Despite It All by Reese Knightley

 

Roughly six months later…

Forest

Not many people walked along the shores of Flathead Lake, not at this time of year.

Because they’re smart, that’s why.Only an irrational person would be outside in this weather freezing their ass off. He hunched inside of his heavy winter coat and tugged up the hood when the icy wind tucked in around him, picking up hints of dead leaves and wet snow. He’d only been out there five minutes and he was already done. That should teach him to take a vacation in the middle of January.

But Montana had its appeal. Here, there were no phones ringing, no reports, no missions, and no peopling. Yet, with all the silence and two more days of nothingness to go, he still hadn’t come to a decision and he’d promised Dave one.

Quit the FBI or stay.

He was to give it some serious thought. He had several notches in his mental pole as to why he should leave, but he was no closer to an answer than he had been five days ago.

The quiet stillness of winter had done its best to lure him into making a final decision. To let it all go. But in the end, it was an illusion. A notion, really. Letting it all go was an idiom designed to send men searching for tranquility only to find peace a fickle bitch.

He brushed the snow from the wood railing with a thickly gloved hand, killing time, staying out in the bitter cold because he’d read somewhere that the outdoors fed the soul.

Maybe someone else’s soul.

He hated the cold.

When the ice crusted the hairs on his face and the plastic brace felt like a block of ice, he silently celebrated.

He’d made it nine minutes! Eager to seek the warmth inside and enjoy the quiche he’d made earlier, he turned toward the house.

A sudden shift in the air brought his head up and he squinted into the sky, hoping like hell it was only his imagination, but he knew that sound.

No way. They wouldn’t disturb his vacation, would they? Perhaps it was Dave. Nah, the Secretary of Defense would have called.

Growing closer, the low thump of rotary blades beat the air with a pounding pulse and he lifted a hand to shade his eyes. A black helicopter swooped in, dark against the gray sky, and hovered above the snowy shore. Spinning blades blasted the air, tossing up a vortex of water, snow, and mud as the pilot sat the bird down, the bear-clawed landing gear gripping the uneven terrain of his beach.

So much for solitude.

Three big, beefy soldiers jumped from the bird carrying automatic rifles, looking ready to beat down anyone who got in their way.

Overkill much?

He looked. Of course, he did. Automatically searching for a pair of familiar wide shoulders among them, but they were strangers. Quit thinking about him.He hasn’t given you one thought since that night.

So, maybe it was Dave.

That idea was nixed when Special Agent Brian Howard leapt from the chopper looking out of place in a black suit. Black dress shoes slipped in the snow, but the agent caught himself and sloshed across the beach with a look of distaste on his face. He could relate to Howard’s aversion.

He probably should have salted the walkway, but the guy wasn’t going to be there long enough for it to count.

Whatever they wanted could wait. He had two more damned days. He’d invite Howard in, offer water, and then tell him no. He didn’t have any problem sticking to his guns and telling people to fuck off.

“I told them not to bother you,” Howard said, climbing the five steps of his deck, holding tightly to the railing.

“And them?” He jerked his head in the direction of the soldiers now stationed around the chopper.

“Secretary of Defense’s idea.” Howard followed his gaze.

This just gets better and better.

“Come inside.”

He tipped his chin toward the house. He liked to think that visitors found his home inviting. It had been built back in the day by his grandfather and resembled a log cabin from the outside. Entering through the patio doors, he stepped inside and was engulfed in warmth. Although the gas bill would be a bitch, he was glad he’d left the furnace running.

He left the brown-haired, thirty-something year old agent to close the door. Stomping the snow from his colorful boots, he shucked off his heavy winter coat, hanging it on a peg near the door. He didn’t offer a peg to Howard. The guy wouldn’t be staying that long.

Using his teeth, he tugged off his gloves and cupped his hands at his mouth, warming them up while he made his way into the large, bright kitchen. Reaching the refrigerator, he snagged two bottles of water.

“Thanks.” Howard accepted one of the bottles.

When the guy frowned at his canary yellow snow boots, he lifted one eyebrow, silently daring Howard to ask about his footwear choice.

“Parish needs you to come back.” Howard toyed with the bottle cap.

“I don’t give two shits about what Parish needs.”

“The feeling’s mutual.” Howard grimaced and twisted off the lid. “I don’t think he’s gotten over the time you told him to kiss your ass.”

“Like I said, tell me something I care about.”

“I don’t know why you two don’t get along.”

He squinted at the guy. “We just don’t.” Was Howard fishing? If he was, he was talking to the wrong person. He gave the agent a pointed look before glancing at his iWatch.

“Why are you here?”

“Parish sent me.” Howard shoved his hands into his pockets.

“You said that.”

“That’s a State Department helicopter out there.” The agent swallowed down the water, the plastic bottle crackling in his hand. “And there’s a jet waiting at Glacier National.”

Damn it. That meant Dave was involved.

Pulling his cell phone out, he punched in the SOD’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. He ended the call without leaving a message.

He didn’t have to go. It wasn’t like they were making him leave his cabin at gunpoint.

“Give me thirty minutes and I’ll let you know.”

Waving toward the bar stools at the kitchen counter, he toed off his snow boots on the mud mat near the back door and left Howard in his kitchen.

Striding through his bright and colorful den, he took the hallway to his bedroom at the other end of the house. Once inside, he snapped the door closed and leaned back against it. Two nightlights plugged into the walls gave off a soft glow.

His room was shadowy but warm, just the way he liked it. And his king-sized bed with a dappled cream bedspread sat off to the side. Long, emerald tinted drapes hung against wide, frosty windows.

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood up when a dark figure emerged from near the long curtains, and his heart lurched. Diving for his weapon, he rolled across the carpet and snatched the nine-millimeter from beneath his pillow. The weapon fit his right hand perfectly, the grip cool against his palm, and he aimed the muzzle at the shadow.

“Don’t shoot.”

“Crap!” he hissed, letting go of the breath he held and tossed the gun on the bed.

“Still as fast as ever,” came the amused reply.

“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot your damned head off.” He fumbled for the small lamp on the bedside table and snapped it on, a bright glow sweeping through the room.

Mason stepped away from the curtains, strode across the room, and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. He returned the tight squeeze. His brother smelled like winter mountain air. Unlike him, Mason loved the cold.

“What are you doing here?” he mumbled into the collar of Mason’s heavy coat.

“Mom was worried.” His brother squeezed him tighter.

“She always worries.” When his voice wavered, Mason held him at arm’s length.

“Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“Should I believe you?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Why aren’t you answering my question?”

“Why are you so annoying?”

“Because I’m the oldest, so it’s my right.”

“Five minutes doesn’t count.”

“Does too.”

He pushed his brother away with a laugh. “Knock it off.”

Mason hooked his arm around his neck and gave him a knuckle rub on his head. “Why is there a chopper on our beach?”

“Parish needs me back.” Getting away from his brother, he put distance between him and those knuckles. “But Dave sent a chopper and a jet. So, I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

Looking at his brother was like looking into a mirror except… his brother had dyed his hair black.

“And what the hell is that?” He gave the dark strands a pointed look.

“It helps me blend in.”

His brother teasingly reached out and tugged at the ends of his light-colored hair just like he used to when they were kids. And just like he used to when they were kids, he dodged the annoying hand.

“Get changed,” Mason ordered.

“You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Nah. I’ll wait until you shower.”

“You can take a shower too, you know.” He waved a hand toward his bedroom door, where beyond lay his brother’s room.

Mason sniffed. “I’m not the one who smells like wet snow and dirt.”

“So says the skunk.”

“Just hurry up, ya jerk.”

Mason pushed him lightly toward the bathroom connected to his bedroom and followed him inside the spacious, open room. He knew he wasn’t getting any privacy when his twin lowered the toilet seat lid and sat down.

Pulling back the shower curtain, he started the water. He had twenty minutes to get back out to the agent waiting in his kitchen. Wasting no more time, he snapped off his watch and pulled at the Velcro around his wrist. He tossed the brace on the counter, and it landed with a thud. Stripping down the rest of the way, he quickly stepped beneath the warming water.

“You give Dave an answer yet?”

“No.”

“Have you even decided whether or not to leave?”

“Being an agent is all I’ve ever dreamed about.”

“You’re telling me something I already know, bro.”

He gave a choked laugh.

“I also know you’ve been wanting to quit since the accident.” Mason scratched his fingers on the shower curtain. “You wanted to start a family, remember?”

“I do. I mean, I did…It’s just that…”

The accident had him thinking of his own mortality. He’d always thought of having a family someday, but that way of thinking came with a whole other host of problems. How would he support them? Who else besides the FBI would have him now? He hadn’t done anything else for the past six years. How in the world was he going to walk into another job?

He ran a hand down the long eight-inch scar on his stomach. It made his head hurt to think about a new job’s potential requirements. Just sit behind a desk and die? That was where washed-out agents ended up. He tipped his head up to the water and blinked rapidly several times before he snatched a bar of vanilla scented soap.

“I think Dave would understand if you pulled out.” His brother’s voice floated through the water and curtain.

“Maybe,” he said, and something in his tone caused his brother to drop it.

Thankful for the silence, he washed quickly before he scrubbed the vanilla shampoo into his hair and rinsed off. The therapist had told him calming scents like vanilla and lavender were to help him relax. He wasn’t sure about it, but he did like the smell of vanilla. After the accident, Summer had dragged his ass shopping, helping him pick out a bunch of soaps, candles, and incense. As his best friend, she did overkill very well.

Snapping off the water, he lifted a fluffy, white bath towel off the metal bar near the tub and ran it over his body, then briskly rubbed at his hair. With very little effort, he wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the tub.

“How’s physical therapy going?”

“Last week was my last appointment.”

Six months of hell, but he’d come through it. The therapist said mobility was almost back to normal. Almost was the key word there. He did okay most of the time. He opened and closed the fingers on his left hand as he approached the white marbled sink with a large mirror along the back. Rolling on deodorant, he lightly slapped on his favorite cologne. Hints of mandarin, vanilla, and sandalwood filled the steamy room.

He fumbled with the bottle and almost dropped it, and when Mason tried to help, he gave his brother a death glare. He could take care of the damned thing himself. He wasn’t an invalid.

Holding the small container between his arm and chest, he shook out his tingling fingers. Stupid hand gave him trouble when he least expected it. Almost back to normal, my ass. It took him a second to finagle the bottle to the counter with a bang and replace the cap.

A quick swipe across the foggy mirror gave him enough room to see his reflection. Keeping his eyes turned from Mason, he brushed his hair and checked the light stubble on his jaw.

Shaving could wait.

“We’ll find something for you, I promise.”

Since the accident, Mason was bent on finding him the perfect job. The only problem was he already had the perfect job.

It irritated him, but he knew Mason was only trying to help. His twin wore what seemed to be a permanent frown these days. It was understandable, though. Mason had freaked out the most when the accident had happened and his brother’s overprotectiveness had ratcheted up to a whole other level. Yet, it seemed logical since his whole family had been knocked for a loop.

“Let me see the scars.”

There was no privacy with his twin, so with a heavy sigh, he turned around, tightening the towel around his hips.

Mason studied the long scar that stretched from his belly button to just below his chest. A piece of metal had ripped through his shirt and caught skin before tearing upward. He was lucky it hadn’t punctured his belly button. Mason lifted his hand and turned it palm up. His brother looked over the raised skin on the inside of his left wrist before raising his gaze to his, eyes still filled with worry. He turned his own gaze away from the thick scar running from his wrist up the inside of his arm before pulling away.

He fought down sudden nausea and flashes of crunching metal and shattered glass. The doctors told him that abrupt flashes of the accident were a form of trauma. They should have just called it what it was: fucking torture.

Maybe if he’d had quicker reflexes, things would have turned out differently when the drunk had hit them. And for the thousandth time, he wondered what the world would be like if it had been him that died instead of Rick. Poor, beautiful Rick. Would Summer have gone undercover if he had lived?

He didn’t realize he was crying until his brother said his name.

“Oh, Four.”

Mason pulled him into a tight hug and the softly muttered nickname transported him back in time. To a time when they’d been young, when life held possibilities and the shit of the world hadn’t touched either of them yet.

“I miss him.”

“I miss him too.”

They stood like that for a long time, filled with a connection that was hard to put into words. His twin, the only person who really understood.

Both he and Mason froze when his bedroom doorknob popped with a click and the door creaked open.

He tugged away from Mason and put one finger to his lips.

Mason pulled out the gun tucked into the back of his jeans and gave him a brisk nod, staying hidden in the bathroom.

He moved quickly to the doorjamb, then glanced through the crack and caught sight of Agent Howard standing in his bedroom doorway.

What the hell?He stalked from the bathroom and into his bedroom.

“I thought I heard voices.” Howard looked him over, wide eyes riveted on his stomach and the thick pink scar. He yanked the towel loose, holding it up to hide the raised flesh, and locked his knees in place.

“I talk to myself. Now, get out,” he said through his teeth.

The guy caught sight of the gun resting on the bed and backed out of the room.

“Are we waiting for you?” Howard asked.

“Yes.” Stalking across the room, he slammed the door and stood clenching the towel.

“Hey…” Suddenly, Mason was there, turning him around, putting the towel back around his hips.

“That motherfucker,” his voice wobbled.

“Hush, it’s only scars. Since when have you become so self-conscious?”

“Since Alex.”

“He didn’t leave you because of some scars. Alex was an asshole, plain and simple. He didn’t deserve you.”

“You’re kin, you have to say shit like that.”

Mason had never liked his on and off again ex-boyfriend. Tipping his head back, he blinked up at the ceiling and took in a long breath. The last thing he needed was to think about Alex and the fool he’d made of himself after the accident. Pulling away, he schooled his face, regaining his control. Sometimes, he felt like control was all he had left to hang on to.

After one more long look, Mason, like him, acted as if nothing had happened.

“Think that guy is the mole?” Mason had gratefully changed the subject.

He grabbed a clean wrist brace from his dresser and strapped it on. “I don’t know. Everyone is a suspect.” He didn’t need the brace all of the time, but when he ventured outside or traveled, he wore it. It saved him from smacking his arm against things.

“I still have over a hundred people to go through.” He tugged on a pair of dark blue briefs.

Working undercover, he had one task. Find the mole in the Counterterrorism Division. However, narrowing the field of suspects was turning out to be a daunting task, and he was no closer to finding the person than the day he’d started.

Sliding on a pair of black dress slacks and a white dress shirt, he fumbled with the buttons for longer than he cared to. It wasn’t so much because of his wrist brace, but rather the asshole invading his privacy. He shrugged into his black leather gun holster. Back at his closet, he pulled on a pair of fire engine red sneakers complete with white soles and already tied laces.

“What’s that guy’s name?”

He tossed his brother a glance. “Howard.”

“Has he ever been here before?”

“No,” he said, snatching up his keys.

The novelty keychain jangled when he tucked them into his pocket.

“I’ll add him to my list.” Mason lifted the nine-millimeter from the bed and held it out.

“You have a list?” He tucked the weapon away in his holster.

“I always have a list.”

He stepped closer when Mason lifted his phone for him to take a look.

“You know that you’re wearing red sneakers, right?”

“Yeah, they match my keychain,” he murmured, running his eyes over the list of names.