katy? She was meant to get the men away from the back entrance. Diana crouched, holding on to the lip of the balcony and silently throwing herself over it to land squat in the corner. Wrapping the rope around her arm and clipping it to the back of her pants, she huddled against the stone bannister. Diana took the silenced pistol out of her holster.

  The guards hadn’t turned in minutes—something inside was holding their attention. Diana made her way so she was standing almost directly behind them, holding the gun between her crouched legs, keeping her eyes on the guards. Still, no Katy. Something wasn’t right, Diana’s intuition going off like an alarm between her ears.

  Two suppressed shots and the guards were on the ground.

  The bodies collapsed opposite from each other, their equipment crunching against the stone. The manor was huge and exorbitant, millions upon millions of human trafficking money going into this seaside mansion. It was lined with white and gold, and she could see through to the kitchen and living room, filled with cared-for antiques. But, no people. No more guards. No Taras. No Rex. No Kennedy.

  Then, a gunshot. It was muffled, coming from inside, but it was a sound that instantly made Diana panic.

  Stepping over the guards' still bodies, she entered the house through the glass doors, weaving her way along the marble, across a giant kitchen island and into a narrow hallway.

  She heard voices.

  “Taras—” A wounded plea.

  “Dad!” Kennedy’s scream.

  Ahead, she saw the backs of two women—one with long blonde hair, the other's pulled back into a graying bun. Through their legs, there was a large baroque-style foyer with a grand staircase on one side. She couldn’t see around the women to count the people in the room, but she could see who was lying on the ground, bleeding—Andriy and Rex.

  Out of her waterproof pack, she grabbed the smoke grenade. They were limited on the amount of explosives they could bring because of the diving. Rex had more in his pack that the guards were about to filter through as he lay on the ground writhing in pain.

  She pulled the pin, rolled the grenade between the first woman’s legs and waited.

  Smoke erupted from the canister, filling the high-ceiling room with billowing streams of white. Diana moved forward, grabbing at the woman with the bun and pushing her in front of her, shoving her way into the room.

  “There!” someone shouted.

  Guns went off in the smoke.

  Diana turned the woman toward the first black boots she saw, shoving her into the hands of an unexpecting guard. Two shots from her pistol into his stomach, and he was down. Along the back of the room, smoke filtering in front of it, large windows faced out into the stone balcony. Red velvet curtains blocked most of the light from cutting inside and through the smoke, but there was too much natural light coming in through the front of the house. She didn’t have enough cover.

  Sliding on her knees, shooting another guard as she did so, she tucked behind the curtains.

  “Windows!”

  There was a heavy shot, and one of the windows exploded into a firework of glass. It cut at her skin as she sprinted through to the next set of curtains, boots following behind her. Suddenly turning to the guard behind her, she grabbed hold of the curtain with one hand, wrapping it around his neck and yanking it as hard as she could. With her other hand, she shoved the gun into his back, waiting for more boots. As the other guard came into her vision, through the smoke, she shot twice. The bullets sailed through the first guard and into the other, dropping them both to the ground.

  She released the curtain and turned.

  Coming through the smoke, the gray light from the window illuminating one side of his face, Taras Kushkin stepped forward, gun pressed to the temple of her daughter.

  “Stop,” he said.

  Diana pointed her gun at his head.

  “Stop or she dies,” he repeated.

  Kennedy was almost unrecognizable— her hair was dyed, she had makeup on and a dress that was not her own, her face was coated with fear but her eyes, there was a maturity in them that only trauma could leave. A determination that reminded Diana of herself.

  Her arms shook, wanting to take her daughter into an embrace and settle her fear. Days and hours of searching for her finally leading here—to the barrel of Taras Kushkin’s gun. It was what she expected, but she couldn’t keep the silenced pistol from trembling in her fingers.

  “Gun down, Diana,” Taras said, his soft voice under the hissing of the grenade. To her right, there was still one more guard, standing by Andriy’s and Rex’s bodies that Diana couldn’t see anymore because of the thickness of the white smoke along the bottom of the room.

  He had Kennedy directly in front of him, using her as a shield. Her being tall for her age and him being short for his, she was almost covering all of Taras aside from his skinny arms.

  “Let her go,” Diana growled.

  “I won’t say it again!” Taras screamed, pushing the gun hard into Kennedy’s temple. It wasn’t the sudden screaming but Kennedy’s whimper that caused Diana to drop the gun to the marble floors and lift her hands to her ears.

  There was scuffling to her right, underneath the smoke.

  “You’ve haunted me for too long, Diana Weick,” Taras said, his arms relaxing slightly around Kennedy with her gun on the ground, still another strapped around her thigh. But by the time she could get it out, he’d have released the trigger on his. “Later on, when they blame me for your death, I want your daughter to know that this was not me. This, all of this, was a culmination of the decisions you made. You left behind a darkness here, Diana. After killing my father without so much as a second thought, you left my family in turmoil. A veil dropped over this house in the shape of your eyes, blanketing us in your wretched choices. They called me crazy, out of my mind, just as they did to you. Obsessive. Only able to focus on one thing. You on your daughter, and me on you.”

  As he took a deep breath to continue his aimless monologuing, a gun went off in the midst of the smoke. Then, a hand raised out of the white, shooting a second time, hitting Taras directly in his hip.

  He fell.

  Kennedy stumbled forward.

  Diana grabbed her, taking her into her hands.

  Not looking back, Diana scooped up her daughter and bolted through the broken window. Gunshots rang out behind her, smashing another window into a thousand pieces, stone from the balcony cracking and erupting along the bannister.

  “Dad is still back there!” Kennedy said.

  Diana said nothing but tears pushed out of her eyes as she forced Kennedy’s arms around her neck and on her back. When she was sure Kennedy had a strong hold, she flipped them over the stone balcony, hung for half a second and dropped to the rocky shore below.

  Trying to roll them out of the fifteen-foot drop, her ankles resisting a bit, they were mostly unscathed underneath the balcony.

  But she heard his shrieking from inside, Taras screaming in Russian at everyone around him, seagulls cawing in the distance, breaking free from the shores.

  “We gotta move,” Diana said to Kennedy, grabbing the Draeger and beginning to equip it on her body.

  “Mom…” Kennedy whispered, her voice breaking.

  “I know,” Diana said.

  But she didn’t allow herself to embrace her, to hug her. It would be hour
s later before they’d have that opportunity. Gunshots behind them, Diana set the Draeger on her body, and they swam along the shores of the Black Sea for as long as they could. They ducked into alcoves, covered their tracks and kept swimming—miles and miles of dark salty water, uneven coast and disturbed seabirds. Kennedy struggled with the use of the Draeger, but Diana kept her underwater as much and as long as she could.

  They couldn’t see her.

  They couldn’t take her again.

  Dragging each other up on an isolated shore, miles away from anyone, Diana and Kennedy collapsed into each other’s arms. Kennedy sobbed into her shoulder, curling up into and clutching her arms around her torso. They kept each other warm. The chill of the water soaking into both of their clothes and hair, dripping off of them, but no warmth coming to replace it aside from what was left in their bodies. And that was very little.

  They had been robbed, scraped and bereaved of their lives, their morals, their choices. They had been separated, kept out of each other’s grasp by only minutes and blocks—purposefully kept from one another to rectify the ghosts that lived in the mind of Taras Kushkin. Diana was that nightmare. She was the haunting that kept him from taking over for his father, that kept him from truly living his life and finding any semblance of love. And now with Kennedy safe in her arms, Diana would be the nightmare that kept him from his intentions, returning for the second person he’d stolen from her and for a personal revenge, building a stone pillar down her spine.

  Waves crashed in around her ankles. She stroked Kennedy’s hair. Diana’s wounds pummeling her, encouraging her to collapse herself against the rocks beneath her.

  She would haunt him as he did her. Taras’s continuation to underestimate her, just like everyone had underestimated her for the entirety of her career, fueling her as it always had, walking through the nightmarish hellscape that was her trauma and the life that she’d passed on to her children. But, it had made her stronger. It had made Kennedy stronger. Wesley, smarter and more cautious. Rex, braver.

  So Diana would be the demon he made her out to be.

  The shadow in his dreams.

  The green-faced monster in his closet.

  The End

  Epilogue

  Dominic Ratanake

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  The sun pierced through the window. Though he had no idea of the time, he knew it was late because of how bright and insistent the light was, stabbing at his hangover. Ratanake flipped over, his clothes from yesterday catching on the sheets, and reached for his phone.

  He had missed everything.

  Diana was safe. Kennedy was safe. But that was temporary and everything else, everyone else, was unknown.

  Rolling out of the bed to go to the bathroom and vomit, Ratanake’s head was swirling in sync with his stomach. The scotch had kept him safe from his worries—it had been too effective. Waking up to Diana’s success was just reassurance that this habit of his was working for him and not against him. After wiping at the bile from the sides of his mouth and splashing water on his face, he checked the room. It was a mess, and he was completely out of his miniature bottles, no friends rattling around in his pocket.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Checking himself quickly in the mirror, the age around his eyes way more obvious today from his dehydration, Ratanake called out, “Just a minute!”

  He took a moment to toss his clothes into his suitcase, tidying up as quickly as he could.

  The knock came again.

  Then, a beep at the door, and shoes walking into the hotel room without an invitation.

  “I said, just a minute,” Ratanake growled, turning around.

  Agent Cameron Snowman was standing by the table where Ratanake’s laptop was still open from his drunken contacts to get Diana a Draeger yesterday.

  “Cameron,” Ratanake said, not hiding his surprise. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Here to relay some more information we found on Lefferts’ computer, man,” Cameron said. He was in a casual suit, black suit pants and blazer with an open navy-colored button-up underneath. His fade was freshly cut, and his skin caught the sun from the window like he was made of marble. Cameron reminded Ratanake of a younger version of himself, just as his father had as well, and suddenly, he felt ancient.

  “You couldn’t have sent it in an email? Text?” Ratanake asked. “TikTok or whatever?”

  Leaning into his age, Ratanake grinned, and Cameron laughed, crossing the room to the window, his eyes lingering for a moment on the trash can that was filled with empty bottles.

  “Have a party?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” Ratanake replied.

  “Makes sense—” Cameron said, cracking his knuckles and putting his hands in his pockets. “That you’d be drinking while your soldiers are fucking risking their lives overseas for you.”

  Ratanake’s head cocked, eyebrows raised and he said, “Excuse me?”

  “It just makes sense,” Cameron continued. “That’s kinda your way. You train them for it, scream at them to be the best they can be and then ship them off to Russia to get shot in the head.”

  “Cameron…your dad—”

  “Shut up.” Cameron took a gun out of his pocket and pointed it across the room. “Sit down.”

  Raising his hands by his ears and eyes sliding over to where he’d left his handgun under his suitcase, Ratanake sat on the edge of the bed. The young agent was standing just out of reach, strategically placing himself between Ratanake and the window with the gun outstretched and pointed. Any closer and Ratanake could overpower him. Any closer and he’d have a chance.

  “Not only do you send them off to die,” Cameron said in a tone that was much too cheerful and relaxed. “But you fuck your trainees.”

  “No.” Ratanake shook his head. “Don’t bring her into this.”

  “What do you mean by that? She’s in this, Ratanake. She is this. It wasn’t just you that let him die, it was the entire squad…her included. Laird’s already paid his price, but you and her….” His voice broke a little. “How do you get away with everything? It’s the government ties, right? It’s kept you covered for now. I’d strongly recommend stepping into the private sector once in a while. See what they have to offer you.”

  “Private? The FBI isn’t private.”

  Cameron chuckled, but he didn’t move from his position, keeping himself and the gun still as the sun beamed in behind him.

  “I’m not talking about the FBI…” he sighed.

  “Kushkin?” Ratanake questioned. Knowing the answer was right from the furrow in Cameron’s face, Ratanake felt the bottom of his jaw begin to pulse with anger. “How could you make a deal with that perverted asshole?”

  “He made a deal with me,” Cameron snapped. “Geez man, you have no idea. No clue what’s going on behind your back.”

  “Tell me then.”

  “That’s not what I’m here for.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To kill you.”

  At that, Ratanake hopped up from the edge of the bed, barreling toward Cameron. But he didn’t get far. Two silenced shots, pumped into his chest, and he was on the ground. At first, it was like he’d fallen from a great height, the wind completely knocked out of him, and when he caught his breath, two labored exhales, the pain overwhelmed him. He grunted against it, trying to get up onto his elbows but failing.

  Three steps forward and Cameron had the gun pointed at his forehead.

  Ratanake had failed. Not only himself but the Weicks, his teams, his colleagues. And that failure pressed onto his chest where he’d been shot as more blood seeped onto his clothes with every breath. But all he really wanted in that moment was a drink to take it away—wash away his shortcomings, his feelings, his pain.

  “Kill me then,” Ratanake mustered out.

  Cameron smiled and said, “Gladly.”

  There was another shot.

  Blinded by sunlight.

&
nbsp; Cameron was gone.

  Arms were pulling at him from behind, pulling him out of this life.

  No, they were too skinny and weak to be the arms of death.

  Ratanake’s eyes flickered open. The bottom of Cameron’s shoes were facing him, pointing straight up to the ceiling in front of the window. The stickiness of his blood underneath him was warming his back. The smell of the gunshots was deep in his nose. And overtop of him, the person that had saved him, a gun at his side, swooped hair over his eyes, huge Adam’s apple bouncing up and down in his throat, saying something to him that he couldn’t make out.

  “Wesley…” Ratanake managed.

  There was another voice behind them, mixing in with the static that filled his ears. The pain was too distracting, staggering waves of it, keeping him from discerning the arms that were grabbing at him and carrying him out of the room, leaving behind Cameron’s writhing body. As they dragged him across the carpet, his boots hit the trash can, knocking over and spilling small bottles, their glass tingling and rolling across the hotel room floor. A few remaining drops of bronze liquid catching in the rays of the late-morning sun.

  Last Reminder

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  Cate Clarke

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