Page 42 of Assistant to the Assassin

“H?” I ask, worry welling up inside of me.

Without looking at me, he shakes his head and exits the room, his feet stomping with how quick his movements are. I hear a door slam shut, making me flinch, and I’m left reeling from whatever the fuck just happened. I go over to my laptop and pause the song that has only just begun, “Moon River.” Something about this song set him off, and since his mother was the one who introduced him to these kinds of movies, I’ll bet this was some kind of reminder of his mom.

Despite having been a soldier, killing people for a living, and seeing some of the most heinous things capable of the human race, nothing triggers him the way his mother does. From the moment I first heard about her, I knew she was the reason for Henry’s entire being—for all of his beliefs, actions, and feelings. Even in death, she continues to be the center of his universe.

I wish I knew what had happened to her. I could maybe help him cope through his still raw grief and PTSD, but I know in my gut getting the truth from him will be like prying a barnacle off a boat. Someone like Henry can only survive if he keeps everything vulnerable inside him guarded at all times, tucked away behind a wall no one can gain access to. I know because I used to be like that too before I went to therapy, a journey Henry is still in the early stages of.

I head over to his room and predictably find the door closed. Without knocking, I scan my face and slip inside quietly, finding him on the floor, his head between his knees and his hands clutching on to his rosary so hard that his knuckles are white.

I kneel down in front of him, not knowing whether I should touch him or not. “H?”

He shakes his head, keeping his head down. “Dr. Bennett said the only way to move on is by feeling everything, but I can’t. I can’t handle it.”

I reach out and grip his arm, making him flinch. “Yes, you can. You’re the strongest person I know. There is no fight you have lost or battle you couldn’t win, and this is no different.”

“There was a fight I lost,” he whispers, his voice thick with tears. “I lost everything, and it’s going to happen again. I’m going to lose again.”

“What are you talking about?”

He shakes his head, tightening his arms around his legs. “Go.”

I drop my hand, my stomach sinking. “Hen—”

“Go, Beth. Please,” he begs.

I stand up and head towards the door, hating this feeling of helplessness and worry. I hate seeing him in pain and knowing I can’t help him. I hate that he’s shutting me out instead of letting me in.

I pause in the doorway, my own throat clogged with emotion, and say to him over my shoulder, “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

Then I shut the door behind me.

There are over seven thousand islands in the Caribbean and Henry Cai is hiding out in one of them. Based upon my intelligence sources, my team and I tracked Ian Lukas’s plane to Miami, where Bethany Reed coincidentally flew by charter plane through the BWI Airport. From there, her trail becomes non-existent. But for Lukas, he rented a helicopter to Nassau. I’m not too surprised; most scum for hire like Cai conduct their business through the islands in order to keep a low profile and avoid capture, which is annoying for someone trying to hunt him down. There are thousands of places to hide, and I can only use certain resources to search. I have to keep it that way if I want this operation to be covert. No one knows about the true nature of Jake’s death, and I need to keep it that way.

I sent two of my guys to scout out Haiti while me and the others focus on Cuba. We’re checking the bigger islands before working our way through the small ones. Even if Cai, Lukas, and Reed aren’t in these countries, the likelihood of them having stopped here is high. At the very least they used these countries as waypoints to stock up on supplies, and that should be enough to narrow down our search. This part may be tedious, but it’s only a matter of time before we catch up to the three of them.

I will not sleep until I have wrung Cai and Reed like towels and made their last moments as agonizing as possible.

Their time is running out.

Henry doesn’t come out of his room until the next afternoon. I had knocked on his door a couple times since I had woken up, but I had gotten no answer, so I had decided to practice without him. I thought it was best to leave the gun alone for now since I was still new to it, so I used the punching bag. I mostly decided to do this because I thought it would be cathartic, and I was right. Henry has always been stubborn, like a boulder-stuck-in-a-ditch-of-mud kind of stubborn, but this is reaching new heights. He’s never flat-out ignored or shut me out before. Given our present circumstances, it’s extremely aggravating. I can’t exactly leave to get a coffee or something—I have to stay in a concrete box with the guy.

So, the punching bag it is.

It’s around dinner time that Henry makes his first appearance, marching into the room and placing a hand on the bag, stopping it from swaying. “Pick up your gun,” he says quietly, his tone more reserved than usual, which is saying something.

Knowing better than to question him, I do as he says and get into position. He pushes the paper targets back, and with a silent nod, he gives me the okay to shoot. I pull the trigger, aiming for the head, but when he pulls the target back up, I can see the bullet hole two inches above the shoulder.

“Again,” he orders, pushing the target back.

I shoot again, this time hitting an inch from the target’s hip.

His nostrils flare, his knuckles turning white as he pushes back the target with the handle. “Again.”

“H—”

“I said again!”

I place the gun down on the weapons’ rack, crossing my arms over my chest. “Not until you talk to me.”

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