She took a step back. “I’m just trying to be your friend.”
“I’ve got all the friends I need,” Bradford said, turning and walking away, but not before he’d glimpsed hurt and confusion fill her expression. He felt like a total ass. It wasn’t her fault he found it difficult to think straight around her. She deserved better than how he’d treated her.
Ian met him just outside the door of the ballroom. “You’re not leaving already, are you?”
Bradford shook his hand. “Tell your mother something came up that required my attention.”
“You okay? I saw Clay chasing after you like a moth to a flame, but you usually brush him off easily enough. I knew it was a mistake to seat you at the same table.”
Flexing his shoulders, Bradford admitted, “Clay wasn’t the problem in there, I was. My head is all fucked up tonight.”
“Anything you need to talk about?”
“I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“I heard things got complicated in Libya.”
“No more than usual; the son of the US ambassador lingered behind too long. He was trapped on the wrong side of the siege lines, but luckily for him the insurgent militia didn’t know who he was. He’s back with his parents now, a little humbler but unscathed.” Bradford frowned. “Why do you know about it at all?”
“A perk of being on the right side of the government. I keep tabs on you and those who would like to see you gone. In some circles you’re considered a national treasure.”
“I’m sure.”
“In others—well, I won’t bore you with how many times I talk people out of attempting to erase you. Remember when we thought no one knew what we did? They knew. Be careful, Bradford. You’ve taken on some dangerous targets since I stepped away.”
“I’m doing what we’ve always done.”
“Yes, but with less caution. Don’t get yourself killed or I’ll feel guilty about leaving you for the quieter life.”
Bradford rolled his eyes. “Good to see you, Ian.” Just then his phone beeped with a message from Clay.
I went too far. I’m sorry.
In response, he typed: Is this really Clay?
It’s me, but I do have Joanna standing over me telling me what to write.
Bradford choked on a laugh, then gave into it.
Ian stepped closer. “What’s so funny?”
Bradford shook his head and pocketed his phone. “The irony of life.” It was all he’d say on the matter. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll be watching. If you need me I’m always just one encrypted, highly classified text message away.”
“Good to know,” Bradford said as he turned away. “Same. You know how to find me if you need me.”
On the walk through the lobby, Bradford imagined Joanna cornering Clay and demanding he send an apology. She couldn’t sit back and say nothing when she saw an injustice. Looks like we have something in common after all.
Joanna was the first woman in—forever—that Bradford felt a connection with. He couldn’t find a damn thing he didn’t like about her.
So, what do I do?
I push her away.
“You snooze, you lose.” Dylan’s early taunt came back to haunt Bradford.
Clay’s question quickly followed. “Have you considered you might be a coward?”
Rather than taking his car, Bradford decided to walk and return for his vehicle later. As he walked, his past nipped at his heels.
One street led to another as memories overtook him. Too vividly he remembered himself at seven holding his older sister Ella’s hand in the hospital when they were told that neither of their parents had survived. “Let this be a lesson to you, son,” a police officer had told him. “Bad things happen when you get mixed up with the wrong people.”
Bradford had been too young to understand, but the words had cut. He knew his parents had been shot by someone they sold drugs for, but not much compassion was shown for him or his sister as they dealt with the loss. Because of their ages and the fact that they were considered affiliated with local gangs, they were separated and sent to homes outside the city.
Ella had run away from her foster family and back to the only life she knew. Bradford lost touch with her until he was old enough to also return to his old neighborhood. When he found his sister he barely recognized her. The same gang she’d turned to for protection had gotten her addicted to drugs then pimped her out.
In his teens Bradford had been too young to take them on. He’d tried and been beaten within an inch of his life and left for dead. Some of the scars on his face were from that beating, some were more recent. Although they prevented him from ever being called handsome, he didn’t mind them. Each scar was its own badge of honor. When he recovered from that first beating, he’d sworn he’d pull Ella out of that life. The scar from a bullet that narrowly missed his heart was from his second attempt to save her. Ella died of a drug overdose while he was still in the hospital recovering.
If there was a hero in his life back then it had been his foster father, Alan. Neither he nor his wife were what one would call nurturing. They believed tough love made strong adults. Although Bradford wouldn’t say they were what he needed back then, he respected them for never giving up on him. Bradford was a ball of fury after Ella died. Still, Alan and his wife kept him. He thought it was for the paycheck, but looking back there must have been easier kids to foster.
When Bradford aged out of the foster program, Alan encouraged him to enlist in the Army. “Want to fight? Fight for your country. Want to die? Die saving someone.”
It wasn’t exactly an inspirational speech, but it had stuck with Bradford. He didn’t see much value to his own life, but he’d spent the last decade fighting for the vulnerable. He’d taken some tangents off that noble path to settle some scores. Every last gang member who had been a part of his parents’ or his sister’s deaths had found quick and brutal justice at Bradford’s hands.
One might argue that the world was a better place without them, but Bradford felt that whatever good might have been in him had died along with those he’d terminated. The only thing that kept him from putting a gun to his own head each morning was the face of each innocent he’d saved. Each woman he freed from an abusive situation, and sadly the sex trade was still very much alive and kicking even in the United States, gave him a reason to keep going. Every time he returned a child to their parents he was called a hero, but he never felt like one.
He felt tired. Ian was right; he’d spent a good amount of the last year taking bigger risks, facing down the vilest of demons. He’d seen things that would haunt him for the rest of his life—done things as well.
During one particularly ugly mission a single mother and toddler had been kidnapped by a serial killer the police had been tracking but were unable to catch. When Bradford found them, the mother was tied up and had been raped. The child was crying in the next room. Bradford killed the killer, but first let him beg for his life. It wasn’t until he freed the woman and saw how he had made her afraid of him as well that he realized he was becoming as coldhearted as the criminals he erased.
Like an alcoholic pouring his liquor stash down the sink, Bradford had sworn that day to only kill when there was no other option. He’d begun working more with his contacts in law enforcement—in the US and around the globe. In some ways it was more complicated, but it also allowed him to breathe for the first time in years.