CHAPTER 7

My Heart Feels Like a Ghost

I n Ian's plane, the trip from Manchester to Miami will be about five hours long, and it's evident only twenty minutes in that this will be a painfully awkward trip.

Back when I was in the SEALs, Ian was the closest thing I had to a friend. With every member of my team, there was a respect and fondness I held for them, but something about Ian's gentle-giant stoic manner made me drop my guard a little more than I did with anyone else. It made the decision to leave the teams that much harder.

I don't blame him for being pissed. In his eyes, I look like a guy that abandoned his oath and his team because I hated rules, but it runs so much deeper than that, too deep for me to be able to disclose. He'll just have to live with the assumptions he's made about me, and I have to live with the fact that I've lost his respect.

"How did you know I was in Manchester?" Ian asks quietly, his voice drowned in static from the headsets he and I wear.

I see no point in lying, so I answer, "I've kept tabs on you since I left. Besides, you always mentioned wanting to retire someplace you could read and drink tea in peace. Worsley, Manchester is the epitome of that."

"Great, so because you stalked me and dragged me into your shit, I am now forced to become an outcast like you. Thanks a lot," he deadpans.

I rub my tongue against the inside of my cheek, trying to check my annoyance. "Is this whole trip going to be a lecture? Because if so, I'm going to jump into the ocean."

He rolls his eyes. "This is my plane, and I will say whatever the fuck I want in it, especially since I'm carting your ass for free."

"You think I wanted to go to you for help?" I ask, keeping my eyes trained on the dark sky around us. "Desperation and fear are what brought me to your doorstep, but not for myself, for Beth."

His eyebrows quirk up at that. "So, Beth is her name. It's pretty." He steals a glance at me, something akin to wonder shining there. "In all the years I've known you, you've never been afraid of anything. It's odd to hear you talk about fear so candidly."

I'm always afraid , I think to myself. I wouldn't be alive if I weren't .

"I've never had something to lose before," I say, shocked by my own honesty. I guess some things never change; I still have no filter around Beast. He just has a way of drawing information out of you without you realizing it, something we had used to our advantage against our enemies. No one could interrogate as well as him.

"How did you meet her?" he asks softly, genuinely interested.

"She was an analyst at the CIA. We worked together on a case, and I admired her ability to read my body language and emotions. She saw my assets and setbacks and adjusted accordingly to make us a team. When I went to work for myself, I asked her to come with me, and she said yes."

"Are the two of you together?"

I shake my head. "That's not in the cards."

I see Ian roll his eyes out of my peripheral vision. "You're the only person I've ever met that's determined to be miserable."

I huff a laugh at that. "Don't you think I deserve to be miserable?"

He's silent for a moment, then he says, "I don't agree with what you've chosen to do as a profession, and I don't agree with your shredded threads of a moral code, but you're not so fallen that there's no hope for you to rise again."

"Who says I want to rise again?" I counter.

"You probably don't." He shrugs. "But the fact that you're giving up everything to protect the woman you love tells me that you're still a good man deep down."

It warms me to know that his good opinion of me isn't completely obliterated, but I can't help but hesitate in agreeing with him. "My capability to love has nothing to do with what I am. I know where I'm bound when my life is done. I've made peace with it. I am okay with damning my soul if it means I can take down evil people whose retribution is held in the hands of power-hungry politicians and kings. You may think it's wrong to enact vigilante justice, and in a perfect world, I would agree with you, but when rapists, abusers, sex traffickers, and predators are the very people who make laws and enact them, then evil runs unchecked. I refuse to stand by and do nothing."

"So as a Catholic you're perfectly okay with going to hell?"

A question I have asked myself many times since I decided to join this life. "The Bible says a lot of things about what makes you a sinner or a saint, but I think it's all bullshit. Those rules were written by men, not by God. I believe that God punishes those who mean to harm others, but his justice only comes once someone dies, and how many innocent people will be harmed between now and God's reckoning? I am fine facing my own reckoning one day if I can force others to face theirs sooner."

Ian sighs, licking his lips. "With that ideology, you could kill anyone you wanted without remorse. You could justify horrible actions because they're sinners in your eyes. How many innocent people, especially in America, have died because of that exact thinking?"

My nostrils flare at that. "I'm not a fucking Neo-Nazi that attacks people for being who they are. I'm a bisexual Chinese-Italian American. Those fuckers that use God to attack people like me are exactly the people I want facing God's judgement."

His eyebrows raise a tad. "I didn't know you were bi. So am I."

"I didn't know that either," I admit. "But you and I aren't ones for chitchat, so it doesn't shock me that there are things we don't know about each other."

Ian agrees with a grunt. "I think this is the longest conversation we've ever had."

It probably is. "Yeah, and now you see why I don't talk to people."

Ian's silent for a moment, then he says with sincerity, "I've never been super religious, but I never bought the idea that all sins are weighed equally. If God is the way you believe he is, then he'll see your pure intentions."

"Maybe. Maybe not. I don't care." For all that I said about not justifying my life choices to Ian I sure have done just that.

"That's your problem, Henry." I lock eyes with him and find his expression soft, his gaze earnest. "You do care, you're just too scared to let yourself acknowledge it or, God forbid, let someone care about you too. You're the most miserable grump I've ever seen, and it's your own damn fault. You seem to think that guarding your heart will guard you from pain. It won't. Life is pain, but a lucky few of us get to experience some love and joy mixed in. You have a chance to have some of that now that you've been compromised. Live on your little island with Beth and be happy."

He speaks of it like it's so simple. "I don't know how to be happy or content."

"I moved to a quaint place like Worsley because I didn't know either. My life has always been about serving my country and defending the innocent, and ever since I retired, I've had a hard time learning how to be at peace. I think it just takes time."

I eye him curiously. "If you loved it so much, why did you retire?"

Ian's expression stays indifferent, but I know in his heart he's grieving. "Because I wanted to know what it felt like to serve myself, not others—to put myself first for once. I realized I had never thought about what I wanted to do."

"Have you figured out what you want to do?"

He gives me the smallest of smirks. "I'll let you know when I do."

I chuck my phone out the window on my drive down Washington Highway towards Baltimore. It's an easy way of tracking me, and as much as I hate to throw away my progress on Plants vs Zombies , the risk isn't worth it. I'm a little sad about having to part ways with it, but I am even more devastated having to say goodbye to my car, which is another easy thing to track. It's a 2014 Nissan Murano, and I affectionally named it Pietro after Quicksilver from the Marvel movies.

I have a crush on Aaron Taylor-Johnson, what can I say?

It's not the most fancy car, but it does have seat warmers and a bunch of airbags. Henry always joked that it's basically a marshmallow. I've had this car since I went to college. It's been with me through school, the CIA, working with Henry…

And now I have to fucking abandon it in an airport parking lot.

After getting my bag and cooler out of the back, I take a pen and sticky note from the center console and write a little note that reads "touch my car and you die." I then stick it on the dashboard, place a kiss on the steering wheel, and whisper, "Farewell Pietro."

I'm not ashamed to say I got a little teary eyed when I got onto the charter plane. I loved that car, dammit, and thankfully the pilot let a girl mourn her vehicle. He didn't ask questions, just said there's napkins in the barf bags for me to wipe my tears. This is where his consideration ended, however, because as soon as we were in the air, the man made it his mission to make the trip as quickly as possible, which caused a lot of turbulence and a few near collisions with birds that resulted in abrupt turns. He also played Jimmy Buffet the entire trip, and while I love "Margaritaville," listening to him for three hours straight had me two seconds away from chucking myself out of the plane.

I was thankful to be rid of him when we reached Florida. He sent me off with a wink and a smile around the rim of a bourbon bottle, and while I forced a smile back at him, I was internally imagining pouring that bottle all over his bald head.

As I walk towards the front of the small airport we landed at, I attempt to flag down one of the taxis waiting for passengers, but none of them seem to be paying attention. I'm practically dancing around like a monkey, but it's to no avail.

"Ever think they're ignoring you because you're acting like you have an ice cube in your shirt?" a gruff, familiar voice says from behind me.

I turn around, my heart stopping dead in my chest as I lock eyes with Henry. He looks exhausted. I would venture to guess he hasn't rested since we last spoke, but despite the dark circles under his eyes and his weary expression, he looks just as handsome as ever. The fear, worry, and anticipation I've felt since we were compromised hits me all at once, and I rush towards him at full speed, tears welling in my eyes. Henry opens up his arms and catches me, burying his face into the crook of my neck, breathing me in. I nuzzle into his chest, clutching on to his shirt like my life depends on it.

"I missed you so fucking much," I whisper, feeling my tears skate down my cheeks, dampening his shirt.

I expect him to reply with a witty comeback or remark on how it's only been a day or so since we last saw each other, but instead he holds me tighter and murmurs in my ear, "I missed you, too, B."

"As lovely as this reunion is, we should really get going," another voice says from behind Henry, and I tense up, confused by this random person's comment.

Henry pulls back from me and gestures to the behemoth of a man wearing sunglasses, jeans, and a navy-blue polo shirt. "This is Ian. We were in the SEALs together; he helped me get here and he's graciously taking us to Neverland."

Ian barks out a laugh. "Neverland?"

I give him an indignant nod. "Yes, Neverland. Do you have a problem with that?"

He smirks, holding his hands up in surrender. "Not at all."

I give him a victorious smile. "Good. My imagination will not be criticized. It's not my fault neither of you have any."

Henry gives me one of his infamous grunts and Ian just continues to smile. "I like her."

Henry doesn't seem too pleased by this confession. He wraps his arm around my waist and gives a firm nod to his old friend. "You're right, we should get going."

Ian continues to smile as he turns away, but Henry glares at the back of his head, like a child forced by his mom to share his favorite toy.

"If I didn't know better," I teasingly poke his chest, "I would say you're jealous."

I fully expect him to poke me back, just like he did a few days ago, but his gaze becomes earnest, and so do his words. "Maybe I am."

Oh. "What is there to be jealous of?"

He opens his mouth to speak, but then he reconsiders, finally settling on, "Let's get to the island, okay?"

I narrow my eyes his way but nod, hoping he knows I'm not letting him off the hook that easily. By the way he still protectively holds on to me as he follows after Ian, I would say he does.

From Miami we fly to Nassau, then Ian manages to rent a helicopter to take us the rest of the way to Neverland since there's no runway for a plane to land there. With the helicopter, we're able to set ourselves gently on the sandy beach, right in front of the lush jungle that hides our new safe haven. When I get out of the helicopter, stepping onto the golden sand, hearing the waves crashing all around us, I feel at peace, which isn't an emotion I am accustomed to.

I could easily spend eternity here. When Henry gets out and unloads my bags, his hair ruffled and his dark shirt sticking to his skin, I know for a fact I could.

Once the helicopter is fully unpacked, Ian gives Henry a long look, contemplating something. Henry couldn't be bothered to notice though; he's too busy making sure my insulin hasn't gotten overheated and that the icebags are still in place.

"I'm going to stick around in Nassau for a little while," Ian announces, making H finally turn his attention back to him.

"You are?" I ask.

He nods, his expression softened. "Harrison and his goons will have already connected me to you, so going back home isn't an option. Besides, you guys could use someone keeping an eye out off the island. That way you won't be blindsided."

Henry reaches out towards his friend, nodding once. "Thank you."

Ian grasps on to his arm, shooting a smile my way. "You two look out for each other. I'll be in touch soon."

I give him a little wave in farewell, then I let Henry tug me towards the brush, with him carrying all of my luggage like a pack mule. The trees and bushes sway rapidly as the helicopter starts up again and begins its ascent into the air. Only after the wilderness surrounding us settles do we begin trekking through it, with H leading the way through the expansive jungle towards our bunker.

"Make sure to follow directly behind me—don't wander," Henry instructs, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground. "I have booby traps all around the island."

"Booby traps?" I ask.

He nods, walking around a large bush, so I avoid it at all costs, keeping right on his heels. "My dad fought in the Vietnam War when he was a teenager, and he told my mom about all of the traps the Vietcong set, how effective their methods were. I took inspiration from the stories she told me. I have a map of where each trap is set. I'll show it to you later."

I try to remember what I learned in history about 'Nam, but my mind is totally blank. History wasn't my greatest subject. Guess these booby traps will just be a surprise.

The bunker is in the center of the island, with a storm cellar-like entrance hidden underneath moss and leaves. The metal doors are silent as Henry lifts them up, though by their rusty appearance I would've expected them to creak and groan. H must have oiled them up somehow.

He holds the doors open for me, and when I peer inside, I find a small metal ladder that goes about eight feet down to the ground. I take one of my bags and secure it to my shoulders, then I climb down the ladder, with Henry right behind me. When the doors shut, we are covered in darkness, but as soon as my feet touch the ground, a light on the ceiling turns on, allowing me to see a concrete hallway leading to an elevator. It has a scanner next to it, and Henry places his face directly in front of it, keeping his eyes wide open. It scans his face, then a green light glows from the screen, making the doors swing open.

"That's so fucking cool," I gush, following H into the elevator.

"Only you and I have access to that elevator. All you have to do is stand in front of the scanner and you'll gain access; that goes for every room in the safe house. If anyone tries to access the elevator or another room in the house, they'll be electrocuted."

Christ almighty. "You never do anything in halves." I observe, aiming for a joking tone, but it sounds more like awe.

"When it comes to your safety? No."

Okay not what I was expecting him to say but I silently preen at his reply.

"How deep does this go?" I ask as we enter the elevator. Without having to press any buttons, it descends lower into the ground, and it's eerie seeing no screen showing the floors we are going past or hearing no jazz music in the background.

"The safe house is twenty feet below the surface," he replies, staring ahead at the shut doors.

Shit. "And is it all concrete?"

"Yes."

"Please tell me I'll be able to get a signal down here. Kinda need one to live." Literally. My pump and CGM require a Bluetooth connection.

He smirks. "I made sure it would, don't worry."

Just to make sure, I pull out my pump and find it working smoothly. My CGM must be working as well because the pump is still getting readings from it.

"Good." One less thing to worry about. "Besides, I don't think I can go even a week without finding out what happens with Lady Rose and Atticus or if Tom is going to move to America with Sybbie."

"Neither can I," he admits, and I have to hide my smile.

The elevator doors finally open, revealing a homey living room, which shocks me. I honestly expected this place to look like a military barracks, but it's cute and comfy looking, with a large cream couch that could probably seat eight people, a sixty-inch flat-screen TV, a tree stump coffee table, a tan rug, and an entire wall of bookshelves filled with thousands of DVDs. What really grabs my attention are the concrete walls though, which are painted sky blue, and on the ceiling there are realistic little white clouds.

"Did you do that?" I point upwards.

He chortles, shaking his head. "When the crew I hired to build this safe house were done, I commissioned a local artist. I thought it would please you."

"Are all the rooms like this?" I ask excitedly.

"Why don't you go see?"

The closest door is right next to the TV, so I scan my face on the scanner and then push it open to find a kitchen that would make Gordon Ramsay faint: a steel refrigerator and freezer, an electric stove, a large oven, dozens of cabinets that are filled with plates and dishes, an island big enough to cook a five-course meal on, and a pantry completely filled with nonperishable food like canned vegetables and beans, dried fruit, oats, rice, soup, granola bars, pasta, and a fuck ton of bottled water. Once again, the concrete walls are painted, but this time they're a soft yellow, and on the ceiling, there is a very realistic-looking sun, with birds silhouetted midflight.

Henry walks over to the fridge and opens it up, revealing boxes of insulin pens and vials of both Humalog and Levemir already stocked. I also spot a couple glucagon pens and some juices for when I go low in there also. I don't even use Levemir anymore since my insulin pump doesn't use long-acting insulin, but he got some for me anyways.

My heart flutters like the wings of a baby bird taking flight for the first time as I stand there staring at the fridge, unable to form words of any kind. It shouldn't surprise me that he would do something like this, but it does. I knew he would keep me safe and take care of me, but this is above and beyond. The movies, the painted ceilings, the supplies in the fridge…

Henry shuts the door and points to an already open door near the stove, pulling me from my thoughts. It's a cute little bathroom painted red with little tulips on the ceiling. "All bathrooms don't require facial recognition, so if your blood sugar is high, you won't have to wait."

Every type one diabetic is different when it comes to low and high blood sugars, but for me, the symptoms hit me hard. When I'm low, I feel sweaty, shaky, dizzy, and all I can think about is eating. I imagine it's how a wolf feels after it hasn't eaten in five days. It's a hunger beyond hunger—an instinctive need to fend off starvation. And when I'm high, I feel thirsty, tired, I have a horrible stomachache and headache, I'm a complete bitch, and I have to pee like a racehorse.

I don't even try to hide how happy his accommodations make me. "You're my favorite thing in the world," I admit.

If I didn't know any better, I would say he's blushing. "Let's continue with the tour." His voice is gruff, raspy. Once he turns from me, a shiver runs down my body.

He leads me back through the living room and down a hallway on the right side of the elevator. There are quite a few doors on either side, and each of them are labeled: armory, gym, office, Henry's bedroom, and my bedroom. The armory looks like it's straight out of a John Wick movie: the concrete walls are covered in racks of guns, knives, ammunition, and rope; boxes of cameras, syringes, chemicals, and tactical gear line the floors. It's the only room without any paint on the walls.

The gym—which includes but is not limited to a treadmill, weight station, punching bag, wrestling mats, and paper targets for shooting practice—has a darker blue hue to the walls than the living room, with flowers growing out the trim, which has been painted a dark grass-green.

The office, which more or less looks like our old one, is painted navy blue with constellations across the walls and ceiling, and a shooting star cresting where my new swivel chair sits.

My bedroom is painted purple, which is my favorite color. On the walls are cascading pink and lavender leaves falling from an invisible tree; they lead down to a mountain landscape with pink and grey hues and beautiful shading. There's a king-sized bed against the wall opposite the door, a set of double doors that leads to a walk-in closet that rivals The Princess Diaries 2 , another door that leads to my own bathroom, and a TV twice my size on the wall opposite the bed, right next to the entrance. Right under it are a couple of beanbag chairs and blankets too. There's even a One Direction pillow on my bed and a poster of young Justin Bieber holding a heart with the words "I can fix up your broken heart" written in neon pink next to him.

It's perfect.

"You must be exhausted." Henry once again pulls me from my thoughts. "I'll leave you to unpack and get some rest. If you need me, I'm right across the hall," he says, starting to back into the hallway.

"H?" My voice stops him in his tracks, and he looks at me inquisitively. "Thank you."

He nods once, a smirk playing across his lips. "Anytime, B."