CALLEN (Second Chance Novels Book 3) (11 page)

The most contact I'll allow myself is to hold her hand and offer her the occasional, chaste kiss. She's too beautiful not to touch, but keeping contact at a minimum helps to assuage my guilt. Still, growing close to Quinn brings a tiny corner of my psyche a degree of peace. She seems to rely on me for her own hint of peace, as well. Her life is surrounded by the evil at the jail, and her face carries no stress when we're out together. She's more beautiful every time I'm with her.
 

Every quiet time during my days following my evenings with Quinn marks me with constant thoughts of the women in my life. Shelby's hurt, Evelyn's death, and Quinn's absorbing presence all bring my head closer to my heart.

My head, however, is something which requires my focus. I point my thoughts in favor of my vengeful project, and continue along a perusal of my gathered jail information. A clear strategy has developed, and I'm close to achieving my goal. Two months for an operation as detailed as this is decent turn-around time, particularly when I'm in the mission without tactical support, as well as infiltrating the target as myself. Extra precautions must be taken in an overt role such as this.
 

Those same days include another shift at Stoneridge, and another meeting with Quinn. I'm not sure how much more insight I can offer or gain in spending time with her, but we seem to use the excuse to see each other. Residual guilt remains in my gut, but I promise Evelyn's ghost revenge as I ask for her understanding.

At home again, I return to my guest room for a last gathering of details. As I begin to finalize my plans, a knock at my door breaks my concentration. I close the door of my guest room to hide the prison blue prints I've been mapping to match the details of the interior I've collected from the structure itself.
 

I get to my door as quickly as I can, only to see Quinn's tear-streaked face looking back at.

"Quinn?" I ask in concern.
 

This beautiful woman walks into my arms and sobs.

I've never seen Quinn as anything but strong.
Infallible
. I can't imagine what could have happened to bring her to my door in such a state. I hold her protectively in my arms, keeping her tucked against my chest and surrounded by whatever comfort I can offer as I control my panic…and contain my thrill of holding her so closely.
 

"Come on," I finally say gently. "Let's sit down."

She allows me to walk her to the couch where she pulls herself into me again. Forever seems to pass before she whispers in a shaky, broken voice, a single phrase leaves her mouth. Her words make no sense.
 

"He's dead, and I never forgave him."

Her hand twists the ring, and occasionally pulls the masculine circle from her thumb, only to hurriedly return it a moment later. A thousand thoughts rush into my head, as I wonder who this
he
might be. Her childhood sweetheart? Ex-lover? Ex- ...
husband
?
 

I choke back every insecure question and dedicate myself to Quinn's needs, and away from my own selfish thoughts. She's relying on me right now, and I can't let her down. I've done enough of that with the women in my life.
 

"God, Callen," she says as her sobs become nearly violent. I hold her close in an attempt to keep her body from falling apart along with the rest of her.
 

"You're going to be ok," I whisper, knowing at least that the source of her anguish is dead and unable to physically harm her. As for the rest of her, I'll keep her close and get her through this. "I got you."

She shakes her head in an act of denial. I understand the grief and the inability to acknowledge reality. Whoever she grieves holds a tight grip on her heart.
 

When her breathing finally calms and her tears run quietly down her beautiful skin, her eyes looks up at me in a vulnerable shade of gray, all hints of blue drained by her tears. Her crying, however, has highlighted those irises in a sparkling display of both sadness and undeniable beauty.
 

My heart breaks for the depth of her despair, yet soars that she sought me out for her comfort. I rub my hand gently along her back and repeat to her, "I got you."

She nods this time and uses a half-shredded tissue to blot her eyes. I offer her a fresh one. In such a dainty way, she blows her nose into the white square and looks up at me again.
 

"Thank you," she whispers through a tear-ravaged voice.
 

"Of course," I respond quietly. A long time of silence passes before I dare ask a question. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," she shakes her head.
 

"Ok," I accept, leaving the disappointment out of my voice. "Can you tell me who?" I add selfishly after a moment, unable to keep my question in.
 

A deep breath moves through her lips as she pauses in a hint of tension. She finally nods her head as she speaks, "My father."

I pull her in closely as my mind processes her grief, as well as my own relief. I realize the irony: I don't want to compete with a ghost of Quinn's ex-love.
 

Her father, however, brings a different dimension to her grief. I have no idea what she needed to forgive, and I still refuse to look into her life to find out.
 

Now, however, the temptation to learn the nature of her family dynamic is nearly overwhelming. I choke that down along with the rest of my questions and simply hold her.

Her sobs occasionally return, then ease again, only to wrack her body painfully once more. I only leave her to bring her water and Tylenol. She settles beside me when I sit down, and she thanks me for the water.
 

More than two hours have passed since her knock at my door. This woman isn't weak in the least, but experiencing her in a moment of brokenness has added to the complexity of my feelings for her.
 

Where I once was simply drawn to her on both a physical and intellectual basis, I now am forced to confront my emotional connection, as well.
 

"Can I stay here tonight?" she asks quietly. "I can't be at home."

"Of course," I murmur. "You can have my room. Give me a minute to put fresh sheets on my bed for you."

She looks at the floor and nods "Thank you."

I leave her for a few minutes as new, confusing thoughts crash through my head. Too much is swirling in my head. Here is a sad, beautiful woman staying in my house in pain and grief. I have to keep myself from her while she tries to rely on me.

With blank emotion and complex background thoughts, I make the bed and lay out a t-shirt and draw-string shorts for her, and check my bathroom to make sure the counters are cleared off. I'm taking care of her as I once did Evvie, and acute grief hits me again. By the time I return to her, my physical, emotional, and mental state are in a shambles.

"Come on," I say gently, refusing to let her see the depth of my angst. I walk her to my room with my arm holding her protectively. "Here's something you can sleep in, and my bathroom is through there if you want to shower. I put fresh towels on the sink."

"Thank you," she says again quietly.
 

I pull her in for a final, comforting hug. With a kiss on her forehead, I bid her goodnight while I keep myself from asking for more details. "Don't hesitate to wake me up if you need anything."

A final crushing emotion hits me as I step to my couch, unable to sleep in Evelyn's bed tonight. My failure taints the beauty of Evvie's lingering presence, and I can't help but fear for Quinn and her growing place in my life.
 

I'm sorry, Evvie.

Forever seems to pass before I drift into a restless sleep, thoughts of Evelyn swirling with the vision of Quinn in my bed until the two are meshed in a hazy, painful mix of grief and desire.
 

When I wake, I have only one clear thought, and that is how deeply fucked up I am.
 

Another week passes in my new routine: I barely work my job at Delta, I neglect my friendship with Shelby, and I obsess over Quinn, terrified of her insight yet craving her time.

More importantly during this week, my brain continues to swirl in circles of Evvie, revenge, mission, Quinn, past, present, future…
 

My entire brain spins off balance. In my mind, Evvie clings to me, needing my actions to make right how she was wronged. In my reality, Quinn draws my attention with her intelligence, insight, humor, beauty, and ability to see in me what most don't. She seems to crave my time, as well. The pain over the loss of her father doesn't wane, but she has regained her poise. She doesn't speak of him, but occasionally asks for my arms to comfort her in acute moments of grief.

Yet this morning when I wake up, I need to put away each thought and focus on my kill. Before I sleep tonight, John Bennett will be dead. A zen calm settles over me as I fall into the familiar role of assassin. The sum of preparation rests in my ability to infiltrate, execute, and exfiltrate unnoticed. From the first kill of my career, I've enjoyed total success. Even those missions with unexpected complications ended in a win. I don't falter and I don't walk away with a job unfinished.

I've shared the full breadth of my work at the jail with exactly no one. Mason knows I will complete the task, but doesn't have a single point of knowledge as to how. I grin darkly knowing that I alone worked to save Evelyn from a life she hated, and I alone will redeem myself for failing her. Justice will be done. My mind will rest.

With my adrenaline coursing and my casual façade in place, I make my way pleasantly through prison security and into the office wing. I offer my usual greetings and get my same cup of coffee. Emails are handled, documents are requested, and the vending machine receives my quarters. As timing is crucial, I keep tabs on everyone's schedules, meetings, and last minute changes. Detail upon detail organize themselves in my brain until I'm ready. At precisely 11:57, I go to the warden's office with a messenger bag full of documents, and 'just miss him' for lunch. His secretary lets me in to drop off my papers, then leaves for her own lunch, leaving me alone in the warden's office.
 

One hour. I should need between thirty-eight and forty-six minutes, allowing for variables and complications. I pull up security feeds on the warden's computer and check every point of movement for myself, and find each area of camera access clear. Within one minute, I pull on a tightly-folded Tyvek coverall from a hidden pocket of my bag. Less than a minute later, I'm pulling myself through the ceiling panels of the warden's private bathroom with the grace of a gymnast.
 

A quick glance at my watch indicates my time schedule is on-point. A series of air-ducts, utility tunnels, little-used hallways and unused meeting rooms form my personal yellow brick road toward a wizard not long for this world. I entertain no thoughts of revenge as I proceed along my chosen route. Focus. Training. Success.

The minute I'm standing in front of John Bennett in the tiny prison library, however, rage like I've never experienced floods through each nerve of my body and courses through every vein.
 

The soldier in me remains on point.
 

The man in me craves his death.

The psychopath in him smiles darkly.