24. Dallas

CHAPTER 24

DALLAS

The hotel room where Isaac and I find ourselves the following morning is a suspended cage on the twenty-fifth floor, a glass and steel nest perched high above the city's shimmering veins. One of the many in this place. The Orion terrace sprawls across my view like a stage set for our grim play. The unassuming actors will soon enter this stage.

Beside me, Isaac moves with a predator's grace, his fingers grazing the sniper rifle that leans against the wall—our silent partner in today's bloody transaction. I know his hands are itching to squeeze that trigger. I know he wants to be the one to do it. Perhaps, not even because he must or because he promised Vlad, but because we now both know Solovey is knee-deep in the sickening underworld of child trafficking. The kind of business Isaac can't support. The kind of business Vlad doesn't like either.

"Hey," I start, my heart is a wild beast in the confines of my chest. "What time did Vlad say Solovey will show?"

"11:45," Isaac replies without missing a beat, checking the chamber of his own handgun. His calm is a strange contrast to the uproar inside me.

I pull out the burner from my pocket. Its screen, cold and impassive, flashes 11 AM back at me. Forty-five minutes until judgment descends from this very room. My heart continues to flap wildly against my ribs, each beat screaming that I'm not built for this, that I'm no cold-blooded executioner.

But I am. I did this for a living, for this country, for the people who live here. I did this in the past, so why am I seeing Tucci's brain matter now when I close my eyes? Why does my body refuse to relax?

In all my time in the Corps, I can't recall ever feeling this anxious before a mission.

"Hey, you're pacing a hole in the carpet," Isaac says, a wry smile touching the corner of his mouth despite the weight of the task ahead.

"Sorry. I'm just on edge. Want to get out of here." I halt to a stop in the center of the room and look at him dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and with his hair all messy, dark strands falling across his forehead. He looks young, so young that it's hard to believe he's already served a sentence, built a crime empire, and now he's ready for his retirement.

"Want me to grab us some coffee?" he offers. "We've hardly slept."

I glance at the burner again. "Sounds good," I admit, though the last thing I need is more caffeine jangling my already frayed nerves. "Just... make it quick, okay?"

He nods, a shadow of something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "Yeah. Saw a coffee shop right in the lobby. I'll be right up." He slips out of the room, and I'm alone with the proverbial ticking clock.

The silence that throbs all around me is in sync with the beat of my own heart. Another circle around the carpeted floor and I glance at the weapon I've prepped for today's task. The sniper rifle—its sleek, black form a harbinger of death—leans against the wall by the window, indifferent to the gravity of its purpose, indifferent to my thoughts or my nagging questions that cram my head.

I am an island in this high-altitude limbo, awash in a sea of trepidation. Each second goes by like a drip from a leaky faucet, each one echoing in the hollow space of the room. A reminder of the relentless march toward 11:45 AM. A moment of truth that will tell me if I'm a true killer.

A chill passes through me, a serpentine thing that whispers of dark deeds and irreversible choices.

The buzzing of my phone breaks the spell.

Isaac's text message blinks up at me: "Line's crazy long. Will be there soon." I tuck the burner away, feeling the press of time—something in me that's about to turn into chaos.

With a breath that tastes of gunmetal and apprehension, I return to the window. The rifle's scope offers a narrow slice of reality, magnified and unyielding. Through the viewfinder, the world below on the terrace of Orion sharpens into focus—men in expensive suits exchange handshakes like they're trading secrets, waiters glide between tables offering finger food, security guards stand in the corners, their eyes missing nothing and everything all at once.

It's close to 11:30 AM now.

Where is Isaac?

Coffee is the last thing on my mind.

I pace again—the rhythm of my steps a metronome counting down to an event I cannot control. My mind races, thoughts fragmenting like shattered glass.

Be honest with yourself, Dallas. You're not built for this, not created to end lives with cold precision.

I stop, move to the window, pick up the rifle again.

But then, through the crosshairs, he appears—Solovey. The sight of him sends ice flooding through my veins, and panic claws its way up my throat. This isn't right; it's too early. For a second there, I don't know what to do. Shoot or make sure Isaac is safe. I snatch up the phone and dial Isaac, my pulse hammering in my ears. It rings, rings, rings, and then empties into voicemail.

Desperation tightens its grip around me.

"Isaac, Solovey's here already. Call me back," I hiss into the phone, the words tasting of dread.

I raise the rifle again, my eye pressed to the scope, and the world falls away until there's only the terrace, the target—and a painfully familiar figure in a waiter's uniform. Isaac. He's there. The black slacks and the vest over a white shirt make him look like he belongs to this sordid tableau.

A gun appears in his hand. Steady. Time stretches, thins, and snaps as Isaac does what I'm supposed to do fifteen minutes from now—he pulls the trigger. Once. Twice. Point blank. Solovey crumbles to the floor.

Shock roots me to the spot. My mind reels as I watch him jump back into the shadows, disappearing from the terrace through one of the many exits. He knows what he's doing, I realize. But how? When? We've been together all this time ever since our meeting with Vlad.

I can't seem to process what I just witnessed.

Was it a dream?

A figment of my own imagination?

Then, the shrill of my phone pierces the fog of disbelief. Isaac's number flashes on the screen, and when I answer, my voice a is stranger's voice to my ears. "What the fuck, Isaac?"

"Get our shit and run, Dallas. Now!" he barks, urgency distilled into every syllable. I can hear him breathing heavily on the other end, can hear his footfalls against the floor.

"Why'd you do it? I—" I begin, but the words are clumsy, inadequate.

"Because you're not a killer, Dallas," Isaac cuts me off. "I won't let that stain your soul. Just accept it and go."

"What about you?"

"Take the car, meet me in the desert. In our spot. I'll handle my shit. Just go!"

"How will you—"

"I got it, Dallas. I promise. Just be there. Okay?"

"Okay."

The line goes dead, and I'm left holding a silent echo. And then the gravity of the situation hits me. With trembling hands, I rush to dismantle the rifle, its parts clicking together like the pieces of my fractured understanding as I toss them into the gym bag.

Isaac knew, he always knew, who I was beneath the alias, beneath the ink and scars. Not a killer.

I hurriedly wipe down the surfaces I can think of—the surfaces Isaac or I may have touched while in this room. I don't know why I'm doing it. I don't know why I'm trying to erase any traces of us from here since we are about to vanish. But I do it anyway. I don't want to make it easy for law enforcement. There's extradition in Thailand, so they don't get to have my or Isaac's fingerprints. They don't get to have anything that can tie us to Solovey's murder.

Once I'm finished, I throw the gym bag over my shoulder and race out of the room. My breath is an uneven rhythm matching the drumming of my feet against the carpet. The hallways blur past, a smear of beige and fake flowers.

Elevator is just a few steps away when I hear the rattle of the security walkie-talking around the corner. Shots fired .

Fuck.

How did it get here so fast?

I gotta do something. By the time I get downstairs, all exits will be blocked by the police.

Without thinking, I swerve toward a fire alarm pull station and yank at the lever.

The instantaneous shrill slams against my ears, filling the space around me with its noise. Panic, immediate and contagious, seeps into the corridors as people pour from their rooms with questions muffled by fear. They don't know it's a ruse—a lifesaving I've orchestrated to veil my escape. And that only serves my purpose.

I become one with the throng, my gym bag heavy on my shoulder. In the chaos, nobody sees me. I'm just another scared guest, my baseball cap pulled low to hide my face. My hair's tied back. Adrenaline coursing through me is a river bursting its banks, propelling me forward, away from the crime I didn't commit but was ready to.

"Move! Get out!" someone who decided to take on the leadership duties, shouts. His voice cracks under strain.

I don't look at him, I look at the exit ahead.

Fire doors slam open, the stairwell becoming a floodgate for the mass of bodies desperate for safety.

"Fire! There's a fire!" a voice yells. I know it's a lie. Someone's imagination is playing tricks. I push my way through, my gaze fixed forward as I'm willing myself to become invisible.

Outside, the hot air slaps my face, a cruel reminder that freedom is still just an illusion. My car waits in the lot, a silent accomplice to what comes next. I sprint toward it, lungs burning, every nerve stretched taut.

"Hey man! You know what's happening?" I call out to a security guard, feigning confusion, playing the part of the scared civilian to perfection. It's either that—a distraction to throw him off—or I'll become a suspect in his eyes first.

"Active shooter, possibly next door," he replies, all on high alert. "We're not sure yet. You better leave before the parking lot is a mess, buddy!"

"Okay, okay," I stammer, nodding rapidly, my act seamless. "Thank you! Be safe."

"You too," he replies and starts moving in the opposite direction.

I sigh with relief and take off.

The fob is already in my hand, trembling as I unlock the door and slide into the driver's seat. My breath comes in ragged gasps, the taste of impending doom thick in my mouth. I turn the ignition and the engine growls to life.

"Please, let Isaac be safe," I mutter to no one and to any God that can hear me right now as I peel out of the lot. I glance at the rearview mirror reflecting a montage of confusion and flashing lights in the distance.

I hit the gas and speed away from the parking lot, swerving around the corner onto a smaller street before coming to a stop at the curb.

I need to destroy the evidence, sever all ties. The burner phone under my foot feels like a grenade with the pin pulled. One press, and everything blows up. With a swift motion, I crush it beneath my heel, the screen splintering like a spider's web.

I pick up the pieces and toss them in the nearest trash can. The SIM is destroyed too but I'll bury it in the desert.

I'm running on instinct as I resume driving, my hands are trembling and I grip the steering wheel harder, still wondering if Isaac did what he did for me or for himself. Was it an act of egotism or sacrifice? The need to hear a familiar voice, something that anchors me to the world before I slip into the abyss is so strong that it makes me dizzy. And then the convenience store appears like a mirage to my right.

I don't think. My brain simply short-circuits. The car comes to a halt as I park it between the two SUVs in the tiny, packed lot.

I step inside, my gaze darting to the wall with the selection of cheap phones. My hands—goddamned traitors—shake as I grab a device and a pay-as-you-go SIM card off the rack. My current tools of anonymity, my only connection to the past I'm about to cast off.

"Anything else?" the cashier asks, her eyes skimming over me, unseeing.

"A couple of Newports," I say. It's an afterthought, but why not?

"ID?" the cashier asks.

My heart starts pounding. But I immediately recover, patting my pockets, pretending to look for my wallet. "Sorry, hon," I tell her. "Looks like I left it at home."

The woman gives me a quick once-over and pulls out two packs of cigs from the rack behind her. "It's fine," she comments as she starts ringing me up. "Just don't forget to bring it next time."

"You got it."

Back in the car, the plastic of the new phone feels both foreign and familiar in my palm. I unpack the phone, pop the SIM and dial the only number I've ever memorized besides my mother's home and work numbers. Two rings and then—

"Hello?"

"Hey, Savvy," I say, trying to steady the quake in my own tone.

"Dallas?" Savannah's voice is an answering tremor. Then she goes on the offensive. "Where the hell are you?"

"Can't tell you, sis."

"Are those things they're saying about you on the news true?"

The question makes my stomach churn. How can she even consider it? "What do you think?"

"I think I know my brother pretty well. That doesn't sound like you, Dallas."

"Of course, it's not fucking true. They just need a fall guy. And I'm the lucky bastard, so to speak."

"Jesus, Dallas. Can you do something? Go to the higher-ups. They're calling you a criminal. You're a war hero. Tell someone, Dallas! Before it's too late!"

"It is too late, Savvy. I made my bed. There's no turning back now. Gotta lie in it."

"Why are you saying you made your bed?"

"I'm saying that I didn't do those things they're saying I did, but I made mistakes, crossed lines. I was never supposed to be doing this undercover work, Savvy. Big people pulled strings and I'm screwed now." I stop talking because the less my sister knows the better. I shouldn't be talking to her right now at all, but I don't have it in me to just disappear without sending word to my family. They need to know I'm alive.

The silence that stretches between Savannah and me is suffocating and I can sense her frustration and pain even over the phone, and it's making me feel guilty. Guilty for doing this to them.

"And Mom?" I ask quietly. "Does she know?"

"Mom's clueless in that small-town bubble. No news reaches her unless it's gossiped over backyard fences," she supplies, but even those words feel dangerous, trembling with the potential to shatter. "You know she doesn't watch the news. Besides, no one in that excuse of a town cares about the rest of the world."

"Right." I allow myself a small chuckle and a handful of childhood memories.

"But Dallas," Savannah whispers. "She eventually will. She always finds out."

"By then, Isaac and I—we'll be gone. New names, new lives. Somewhere far from here." The vision is a fantasy, flickering with hope.

Savannah is silent, her breath a static murmur through the phone.

"What's going on between you and Isaac?" Her question slices through the air, unexpected. She's always been the smart one.

"We'll be fine," I lie again, the words becoming my mantra. "Just need to wrap up a couple of loose ends here. Then, we'll be alright."

"Will you?" she echoes, doubt coloring her voice.

"Tell Mom I'm okay. Tell her I'll call her when I'm safe. Tell her—" My throat tightens, words bottlenecking like traffic in rush hour. "Tell her I'm happy."

"Happy? With all the shit going your way?"

Pause.

"Yes… Since Afghanistan, I've been drowning, Savvy. Mission after mission, my mind all fucked up. But Isaac...he's the shore. With him, the nightmares—they're quieter. And the noises in my head are gone."

"Okay," she whispers, not understanding, but accepting. "But promise me you'll call when the time is right," she pleads.

"Promise," I say, unsure if I can keep it. "Bye, sis."

"Bye, Dallas."

The line goes dead, and so does the phone, crushed underfoot again. One more secret buried in the sands of deceit.

In the silence, I sit for a moment longer, holding on to the steering wheel of my Toyota. My mind replays the conversation with Savannah.

Okay, time to go.

I start the car and the engine responds—awakened and ready to flee into the Nevada desert. The radio that I've had turned on to keep track of the news crackles to life.

"… is wanted in connection with the shooting incident at Orion Hotel earlier today. The suspect is considered armed and dangerous, therefore we urge you to exercise caution. Once again, dark green Toyota Camry, license plate number 4AJX203…"

My pulse quickens.

The rest of the announcement is white noise.

But of course, when it rains it pours. As I'm trying to come up with a new plan that doesn't involve straight-up carjacking, I catch the flash of a police cruiser in the rearview mirror.

Fuck.

I kill the ignition, the sudden silence a stark contrast to the beat of my heart pounding in my ears. Gripping the gym bag—the weight of the rifle inside is a burden—I slip out of the vehicle, hoping to vanish before the boys in blue spot me.

The lights grow closer and when I glance over my shoulder before dashing into the nearest alleyway between the shops, I see the vehicle coming to a stop, its doors swinging open. The last thing my eyes register is two cops rushing in my direction.

I start running.