Chapter 4

Panama, the third day.

The intel was a lie. It wasn't sabotage; it was an ambush.

Our squad was pinned down in a building. The firefight had lasted twelve hours. Out of ammo, radio jammed. Reinforcements wouldn't arrive until tomorrow morning at the earliest.

When it came time to retreat, I stayed to cover the rear.

An RPG exploded less than ten meters from me. Shrapnel pierced my vest, embedding itself in my left abdomen.

Spleen ruptured. Three ribs broken.

As I was dragged onto the stretcher, I looked at the helicopter rotor blades overhead and suddenly felt a profound sense of quiet.

Not peace. It was that hollow feeling—the one where you finally realize you don't have to keep thinking anymore.

Surgery lasted four hours. Three liters of blood transfused. Spleen removed.

I lay in the ICU for three days.

On the fourth day, Ella arrived.

She stood at the door of the ward, wearing a dark gray coat, holding a file bag. She looked unwell, with dark, heavy circles under her eyes.

"You're awake," she said.

"Yeah."

"The doctor said you almost didn't make it."

"Yeah."

A few seconds of silence. She bit her lip.

"Were you doing it on purpose?"

I looked into her eyes. Green, the color of new spring leaves.

"What do you mean?"

"The mission you applied for," her voice dropped. "You knew the risk level was high. Were you... doing it on purpose?"

Doing it on purpose. A self-inflicted wound. A victim card. Trying to make her feel guilty.

I suddenly wanted to laugh.

Not because it was funny. It was the kind of bitter laughter that seeps from the marrow when you realize how she truly views you.

I risked my life to protect her. I took bullets for her, dismantled bombs for her, ran with C4 in my hands. In her eyes, it was all just a ploy.

"No," I said.

Ella looked at me and said nothing more. She placed the file bag on the nightstand and turned to leave.

The sound of her heels against the hospital floor faded into the distance.

I closed my eyes.

The voice of Echo appeared in my mind.

"First near-death experience complete. Four more to go."

So that’s it.

When she chose to leave with Lucas on the engagement night, I had already died once. Now, I was just finishing the process.

I rested my hand on my forehead to block the blinding white light of the fluorescent tube.

Only the rhythmic ticking of the cardiac monitor remained in the room.

I suddenly remembered something. When I threw that jasmine brooch into the lake, it was the last time I did something "not work-related" for Ella Hawke.

From now on, there would only be work.

I picked up the file bag from the nightstand and opened it. Inside was a sympathy letter from the company and a check.

The letter had only one line: Rest well. —E.H.

No "Get well soon." No "I'm sorry." No "I need you."

Just "Rest well." Like she was speaking to an employee who had called in for a cold.

I folded the check and tucked it under my pillow.

Outside the window, Houston’s sky was gray and murky.

I closed my eyes and began to count.

One.

The first abandonment.

How many more would there be?