CALLEN (Second Chance Novels Book 3) (15 page)

What may be
more
difficult is walking to Quinn's office to greet her. I left her on an ugly note three days ago, and I haven't had the balls to contact her since. Here at the prison, however, I need to greet her if for no other reason than keeping appearances. Status quo is my strongest defense.

 
I walk to her office and knock on the open door. She half-smiles at me with no warmth in her reaction.

"Callen," she greets simply with a slight chill in her voice. "I heard you brought donuts again. Very thoughtful. I also heard there were no riots while we were gone. What have you heard? Have you heard who killed Bennett?"

I nod easily for appearances sake. "His cellmate."

"Yes," she says with detached efficiency. "That inmate was already a killer, and had many loud arguments with Bennett. Apparently the officers investigating had a very easy time finding out who was…guilty."

"Guilty
again
," I emphasize. "Once a killer, always a killer."

The irony of my statement isn't lost on either of us. Her face drops in frustrated disappointment before she looks me in the eye again. "Close the door please?"

I comply and move to sit across from her. We have a silent staring contest for a moment before she finally speaks again. "Are you ok?" she finally asks in concern.
 

I avoid her pointless question in silence.

She sighs. "I guess that shouldn't surprise me."

"I have to end this," I tell her simply.
 

"End this? What haven't you ended?"

"The hit man. He's the final piece."

"When will you realize? This will never end. What happened to Evvie can never be made right. You need to deal with yourself, not with the killer."

"Same thing," I mutter. Somehow this isn't part of the conversation I imagined. Somehow this is more of my imbalance around Quinn. I can't be near her, at least not yet.

"Right," she says patting both hands on her desk and standing. She walks to the door and speaks in a flat tone. "Let me know if you need any more sessions with your hired therapist."

My brow furrows as I look at her.
 

"Right," I repeat. She opens the door expectantly and I walk through the open space with a pleasant smile and a random "thank you" in case anyone is watching.

I schedule two more shifts at the prison to 'finish' my report, as well as set up a few inmate interviews which will have no bearing on anything. Appearances are all I have left here at the prison. Quinn is something I apparently no longer have.
 

After three more days of a frustrated existence, I finally process my world enough to know one thing. I can't let go of Quinn.

I spend hours strategizing. I arrange an interview with Bennett's cellmate to hopefully use his knowledge of Bennett's murderous actions. With proper motivation, most likely physical, he may offer intel on the hit man and how to contact him. I know how to leave his body unmarked during our…
interview
. I then arrange interviews with other known associates of Bennett's within the prison for the same reason, and two others to avoid the appearance of a pattern.
 
During my last two shifts, I complete a few scant hours formatting the documents of my project. Quinn blankly plays along, helping me complete my ruse at the jail. I appreciate her professionalism.
 

I can't think about her heart. Not yet.
 

At home I work on Bennett's computer system which I liberated from police custody following his trial. I spend no time at Delta, passing all my work to Riggs and Spades who don't have much of a client base yet. Within two days of diligent research, I haven't identified the killer, but I learned the protocol for contacting him.

I find myself one step closer to the closure Quinn thinks I'll never find. She may be a skilled psychologist, but she's never dealt with a person like me before. Her personal feelings must taint her ability to think solely on a critical level, as well. Her counsel at this point is not accurate enough to consider too strongly.

I again remove myself from my thoughts of Quinn and spend time on a new identity in order to trap the killer. If he's as skilled and thorough as I know him to be, a cursory identity will not be enough. I concoct an entire life history, including investigations into fictional white-collar crimes. For the sake of total preparedness, I fabricate and publicly file fake documents to prove each lie.
 

Having gathered every last bit of intel, and having created an entirely new self, I'm ready to say a final goodbye at the prison. I'm also ready to say a final goodbye to Evvie's killer. She
will
receive the justice I owe her.
 

The final step in my process is to contact the killer. With dark eyes, I reach out to the hit man with the appropriate digital greeting. Within days of his research into my false identity and photoshopped appearance in social media pictures, I hire him for a fictional hit. And in spite of his rule of total anonymity, my skills as a manipulator are stronger than his staunch protocols. I have him convinced to meet me in person within only four extra text messages.
 

Only one day before the meet, I set the final pieces of my strategy into action, setting up stealth surveillance from several angles of our chosen location. I went so far as to tour an empty apartment to place a wireless camera in a window. Justice is immanent. After I id the guy at the meet, I'll begin my final research to ensure his demise efficiently and with total stealth.
 

While I wait for our scheduled time, I run every possible scenario in my head as to how this entire scene will play out. When I wait in hiding for our murderous appointment, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

I stare for too long, my gut sinking further with each passing second.

No. No. No.
 

Not possible.
 

QUINN

My fear for Callen continues to be interrupted by my now-ridiculous girly side. In a half-dream state like I live in most days now, I think of Callen as a man. Undeniably handsome, that man has a rugged quality few can combine with the charm he turns on. Aside from the perfect male physique, he holds an astounding intelligence few recognize. I've watched him too closely not to notice each nuance of his complex nature.

Experiencing him on so many levels seems a privilege, but also has opened my eyes to his damage. He walks beside so many demons, refusing to let them in, but still unable to break away. The only ghost who haunts him from the inside is Evelyn Bennett.
 

Any managed smile on my face fades as I think of his obsession with her. If he were a true patient of mine, I would insist on heavy counseling and a grief support group. As someone who truly loves him, I simply want to heal his heart.
 

Unfortunately, his focus is vengeance. Even after he killed Evvie's husband, the man who orchestrated her murder, Callen's heart remains unsatisfied. Anyone outside the situation could have easily predicted the outcome of his decision. Rationality wasn't a part of the process.

He would see no other solution given his training. Add to that the irrationality he experienced for having his first true experience with love, and a storm of a passionate, dark response became inevitable.
 

His continued obsession frightens me on some level I keep mostly buried. Discovering the identity of the hit man and exacting justice will
not
satisfy his angst. His guilt will not be relieved and closure will continue to elude him.

No words of mine will change his course of action, though.
 

I refuse to intercede, which brings a new guilt to myself.
 

In my entire life, there's never been a problem I didn't try to fix, nor has there been a situation like this. I can't imagine myself stepping back to allow murder, yet here I am stuck in a state of inaction. I know my love and counsel could never erase decades of kill-first instincts which have been honed to razor-sharp efficiency. I have little doubt: if he finds the man who was hired to murder Evvie, Callen will kill him.
 

My fear does not rest in the societal consequences of his actions. He won't get caught. His knowledge, gut-instinct, training, experience, and intelligence guarantee his success.

My biggest fear is, of course, the brewing unrest inside of him. I don't know how to help him avoid further heartbreak, and I'm not sure I can help enough once that heartbreak crushes him from the inside. I love him too much to remove myself from his life, but I have no idea how I'll help him through the fallout afterward. I've never navigated a situation as complex as this from a professional perspective, and I certainly never had an emotional investment this intense. I may be equally crushed.
 

My thoughts and my glass of wine are interrupted by a desperate, rapid knocking at my door. I jog to open the wooden barrier between me and a person I'm certain is Callen.
 

I find myself staring into too many levels of anguish to describe. Callen's face is etched with tension, pain, a depth of rage I've never seen, and overwhelming confusion. I've never seen anyone so lost.
 

He barrels into me and drops his forehead heavily into the crook of my neck. His arms crush my shoulders together and his fingers dig harshly into my arms and back. I can take the physical pain from his desperate need, but my heart breaks for his angst.
 

I wonder if he's accomplished his goal. I wonder if he's broken beyond compare.
 

With my limited mobility from being locked in his grip, I reach my hands as far as I can around him, gripping my fingers tightly and whispering shushing noises.

"I've got you," I whisper.

I continue to hold him together as best I can. The man before me crumbles, and I'm certain no one has ever seen him broken. His strength and tenacity rarely waver, yet here he stands unable to even speak. I have no idea what in the world could cause this.
 

"Shhh," I coo quietly again. I don't think he's experienced much nurturing in his world. His needs are child-like with his inexperience. Understanding this side of him breaks my heart, but puts me in a unique position to help him appropriately. "It's ok. Come over here."

I finally ease myself from his grip only enough to guide him to my couch. With a failed attempt of getting him to sit down, I remain standing while I keep him wrapped up in me. His posture eventually straightens, but the clench of his jaw will not ease. I look up into a face expressing anger and pain like I've never seen.
 

"Talk to me," I say softly. He hesitates a moment then shakes his head as though searching for words strong enough to convey his thoughts. He and I both know there aren't words for what he's experiencing, so I wait as patiently as I can for him to find a way to communicate. Holding myself strong while not knowing the source of his state of mind is insanely difficult.
 

I see a single tear force itself from his eye. I can only imagine the hot sting of that tiny drop. If I had to guess, I would say this is the first tear he's cried in forty years. My fear for his heart grows stronger as I watch the tear fall.
 

"I found him," his voice squeezes out through his tension when he finally breaks the thick silence.
 

I can only stare into his face to search for any crumb of insight. His jaw clenches more tightly as he works to find the words. More angry tears gather as he looks to the ceiling, now shaking with rage and pain.
 

"What did you do?" I ask carefully. He knows he can confide in me, but I'm not sure he can speak the words.

He shakes his head and closes his eyes. His mouth opens twice as though he wants to speak, but his throat won't release his voice.
 

"Callen?" With hesitation, I risk one more word to draw him out. "…
Bash?
"

His eyes flick down with pure anger behind his glare.

"Don't you dare," he seethes out loudly as he stands sharply and steps angrily back. "Don't fucking call me that!"

I retreat a step and stare at him, trying very hard not to be afraid of him. His rationality has taken leave completely, and I can't figure out his reaction. I've seen Mason use the name in simple, casual camaraderie.

Callen grips his head and paces angrily. I watch carefully, breathing deeply and working hard to navigate through the tension. I keep strong in spite of my fear.
 

With his back to me, he finally speaks one word. "Spades."

His business partner? Brother? Teammate?
That
Spades? The only
Spades
I know? The implication of his meaning hangs heavily between us.
 

"He killed her. Bennett hired him. And he killed her."

I've never heard a soul shatter before, but Callen's voice brought that ugly sound to my ears. I stand in stunned silence unable to process the reality. I can't imagine the betrayal. How could his brother do that to him?

How can Callen find any closure now? Spades stood beside him in war…saved his life. Spades, like Mason and Riggs, is closer than a brother to Callen.
Was
closer. A million unanswered questions float between us.