Page 83 of Cohesion

Felix put a hand on Peyton’s elbow. “What’s going on, Sinclair?”

Peyton shook him off and took a few shaky steps toward the pit. What he’d done during his time here had been without reason. They were given a target, a place, and off they went; they’d had to believe that what they were doing was for the good ofsomething, without knowing the specifics.

It was easier to remember that they were the good guys when they were doing search-and-rescue operations. When they were killing tosave. But it didn’t negate the joy he got from the process. And therein lay all his problems.

What kind of monster enjoyed the act itself?

All he saw were the faces of the people that he’d killed.

The visions themselves didn’t even make any sense. Half the time, he hadn’t seen the faces clearly; only enough to make a positive ID once Aidan and Felix—in the thick of it—had pointed him in the right direction, and then it was just a matter of getting the right angle for his shot. Once he’d confirmed he had the right target, he lined up his shot, took it, and moved on. Like ticking items off a grocery list. Tick, tick, tick. On to the next.

The faces that he saw, that were imprinted so deep in his mind he could never get them out, the faces that spoke to him in his nightmares, they were from intel pictures and debriefing files. His brain supplied the rest of that mindfuck.

This was the side of him that he was trying so hard to keep from anyone that he cared about. He’d thought he had it undercontrol. Yesterday proved that he didn’t. He’d hurt Jericho. Could have done worse.

He stared at the pit for a long time, an ache in his chest that he’d thought he’d purged. One ofloss. He missed this. Missed the feel of a weapon in his hands, of a team at his back, of doing something thatmeantsomething.

Aidan and the rest of the guys gave him as much time as he needed. He’d grown from a boy to a man under their watchful gazes, and their infinite patience had been his guiding star for so long.

He blew out a deep, steadying breath and then ducked and went in, lowering himself into a crawl. Good thing he’d switched to long sleeves when he’d gone back home. There was nothing clean about being in a pit, and the less skin exposure, the better. Especially if—like he’d maybe done afewtimes early on in his career—he went in before checking for snakes. Having thick layers was a godsend while trying to scramble the fuck out and not get bitten in the process.

He spread out, making himself comfortable in the cool dirt. Getting in the right position was paramount; he’d been stuck laying in one position for hours before, and one bad cramp could turn the entire situation into a fucking nightmare.

His hand shook, reaching out to touch the SR98. Fuck, she was gorgeous. Recently shined, she practically gleamed. She’d need some impressive wrapping to hide herself in the field. Peyton remembered spending hours on his own weapon, painstakingly taking the time to make sure she was covered to perfection, everything but the muzzle hidden beneath layers.

Everything settled and quieted inside him as soon as his fingers touched the metal. Over the telescopic sight and down to slot into the trigger, like he’d never been away. He looked through the sight as he wriggled, getting comfier. His free handlifted to rest against her body, his thumb gently pressed on the sight.

“You ready?” Tyler asked quietly, coming to crouch in the pit with him.

Was he ready? Not even close. “Yeah.”

“Shooter, load.”

Peyton picked up the magazine and clicked it into place.

“Steady. We’re going for a target in bravo three. There’s only one; I think you can find it on your own.”

Peyton snorted as he pivoted the barrel on the bipod and shifted his position. “Contact.” He crisped his sight with the parallax and tilted his reticule, measuring the distance and doing a final visual inspection, getting ready to take the shot. “Two-point-one-six mill.”

“Check level. Hold four minutes left.”

Peyton readjusted and checked his reticule again. He evened out his breathing, his whole focus on the target in his sights. “Shooter ready.”

Two seconds later, he got the wind command and squeezed the trigger. Normally he would have relaxed as the recoil hit him, but he flinched instead, images barraging him. Faces he could never forget. Blood dripping down the forehead. Holes where there should never be holes.Sebastianin their place, a recurring nightmare he couldn’t shake.

A hand on his shoulder steadied him. “Perfect shot. Are you alright?”

He wasn’t sure if he was going to throw up or not. He couldn’t. He needed to keep it down. There would be too many questions if he couldn’t keep it down. “Yeah. On target?” Just keep it down.

“Right through the head, man. Never doubted you.”

No. He was a natural at death. The only thing he’d ever been good at. Tracking a target and neutralising. Not exactlysomething to take to the pearly gates. He couldn’t deal out more purposeless death.

Why had he thought he could?

“You ready for another?” Tyler asked, studying him.

Peyton took a deep breath and pushed out all of his anxiety. It was fine. They were fake targets, not real people. It was one afternoon. He could handle this.

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