Page 76 of The Art of Dying

“How long do I have?” I asked.

“As long as it takes. You take out who you need to. And then this is over.”

I stood from the chair and turned for the door.

“Kitsch?” Tiger called.

I turned to face him.

“Thank you.”

I nodded once, walking through as Candace opened the door, setting my empty beer on her tray and grabbing another as I passed. Tiger had a car waiting out front, and I slipped into the backseat, using my teeth to pop the cap of my stolen beer. I gulped until there was nothing left and then tossed the glass bottle to the floor. I’d fought rebels in the bowels of the Congo, gunned down soldiers over the sand dunes of Iraq, chased down cartel through swamps in South America, but it was going to take a lot more than two beers to break the news to my wife. She had sacrificed so much for me, for our family, and I was going to have to ask her for more. I was going to ask her to give up everything. In just a few short days, her life would end, and the blame would rest in the hands of the one man who had promised to protect her.

chapter twenty-one.

Mack

“Dylan!” I laughed his name, fighting him while I tried to wipe away the chocolate pudding from his face. “Would you just… let me… let me clean your face!”

Once the last bit was wiped away, I pulled his chair away from the table, trying not to let my impatience bubble to the surface while I watched him dismount excruciatingly slow. Dylan was just like his dad, stubborn, never asked for help, but he loved me more than anything and told me so every fifteen minutes.

On cue, he hugged my leg and buried his still-wet face against my jeans. “Mama?”

“Yes, son?”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I said, brushing the crumbs from his pants.

He zipped off to play, so I turned to see that Emily had taken the two minutes I was focused on her brother to shampoo Dorito with the remaining pudding in her bowl.

I sighed. “Aw, sister.”

I bathed the cat, then it was Emily’s turn. I escorted her to the bathroom, filled the tub, stripped her down and then sat her in the warm water, helping her with a quick rinse before getting her dressed. I distracted her with her iPad while I tackled the kitchen. I glared at the smeared pudding, knowing I’d have to clean before I cleaned, wiping up the mess off the table, chair, Emily’s highchair, and nearly every inch of the cabinets, floors, and baseboards that were within a three-foot radius.

“Pudding was a great idea,” I grumbled.

I started at the top and worked my way down, and once that was finished, I did the dishes from snack time so the sink would be free to do the dishes after dinnertime.

Once I finished, I stood in the middle of the kitchen and heaved a sigh, wiping my nose with the back of the same hand that held a wet rag covered in pudding, dirt, and cat hair. “Is this really my life? This is my life now,” I said, exhausted.

I was grateful, I was. We’d wished for babies for so long, and even when the kids ran me ragged, it wasn’t hard to recall the months and years I’d prayed for them. But, I was alone most of the time. My friends were busy with their own lives. Naomi did exactly what she set out to do, not that it was a surprise. She was so focused on making teams that she had little time for anything else. She sold her house and completely immersed herself in her training. She even made nice with Commander Clarke and had somehow become one of his favorites. As if it were divine intervention, the year she qualified was the year combat positions were opened for women. Naomi was now a seasoned operator on Alpha Team, not a single setback on her way to her goal. I was relieved, thinking things would finally return to normal. But Naomi wasn’t a military wife anymore. It would never be the same.

Caroline was still just down the street, but she was bed-ridden, her first pregnancy more difficult than most. She’d been private about her struggles and was keeping to herself. I barely saw either of my friends anymore. I was lonely, stressed, and spread too thin.

Now that Kitsch was hellbent on finding Mason, on days he was home, he wasn’t really home. He’d hole up in the spare bedroom, tracking down leads that might help him find Mason. When he had time off, he was taking any contract work that could get him close to Mason’s last known location. As difficult as it was, and as different as my husband had become, guilt stopped me from questioning anything Kitsch had to do to keep us safe. I felt responsible, for several reasons.

I’d been alone with the kids for thirty-seven days, and I was at a point where the most beloved parts of my life, at times, felt like my heaviest burden. Military wives were expected to be tough as nails, and we were, but no one wanted to fail the stereotype. So, we pushed through, knowing that whatever pudding-cat hair mess we had to clean on three hours of sleep was nothing in comparison to what our spouses were doing. It was an unspoken, mutual admiration, because to hear them tell it, we were the bad asses who kept it all together while they were gone. So… we did. We held down the home front and we didn’t complain.

A truck pulled into the drive, and I grabbed Emily and ran to the front door, swinging it wide open and smiling, but it faded as soon as my eyes fell on the vehicle.

In what felt like slow motion, Kitsch stepped out of the passenger side. In all the times he’d returned to me, it was just the second time his expression was absent of a smile. I readjusted Emily on my hip while he walked toward me.

“Hi,” I said, trying to pretend I wasn’t inwardly panicking.

“Hi, honey,” he said, scanning the yard and street before kissing my forehead. “Hi, baby girl,” he said, taking Emily from my arms. “Let’s go inside, Mama.”

He put his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the door, but I quickly glanced over my shoulder to see the SUV still in the drive.

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