7. Isaac

CHAPTER 7

ISAAC

The soulless scent of the hospital has become my constant companion for days that bleed into nights. My body, a patchwork of bruises and stitches, is healing. The pain in my gut is a dull roar in the background, something I can almost ignore. But there's another pain, deeper, chewing at me. It's the deal I've struck with the Devil, with the very people I've been trying to hide from all my life.

But I made a mistake and they got me.

"Think of it as a new lease on life," the man who goes by Dallas says to me during his next visit. It's brief. Just to provide me with the basic instructions of what's going to happen next.

A new lease on life, tied to the fear of going back to prison, of Maurice finding out I'm ready to sing like a bird to the Feds about Solovey.

The thought alone shivers down my spine like cold fingers. Maurice isn't Jacob. He's not as sadistic but he's still the head of the family. And then, there's the Fat Fuck, who's been making moves these past two years. And if Uncle decides not to keep my secret anymore, I'm dead meat.

I need to have leverage and this—prostituting myself to the law—is the only leverage I can think of.

When the time comes, a pair of cops wheel me out of the hospital to the rear of the building. I'm shoved into an unmarked van, surrounded by uniformed strangers. They transport me like cargo, something fragile yet expendable. Sometime later, the van stops at a nondescript building, its windows tinted against prying eyes. It's just a box somewhere in the desert.

Inside, they usher me into a room that screams government—functional, bland, void of comfort. Stark, unforgiving lights glare down from above. Several agents hover around, but it's Dallas standing in the shadows that snags my attention.

He's an indelible haunting of my past I can't exorcise. His blue eyes pierce me even from a distance, burning holes into my skin even when I don't look at the man.

I can't get used to the name change either. Not that I need to. In my mind he's still Hawk and every time I think of him as such, I have to remind myself Cody "Hawk" Smith doesn't exist.

The man with prematurely graying hair, who quickly introduces himself as Park, seems to be the one in charge. He clears his throat, bringing his gaze to me while I'm seated at the table in front of the equipment. "All right, Thoreau. You know the drill. Agent Bradley already explained what we're after. We make this call, you stick to the key points." He slides a piece of paper across the table.

"Make it sound convincing," I mutter, scanning the scribbles that form a loose script. A bitter laugh threatens to leave my mouth but I hold it in. The absurdity of this situation makes my head spin.

"I'm certain conviction isn't your problem," Park retorts. "I know you can do it. It's ensuring you don't tip your buddy off. Solovey is not your friend. The sooner he's behind bars, the safer everyone will be."

"Thanks for the reminder," I sneer, crumpling the paper slightly in my fist. "I know who my enemies are."

"Good. So let's begin." Park nods to an agent who starts fiddling with the recording equipment.

"Fine." The word is like acid on my tongue. "Let's get this over with."

Park gives a curt nod, and the room falls silent except for the low hum of electronics. I pick up the phone, my pulse keeping time with each ring. In this den of wolves, I play the lamb, all while knowing that one misstep could mean slaughter.

Finally, the line connects, and Jeremy's voice fills my ear, grounding yet pulling me into deeper waters.

"Yeah?" he replies.

"It's me," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Isaac?" Recognition enters his tone. "Thank fuck!" he bellows on the line. "Where the hell are you? Are you good? I thought I saw you getting shot, man. You were bleeding out. Those fuckers pushed us all back. I couldn't even get to you. We been thinking you were worm food by now. Hector been trying to get the group organized to go look for your bones so we could bury your ass, at least."

"Well, tell Hector no need."

"No shit, boss.

"Talk to me, brother," I redirect the conversation, attempting to follow the prompts on the piece of paper in my hand. "Everyone okay?" My heart pounds a staccato rhythm, each beat a prayer that the chaos hasn't swallowed them whole.

"Yeah, yeah, we're alright for now. Those ATF sons of bitches forced us into the tunnels, man. It was a mess, but we're alive."

"Good," I say, measuring my words like pouring poison. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Dallas's gaze, a jolt of electricity amidst the darkness.

"We're all shakin' in our boots, but we're breathing. Gotta figure out our next play." Jeremy's voice is a steady drum in the cacophony of fear that's been my constant companion since the ambush. "Where you at? Flynn with you?" The concern in his tone scratches at my insides.

I glance at Dallas, who's leaning against the wall, arms folded on his chest. "Hawk and I are holed up in the desert. Keeping dust off our backs until the heat dies down." Each sentence feels like a betrayal all over, heavy on my tongue.

"Shit, man. That asshole keeping you safe?"

"We're fine."

"And Flynn?"

There's a pause—a gaping crack of silence where truth should spill out, but lies pave the way instead. "Flynn's gone, J. ATF snatched him." I can taste the bitterness of deceit, acidic and sharp.

"Damn it!" Jeremy spits out.

"Go see Serena and the kids. Yeah?"

"Will do, boss."

"Hey, listen… Anything going on back home? Feds pocking around?"

"Nah, man. All quiet."

"Nothing amiss?"

"Except for the fact we lost the entire fucking shipment and the Russians are probably going to want their money anyway…"

"I'll handle it," I tell him, fear churning in my gut. Toro will be a bigger problem than Solovey. He's going to be pissed about the guns.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Park gesturing for me to wrap up the call.

"I gotta go, J," I say as I watch Park mouth at another agent that they got what they need. "I'll be heading back to Vegas as soon as the coast is clear."

"Alright, see you soon, boss," Jeremy responds, the line crackling with tension and static before it goes dead.

I let out a loud breath, the sound hollow in the sterile silence of the room. My hands are sweaty and shaking—a mix of adrenaline and self-loathing—and my heart is a jackhammer against my ribs. I've just fed Jeremy a feast of lies and I hate myself for doing this but one thought of prison terrifies me.

The room finally comes abuzz. Through the throng of bodies, speaking in whispers thick with conspiracy, Dallas's silhouette moves to stand next to me.

"Good job," he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that somehow makes me feel even dirtier.

A few more days slip by like shadows at dusk, and then it's time to hit the road. Dallas drives. I'm the silent passenger, staring out at the sprawling desert raging with dust and wind. The pain meds are making my head cloudy and although I'm no longer handcuffed, the car feels like a cage, trapping me alone with my thoughts, my fears, my anger. Every mile we cover is a step further from the life I knew, a step deeper into this charade.

The proximity to the man I once knew as Hawk sets my skin on fire. There's still this strange something between us, an electric current that hasn't died despite the lies. But every time I steal a glance at him, the man who wore the mask of Hawk, fury simmers inside me, ready to come to the surface. He's a very skilled illusionist, and I fell for the act—hook, line, and sinker.

"Isaac?" His voice cuts through the silence at some point, but I don't respond. What's there to say?

"You can't keep shutting me out," Dallas grits out, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Watch me," I mutter while the desert outside blurs into a wash of beige and blue—a painting smeared by God's indifferent hand.

He doesn't reply, but the air vibrates with unsaid words, with the ghost of touches that felt too real. My gut churns with the knowledge that I am bound to a man who doesn't exist, bound to the shadow of Hawk, and the reality of Dallas Bradley. It's a cruel joke, and I'm the punchline.

"Isaac, we—" Dallas starts again sometime later, but I cut him off.

"You fucking lied to me for months."

"You don't think I feel like shit?"

"I don't know if you feel anything at all."

We fall silent again and this silence between us stretches like the endless expanse zipping by outside the windows. Dallas's grip on the steering wheel is a physical manifestation of the tension that's bubbling in the car.

He speaks again after a long pause. "We need to get our story straight."

I don't answer, just watch a tumbleweed dance across the road before us, carried by a wind that knows no master. It's gotten stronger in the past hour and I can feel it slamming against the vehicle occasionally.

Dallas clears his throat and begins to recite the details as if they are gospel truths. "We were in Mexico, remember? Hawk has this buddy, a doc—a Marine he served with. Guy patched you up."

The words hit me, each one a reminder of lies layered upon lies. I feel them trying to take root in me, but I remain quiet, a statue.

"Isaac," Dallas's voice rises, frustration bleeding through. "It won't work if you're not on board."

I choose to ignore him.

Moments later, the car swerves sharply to the right, tires crunching over uneven curb, a cloud of dust billowing behind us. The vehicle stops with a finality that matches the sudden hollowness in my chest. Haw— Dallas turns to me, anger and concern warring in those fucking blue eyes he used to seduce me.

"This can't go on! We need to talk, Isaac. Jeremy, the crew—they have to believe Hawk is one of them. That you're still one of them."

His words are like blows to my already maimed stomach, and something in me snaps. I shove the door open. The dry air rushes in, offering no solace from the suffocation I feel inside. My boots hit the ground, creating small plumes of sand as I begin to pace restlessly on the curb.

I have no intention to run. But I can't be next to him right now.

"I'm always one of them," I hiss out in the direction of the vehicle where Dallas is already climbing out to follow me. I feel his hand on my shoulder—a touch that once brought comfort now feels like a prison door closing.

"Fuck off, Agent Bradley!" I growl, shrugging him away. Fury in me threatens to boil over.

"Isaac, please." There's begging in his tone now, but it does nothing to douse the fire that's burning me up.

"Please?" I spit back, the word tasting like venom. "There's no 'please' in this world I live in. No mercy for traitors, real or imagined. Do you even understand what's going to happen to me—and you—if Maurice figures out our play?"

"He won't unless you tell him."

"He's not as dumb as he seems."

"We're not after your uncle, Isaac."

"The Russians don't mess around. They'll wipe us all out. You just made me sign a death sentence. My entire family. And don't forget about the fucking cartel. Toro is a psychopath."

I lift my head to the darkening sky and stare at the weak outline of the moon as I'm soaking in the rude caress of the dusty wind all over my body. In the west, the sun dips low, casting elongated shadows that stretch out like fingers trying to grasp the fleeing light. Dallas is a dark silhouette against the dying day, his presence both a threat and a twisted kind of solace.

"I'm sorry," he suddenly says and he sounds so sincere.

"You can shove your sorry up your ass, Agent Bradley."

"Can't you fucking see I'm trying to help you?"

"How? By making me betray my own?"

"You only see what you want to see, Isaac. One fucking side of the coin. Have you ever wondered what it's like on the other side?"

"I was born into this. I didn't ask for it, you asshole. There's no way out of my life. You just have to keep pushing through it."

"You're so fucking narrow-minded."

"If that's what you tell yourself to sleep at night, sure. Whatever. But you never really knew me." My voice is a hoarse whisper torn away by the wind. "Everything you know is just... pieces of a puzzle forced together in the wrong way."

"Isaac, it's—"

"Did you ever wonder what it's like? To be me?"

"I did." He dares to step closer. "Every second of every day I spent with you." He looks at me with those fucking blue eyes and I'm melting in front of him. Turning into a puddle. My insides are all warm and jelly and I don't get how, even after all the lies he's told me, I still want him. I still wish he was Hawk.

"Stop." I hold up a hand, silencing him. "Just stop. We don't need to do this anymore."

The quiet that follows is suffocating, filled with all the things we can't say to each other. And then, with a suddenness that leaves us both reeling, emotion takes over reason, and I lunge for his gun. It's out of his holster and pressed to his temple before either of us fully understands what's happening.

I push him against the car, our bodies are close, nearly touching.

His eyes are wide with shock—not fear—when our gazes lock.

"You're right," I hiss, my breath hot against his face. "This can't go on. I could pull this trigger, end it all. Bury you like Tucci, somewhere in the cold desert sand where no one will find you."

"Then why don't you?" he rasps out. There's a challenge in his voice.

I have nothing to say. I simply press the gun to his temple a little more, a little harder. Bruising his skin. A punishment for these past few days when he made me completely helpless.

We stand like this—our minds battling for control, our emotions tangled, heartbeats erratic. Seconds tick by and I finally let the gun drop to my side, my arm trembling from the weight of it—or maybe it's the weight of everything unsaid between us. The best times of my life were spent with a ghost, a creation of this man before me, and acknowledging that shatters something inside me.

"Go ahead, Agent Bradley," I say, stepping back, the gun heavy in my grip as I hand it back to him. "Take me back to Vegas. Let's finish this charade."

He… Dallas doesn't move, just watches me for a while.

"I'm tired," I say.

The desert swallows my confession, leaving us suspended in a moment that feels like an ending and a beginning all at once.

The sandstorm picks up and soon the visibility is shit and we're crawling along the highway with the speed of the turtle.

"I think it's best we stop somewhere for the night," Dallas says after fiddling with the car radio for a bit to check the weather.

"Whatever," I reply, staring at the dust clouds gathering on the horizon. "You're in charge, Agent Bradley."

"It's Dallas. My real name," he supplies. "You should just call me Dallas."

I don't grace his long-overdue introduction with a response.

Soon, we reach a small town nestled alongside the road. In the distance, the neon sign of the motel flickers as we take the exit. We pull into the parking lot, the car grumbling to a stop like it's relieved the day is over.

Dallas gets out and heads into the lobby without looking back to see if I follow. I do—it's not like I have a choice. My gut is all twisted up too and I can feel the wound aching and pulling and I would give anything to be able to lie down and get some sleep.

I stop and wait outside by the entrance, the duffle bag with some necessities given to me by Dallas hanging over my shoulder.

When he returns, room key in hand, he doesn't even pretend there was an option for separate rooms. "One room," he says, his voice flat. "Don't get any ideas about running off."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I mutter sarcastically, but my stomach tightens. The thought had crossed my mind more than once ever since I left the hospital. But who'll take care of my family?

No. Running isn't an option.

Running is for cowards.

We trudge up to the second floor, the carpeted stairs muffling our steps. He opens the door to reveal a room that reeks of cigarette smoke and broken dreams. There's just one bed, but at this point, I'm too tired to care. I curse under my breath, throwing the duffel bag onto a chair with a stale floral pattern.

"Home sweet home," Dallas quips, but there's no humor in his eyes.

The door shuts behind us and we are alone in a tiny space and the air is all electricity suddenly. A hint of cinnamon wafts over to me and I'm overcome with memories. Memories I don't want to remember. Not now. Not when he's this close. Not when he has the upper hand.

"Shower?" Dallas asks awkwardly, motioning at another door in the corner of the room.

"You go first."

"You sure?"

"I'll take a while." I don't get into the complex specifics of washing up with a bullet hole in your body and a gazillion burning stitches in your gut. He knows how it is.

And I hate that we still have so much in common.

I want to separate myself from him, from everything he represents, from all the deceit, from all the things he's told me, things I desperately want to be real.

Sometime later, we're both half-dressed, lying atop the bed covers, each pretending the proximity to the other isn't setting our nerves on edge. The gun sits on the nightstand, out of my reach. But I already know I can't use it on him.

I tried and I failed.

"Why didn't you do it?" he asks quietly, his voice a soft hum amid the noise of the wind bleeding from the outside. "You had the perfect opportunity."

I assume he talks about me ending it. "Contrary to what you think about me or people like me who don't play by dumb system rules, we're not killers… Unless it's necessary to survive."

"I'm not talking about the gun… I mean why didn't you run while I was inside getting us a room?"

I'm quiet, my mind counting all the pros and cons of simply vanishing.

He doesn't wait for my answer. I can feel his body shift on the bed and turn toward me. A sick part of me almost yearns for him to touch me but the rational Isaac Thoreau knows better.

"Take your things and leave," he whispers, his breath fanning against my cheek. "Just go."

My heart skips a beat and then jumps into a mad sprint. "And go where?" I ask.

"Anywhere you want. Away from here where no one knows who you are."

I suck in a lungful of air and hold it in, craving a cigarette all of a sudden. "You got smokes?"

Silently, Dallas rises from the bed, turns on the small lamp on the nightstand, and grabs a pack of Newports from the pocket of his jacket.

"Thanks," I say when he hands me one. I don't want to be grateful. I want to punch him in the face instead but this kind of violence—driven by emotions and unnecessary—won't solve my problem.

The paper between my fingers is both foreign and familiar as Dallas offers to light the cigarette for me. I let him, soaking up in the briefest memory of our times together on the roof when he was still Hawk. In the semi-darkness of the room, the tip glows cherry red and I examine it for no reason at all before taking a drag.

"It wasn't my intention to get you mixed with the FBI," Dallas supplies. He sounds almost apologetic. "But this was the only way out. If you want to disappear, I won't stop you."

There's a long pause while I contemplate his words. Why would he let me go and jeopardize his career?

"I can't," I say eventually. "You know I have people who depend on me back in Vegas. The Russians are the problem. So is Toro. I owe a shitload of money and a shitload of guns to very dangerous people. I'm not a fucking coward to leave my family to deal with my fuck-up. Running is for the weak."

"How are you going to fix it?"

"I don't know yet," I confess. "We need to get to Vegas first. Then we see what we can do."

I finish my cigarette in brooding silence.

"You could've left me there, you know," I finally tell him, my voice barely above a whisper. "On the border."

Dallas turns his head to look at me, his blue eyes catching the soft glint of the lamp. "I couldn't."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" I challenge.

"Both." He sighs, and in that sound, I hear the weight of decisions made and paths not taken. "I had to get you out because I... It wasn't just work for me, Isaac."

More silence.

"Then what was it?" My heart hammers against my rib cage, demanding truth.

"Because despite everything, I—" He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. "You're not a job to me. I know you don't believe me. But I liked spending time with you. Everything I told you about being a very long time for me since I'd felt this way with another person… It wasn't a lie. It isn't a lie."

"Great," I murmur a bitter reply. "So now I owe you my life and my freedom to you."

"You don't owe me anything."

"Then spit it out, Agent Bradley." I prop myself up on one elbow, facing him. It hurts looking at him. Hurts like a motherfucker but I don't recoil. I need to see him when I hear it from him. "What do you want from me? Besides Solovey, of course?"

"Nothing." He sits up. His gaze is steady, unflinching. "I'm telling you, you can pack up and leave. Right now. I won't stop you."

"You said that earlier and I explained why I can't."

"Then we go back to Vegas and do this shit."

"And when it's done, what do I do next?"

He shakes his head once. "Not sure. But at least you'll have time to figure it out."

He drops back on the pillow and stares up, then mutters, "I'm tired of pretending. I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore."

"Join the club," I croak, laying back down, gazing at the ceiling as if it holds answers to all my questions. Again, silence stretches between us, thick and charged.

"Isaac?" Dallas's voice has softened, a tentative hand reaching out but stopping short of touching me.

"Yeah?" I don't turn. I'm afraid that if I do now, I'll fall apart.

"Regardless of what happens next..." He trails off, unsure. "I'll do whatever I can to protect you. I promise."

I let out a dry laugh. "Like you've been protecting me all this time?"

"You're alive and not in the cell, aren't you?" His hand withdraws, and something akin to loss tugs at my chest.

He's right but what we're about to do can get us both killed anyway.