Page 7 of Hidden Ascent

Twisting the gun out of Spider’s hand, he took it and fired three times, shooting Spider and the other two men with him. Then he walked to a chair where he’d left his coat.

After dropping it over his arm, he returned to Spider and watched as he choked on his own blood.

He felt nothing as he saw the life drain out of Spider, and it scared him. He’d thought he had clawed back some amount of humanity after what he’d done in the past, but even as he wiped his prints off the gun and dropped it on Spider’s chest that no longer struggled for breath, he knew he’d been lying to himself the whole time. He’d never changed. No matter what he did to get out of that life, what rules he made for himself to live by, evil was there inside of him.

After he left the building, he trudged down the quiet street, stumbling aimlessly, unaware of where he was going. Memories he’d buried now resurfaced and melted together into a numbness that coated him in a heavy paste.

He couldn’t remember the path he’d taken and was surprised when he stepped onto the sandy beach. He stopped and lifted his head to look out at the darkness in the abyss beyond the shore. It called to him.

He’d spent a lot of time in the water growing up. It had been a refuge for him. A place to silence the voices in his head that told him he was nothing.

He was a strong swimmer, but swimming laps wasn’t on his mind. The nightmare of emotions that heaved in his chest demanded to be released. Somehow, he had to find a way to pay for his sins.

Kicking off his shoes, he entered the ocean, wading out to his waist as the cold water threatened to steal his breath before he could hold it.

He blinked as a large wave crashed against his chest, splashing salt water on his face.

Somewhere out there was absolution. If he could swim hard enough for long enough, he’d find the release he was so desperate for.

Another big wave hit him, and he stumbled backward several steps. It wasn’t death he was after, but a fog had settled over his thoughts, and they swirled in confusion. All he knew was that he couldn’t keep pretending. He needed to do something. Anything.

When the next wave rushed the shore, he dove into it. His arms reached over his head as he sliced through the water.

Kicking as hard as he could, he pushed the pain and anger away with each move. As his energy was consumed, he imagined his past burning away. This would be it. This was how he’d finally escape a history too horrible to face.

Chapter3

Isla cutthe engine of the dark blue sedan she’d finally been able to commandeer and watched the house of Ian Fogarty, her supervising agent, from down the block.

The clock on the dash showed it was a quarter past eleven, but Fogarty’s house was quiet and dark. He should have been awake awaiting word of the outcome of their operation. Unless they got to him first.

Lord, give me strength, she prayed, more out of ritual than any expectation that God was with her at that moment. She was about to either give Fogarty some very bad news or find a scene to confirm her worst fears. She needed whatever encouragement she could get, even if it was a rote prayer.

Her eyes scanned the street as she pressed the car door closed.

A sound from behind had her pulling her gun and spinning around. Two houses down, a man wearing a bathrobe threw out the trash.

She immediately dropped her gun to her side. It was a nice suburb with lots of leafy trees and manicured lawns. If a neighbor called the police or security, they’d likely respond immediately. But what she needed at the moment was stealth so she could ascertain the seriousness of the situation. Then she’d have the feds all over this.

Raking her fingers through her hair, she pulled it into a ponytail and approached Fogarty’s house until she reached a line of thick bushes that acted as a fence at the edge of his yard.

She hid herself among them and slowly made her way closer to the house until she heard a crash from within and saw a muzzle flash. Secrecy was forgotten as she ran toward the house.

Sliding into a duck under a window with her gun drawn, she tried to peer through, but the curtains were drawn, so she circled the house, checking the windows as she went. At the back door, she found it had been forced open.

Her hand reached to tug on her bulletproof vest but only got a handful of her T-shirt.

“Great,” she whispered before entering the house. “Nothing good is happening tonight.”

After clearing the kitchen, she continued through the house, following procedure as she checked each room she passed until she reached the door of the room where she’d seen the flash. It was slightly ajar.

She positioned herself to the side of the door and pushed it open before retreating.

When no response came from inside, she entered, ready to fire. Fogarty lay bleeding on the floor. No one else was there.

“Ian.” She dropped beside him, pressing her hand on his chest wound but keeping an eye on the door. “I’m so sorry. I got here as fast as I could. I should have been here sooner. I could have stopped it.”

“No,” he gurgled.

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