Page 12 of Danger Close
Nothing exciting.Nothing personal.
Just structure.Routine.White noise to drown out the ache he hadn’t figured out how to name.
His trailer was parked behind a gas station convenience store on the edge of town.It was thirty minutes from the firm’s office, backed up against a wooded lot with no neighbors and no expectations.Small.Cheap.Clean enough.A twin mattress on the floor.A folding table with one chair.A tiny bathroom with a flickering light that he never bothered to fix.
He didn’t need more than that.
He showered in cold water, ate standing up, worked out until his knuckles split open and bled across the mat.When the nightmares got bad, he went for runs at midnight, bare-chested and barefoot, until the soles of his feet burned.
He’d checked in with Bateman once—just once.Dev, twice.Texts.No voice.
They hadn’t pushed.
Just sent back:We’re here when you’re ready.
Marsh had reached out the most.Six texts.Two calls.One voicemail Ricky hadn’t played—not because he didn’t care, but because he did.Because if he heard Marsh’s voice—heard that stubborn, sharp-edged warmth—he might do something stupid.
Like go back before he knew who the hell he was without them.
He hadn’t blocked any of them.That would’ve felt like cutting the cord.
But he hadn’t answered them either.
What would he say?Hey, sorry I’ve been a ghost.Turns out I don’t know how to function outside the wire.Also, I gave my heart to someone who disappeared the morning after like I was some drunken mistake.But, I’m great, thanks for asking.
He wasn’t okay.But the words didn’t come easy.
He was halfway through a shift in a glass-walled surveillance post on the roof of a private hotel, the afternoon sun throwing long shadows across the concrete below.Dressed in black cargo pants and a ballistic vest, Ricky had one boot kicked up on the edge of the window, hands wrapped around a thermos of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.
Beneath his seat, a duffel bag stayed packed.
Just in case.
When the burner phone buzzed, it was so soft it almost didn’t register.Just a flicker of vibration against the desk.
Ricky glanced down, expecting nothing.
Then froze.
(1) New Message.
From: Unknown.
Subject: I’m sorry
His spine straightened.His fingers went cold.
It wasn’t Bateman’s number.Or Dev’s.But the encryption signature was the same.Familiar.Military.
He opened it.
The encryption signature was right.Scrambled in the exact way he knew Van used, when they’d passed intel back and forth during missions over the past few years.
His fingers hovered.
Then he opened it.
The message hit like a bullet to the sternum.
