Page 44 of No Words
I fire, but he twists, the round grazing his shoulder. He barrels forward, knocking a chair aside, weapon swinging toward me. Plaster bursts from the wall inches from my head as I drop behind the doorframe.
I don’t think. Don’t hesitate. My body moves on pure instinct, a decision made somewhere deeper than conscious thought. I raise the weapon in a two-handed grip, Cole’s voice echoing in my memory: breathe out, squeeze don’t pull, follow through. My hands don’t shake. My finger squeezes the trigger. Once. Twice. The sound thunderous in the confined space.
The first shot catches Alessio in the chest, jerking him backward. His eyes widen in shock as a dark stain spreads across his white dress shirt. The second shot drops him to his knees, then he crumples forward onto the porch floor. His eyes find mine in his final moment, realization and disbelief mingling as life drains away. He twitches once, then is still. The gun slides from his fingers, clanging against the concrete. My own arms lower in slow motion, the sound of my pulse louder than the ringing in my ears. Somewhere behind me, Cole says my name, his voice low but urgent. The sound grounds me, but doesn’t pull me back. Not yet.
The man who has haunted my nightmares, whose prosecution was going to make my career, whose conviction I’d planned to build my future on, crumples to the porch floor. By my hand. Not justice through law, but justice through violence.
In that moment, watching Alessio’s blood pool on the polished concrete, something crystallizes inside me. The woman who once believed in courtrooms and due process, who built meticulous evidence chains and practiced closing arguments in the mirror, she’s a stranger to me now. I’ve crossed a line thatcan’t be uncrossed, and I’ve made choices that can’t be undone. And the most terrifying part? I feel no regret, only a strange sense of liberation.
The silence that follows is absolute. Even the birds have stopped singing. In the sudden quiet, I fall apart. My legs give out, and I sink to my knees, the gun clattering to the porch floor. The smell of gunpowder burns my nostrils. My hands won’t stop shaking.
I wonder if I’ll dream about their faces, if I’ll wake up tasting copper and cordite. If the sound of gunshots will make me flinch for the rest of my life. Once you cross some lines, they flip switches in your brain that can’t be flipped back. Cole moves toward me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. Blood streaks his face, his hands, his shirt, some his, most not. I should feel repulsed. I should be terrified of what we’ve done. Instead, I find myself stepping forward to meet him.
“You saved my life,” he says quietly, wonder in his voice.
I look down at the gun on the floor, then at Alessio’s motionless form on the porch. My hand trembles now. Two men dead by my hands in the space of minutes. The coppery smell of blood assaults my nostrils, and bile threatens to rise. I swallow it down.
“I killed a man. Well, two men.”
“Yes.” No platitudes, no comfort. Just acknowledgment of what I’ve done.
“I’ve spent my entire career putting killers behind bars.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “And now I am one.”
Cole reaches out, his bloodied hand hovering near my cheek, waiting for permission. I lean into his touch, accepting the mark it will leave.
“Are you sorry?” he asks.
The question cuts deeper than I expected. Sorry for killing them? No. Sorry that the world forced me to become someonewho could? Yes. Sorry that violence felt like the only answer? Maybe. Sorry that it felt right in the moment? I don’t know how to answer that.
“No,” I whisper, surprised by my honesty. “I’m not sorry I survived. I’m not sorry they can’t hurt anyone else. But I’m sorry the system failed so completely that murder became justice. I’m sorry I had to become someone I wouldn’t have recognized six months ago.”
Jayce approaches, scanning the cabin’s destruction with a professional eye. “Owen and Jensen are just wrapping something up outside. No survivors, we’ll handle cleanup,” he says, his voice all business. “You both should get cleaned up. We’ll debrief in thirty.”
Cole nods, keeping his hand at the small of my back. The moment Jayce turns away, Cole leans in, his voice low in my ear while leading me towards the bathroom. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re covered in blood.”
Inside, he turns on the shower and helps me out of the blood-spattered clothes. I wince as I put weight on my twisted ankle; the adrenaline fading enough now for the pain to register. Cole notices immediately, his hand steadying my elbow.
“Bastard did a number on you,” he says, gently examining the swelling. His eyes catalog each scratch and bruise on my body, his expression hardening when he sees the finger-shaped marks left by my attacker.
“You did good,” he says simply.
The water runs red at our feet as we stand under the spray. I watch the evidence of my actions swirl down the drain. My former self would be horrified: I destroyed evidence, obstructed justice, and committed murder. That woman now feels increasingly distant, a ghost of someone I used to be.
Cole hands me a towel, his gaze lingering on my face rather than my body. “Are you okay?” The question carries weight beyond the physical.
“I will be,” I answer honestly.
After we dress, Cole takes me into his arms. The embrace isn’t sexual, but something deeper, an acknowledgment of what we’ve just survived together. His heartbeat thuds against my cheek, steady and reassuring.
“What happens now?” I press against his chest.
His arms tighten fractionally. “Now we go finish what we started.”
A day ago, I was a woman of the law. Now I have blood on my hands and Alessio’s body on the porch. But as I stand in Cole’s arms, I feel strangely at peace. I’ve finally found where I belong.
12
COLE
