Page 80 of Hell to Pay

The more I got to know the Bastards the less clear everything seemed, the less black-and-white. There would never be an excuse for what they’d done to me in high school, but I was starting to wonder if this was what it meant to be an adult: to see the nuances of not just your own story but everyone else’s, to accept that the vast majority of people weren’t all good or all bad, that they were just an amalgam of their histories and psychology and the things they wanted.

The things they needed.

I wasn’t naive. I knew better than anyone that there were truly bad people in the world, people like Captain Sandoval and the people who’d held me on theArtemis.

Like the men behind Imperium Fratrum.

The brand on the back of my neck had almost healed, the numbers still there but less painful, more of a scar. Now it burned again, like just the thought of Imperium Fratrum was enough to make my body remember what they’d done to me, what they still wanted to do to me and to the other girls who’d gone missing around Blackwell Falls.

Maybe that was part of being an adult too: accepting that there really was evil in the world.

And that sometimes, it was up to you to stop it.

52

RAFE

The bar wasa seedy place in the 19th arrondissement, small and dimly lit, packed with big dudes who bracketed their drinks with their forearms like they were in prison. There were a couple groups but even they looked suspicious of each other, like no one could really be trusted, not even the guys they’d walked in with.

“In the back,” Nolan said.

I followed his gaze to a booth at the back of the place, right next to the hallway that held the bathrooms, or the WCs as they called them in Paris, because everything was fancy in fucking Paris.

I clocked the place as I followed Nolan to the back, felt the eyes of the other men on us, appraising, wondering if we were going to be the ones to light the fuse on the invisible stick of dynamite in the middle of the room.

There was an exit at the end of the hall, past the restrooms. I tucked the knowledge away in case things went south, not so much with our contact, Ghost, but with one of the other powder kegs in the bar.

“Dude,” Ghost said, rising as we approached. “Thought I’d never see your ugly faces again.”

“You must be looking in a mirror,” I said, because giving each other shit was a habit from the time we’d served together in the SEALs.

We hadn’t been in the same unit but we’d crossed paths more than once, usually in passing, one unit on its way out, one unit on its way in. Rumor was, Ghost had gotten his nickname because of his ability to disappear into thin air and reappear like magic. Some of the guys in his unit had even been convinced he was supernatural, that it was the only explanation for the way he seemed to evaporate and resurface.

Ghost laughed and shook our hands, slapping us on the shoulders. “Come on now, you know you were always the Pretty Boys.”

The nickname rankled because I’d heard ore than enough of it during my time in the SEALs. Nolan, Jude, and I had been the Pretty Boys. The other guys hadn’t meant anything by it, but it wasn’t the kind of nickname you wanted in a line of work where your reputation alone could keep you alive.

Ghost lowered himself — all 6’4” of himself — back into the booth and Nolan and I slid into the seat across from him. He was leaner than he’d been in the military, still muscular but without the beefy look brought on by mess-hall food and too much booze during R & R.

His brown beard was more tailored, and he wore a fucking jacket over his T-shirt and jeans — not an outerwear jacket, a blazer. In a dive bar.

Fucking Paris.

He gestured at the two glasses full of beer sitting across from his almost empty one. “Got you started.”

“Thanks, man.” I took a drink of the beer to be polite, but we weren’t here to shoot the shit.

“How’s Paris treating you?” Nolan asked. He’d always been better than me at making small talk even when the stakes were high.

“Can’t complain,” Ghost said. “Fine food, fine wine, fine women.”

“You’re not still with Amélie?” Nolan asked.

Ghost frowned. “The fuck you talking about? Think I can’t admire other women just because I’ve got one of my own?”

I took another drink of my beer instead of responding because the truth was I wasn’t sure I’d noticed another woman since the day Lilah had fallen through our doorway, covered in snow and gasping for breath.

“Good for you,” Nolan said, playing along.

---