Page 71 of Cohesion

He reached for the knife that had fallen without looking away from his target. Just because he was down didn’t mean he wouldn’t recover quicker than anticipated. Peyton tightened his grip around the hilt of the knife and then twisted his wrist to get a better angle so he could slit his throat and then bury the knife in his heart. It was never overkill when his survival was on the line.

A hand settled over his forearm. “Peyton, stop.”

He shrugged off the hold.No. He had to finish this.

“Peyton, he’s out; there’s no reason to kill him.”

Peyton blindly lashed out with the knife. The sounds were getting closer, gunfire no longer in the distance but an immediate threat. He had to end this. If he didn’t, then there wouldbe no end.

And if there was no end, how many more would die? How many more would he kill? The bodies would pile up, just like they always did. Because of him.

“Peyton, listen to me. He’s not a threat anymore. You did good, baby. You did so good. You’re okay now. We’re okay.”

“Okay,” Peyton repeated dully. They were okay.

No.

They weren’t.

He flexed his arm, squeezing again just to be sure. Nothing was okay. Not if the enemy was still breathing.

“Look at me. Peyton, look at me,” the voice said forcefully.

He knew that voice.Jericho.He lifted his gaze to meet bright blue eyes. The blue was wrong. They were supposed to be brown. He hated the contacts. But he knew that voice.

“Deep breaths. You’re okay. We’re okay,” Jericho said. “What can you smell?”

“Blood.” The metallic tang was up his nostrils, in his mouth, coating his throat. Gargle salt water, but it never did anything.Drink until he passed out. It didn’t work. It was still there when he woke, alongside the nausea in his gut.

Jericho’s hand cupped his cheek and gently urged him forward until his nose was nuzzled in a neck.

“Breathe deep,” Jericho said. “What do you smell?”

Peyton closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose. “Brown. Trees in summer. A light breeze. Sandalwood.” He smiled. “Sweat.”

Jericho kissed his temple. “Good job. You can let him go now.”

Peyton let the body slip from his grasp. He wouldn’t be out much longer. He hadn’t done enough for that. It wasn’t like the movies. Being knocked out rarely lasted long, not without potential complications and significant brain damage.

“There you are,” Jericho said, sliding his thumb across Peyton’s cheekbone. “It’s all right. Count as you breathe. One, in. Two, out. Three, in. Four, out.”

Peyton nodded as he breathed, silently counting in his head. He got to fifteen before the noise in his head calmed, before he could feel the ground under his feet, the hum of the air conditioner, the faint ticks of the fridge in the kitchen.

He spotted a foot behind the couch as he stood. “Body,” he said, approaching it. Face down, three holes in his back, the light-grey shirt soaking up the blood. Weapon just out of reach, like he’d dropped it as he fell. “Shot in the back.” Peyton worried his lip and looked behind himself to the front door. “It’s why it was open. He heard a noise, climbed the fence like us, came in to check it out, and then he was dead.” Not even a chance to fight back.

“Fuck. That’s Zoe’s guy.” Jericho ran a hand down his short beard. “Someone’s going to have to tell her. I’m not taking that one for the team.”

“Were they close?”

“If she recommended him, then yeah. She has a small social circle.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hazard of the job.”

Not comforting. Jericho never walked around wearing bulletproof gear. Will was geared to the teeth when he went out on a job. Peyton always had geared up when he’d been deployed. What did Jericho and the rest of the team wear? “Don’t let someone shoot you in the back.”

“Are you worried about me?”

---