Finding Kyle(3)

Instead, I lift my chin up at her as if I share her delight in tormenting this woman. Kayla gives me a mischievous wink and says, “Tomorrow then. I’ll start with the knives.”

My eyes snap open, but they don’t see a damn thing. The room is pitch black at first, but then the soft glow of moonlight off the Atlantic Ocean starts to lighten my surroundings. I scrub my hands over my face briefly before kicking off the covers and rolling out of my bed. The floor is cold because I didn’t bother turning the heat on last night. Even though it’s May and spring is in full gear, it still gets chilly at night. My heart rate is only slightly elevated from that nightmare, but my skin feels like it’s crawling with ants.

I don’t dream of Maggie often, but when I do, it’s that particular dream. I’m not sure why that dream plagues me because while it was definitely horrendous what we did to her, it’s certainly not the worst thing I’ve done. On top of that, I broke every protocol in the book for an undercover agent by rescuing Maggie from that basement where Kayla was torturing her. I did it in the dark of the night when everyone was asleep, and I did it knowing I could be blowing three years of undercover work just to save one woman’s life.

In hindsight, it worked out, but also in hindsight, it was probably a stupid decision. That is what I’m having a hard time reconciling. Probably why I keep dreaming of it.

I pad out of the small room to the bathroom just one door down, flipping on the light and momentarily blinking against the harsh glare. Bending over the sink, I turn the cold water on and let it run for a few seconds before cupping my hands under it. It’s icy and abrasive and exactly what I need. I splash three handfuls on my face and give a hard rub to my eyes before I straighten up and look at myself in the dingy mirror above the sink.

Dead, bleak eyes stare back at me. The lightest of blues… practically colorless. They had never held much warmth in them to begin with, but coming out of the dregs of my memories, they seem to almost shimmer with a frostiness that matches the cold feeling inside my veins.

The man staring back at me is named Kyle Sommerville.

Well, that was his name as of last October, but then he was shot, execution style, in the back of the head. That’s the official story that was given to my only living relative, my sister, Andrea. She was told her brother was an undercover agent, a hero, and that he sacrificed his life to take down Mayhem’s Mission. The day after I “died,” I became someone else. I kept my first name because I was told it would make it an easier transition for me, but I had no say-so in my new last name.

And frankly, I didn’t care.

It was just a name, so I became Kyle Harding.

The “new” Kyle who stares back at me looks nothing like the old Kyle. I’ve lost a little over thirty pounds over the past seven months—by design—and the gaunt angles caused by the weight loss and the removal of a fuck of a lot of my long, blond hair and beard left a new man in its place. Many people who go into hiding color their hair, but all I did was remove it, so nothing is left but very short stubble that actually appears dark against my pale skin. Put a recent picture against the old Kyle and nobody will see a resemblance. I’m hiding in practically plain sight.

My gaze drifts down past my jaw to halfway down my throat. Tattoos rise above the collar of the white t-shirt I’d worn to bed. Now those tattoos… those would identify me as Kyle Sommerville, so I keep them hidden as much as possible. I moved to Maine from Chicago in February. Those first few months were bitterly cold, and it wasn’t a problem to hide my tats. But it’s May now. The weather is starting to warm, so they’ll be partially visible.

Oh, well.

I seriously doubt anyone from Mayhem’s Mission or, even worse yet, a certain senator who probably didn’t take kindly to his arrest, are going to look for me here in Misty Harbor, Maine. This is about as far off the fucking grid as possible to get, and I trust the U.S. Marshal’s office, in conjunction with the ATF, to have crossed all t’s and dotted all i’s when it came to creating my new identity.

I’d love nothing more than to return to bed and fall back asleep, but I’ve had that nightmare one too many times to know that won’t fucking happen. With a sigh, I turn the faucet off and blot my face with the hand towel, deciding to head out for a late-night drink—or ten—and maybe for something else that will help me sleep.

?

The Lobster Cage is a dive bar that smells like sea salt and fish. That’s because most of the inhabitants work the numerous lobster boats that prowl the local waters by day. The jukebox is playing an old Johnny Cash tune, but it’s turned down low. The men here aren’t interested in loud music or entertainment. They want to get drunk, and possibly get laid, then they’ll go to sleep before they hit the waters tomorrow for another hard day’s work.

The pungent scent of cheap perfume hits my nose before the scantily clad ass hits the barstool beside me. It’s getting late—or rather, early morning—and there are only a handful of people still here. I’ve got a good buzz going as I nurse my fourth whiskey.

“Hey stranger,” the woman purrs beside me, but I don’t even bother turning my head. Her perfume identifies her clearly. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

That’s true. I moved to Misty Harbor in February and since that time, I’ve only been here a handful of times. Still, I’ve come in enough times that I’m known by the bartender and a few of the other locals.