Page 48 of Forsaking All Others

Ghost continues to remain silent and that’s all the confirmation I need. My legs go weak, so weak I reach out and grab a hold of Ghost’s forearm. Steadying myself, I lift my eyes to the dark sky.

“On my knees,” I rasp, forcing a swallow. “On my fucking knees.”

“Prez,” Ghost calls roughly.

I ignore him, keeping my gaze pinned to the midnight sky. Then I close my eyes and pray.

Make me better.

Give me the powers I need to make this right.

My eyes spring open and I look at Ghost.

“How am I going to tell Holly?”

“You’re not,” he clips, grabbing me by the shoulders. He turns me around so that I’m fully facing him and fixes me with a look. “It sucks Holly is going to have to bury Colt, that her boy won’t know his old man, but if you don’t listen to me, you and Holly are going to know what it’s like to stand in my shoes and brother, trust me when I say, you do not want to be standing in the cemetery, watching them lower your child into the ground. There’s no coming back from that.”

War.

It’s not coming, it’s already here and only the dead ever see the end of it.

On my knees, on my knees.

“Now, pull yourself together and slice the guilt from your conscience because there is no fucking time for that shit.”

Time.

That’s always the problem, isn’t it? There’s never enough of that to go around. If there were, Colt wouldn’t have been the man driving the truck. Time is a foe—a giant fucking foe with no mercy.

And guilt, well, that shit ain’t no better.

On my knees, on my knees.

Ghost’s eyes drift toward the cruiser and then back to me. Taking another step closer to me, he lowers his voice.

“The guns are gone, Maverick. Whoever killed Colt took them, and torched the fucking truck. Cops found it twenty miles out from the rest stop.”

On my knees, on my knees.

“You see where I’m going with this yet?” he questions gruffly.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I jerk my head. You ain’t got to be a genius to see where this is fucking headed. Ghost is right, there is no time for guilt and grief. I close my eyes one more time and again, I pray. But I don’t pray for strength or even to be better.

This time I pray for power.

The power to fulfill my tasks.

The power to fuel the vengeance coiling in my veins.

Once a sinner, always a sinner.

On my knees, on my knees.

I open my eyes and angle my head. My gaze locks with Ghost’s and my adrenaline soars.

“Twice in one day,” I say.

“What?”

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