Page 27 of Scorpion

“Should I ask what Sergei has in his pack?”

“Zalak, you should know better than to ask what’s in a man’s bag.”

I scoff, packing everything back up. “Nothing particularly useful, usually.”

He chuckles. “It makes us feel important to have one.”

“When was the last time you wore a backpack?”

“I don’t need to feel important, when I already am it.”

I shake my head and shoulder the bag, leaving the room without getting dismissed first. In the military, I would get my ass kicked to Sunday and back if I did that. Here? What’s he going to do? Fire me? Somehow, I doubt that.

I run through a checklist of everything I need to do once I reach the meetup spot. Anxiety prickles up my spine, but for once, it’s the good type of nerves. Without fear, people who go into war zones don’t come out.

There’s a line of SUVs parked right in front of the house. One of the doors is open for Mathijs and—

Every cell in my body goes cold.

I didn’t think this through. Why the fuck didn’t I remember that these kinds of jobs involve that?

Sweat gathers down my spine and my heart rate triples its speed. I whip my head around like we’re seconds away from blowing up into a hundred parts. I haven’t been inside a car in over two years. Buses are fine. Trains are doable. A car? Especially a fucking SUV?

No.

No.

I can do it.

I’m not there anymore. TJ—

No. I have to focus. I need this job. I can’t afford to lose it.

Pain flares in my foot and the sound of scraping metal rings through my ears as I force myself to take a step forward. Images of TJ’s body flash before me. The fire. The shards of metal. The screaming. Gunshots.

I can’t do it.

I can’t—

“Zalak.”

I grab a fistful of the person’s clothes, ready to slam them onto the ground and pummel their head in.

“Zalak,” Mathijs whispers, a soft smile curving his lips like he’s oblivious to my state. The creases of concern around his eyes are a dead giveaway. He motions to the side of the house, making no move to get my hand off him as my lungs burn with my rapid breaths. “Your beast awaits.”

I follow the direction he’s pointing to—a sleek black motorcycle. He… he knows. Swallowing, I quickly extract my fingers and mutter a quick thanks. Fuck, I need to get my shit together. I can’t lose it on my first goddamn day. I’m here to do a job and prove I’m wholly competent for it. So far, I’ve proven that I’m anything but.

If I had this kind of reaction in the military, I would be suspended faster than I could line up a shot. Balling my fists, I focus on my surroundings—tallying up the guards, the exits, the clear skies, the lack of movement in the bushes.

I’m not there anymore. I repeat that mantra until I’m sick of it.

Safe isn’t a word I can use today. My foot seems to develop a sixth sense for incoming danger, because the pain alleviates with each step. Avoiding eye contact becomes a no-brainer once I have my helmet firmly in place, and I can pretend to know what I’m doing. Fake it until you make it.

Except in this case, faking it could mean someone dies. No pressure.

The motorbike rumbles to life beneath me, and I rev the engine before taking off toward the meeting point. The gates open before I even reach them, then I’m on the road. The exhilaration of zipping down the road can’t be replicated inside of a car. Nothing compares to the freedom of being outside a metal can.

I navigate onto the highway and off into the industrial area. As expected, it’s near deserted this late in the afternoon. No one in their right mind would be working at this time on a Sunday. There’s a slight chill in the air that sets me on edge. Everything is stiller, like the forest has quietened right before an oncoming attack.

---