CHAPTER 3

Begged, Borrowed, and Cried

K nock knock knock. "Delivery for Ms. Reed."

My head lifts up from my laptop and I narrow my eyes at the door.

"What kind of delivery?" I shout back, glancing at the monitor to my right, which shows our building's security feed. My eyes then flicker to my CGM receiver, which buzzes with my blood sugar reading every five minutes. It's 167—okay but not great.

"A late delivery from the Wright his mother was rich, and his father started smuggling drugs throughout the East Coast, a hobby he got his son into. Dad overdosed, mom kicked Colt out the minute she learned about the drug smuggling, and now he's on the verge of hitting gold in the black market. Ricky doesn't do drugs, only chemicals and ammo, and he knows he needs Colt gone if he's to achieve his goal of monopolizing the substance side of the black market.

No matter what side you work for, there're always moves and countermoves. Despite all the bureaucracy in place within governments and their institutions, the same games happen that give the black market their reputation. At least people like Ricky and Colt know who and what they are.

The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and I start down the hallway towards Colt's apartment: 22D.

When you're on an assignment, you have to stay focused and emotionally detached. The second you let your personal feelings get in the way is the second you put yourself and those around you at risk. I've always prided myself on being able to compartmentalize during a high stress situation. But when I open Colt's door—which was unlocked—I am met with a sight that blows that composure out of the water.

The man in question is wearing only a pair of gym shorts and socks; in his hand is a syringe needle filled with a resin-colored liquid, and I watch a bead of it fall down onto the exposed shoulder of a girl in a bra and underwear. She can't be more than eighteen, and I would venture to guess that she is far younger than that. She has a busted lip and a bruise along her cheek. Her eyes are red and puffy, though I'm not sure if that's from crying or drugs. Maybe both.

Colt's gaze lifts to mine, and I am vaguely aware that he's demanding why I'm in his home, but I can't hear him. I can't even see him. The edges of my vision blur as a new scene replaces what my eyes are viewing.

A syringe needle is sticking into her neck, with his finger pressing down on the plunger. He notices me only after half of the syringe is already in her body. Shock appears in his eyes, then that gives way to indifference. He has the audacity to shrug at me.

"We all must make the most of the shitty hand we're dealt. It wasn't personal."

I can barely hear, feel, or process any thoughts, much less my actions as I zero in on Erik Colt, who has now let go of the girl and is reaching for the gun tucked into the waistband of his shorts. I'm quicker than he is by a long shot though, and by the time his fingers graze the handle, I've already put a bullet in his shoulder, sending him reeling back. I put another in his calf, which sends him tumbling to the ground, crying out in pain. I lean down and grab hold of his gun, stealing the mag in case he gets any ideas.

I turn my head to the side to check on the girl, who is looking at Colt in utter terror. It doesn't take her long to realize I'm staring at her, and I understandably see fear in her eyes as she looks me over. She walks backwards until she falls onto the stained olive couch, then she lifts her hands up in a sign of surrender. "P-please don't hurt me."

I shake my head, trying to soften my voice. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help. You got a name?"

She gives a small nod. "Arabella."

"How old are you?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"Sixteen," she whispers.

With flaring nostrils, I grip my gun tighter. "How long have you been here?"

Her lip wobbles as she shakes her head. "I don't know. I-I want to go home."

I pull out my phone and call one of three contacts I have. The line answers on the third ring. "You've reached the Human Trafficking Hotline, how can I help you?"

"There's a sixteen-year-old girl named Arabella in the Cardinal Apartment Complex on Silver Avenue in Richmond. She's been drugged and possibly assaulted."

There's a pause, then "We're sending a call to the FBI now. Are you being held at this location as well?"

"No. She'll be waiting for you in the lobby."

I hang up, stuffing my phone back into my pocket, never once taking my eyes from Colt. "Go get dressed and head down to the lobby," I direct to Arabella, who seems to be a little less uneasy around me now. "People are coming to take you somewhere safe."

She shakes her head, tucking a strand of her brown hair behind her ear. "I tried to run away once, and he found me."

"Oh, don't worry about that happening again. This piece of shit won't be bothering you or anyone else anymore," I vow, tightening my grip around my gun's handle.

Her lips part; her eyes widen. "You are going to kill him."

I give a single nod. "Hurry along now. I promise you don't want to witness what's about to happen."

Understanding my warning, she darts into the next room and grabs a pile of clothes. She clumsily dresses herself as she heads towards the door, and she doesn't give me or Colt another glance before she runs towards the elevator, shutting the door behind her.

I kneel in front of Colt, who glares up at me with gritted teeth. "Who fucking sent you?" he demands, his tone weak from blood loss.

"God." I lean an arm on my bent knee, my gun in the other hand. "I'm the reaper he sends to deliver souls to their moment of judgement, and based on what I've seen, I'm pretty confident in how you will be judged."

He whimpers at that, tears slipping down his cheeks. It's a beautiful sight, one I revel in.

"Any final words? Any prayers for forgiveness?" I ask, pressing the barrel of my gun into his temple.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he begins to sob, clutching on to his shoulder and curling up on his side like a scared child.

I lean forward a bit, lowering my voice. "It's said that if you pray for forgiveness from God, he will pardon you and thus cleanse your soul, but that's a bunch of bullshit. There's no redemption, no repenting, no forgiveness that can be bestowed on someone that enslaves, exploits, and violates young girls." I spit those last words out, my voice so low that it makes this piece of shit start to shake.

I put my gun on safety, slipping it into the waistband of my pants. I then pull out a retractable knife I always keep in my suit jacket pocket, and when his eyes land on it, he cries harder.

"God's judgement will have to wait for a little while longer," I trail the blunt side of the knife along his cheek, making his shaking only grow worse. "I would say you have only a few minutes before those bullet wounds make you bleed out, which doesn't give us nearly as much time to play. But I guess I'll take what time I've been granted."

I flip the knife around in my hand, pressing down into Colt's skin, and that's when the screaming starts.

There's a man who leads a life of danger,

to everyone he meets he stays a stranger.

I peel my eyes open and zero in on my phone, which is illuminating my dark bedroom with its bright screen and blaring that song at full volume. I reach over and grab it, pressing the answer button on the call while still lying cocooned within my heated blanket. "Henry, you okay?"

I hear heavy breathing, then a soft, "I need you."

His shaky tone is like a splash of cold water on my head. I sit upright, the blankets pooling down around my body. "Where are you?"

"Outside your front door."

Dropping my phone, I jump out of bed and bolt down the stairs, taking them two at a time. When I reach my door, I quickly undo both locks, then I swing it open and find Henry sitting on my doorstep, covered in blood with his head in his hands.

I fall to my knees in front of him, looking over his body to see if there are any obvious injuries. "You hurt?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"What happened? Did you get Colt?" I cup his jaw gently in both hands, not caring about the blood seeping into my skin.

He nods. "He's dead."

"Then what's the problem?"

Henry lifts his head a bit, his eyes falling to his bloodstained hands. "I can't get her blood off of me."

"Whose?"

"Mama's," he whispers, still staring at his hands.

Henry rarely ever talks about his mom, if ever. I have no clue what happened to her, but from the bits and pieces I've gathered over time, I know hers wasn't a peaceful death, and I know Henry was there to witness it.

"I'll help you clean up," I whisper.

I help him get to his feet, then I shuffle him into my apartment. I have two bathrooms, both of which have showers, so I take him into the nearest one next to my living room. I flip the lights on and get the water started; all the while H stares blankly at the floor, near catatonic.

"We need to get you out of these clothes," I whisper, gesturing to his stained shirt, jacket, and pants.

He nods numbly, then he begins stripping out of his stained clothes. It occurs to me once he's down to just his boxers that I should probably turn around, so I do, allowing him some privacy. I hear him shuffle into the shower, but I don't hear the door slide closed. I dare a peek at him, only to see him once again curled up on the floor, with the water's spray hitting him in the chest.

I've never seen Henry like this before, and I'm really fucking worried he's had some kind of psychotic break. What happened at Erik Colt's house? It was supposed to be a simple mission—in and out. He must have seen something that set him off. Henry is usually so guarded and closed off, it can be hard to tell what triggers him, though I've tried in vain to get some idea of what those triggers might be. If I can help him avoid them or help him through them, I would feel far less helpless than I do right now.

I leave him alone for a second so I can make a call to Dr. Bennett, the only person I can think of that could give me an answer on how to help him. Even at the late hour, she answers the phone after only a couple rings.

"Hey Dr. Bennett, it's Bethany Reed, Henry's assistant."

"Yes, I've heard a lot about you, Ms. Reed. What can I do for you?"

I glance at the door of my bathroom, which sits ajar in case he needs me. "Henry showed up at my house after finishing…an assignment. He's acting weird. He's not very responsive, he's in like this catatonic trance, and he mentioned something about his mother."

"What did he say specifically?"

"He looked upset by the blood on his body because he thinks it's his mom's."

Dr. Bennett says nothing for a moment, and then, "All you can do is let it run its course and be there to support him."

"I've seen him experience flashbacks before, but it's nothing like this. Usually he looks shaken and anxious, but this…"

"Think of PTSD like a shaken can of soda," Dr. Bennett begins. "Anytime you open that can, it will burst uncontrollably. The goal in treating PTSD is to be able to open the can without it exploding, and the way you do that is by opening that can again and again, until all the air fizzles out."

An odd analogy but I guess that makes sense.

"To heal is to face the pain, and Henry has avoided doing that for a very long time," she continues. "He's only now processing his feelings and emotions, so it will get worse before it gets better. But it will get better."

From my own time in therapy when I was a teenager, I know what she's saying is true. It's a marathon not a sprint. "Alright. Thank you."

"Healing is always harder when you're doing it alone, Ms. Reed, something I'm sure you know. Your presence and care will help him just as much as therapy will."

With her advice in mind, I go back inside the bathroom to find Henry still on the floor, with his head bent down towards his chest and his hair plastered around his face.

I unhook my insulin pump from my bra and slip the needle out of the port in my stomach, setting the device down on the bathroom counter. Without bothering to take off my Belieber PJ's, I get under the spray next to him and sit, offering my silent support. I have no idea how long he and I stay there, but Henry's body is completely free of blood, and he looks like he's starting to come back to the present. He glances over at me with a broken, defeated expression, and the sight breaks my heart.

"I'll get you some clothes," I tell him, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

He gives me a shallow nod, and with that I leave the shower dripping wet, jogging into my bedroom. I have a lot of T-shirts, most of which I'm sure will fit him, so I pick one at random—a lime green shirt with a smiling avocado on it—then I grab a pair of grey sweatpants. I have no underwear that would be suitable for him, so he'll just have to go commando. I doubt he would appreciate my hot pink thongs. I go ahead and strip out of my wet clothes, throwing on one of those thongs, a BTR T-shirt, and blue-and-white polka dot sweatpants.

When I return to the bathroom with his fresh clothes, I see him wiping himself down with a towel, his tattooed and muscled skin stopping me dead in my tracks. This is the first time I've ever seen him naked, so I had no clue how many tattoos he had on him. I only knew about the ones on his arms, which are a purple iris and a portrait of Mother Mary. But now I see that there's a blue bird over his collar bone, Lady Justice with her scales and sword on his chest, an angel reaching out towards a falling Lucifer, and on his lower abdomen, there's words written in blocky letters:

Lord, how long shall the wicked triumph?

Without thinking, my eyes trail lower, and I immediately force my attention away, refusing to process the glimpse of Henry's dick I got.

I sound a bit breathy as I offer him the clothes. "I'll wait for you outside."

After grabbing my pump and reattaching it to my body, I hightail it out of that bathroom and make a beeline to my couch, where I then proceed to hit myself in the face with a pillow. What the fuck is wrong with me? I scream internally. The man is reliving his trauma and here I am ogling at his body! I'm such a hussy.

I groan against the pillow, then I try to compose myself and act like a semi-sane human being. But of course, the universe fucking hates me, and Henry walks out of the bathroom to find my hair all messed up and me glaring down at my pillow like it had physically attacked me.

I don't bother coming up with an excuse. "Don't ask."

He shakes his head. "Wasn't going to."

God I really am a hussy. All that's going through my head is how adorable he looks in my avocado shirt and how nice his butt looks in my pants. I totally get why guys love seeing their girlfriends in their hoodies. It's sexy as hell to see the person you have feelings for wearing your clothes.

Focus, Reed. Focus.

"Are you feeling any better?" I ask, approaching him cautiously.

He nods, his throat bobbing. "A little."

Henry is usually so hard and cold. Even in his times of vulnerability, there's always this brick wall surrounding his heart, unwavering and unbreakable. But right now, that wall is rubble at our feet, and instead of looking like a killer who is physically and mentally untouchable, he looks like a lost boy.

"Come here, H." I extend my hand out to him, and he slowly grabs on to it, letting me tug him towards my bedroom.

I know he's not in his right mind because he makes no comments about my posters. One Direction, Justin Bieber, Harry Styles, and the Jonas Brothers line my walls, making my room look like it belongs to a fifteen-year-old girl's. He just ignores them and collapses into my bed, like the weight of gravity is too much for him to bear.

Without thinking it through whatsoever, I crawl into bed next to him, positioning myself so I'm spooning his back. "Get some sleep, H."

"Thank you. For everything."

"Sorry in advance if my receiver and pump make a lot of noise," I say, glancing over my shoulder at my nightstand, where my receiver and a bucket of snacks—for low blood sugar—lies on the surface. It can get loud when it buzzes against the wood.

"It's nothing," he assures me quietly.

I snuggle into him, hoping the pump attached to my shirt isn't digging into his spine. If it is, he says nothing. "That's what I'm here for. I'll do whatever you need me to do and be whatever you need me to be."

"I just need you," he whispers, and my heart does a somersault.

"You have me," I assure him, tightening my hold on his body.

"I can never have you" is his reply, and I'm too scared to ask him what he means by that. I just let those words linger between us as he swiftly falls asleep, and I along with him.