DAX

AGE 21

Hard to believe that I blocked her sweet, little ass almost a year ago. Most days, it's like she no longer exists. The void she left has been filled with a different kind of chaos. Each assignment pushes me closer and closer to my breaking point. Survival and execution have become my only obsessions. I've been shot twice on the job. Almost died both times. But this is the fuckery I signed up for, and I fucking love it.

The pay is great for the military even though many recruits don't live past thirty. Dog tags are never worn. We don't have uniforms, either. After working together for over a year, my unit and I know everything about one another. I know Miss Hyde and Tank have my back. They know I have theirs. We think, act, and execute as one. Yet, at the same time, we know nothing about each other as individuals. If one of us dies on a mission, we'll simply disappear. The public will never know. We're the monsters in the dark that no one is meant to see.

At this point, my supervisors are no longer pulling their punches. It almost makes me miss basic training. I'll never forget the mountains of fucking sand. Back then, targets were airdropped in the middle of the desert for me to hunt. They were the lambs. I was the slaughterhouse. Compared to the suicide missions I've been sent on lately, it was taking candy from a baby.

Over the past few months, they've been sending my unit into the real world. Logistics are a bitch to plan, and shit usually hits the fan when we least expect it. We've been all over Europe. Some parts of Asia. We'll be heading down to South America soon.

They say we can't make messes. Every assignment has to look like an accident. Some of our newest targets feel impossible to take down. They're politicians, prominent businessmen, and heads of criminal syndicates. Rich, powerful, hard-to-kill motherfuckers who can hide behind armed bodyguards and highly secure fortresses. There's no room for error. My unit and I need to stay completely focused and perform like machines.

Or we fucking die.

Maggot didn't make it on our last assignment. He's gone now. For good. I try not to think about how easily it could've been me who got caught, tortured, then shot in the face, and left for dead. Pretty sure I'll end up like Maggot one day. I feel bad for him, but, mostly, I feel nothing.

If only the nothingness could last forever.

During the short breaks I'm given in between assignments, the chaos fades, and demons come out to play. Some nights, I see the ghosts of the men I've killed. Other nights, I think about enemy bullets that almost cracked my skull. None of those demons faze me, though. They're only thoughts, like specks of dust, that float around before I pass out each night. Small and insignificant.

Fuck me but Cleo is still the only one capable of wrapping her claws around my throat to draw blood.

No matter what I do, where I go, or how far I run, all roads lead back to her. I fucking hate it. In the dark, her face still flashes across my mind. In silence, her voice still echoes in my thoughts. Everything we left unsaid still makes me feel a bit nauseous whenever the memories creep back. Even after the gore and bone-deep fuckery that I've endured, she's the one who won't stop fucking with my head whenever the noise quiets down.

Stupidly, I think about the gash on her lip from the last time we fucked.

Like a dumbass, I wonder about the bruise on her face before she switched off the light.

I know I'm grasping at straws, trying to give myself a reason to cling on when I already chose to let go, but I can't seem to break free.

I've been keeping tabs on her through Brookes. I try not to be too obvious whenever I ask him about Cleo. He tells me that she's still engaged to that shithead, and, apparently, she's all over social media these days. She recently gained quite a following as a fashion and lifestyle blogger. Or something. I may or may not have made a fake account just to stalk her profile and fanboy over every single one of her posts. She's still fucking gorgeous. Fuck her. But I worry, too. The more I scroll through her feed, the more I feel like something's off.

There's an emptiness in her eyes even when she's smiling. It bothers me. There are no more bruises on her in any of the photos. Trust me, I've zoomed in on every single one and studied every inch of her like it's my goddamn religion. She's always wearing makeup, though, so I don't know what to think. Part of me wants to believe that the bitch is happy and living her best life. But I can't shake the feeling that Brookes might be lying again about something.

No one lies unless there's something to hide.

I turned twenty-one last week, but there was no time for cake or candles. I celebrated in Europe with more buckets of blood on my hands. I spent the day on another mission. Brookes texted Happy Birthday, asshole during the stakeout with Tank and Miss Hyde. But I didn't mention anything to either of them. Like everything else about our identities, birthdays are kept confidential.

As a present to myself, however, I unblocked Cleo. After obsessing over her Instagram for months, I finally gave in to temptation. I'm embarrassed to admit. My heart may or may not have stuttered when Cleo's last few messages reappeared in my inbox.

Call me when you can.

We need to talk.

Please.

It's important.

Then, like a fucking masochist, I texted her at last: The hell do you want?

Why? I don't know. Probably because I'm a weak, useless, pussy-whipped son of a bitch. But she hasn't reached out to me at all. Her silence makes me feel like shit.

Yesterday, I gave in and tried to call her. It went straight to voicemail. Her phone must be out of battery or something. But I didn't leave a message. The phone that was assigned to me is untraceable, so she'll never know it was me. I'm grateful that she'll never know. I still have my pride. It doesn't make me feel any better, though.

Why isn't she talking to me?

Now there's a countdown in my head, constantly ticking away. It's been eleven months, two weeks, and six days since I last heard from Cleo.

But who's counting?

Anyway, I need to fucking focus.

Right this moment?

A man named Frank needs to die. According to my supervisors, Frank is a dumbass who stole information from some very powerful men, and the only way to smooth shit over with them is to steal it back and erase the dumbass who knows too much. Fuck knows if this is true or not. I doubt Frank is even his real name. What I think doesn't matter, though. My supervisors are paying me a shit ton of money to have zero opinions about the dumbasses they want me to remove from existence.

As far as I know?

Frank is a dead man walking because he clearly knows too much about the men who want him gone. My unit and I have been hunting him for weeks. He's a slick and quick motherfucker. Harder to trace than any of our other targets. He has a way of predicting our every move and using it against us. It's fucking annoying.

Three countries and two cities later, Miss Hyde, Tank, and I finally caught up with him—here—in an abandoned warehouse. That's all I can disclose about our current location. Tank and Miss Hyde are guarding the exits. They sent me into the warehouse for the messy work.

Gun in hand, I roll behind a makeshift barrier—a steel door that's hanging halfway off its frame—as a barrage of bullets flies by my ear. Fucking Frank! He appears to be armed with a goddamn AK-47. Clearly, he doesn't want to die today. My pulse surges with adrenaline as I wonder how many rounds he's got in him before ammunition runs out.

The second it goes quiet, I peer around the door, level the barrel of my HK45C to his shoulder, and fire back two shots. He ducks down. I miss both times. Damn it. My aim has been pure shit here. It's 24 degrees Fahrenheit out, and I'm starting to hate the snow as much as the sand.

My ears are half-frozen. Both balls, too. If the temperature drops any lower, everything might snap off. It's fine, though. I don't need them right now. Only hands are necessary. The cold makes every muscle and joint in my fingers feel painfully stiff. It's the only reason Frank is still alive. Even though my brain knows exactly what needs to happen next, my body takes an extra 0.2 seconds to buffer and execute accordingly. This shit keeps fucking with my reaction time.

Poking my head out again, I try to steal another look in Frank's direction, but, this time, one of the bullets grazes my cheek. I immediately lunge away. Jesus, fuck. That was a close one. I wince when blood wets my skin, dripping down my face. 24 degrees isn't cold enough to solidify liquid into ice, but my wound stings like motherfucker against the frigid air.

Gritting my teeth, I refuse to get distracted. Like a predator with cornered prey, I continue to aim at Frank while dodging his attacks. We play this game for a while. I don't need a kill shot at the moment. I just want to drain his bullets. Eventually, Frank goes completely silent. I think he's finally run out of juice.

I grab a flashlight from my tactical backpack and roll it down the corridor in the opposite direction. The noise hides my footsteps as I hurry to get in a better position. I catch a glimpse of Frank. With a look of concern, his gaze darts toward the sound. I run closer while his head is turned away from me. There's finally a clear shot. It's now or never. My finger curls around the trigger, and I give it two pulls. Bullets fly out. I hear a shriek as blood sprays from Frank's knees. First from the left one. Then the right. He drops to the ground with a pained whimper.

Fucking finally.

I need him helpless and immobile. But conscious. I don't want him to die yet. There are questions he needs to answer first. As he writhes on the ground, I approach with caution, keeping my gun aimed at his head.

I scowl. "Hello, Frank."

"Go to hell," he spits back.

I take another step toward him. "You already know why I'm here, don't you?"

Frank glares. "Of course."

"Then, give me what I came for," I urge in bored tones, "and I'll let you die peacefully."

Wild-eyed, he laughs in my face. "If you knew half of what I know, you'd put that gun away and ask yourself—really ask yourself—who the hell is funding your paychecks."

"What are you talking about?"

"I was a RX recruit, too. Just like you and your buddies outside."

"Know what I think?"

"What?"

"You're full of shit." But I eye him with renewed interest. How does he know about us? No one is supposed to know about the existence of Reaper X.

He insists, "I served three years as a RX operative. I thought I was bloodying my hands for the greater good. I believed I was one of the good guys. Until they tried to fucking kill me."

Agree to disagree. Even if Frank wasn't full of shit, he's clearly delusional. Everyone who makes the cut as an RX recruit is a borderline psychopath, most are full-on sociopaths, and none of us are heroes.

"Trust me, if they sent me after you," I counter, "you're not a good guy."

"There's an island that no one knows about," Frank rambles on like a madman. "I was sent there to die. They'll send you, too, once you're no longer useful. But I escaped. I wasn't supposed to get away. No one is allowed to leave Eden."

"There's an island called Eden?"

"Fuck, yes."

I decide to humor him. "Can I find it on Google Maps?"

"Fuck, no."

An uncharted island called Eden? Right. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Bet he thinks the North Pole exists and Santa is real, too, Delusional motherfucker.

"So... who shipped you off to Eden? Was it the RX supervisors?"

"No, not them. The guy who sent me is dead. They killed him."

"Of course they did," I mutter with a sigh. "Look, Frank, I don't have all day. If you have nothing else to tell me, I'm gonna have to blow your brains o—"

Before I can finish, Frank suddenly parts his mouth to reveal a small white circle on his tongue. My eyes grow wide. A cyanide pill? He swallows the little fucker. Then, a ghost of a smile spreads across Frank's face. Within seconds, his breaths begin to drag and stutter. His skin turns gray, and his entire body starts to tremble.

Fucking hell.

"Wait. Wait. Before you die," I growl irritably, "at least, tell me where you hid the shit that you stole from—"

But he doesn't answer the fucking question at all. It's like he didn't even hear me. Lost in his own world, Frank's eyes roll back as he chokes out, "H-His name was..."

A pileup of syllables get caught in his throat. It sounds like someone's strangling him when he gasps, "G... ra... Min... ton."

Was he trying to say—General Minton?

G.R. Minton?

Or Gerald Minton?

A moment later, the motherfucker has the audacity to die on me before I can press him for more answers. Unease floods through me. Suddenly, a memory triggers. The name, Gerald Minton, sounds familiar. I remember Brookes mentioning him once or twice. Minton's daughter went to Fairmont with us. Brookes said the man died of suicide.

What the fuck, Frank.

What am I supposed to do now?

Frowning deeply, I stare at his corpse. I search his body—every pocket, every crack, every crevice—for something useful. Eventually, I pull out a flash drive from his back pocket. It could be something. Or it could be nothing. I slide the stick into one of my pockets. Then, I call for help to dispose of Frank's body. Tank and Miss Hyde come running within minutes.

As we get to work dragging Frank through the snow, Tank pulls out a shovel and asks, "Did you get anything useful out of him before he died?"

Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

Frank might have been an RX operative.

There's a secret island called Eden.

I found a flash drive on Frank's dead body.

And Gerald Minton might be involved in this endless rabbit hole to hell.

For some reason, though, I choose to do the unthinkable and keep everything to myself, "No, the motherfucker offed himself before I could ask him anything."

"Shit."

"I know."

Tank and Miss Hyde don't press me further as we report this failed mission to our supervisors. My ass is going to be in hot water, but I don't think they'll send me to Eden yet.

If the island even exists.

I don't know why I'm lying to my unit and supervisors. I have nothing to gain by believing Frank's bullshit. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm drowning in lies. A sense of dread takes hold. Cleo's final set of messages still taunt me. There's something I'm not seeing here. Something big and important.

But what?

A few days later, my self-restraint shatters again during a phone call with Brookes. I can't help asking about Cleo, "So... how's your sister doing lately? Is she still in New York?"

Brookes gives a pause. "Yeah, she's in New York."

"Bullshit."

"What?"

I know he's lying to me, so I call him out, "She's not in New York."

"How do you know?"

"I follow her on Instagram."

"Stalker."

"Whatever," I fling back. "Anyway, I know she hasn't been posting shit from New York."

"Okay, fine. You got me. My parents don't want me to tell anyone, but Trav sent her to Ashwood."

"Ashwood?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"He was getting worried about her. She's been going through some pretty bad... episodes. Again. The doctors at Ashwood are trying to stabilize her."

"Is Ashwood the same place she went to in high school?"

"That's the one. My parents sent her there. For her own good."

"It's in Utah, right?"

He hesitates before answering, "I-I think so."

"That's cool, I guess." It's not fucking cool. "Good for her. I hope she gets out soon."

"Me, too. Thanks, man."

Pretty sure Brookes is lying through his teeth. What's he trying to hide from me? I don't believe for one second that Cleo is anywhere near Utah. Because I saw a fucking ocean in the background on one of her Instagram posts. 

Feeling beyond frustrated, I shove both hands into my pockets. My fingers clench tightly around the flash drive. I shouldn't care about Cleo at all. I should just focus on my next assignment. But I feel like I'll go crazy if I do nothing and pretend like everything's fine.

Fuck it.

Don't know how.

Don't know when.

But I'm going to find her.