Epic: Book 02 - Outlaw Trigger (22 page)

He wasn’t ready for that.

She’d been ripped away too soon. Her life was like a sentence without a period. Unfinished. Destined to leave those around her wondering what was supposed to happen next, but never coming forth to reveal it. There was no ‘next.’ There was only the cutoff. Her story had been stopped in mid-chapter.

Why? Why had it happened? How could it have happened? There were too many uncertainties in his mind to write her death off as chance. He knew better.

He turned to seek his comrades; every stare lingered on him. They were waiting for him. To do something. To say something. What was he supposed to say? What was appropriate? There was nothing he could think of. Nothing he wanted to think of. His eyes returned to her casket.

Life became worthless the moment she was gone. Everything he’d looked forward to was gone. Everything he’d hoped to do with her, stolen. Killed. Taken away.

He was alone.

The first hand on his shoulder was Becan’s. He recognized the Irishman’s wiry fingers. The other was softer. Feminine. Varvara. He could feel the presence of the rest of the crew behind him.

“
We’re here for yeh, Remmy,” Becan whispered. “Please know tha’.” The Irishman’s voice trembled as he spoke. “We’re goin’ to look after yeh.”

Varvara squeezed his shoulder. Several hands touched his back.

“
Don’t be sad, Remmy,” Becan said. “Please don’t…”

He wasn’t sad. He was lost. He was abandoned. She’d been the rest of his life, and she was gone. He could hear their voices behind him.
We’re here, man
. David said it. Travis said it. Max said it. It was a chorus of compassion, and none of it helped.

One minute became five. Five minutes became ten. With every word he heard, with every hand he felt, he felt his own body growing tired. Beyond tired. Exhausted beyond the will to exist.

That all changed the moment the technician appeared to take the casket away.

Scott grew frantic as the curly-haired technician placed his hand on the casket. “I am sorry,” the technician said. “I have to take her.”

Scott’s heart jumped. “Wait.” His hand slammed against the casket’s top. “Not yet, please.” She couldn’t go yet. She couldn’t. “I have to see her, please.”

The technician’s mouth hung open.

“
Please,” Scott pleaded. “Just for a second, please.”

“
But…she is Silent Fever…”

Scott shook his head with fervency. “I know, I know she is, but please…please, you have to.”

“
Open the casket,” ordered Clarke.

The technician gaped. “But sir, she is Silent—”

“
I said
open
the bloody casket, now.”

The technician stared at Clarke for several seconds, before offering a hesitant nod.

Scott watched as the man got behind the casket, unstrapped it, and released its latches. In the very next instant, it was opened. Opened faster than he could comprehend. Opened so fast that it shocked him.

She was there. She was there, lying still like the last time he’d seen her. Her face was colorless. Like the shell of an egg. Her eyes were shut, but not how they’d always been. She didn’t look like an angel. She looked like a corpse.

Nicole…
His eyes glistened. His knees buckled.
I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t go with you.
She had died alone. On the floor of his room. Without him. Tears broke down his face as he reached out a trembling hand. He flinched as he touched her skin. It was like she wasn’t even real.

The technician lowered his head. “I am so sorry…we have to go…”

Clarke shot the technician a glare.

Scott opened his eyes, trailing his fingers through her hair. He had longed to feel it again.

David eased his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Scott…”

Lowering his forehead against the casket, Scott reached out his hand to touch hers.
I love you.
His fingers curled.
I will always love you.

Becan’s hand touched his back.

Always.

The technician watched in silence while Scott slid his fingers from Nicole’s. Scott felt himself slowly rising.

The technician placed his hands on the lid of the casket, then hesitated as he looked at Scott.

“
It’s okay,” Scott whispered. “I know.”

The man nodded silently, and the casket was once again shut.

Scott wanted it opened again the moment it closed. He wanted to see her face. Touch her hair. Take her in his arms and hold her against his chest, just as he’d done so many times before.

The technician latched the casket and set the carriage straps in place.

Every memory floated past him. His last words to her in Michigan. His conversation with her after Chicago. The desperation in her voice when he moved to
Novosibirsk
. The smile on her face when he proposed.

Her smile when she last said she loved him.

The casket was rolled into the airbus, where it was fastened against the inner wall. And just like that, the rear door was closed.

He never saw the airbus taxi onto the runway. He never saw it lift off into the sky and rocket into the horizon. His eyes were open; his gaze was steady. But all he saw was her. By the time he remembered where he was, she was already gone.

She was already gone.

…
goodbye
…

He felt his muscles weaken. Then he felt hands on his back. He couldn’t count them all, but he knew who they were. They were Galina’s. They were Varvara’s. They were David’s, Becan’s, Jayden’s, and Travis’s. They were even Max’s.

“
I’m sorry, Scott,” Max whispered.

They all repeated the same words. From one to the other, then to the other, then to the other. There was warmth in their intent, but he couldn’t feel it.

“
I’m sorry, Scott,” said Clarke.

A million apologies wouldn’t bring her back. A million more wouldn’t ease him.

“
I’m sorry, lieutenant,” said Esther.

She was gone. She wasn’t even a dot on the horizon. She was completely gone. She would never love him again. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. But he couldn’t. There was something holding it all back, relegating his sadness to silence. Overpowering it like a predator to prey. It was a question. One single question—and his burning desire for an answer.

What was the Silent Fever?

His eyes opened as he registered Esther’s voice. It was the very last voice he’d heard. She was the one he had tasked. She was the door to his answers. As soon as he turned to face her, she froze in place. “Esther…what do you know?”

A tear dripped down her cheek. She shook her head in silence.

She knew something. She was fighting to keep it away. “What do you know?”

She couldn’t say a thing. But she didn’t have to. In a fleeting moment—one that Scott wasn’t meant to notice—she glanced purposefully at David. But Scott did notice. And in the next second, his own gaze turned to his friend.

“
Dave?”

“
Not now, Scott,” David whispered. “Not here.”

“
Tell me something.”

“
Please, Scott. Don’t do this to yourself right now.”

“…
I’m not doing this for myself.”

David’s stare locked with Scott’s. On the runway, just meters from where they stood beneath the hangar, rain continued to slam to the ground. Lightning reflected in the puddles. But David still didn’t say a thing.

“
For her,” Scott uttered. “For her.”

David lowered his eyes in hesitation, then rose them to meet Scott again. The look they exchanged was mutual. It was understanding. There was something Scott needed to be told. And Scott wouldn’t find rest till he was told it. David’s lips parted, and he mouthed a single, silent phrase.

The Murder Rule.

Scott’s eyes squeezed shut. His fists clenched. Every emotion in his body evolved. The sadness was immediately gone, replaced by something much darker.

The Murder Rule. The rule they used to christen their recruits. The Nightmen.

He had known it. The second her death was identified as the Silent Fever, he had known it. He had known it was something else. And now he knew what that something else was. It was a brand new Nightman, clad in his new armor as he marched proudly through the halls of The Machine. Oblivious to the life he’d taken away.

It was a trashing Nightman.

He glared at Dostoevsky. The commander turned to match him. For a fleeting moment, amid their exchange of vehement silence, Scott saw Dostoevsky do something he had never done before. He saw Commander Yuri Dostoevsky wince.

In that moment, rank disappeared. The line between lieutenant and commander was gone as the whole of the group fell subordinate to Scott. He commanded their fear without a word. He commanded their fear like a monster.

Scott turned away from the airstrip, and stormed through the crowd. He made no attempt to say goodbye.

David watched as Scott disappeared through the hangar’s side door, leaving the unit awkwardly quiet.

Scott…what are you about to do
?

David had posed the question to himself all day. Now it found him again.

What are you about to do
?

He knew what he would have done, had it been him. He knew how he would have responded to Sharon’s murder. He would have found the man who killed her and squeezed his neck until he was dead. He would have squeezed it without a drop of remorse.

Without shedding a tear.

13

Monday, August 8
^th
, 0011 NE

0441 hours

The next morning

The comms beeped at 4:41. Their echoes bounced off the walls of Room 14. For the first time in a long time, bed sheets weren’t torn off at their call. There was no stomp of boots, no rush to the closets. There was not even a groan of disdain.

All of the operatives were present except for Scott and Dostoevsky, both of whom slept in their respective quarters. Neither had been heard from since the memorial. All efforts to knock on Scott’s door had been met with silence. No effort was made to knock on Dostoevsky’s.

Still the comms cried out. Their unbridled urgency was hit with the lethargic numbness of an emotionally drained unit. As Clarke, who’d slept in the barracks that night, slid the covers from his body and leaned upright, the rest of the unit listened. They listened as he stepped barefoot onto the icy concrete and carried his comm into the lounge. They listened until the beeping wails ceased, and after a minute of distant conversation, the captain padded back into the bunk room. He stood still by the lounge door. His silhouette was barely visible in the darkness.

“
We’ve got a mission,” he said. “In the town of Khatanga.” His voice sagged even more than his shoulders. The cots crinkled as the operatives propped upright. “Ceratopians.”

Not one of them spoke. Not one of them groaned. The captain had said enough for all of them.

Max sighed and edged off his cot. “I’ll call Scott and Yuri.”

“
They’re already coming,” Clarke said.

From the discomfort of his mattress, David felt his stomach twist.

“
Scott’s coming?” Max asked.

“
Yes. They both are.” The room hung in silence for several more seconds before the captain stood and flicked on the light. Everyone winced. “We can’t delay any longer. Don your armor and grab your weapons. You know the procedure.”

A chorus of dampened acknowledgments answered him. The operatives fumbled out of their beds, dragged themselves to their closets, and put on their gear.

The walk to the hangar was unlike any preparatory trek the unit had ever undertaken. Every step screamed of apprehension. It wasn’t until they arrived there that someone spoke—it was Jayden. His words were addressed to David, and they were as dimly subdued as his countenance.

“
I don’t like Ceratopians, man.”

David hesitated. “I don’t either.”

“
Remember what happened last time?”

“…
yeah.”

Esther turned her head as she quickened her step to keep up. “You’ve fought them before?”

“
Yeah, once,” Jayden answered. “It was the worst thing ever. I got shot, Dave almost got blown up. Clarke and Scott almost got their heads bashed in….”

“
Max got knocked out,” David said. “Twice.”

“
Get away,” Esther said in disbelief.

“
Yep,” Jayden said. “And that was a
win
.”

Dostoevsky was already in the hangar when they arrived. The dark horns of his fulcrum armor gleamed in the
Pariah
‘s bay door.

Becan stared at him for a moment, then turned back to the others. “Yeh think Remmy’s goin’ to be all righ’?”

David continued to walk. He knew the answer; he lied anyway. “I don’t know. Would you be?”

“
I don’t know.”

“
I’m worried about him, man,” Jayden said. “I’m surprised he’s gonna come.”