Rev It Up (Black Knights Inc. #3)(51)
“Before the bombing, I’d been philosophical about killing the enemy,” he explained, briefly scanning her face before once more focusing on his hands, clenched into fists on the back of the chair. “I cut them down, because I was ordered to cut them down and because to allow them to remain alive posed a threat to everything and everyone I loved. But after the bombing,” he shook his head, his sun-bleached hair falling over his forehead reminding her of those times she’d run her fingers through it, “something evil and insidious sank its poisoned fingers into my soul, and I started to hate. I hated until I couldn’t think of anything else. A few weeks later, four of us were on patrol in the hills, and that hate found an opportunity to manifest itself. You see, we were tasked with questioning the locals about their knowledge of the events surrounding the blast.”
She swallowed, lifting a brow.
“I don’t know how many people we questioned. Hundreds probably. And, of course, everyone claimed to have zero knowledge of what happened. It was so f*cking frustrating. Then one day we came upon a group of men. They were sitting next to this little mud brick house having some kind of meeting. They, too, swore they didn’t know anything about the bombing, but their eyes told a different story. Then, when we searched their house, we found news articles about the bombings, framed like goddamned trophies. And I knew then and there that even if they weren’t part of the actual bombing—which, as it turns out, they weren’t—they were the kind of men who wouldn’t hesitate to pick up an AK-47 or RPG and use it against coalition forces. Over there, you get where you can spot a fanatic from a mile away. And these guys…” he shook his head, “…these guys were fanatics with a capital F.”
He paused for a beat, seeming to gather his thoughts before continuing. “They weren’t armed. They made no moves of aggression toward us, but I took one look at them, at the malice in their faces, and remembered sorting through all those bodies and I…I was absolutely livid. My skin actually itched, like my hate was alive and burrowing just beneath my flesh. I pointed my weapon directly at the leader’s skull. I was this close to killing him.” He held this thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Just putting a bullet in his brain. It shames me to admit how close I came to becoming a cold-blooded murderer that day.”
She nodded and, for the umpteenth time since he’d suddenly poofed back into her life, resisted the urge to reach out and comfort him.
“You can’t beat yourself up over something you almost did.”
“Can’t I?” His green gaze lasered in on her face, for the first time since this entire conversation began he was really looking at her. The effect was mesmerizing. Her stomach starting spinning in circles like she’d tossed it in the dryer. “That incident scared me to death.” At her surprised expression, bitterness contorted his face. “Yes, despite what you’ve been led to believe, SEALs get scared. Honest-to-goodness, pee-your-pants scared. And that’s what that day did for me. It scared me something wicked.”
Once again, she beat back the urge to reach for him, curling her fingers into the bed’s comforter as she nodded for him to continue.
“I can’t describe what it’s like to hold the power of death over a person,” he admitted quietly, flexing his fingers and staring at his palms as if they belonged to someone else. “It’s a heady thing that makes a man feel more godlike than he has any right to. What that day showed me was that the hate had grown in me and made me not only accustomed to that power, but hungry for it. I was turning into the kind of man I’d been sent there to exterminate—an indiscriminant killer.”
“I don’t think you’d have be—” she began to defend him, but he interrupted her.
“And it was that fear, that fear of becoming like the very men I’d come to hate, that played no small part in my decision on the side of the mountain the day Preacher died. I let that fear overrule my own good judgment, my judgment as a soldier, as a SEAL, as a part of a team. I didn’t want to give in to the monster and, consequently, I made the wrong call.”
“Frank told me about that day. Your orders were to—”
“Fuck my orders!” he growled. “It was fear that guided my decision that day. Then when we actually needed al-Masri, I let my anger overcome reason, and I shot him in the head. And you know what makes it all so much worse? The fact that I convinced Preacher to go along with me. From the beginning, his vote was to kill the guy and run like hell, but I talked him out of it because I’d lost my edge and was too damn scared of myself. And you know what that got him? It got him f*cking killed!” His voice cracked, and he pressed his thumb and forefinger against the inside corners of his eyes.
Another hot tear escaped and coursed down her cheek. Followed by another. And another.
“That’s the biggest thing I’m sorry for, Shell,” he said hoarsely, refusing to look at her. “For being a coward who was more concerned with harnessing the monster growing inside him than in making the strategically sound decision. The decision that would’ve kept us all alive, kept Preacher alive. Because even though it killed me when you chose him over me, I’d still rather see you two happy, together, than know I’m the reason he’s cold in the ground.”
Oh, Steven. My sweet, sweet Steven.
And my poor, poor Jake…