Page 152 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

If I survive.

If.

The magnitude of Mike's fate crashes down on me again, heavier than before. If only I'd checked my messages sooner. If only I'd been more vigilant. If only I hadn't let my guard down for even those few minutes.

The guilt is acidic, eating through every layer. Whatever fate I'm about to face is my fault. My last and greatest failure.

But after I deal with Miller, there won't be any more mistakes to atone for. I'll be absolved of my sins and free to live the life I've always secretly craved. I'll have a wife, a family, belonging.

For the first time in my existence, I can see a future that isn't defined by duty or service or the weight of others' lives on my shoulders. No more military barracks. No more weapons checks. No more security perimeters and threat assessments.

Just mornings with tea and a book and evenings with Londyn's head on my shoulder. Our child's laughter will echo through our home. I'll have peace.

I just have to get through this last mission. Then I'm free—free of Victor, free of the chains of service, free of the burden I've carried since I first put on a uniform.

The highway stretches ahead, a ribbon of darkness punctuated by the red glow of tail lights. I shift my focus from the guilt and regrets to what's ahead.

It's worth any risk. Worth any cost.

Even if that cost is my soul.

Chapter 47

SEAN

MY BOOTS HIT THE ASPHALT as the ambient noise of distant traffic and ocean waves wraps around me. The salty night air clings to my skin. That's something I was missing in New York, those ocean waves and ocean smells.

I'm one mile from the marina. I've parked in a dimly lit public lot where my sedan blends with the handful of other vehicles, likely beachgoers who've lingered way past when the beaches close in San Diego.

I'm dressed for invisibility and speed with black tactical pants, a black compression shirt and a black jacket. Also, black gloves that fit like a second skin. To complete my goth look, even my blue hair is gone, replaced by a hasty dye job in a motel bathroom. The black strands are now foreign against my forehead, but the transformation is complete. No more Seanthe bodyguard or the blue-haired man in love with an actress. Tonight, I'm just a weapon pointed at a target.

There are several small bags of heroin in my pocket, enough to get Miller arrested but not enough to trigger a major investigation. Victor's contact handed them to me with the casual indifference of someone passing a stick of gum, his eyes never meeting mine. The exchange took all of thirty seconds in the back lot of a twenty-four-hour diner outside Los Angeles.

"They'll search tomorrow," he'd said. "Nine AM."

That was it, like placing an order at a drive-through, if the menu included destroying a man's life.

Not that Miller doesn't deserve worse.

My hand brushes against the concealed weapons under my jacket. It's a reflexive check, like counting heartbeats. The weight of the Glock against my ribs is comforting in its familiarity. Next to it, the matte black handle of a tactical knife in its sheath. I don't plan on using either, but in my line of work, plans have a tendency to go sideways faster than you can say 'fuck.' I need to prepare for possibilities.

The marina is ahead, and it's a tangle of white masts and lights reflected in the black water. Security is standard for a mid-tier operation. There's a bored guard in a booth at the main entrance, a few cameras mounted at strategic points, and a gate requiring a key card for access. Nothing I can't bypass.

I circle to the south end, away from the main entrance, where the perimeter fence meets a small maintenance building. The camera blind spot I identified during my earlier recon is exactly where I expected. There's a shadow corridor created by the angles of two overlapping surveillance zones. Amateur setup. They're more interested in keeping drunken college kids off the docks than dealing with someone who knows what they're doing.

I slip a signal jammer from my pocket; it's a small black unit the size of a credit card. It won't take out every camera, just create enough static in the feed to make whatever they capture unusable. The range is limited, so I'll need to plant several. I activate the first one and tuck it behind a junction box.

Ten seconds to test it. Twenty to confirm the guard isn't responding.

Clear.

The fence is eight feet of chain link topped with a half-assed attempt at barbed wire. I scale it, my body remembering countless similar obstacles from Marine training. At the top, I drape a black cloth over the barbed wire, creating a bridge, before dropping silently to the other side.

Inside the perimeter, I become a shadow among shadows. The docks stretch out, labeled A through G, with Miller's yacht resting peacefully at E-11, according to Victor's contact.

The marina itself is easy to navigate, with rows of vessels ranging from modest sailboats to luxury yachts, all bobbing slightly inthe gentle current. Most are dark because their owners are somewhere else.

I move down the central pathway, keeping to the edges where darkness spreads the deepest. My steps are silent against the wooden planks as I distribute my weight in a way that doesn't create vibrations.

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