Page 61 of Turn the Tide
Chapter 2
Northern Virginia
Friday, March 4, 12:30 p.m. EST/ 6:30 p.m. CET
Today was one of those bad days that had an insidious way of creeping up on Logan Silva. Besides the usual HALT—hunger, anger, loneliness, tiredness—he had other hard triggers. The anniversary of his team being blown to bits while he survived. A call from one of their widows checking on him. Hell, sometimes his reflection in the mirror sparked anurge.
Seeing pity in Ashley’s eyes had been the worst. Stubborn, sassy Ash, with a heart bigger than the sun. A familiar stab of longing got him right through the ribs. At times, he’d swear he felt her presence in the room. He’d talk to her, yell at her, like she was real.
Maybe it was the same thing someone experienced when they lost a limb. Phantom pain.
He’d managed most triggers by moving to the Blue Ridge Mountains, changing his cell phone number, staying busy with consulting work. And no mirrors in his hidey-hole cabin—made shaving a bitch, so he’d stopped. He probably looked like a rabid werewolf.
But nothing stopped a bad day from ambushing him. Always a total blindside.
His hands shook, the tremor lodged deep in his chest. The craving prowled inside him, ravenous and ruthless, and part of him longed to feed it.
Logan took off his flannel shirt, a cliché that fit his new life, and grabbed a shovel.
He stalked into the cold drizzle under the dirty-dishwater sky. The surrounding wilderness and dreary clouds pressed in. He marched to the spot facing the majestic landscape, but he hadn’t moved to the middle of nowhere for the view. He lived out here so no one heard his screams.
Screams that wrenched him awake from nightmares about the car bomb that took out Chris and Javier. Screams to release the rage.
Slamming the shovel into moist soil, he dug. Dirt flew against an ashen backdrop. The deeper he went, the more his mind emptied. Sap from the oaks, the scent of moss and rain, even the smell of decay rising from the earth filled his nose. He sang John Denver.
Blue Ridge Mountains… Country roads… To the place I belong.
The pendant of St. Jude—which he never took off sincethat day, though he didn’t have a religious bone in his body—swung from the chain around his neck. His ragged breath puffed white in the chilly air. His body thanked him for the exertion after another sleepless night.
Metal struck wood. He scooped up the box and hopped out of the five-foot-deep hole with ease since he was a mean six six. He’d originally meant for this to be his grave, but the suicidal urge had passed by the time he’d finished.
Instead of swallowing the barrel of a gun, he’d buried the box.
Fuck me. The craving should’ve dissipated, but the cloying tightness was still in the back of his throat, the thirst tempting him. He opened the fifteen-by-twelve-inch box and stared at the bottle of rotgut whiskey, wanting to drown in it. Let the booze flood his bloodstream and wash away five hundred and sixty-two days of sobriety.
The desire to take a drink was so bad, there was a whirring in his brain. Athwopp thwopp thwopphacking through his mind.
A powerful gust of wind whipped up dirt and leaves, redirecting rain like the hand of God. Logan looked over his shoulder with his one good eye. A black helicopter appeared out of the gray soup above, setting down to land. The sound of the helo’s rotor blades slicing the air filled his ear.
At least thethwoppingwasn’t in his head.
He slammed the wooden box shut and stomped to his cabin, leaving the door open without a glance back at the passenger stepping out of the helicopter.
It wasn’t a question of who’d come—only why Bruce Sanborn, head of the CIA’s Special Activities Division, the most secretive special operations force in the United States, had tracked him down.
Logan dumped the box on the coffee table and got a drink of water, keeping his scarred back to the door. Even deaf in one ear, he made out two men entering. No mystery who the other guy was either. But if Bruce Sanborn had brought his second-in-command, Knox Cody, Logan’s day was about to go from bad straight into the crapper.
“What do you want?” Logan drained the glass and set it in the sink.
“Hello to you too.” Sanborn’s voice was low but powerful, ringing with authority.
Logan turned, folded his arms over his filthy, bare chest, and stared at two of the deadliest men in the world.
“Holy hell,” Knox said. He was a lean guy, super fit, more rugged than Sanborn. Sharp blue eyes, dark brush-cut hair. “You’ve turned into Sasquatch up here.”
Sasquatch was a hell of a lot worse than a werewolf. Maybe heshouldshave. “What do you want?”
Sanborn stared at the fireplace packed in with books. Stress had feathered sparse gray near his temples, making him look distinguished. “I have a mission only you can get done.”
