CHAPTER 14

Rather be a Nightmare Than Die Unaware

S ince H planned our last date night, I get to plan the next one.

Once we finished our target practice for the day, I told H to go occupy himself for the next twenty minutes while I got everything prepared, and at exactly six, I call him into the living room, where I've lit a few candles and turned off all the lights. My laptop sits on the coffee table, which is pushed back towards the wall the TV rests against, leaving a large open area for what I have planned. Playing from my laptop is a playlist I created for tonight, and right now "'S Wonderful" from Funny Face is playing from its small speakers. The voices of Fred Astaire and Audrey Hepburn fill the room as a mystified Henry walks into the room. I extend a hand out towards him from where I stand in the middle of the room, and he takes it without hesitation.

"Every classic romance movie has a dance scene," I say, pulling him towards me. "I thought we could have our own."

"I'm not a good dancer," he warns, holding our linked hands up next to us while his other hand grips my waist.

I sling my arm across his shoulder, resting my head against his chest. "Doesn't matter."

The two of us sway to the song in a gentle side-step motion, with his chin resting on my head, and my cheek resting against his heart, which beats steadfast and strong, like a song of its own.

The playlist goes to the next song, then the next, and still we dance, so wrapped up in each other that time becomes irrelevant, as cliché as that is. It may be easy to feel like you're in your own little world when you are in a bunker on an abandoned island, but I feel it nonetheless.

When the fourth song begins to play, Henry gives me an odd look. The previous songs have all been from old Hollywood movies, but I couldn't resist throwing in a couple bangers from this century.

"Hoedown Throwdown" from Hannah Montana: The Movie blasts from my laptop.

"You said your mom used to learn dances from movie scenes and do them with you." I take a step back from him, starting to do the moves I've memorized since I was a kid. "Thought we could keep the tradition alive."

Henry watches me do the routine for the first verse, then he makes an attempt on the second. His body is very stiff and he looks like he wants to bolt from the room, but he stays put and tries his best to follow along with the song.

I can't help but laugh as Henry attempts the moves, especially at the "shake it out head to toe" part, where he acts like he has a bug in his shirt he's trying to get rid of. Watching him pock and lock is fascinating as well. Seeing Henry dance like someone would in a Disney movie is like watching a dog do taxes. They just don't mesh together but fuck if it isn't hilarious.

By the third verse he has a better hang of it, and he's actually doing the moves on time instead of a few seconds late, so progress is being made. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's even enjoying himself.

I'm out of breath from laughing by the time the song ends, and I expect to see Henry exhibiting the same amount of joy and exhilaration, but instead I watch him tense up and freeze. His eyes dart to the laptop, where the next song is beginning to play. Another Audrey Hepburn song.

"H?" I ask, worry welling up inside of me.

Without looking at me, he shakes his head and exits the room, his feet stomping with how quick his movements are. I hear a door slam shut, making me flinch, and I'm left reeling from whatever the fuck just happened. I go over to my laptop and pause the song that has only just begun, "Moon River." Something about this song set him off, and since his mother was the one who introduced him to these kinds of movies, I'll bet this was some kind of reminder of his mom.

Despite having been a soldier, killing people for a living, and seeing some of the most heinous things capable of the human race, nothing triggers him the way his mother does. From the moment I first heard about her, I knew she was the reason for Henry's entire being—for all of his beliefs, actions, and feelings. Even in death, she continues to be the center of his universe.

I wish I knew what had happened to her. I could maybe help him cope through his still raw grief and PTSD, but I know in my gut getting the truth from him will be like prying a barnacle off a boat. Someone like Henry can only survive if he keeps everything vulnerable inside him guarded at all times, tucked away behind a wall no one can gain access to. I know because I used to be like that too before I went to therapy, a journey Henry is still in the early stages of.

I head over to his room and predictably find the door closed. Without knocking, I scan my face and slip inside quietly, finding him on the floor, his head between his knees and his hands clutching on to his rosary so hard that his knuckles are white.

I kneel down in front of him, not knowing whether I should touch him or not. "H?"

He shakes his head, keeping his head down. "Dr. Bennett said the only way to move on is by feeling everything, but I can't. I can't handle it."

I reach out and grip his arm, making him flinch. "Yes, you can. You're the strongest person I know. There is no fight you have lost or battle you couldn't win, and this is no different."

"There was a fight I lost," he whispers, his voice thick with tears. "I lost everything, and it's going to happen again. I'm going to lose again."

"What are you talking about?"

He shakes his head, tightening his arms around his legs. "Go."

I drop my hand, my stomach sinking. "Hen—"

"Go, Beth. Please ," he begs.

I stand up and head towards the door, hating this feeling of helplessness and worry. I hate seeing him in pain and knowing I can't help him. I hate that he's shutting me out instead of letting me in.

I pause in the doorway, my own throat clogged with emotion, and say to him over my shoulder, "I'll be in my room if you need me."

Then I shut the door behind me.

There are over seven thousand islands in the Caribbean and Henry Cai is hiding out in one of them. Based upon my intelligence sources, my team and I tracked Ian Lukas's plane to Miami, where Bethany Reed coincidentally flew by charter plane through the BWI Airport. From there, her trail becomes non-existent. But for Lukas, he rented a helicopter to Nassau. I'm not too surprised; most scum for hire like Cai conduct their business through the islands in order to keep a low profile and avoid capture, which is annoying for someone trying to hunt him down. There are thousands of places to hide, and I can only use certain resources to search. I have to keep it that way if I want this operation to be covert. No one knows about the true nature of Jake's death, and I need to keep it that way.

I sent two of my guys to scout out Haiti while me and the others focus on Cuba. We're checking the bigger islands before working our way through the small ones. Even if Cai, Lukas, and Reed aren't in these countries, the likelihood of them having stopped here is high. At the very least they used these countries as waypoints to stock up on supplies, and that should be enough to narrow down our search. This part may be tedious, but it's only a matter of time before we catch up to the three of them.

I will not sleep until I have wrung Cai and Reed like towels and made their last moments as agonizing as possible.

Their time is running out.

Henry doesn't come out of his room until the next afternoon. I had knocked on his door a couple times since I had woken up, but I had gotten no answer, so I had decided to practice without him. I thought it was best to leave the gun alone for now since I was still new to it, so I used the punching bag. I mostly decided to do this because I thought it would be cathartic, and I was right. Henry has always been stubborn, like a boulder-stuck-in-a-ditch-of-mud kind of stubborn, but this is reaching new heights. He's never flat-out ignored or shut me out before. Given our present circumstances, it's extremely aggravating. I can't exactly leave to get a coffee or something—I have to stay in a concrete box with the guy.

So, the punching bag it is.

It's around dinner time that Henry makes his first appearance, marching into the room and placing a hand on the bag, stopping it from swaying. "Pick up your gun," he says quietly, his tone more reserved than usual, which is saying something.

Knowing better than to question him, I do as he says and get into position. He pushes the paper targets back, and with a silent nod, he gives me the okay to shoot. I pull the trigger, aiming for the head, but when he pulls the target back up, I can see the bullet hole two inches above the shoulder.

"Again," he orders, pushing the target back.

I shoot again, this time hitting an inch from the target's hip.

His nostrils flare, his knuckles turning white as he pushes back the target with the handle. "Again."

"H—"

"I said again!"

I place the gun down on the weapons' rack, crossing my arms over my chest. "Not until you talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about," he insists, his expression angry. He looks downright pissed, and while I know it has nothing to do with me, he's still directing it at me, and that's not right.

"Bullshit," I reply, marching up to him until our bodies are almost touching, but not quite. He has to look down to meet my gaze, and he seems more aggravated now than he was before. "A group of killers is coming for us and what are you doing? Sulking and fussing like a toddler. You were the one that said my training should be our number one priority, but I've been here all day while you've been locked up in your room. Whatever is bothering you is compromising both of our safety, not to mention putting a strain on our partnership. So, spill it."

Henry looks taken aback by my outburst, but I'm pretty pissed myself. Henry has never been wishy-washy in the past, nor has he ever been so consumed by his emotions that he neglected his work. I've seen him have panic attacks dozens of times, but after getting some rest and unwinding, he's fine. But it looks like he hasn't come down from that place whatsoever. He's still in fight-or-flight panic mode. He was the one who convinced me that I needed training in case one of the mercs got to me, and he's leaving me alone to figure it out myself, which is absolute bullshit.

"I just realized that even spending late afternoons and nights away from training is putting you behind. I talked to Ian this morning and he's spotted some of Harrison's teammates talking to people around the airport in Haiti."

My eyes widen at that. "He's sure?"

He gives me a single nod. "He sent me pictures and I was able to scan them. They're with Harrison. Which is why we don't have time to fuck off and watch Downton Abbey. From when we wake to when we sleep should be dedicated to training you."

"Making us both work until we're exhausted won't make me any more ready than I am now. You can't turn me into an assassin in a week," I argue, hoping logic will break through this mental hole he's trapped in.

"No, but we can make you more prepared than you are now," he replies.

I feel like I'm yelling at a wall! "H, I'm going to be in a concrete bunker twenty feet below the ground behind metal doors only accessible by face scan, that happens to be equipped with ammunition. Why are you so convinced that something will happen to me? Unless a nuclear bomb hits the island, I will be fine, and even then, I'd have a better chance at living than you would."

"That's not the point," he argues, his tone clipped.

"Then what is?" I shout, my frustration reaching a breaking point. My throat feels thick and raw, like I'm going to cry, but I pray that's not about to happen. That would be so embarrassing. I haven't been this frustrated since I was a kid, and right now tears prickle my eyes.

"What happened to your mother?" I ask, and you'd think I had slapped him. He flinches away from me, his own eyes lining with tears. "What happened that makes you so certain that I'll meet her fate?"

I watch a tear streak down his cheek, and I want more than anything to wipe it away, but I force myself to stay put. "She died because I failed her," Henry whispers, reconnecting his angry gaze to mine. "She died because I wasn't strong enough or capable enough to protect her. I refuse to make that mistake again. If I can't be enough, then you have to be."

Oh Henry.

"You didn't fail your mom, H," I whisper, taking a step towards him, but he steps backwards, shaking his head.

"And how would you know that?" he snaps, venom dripping from each word. He's like a snake backed into a corner, unable to find a way of escape.

"Because I know you, Henry. Whatever happened, I know you did everything you could to protect her," I insist.

"No, I didn't. I was a good little soldier and followed all the rules even when it went against my better judgement and she was killed because of it," he snarls, banging his fist into the wall behind him. It's concrete, but you'd think it was foam from how hard he hit it and was able to shake it off.

"What happened, Henry? Please." I reach out my hand towards him, but he just shakes his head again. "What are you so afraid of?"

"I'm afraid that I won't be able to protect you," he tells me, abandoning his plan of putting as much distance between us as possible, and instead walking me backwards to the opposite wall, where he then cages my body in with his hands. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to watch the person I love most in this world die for the second time in my life. I'm afraid of being with you only to lose you to either death or the inevitable resentment you'll feel towards me if you ever find out the truth. I'm fucking afraid of everything when it comes to you, Beth, and I have been since we met. I should've left you alone—that way you would be safe—but I'm a selfish prick and I pulled you into this shitstorm because I physically can't go a day without you!"

At this point, he and I are both crying, and when I slowly cup his cheek with my hand, he doesn't pull away or flinch. He lets me wipe his wet cheek. He lets me comfort him.

"Why can't you tell me what happened?" I press my forehead to his, feeling his body begin to shake.

"I can't," he whispers. "I just can't."

He tears himself away from me and storms out of the gym, leaving me to lean against the wall for support as all the emotions from today crash over me. All of the frustration, worry, and sympathy hit their peak, and I don't hold back the tears any longer. I let them flow freely.