Page 99 of Ronan

“Maybe there’s information in their stuff?”

“Maybe,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “Whatever they’re doing at this base is beyond top-secret, or else I would’ve known about it. Something tells me there aren’t going to be notebooks sitting around with scribbles about what they’re up to.”

“Yeah, that’s probably fair, but it doesn’t hurt to look.”

“It doesn’t,” he agrees, sighing as he presses a kiss to my temple. “I suppose I should’ve let one of them live so we could try and get more information.”

“Nah,” I whisper, laying my head against his shoulder as I slide my hand into his, surveying the destruction in front of us. “They deserved this.”

“Got any ideas to get rid of the evidence?”

“We could bury their bodies in the desert. No one would ever find them.”

Ronan’s eyes get wide as he pulls back and stares down at me. “You want me to digeightgraves?”

“I was thinking a single mass grave, but you do you, babycakes. We did discuss me sitting around with a cold drink while I watched you do manual labor with no shirt.”

“I suppose we did,” he says with a chuckle, then stares past me at the minefield of corpses. “That could work. If I load them in one of their vehicles and drive somewhere far, trackers wouldn’t come across the bodies. They weren’t high-ranking enough for the military to throw resources at their recovery.”

The dark rings under his eyes are more pronounced this morning, and I wrap my arms around his middle, knowing his body is as depleted as mine after our marathon last night. “While you do that, I’ll scout the camp and keep an eye out for any paperwork that might tell us something. Any supplies worth taking can go into the van, and I will destroy evidence of the violence.”

Ronan pulls his head back to frown at me. “I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”

“I was alone for a long time, Ro.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, dropping a kiss on my temple and pushing his nose into my hair, hugging me against him. “But you’re not alone anymore.”

An hour later, I am, in fact, alone again.

While Ronan collected the bodies, I busied myself inside the common area tents. Three vehicles sat parked near our van—the sedan they were driving when they found us, an industrial sized van, and a small utility truck.

He chose to drive the truck, and opened the gas tank door to remove its tracker. The tiny circular device was stuck onto the van, with the plan to replace it once he returns from this trip. The truck will never show evidence of leaving this location, and he won’t lead them anywhere near the grave.

Once that was handled, Ronan tackled the bloodier side of our cleanup. He unceremoniously tossed the first corpse in the bed of the truck with a smile that was a little too gleeful, then dusted his hands and went back for more.

I pretended not to notice the way he spiked one head like a volleyball.

It was an impressive shot, though.

A cringe twisted his face as he carried Khuth’s body from his tent, and he asked me to leave the mess inside to him.

My agreement was a blatant lie. I’m far too curious to let that statement slide. As soon as the truck drove intothe distance, I darted straight into the tent, which is where I now stand, eyes wide.

I retch, loudly, and lift my arm to cover my mouth as I stare at the scene. Crimson stains cover almost every surface, the coppery scent so strong it makes me dizzy. It looks like someone took a spray bottle of blood and started spritzing the bed and blankets, then decided to take the lid off and sling it.

Furniture has been jostled or knocked over, and personal items are scattered. Half a pair of handcuffs hangs from the bent cot frame, while the other lies open on the ground with the key still inside the lock.

Signs of Ronan’s rage are everywhere.

A knot forms in my throat, and I force a rough swallow as I try not to think about what was happening before he put a stop to it. Stomach churning, I get to work, stripping the bloody sheets and blankets from the bed.

They form a heap beside the fire pit as I frown at the smoking ashes. Last night’s rain extinguished the flames, but I stack dry logs in the circle, splashing gasoline over the wood before I strike the match.

Something tells me I’m going to be burning a lot.

Once a healthy fire climbs into the morning sky, I toss the evidence into the flames. Sheets and pillows, a rug and clothes that the dying man wallowed over, and a small side table that’s smeared in blood. They pop and crack in the final protests any of these monsters will ever make.

The broken handcuffs won’t burn, so I detach the cuff from the cot and shove both into a bag of things we’ll have to bring with us and dump later.

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