The Masked Truth(47)

Max has been around guns, though. Hard to avoid it as the son of a career soldier. While he grew up with his mother, there’d been holidays on base with his father. He’d seen guns. Seen them fired. Seen them cleaned too, the men sitting around talking and drinking a pint while they made sure their weapons would never do what this one apparently had.

As soon as Max picks up the gun, he can see the problem. The spent cartridge is jammed, sticking out of the gun.

“Shit. Why didn’t I notice that?” Aaron says and takes the gun from him.

“Careful,” Max says. “It may be jammed, but it’s still a loaded weapon.”

Aaron rolls his eyes. He starts cycling the gun to remove the cartridge.

“Riley can do that,” Max says. “We need to get back to—”

“If it’s an easy fix, we should get it working before we go.”

Max shakes his head. Arguing with Aaron isn’t going to make this go any faster. When the cartridge ejects, Max says, “There, now can we—”

“Just let me make sure it’s clear.”

Max is about to argue when Aaron starts removing the magazine, which is the smart thing to do, so he leaves him to it, moves toward the door and cracks it open.

You didn’t hear Riley, Max. It was voices in your head. It’s called schizophrenia.

I don’t hear voices in my head.

Then what am I?

Sod off. He squeezes his eyes shut, and the voice goes silent. Which proves, he supposes, that it is indeed under his control. Not that he’d ever doubted it. What he doubts, as his doctor would say, is himself.

But I have to, don’t I? That’s the key to staying one step ahead of the monster. Question everything.

Which was bloody exhausting. Like a hamster on a wheel, endlessly running, never going anywhere. He couldn’t keep on like this. He just couldn’t.

What’s the alternative, Max?

He doesn’t answer. He knows the alternative, and the worse things get, the brighter it shines.

“We really need to—” He turns back to Aaron and sees him holding up the gun as he peers down the barrel. “Bloody hell,” he says, and stomps toward him. “Are you mad? Give me—”

“The magazine is out, Maximus. It’s not loaded. You Brits, you’re all so scared of guns. It’s a wonder you even have a military.”

“We’ve had one longer than you,” Max says. “And any time you’d like to compare national crime rates, I’m happy to oblige. Now put the gun away and—”

The gun fires. Max never sees how—whether Aaron’s hand brushes the trigger or he turns the gun and hits it. Max doesn’t even hear the gun fire, not with his thoughts half distracted, swallowing the pfft.

What he sees is blood. A spray of it. An impossible spray, seeming to shoot everywhere. He’s hallucinating. He must be, because what he’s seeing isn’t possible. Aaron—the stupid blighter—was just holding the gun. Holding it and looking at it, and now …

And now Max is standing there, with blood dripping off his hands outstretched for the gun, the words “Just give me that” still on his lips, and Aaron … Aaron is gone. Vanished in an explosion of blood. Which is not possible. Not possible at all, and Max stumbles back, his hands going up, the voice in his head screaming no, no, no, that whatever he thinks he saw, he’s imagining it because people do not explode in a spray of blood, and you know that, Max, you know that, so just hold on, be logical and be smart. People do not explode. Just like they are not possessed by demons. Remember that and hold on. This time, you have to hold …

That’s when he sees that Aaron did not explode in a spray of blood. He’s on the floor. With a hole through his throat, blood pumping from that hole.

Max lurches toward Aaron. His foot slides in the blood. There’s so much of it. On the floor. On the walls.

Arterial spray.

Who cares what it’s called, Max?

Arterial spray. Meaning the bullet hit an artery. He’s bleeding out. That matters. That matters.

There’s a hole through his throat, and Max knows that even if he can’t see it because all he sees is blood, pumping, pumping, and there’s so much—

Max is on his knees, reaching for Aaron’s throat, to wrap his hands around it, because that’s all he can think to do, but then he stops.

Are you sure this is real, Max? Really, truly sure, because the last time …

Max squeezes his eyes shut. Yes, the last time. Can’t forget that. Can’t ever forget that. But this is real. This is real, and there’s a hole in Aaron’s throat, and the only way he can save him is to wrap his hands around his neck …

Just like Justin.

Yes, damn you. Just like Justin, and if Max is wrong, he’s wrong, but he doesn’t think he is, and he sure as hell cannot sit here and reason it through, can he?

He puts his hand to the hole in Aaron’s throat—or where the hole must be, where the blood gushes—and when he does, he can feel the blood pumping against his hand. Then he sees it pouring from the other side.

Where the bullet went through, Max. Because that’s what they do. They go through.

Max yanks off his jacket and wraps the sleeves around Aaron’s throat. Then he sees his face. Really sees his face. Aaron’s eyes, wide. Aaron’s eyes, empty. Aaron’s eyes, lifeless.