If it wasn’t for the sure presence that stayed as close to him as his own shadow, Ex was sure he’d have thrown all his teaching and discipline to the side after Evan’s funeral, and taken to the streets to wreak havoc on any shady individual who crossed his path. That was how infuriated he was. And Meridian knew it, it was why he was with him. As usual, Ex owed his partner. But, in their world they didn’t do thank-yous and words of appreciation, but god, he wanted Meridian to know what this meant to him. He tried to make himself turn the knob, but he couldn’t.
“I know, Ex,” Meridian said roughly before he went into his room and closed the door behind him.
He engaged both locks and walked farther into his room, stopping for a moment at the door that connected his suite to Ex’s. He pressed his hand against the hard surface and listened. The movements were faint but he heard his partner bypass his bed and settle into the creaky desk chair and wake his monitors. Meridian closed his eyes, fatigue settling in his bones and sighed. They both needed to sleep, needed to recharge. They were strong, their bodies and minds chemically altered to make them more efficient soldiers, but they were still... just men. They’d recently finished a huge job and they hadn’t been at home base a full twenty-four hours before Ex had logged into his system and learned about his brother. Two hours later they were on a plane from Syria and it’d been nonstop ever since.
If they were going to be able to do this then he needed Ex to be at the top of his game. Even though they were taking down petty local gang lords who destroyed neighborhoods and communities, instead of international terrorists that were a threat to national security, one slip-up could cause them big problems. Could cause their program huge problems.
Meridian resisted the urgent pull to fix this for Ex, to find all the ones who’d wronged him, and slit their throats. Instead, he eased out of his suit jacket and tossed it over the foot of the king-sized bed. One by one, he removed his weapons, placing a handgun under each pillow and a blade inside the nightstand on top of the King James Bible. He went into the bathroom and started the shower as hot as he dared and took off the rest of his clothes. Not bothering to look at his reflection in the mirror, he stepped into the glass stall and closed his eyes at the first feel of the luxury jets beating against his tight neck muscles.
Several long minutes went by before he finally took his BVLGARI wood essence body wash from one of the alcoves and poured a generous amount into his palms. His movements were slow and methodical, his mind drifting to thoughts of how this fly-by-night operation was going to end. They’d trained for every possible situation and scenario the enemy could throw at them but they’d never trained to defend against their true nature. It’d been years since he’d been defiant, not since he was teenager.
It hadn’t been a time he’d thrived; it’d been a time of survival.
With much practice thirteen-year-old Marshall Hayes—before he became, Meridian—got his key inside their apartment door and disengaged the bolt lock without making a sound. He’d stayed after school to give his father as much space as possible, working well past nightfall in the library until the custodian had put him out. With no friends, and nowhere else to go, he’d lain on a park bench behind his building until his body could no longer tolerate the frigid cold of winter in Chicago.
Meridian didn’t remove his coat or hat when he was inside, instead he listened to confirm exactly where his parents were. He heard his mother in the bathroom weeping and his dad’s snores over the television blaring the highlights of a basketball game in the living room. Meridian skirted along the edge of his dad’s recliner, his back close to the wall but not enough to touch it and cause a sound. He stepped over the third and sixth floorboard in the hallway that led to the bedrooms—they creaked when touched—and slipped into his bedroom, quietly closing his door and locking it. He froze, his body as still as a thief as he waited to see if he’d really made it undetected. Over the years, he’d gotten good at being invisible.
He removed his heavy boots and coat and sat on the edge of his bed. He could still hear his mother and he wondered how bad off she was this time. Another broken rib, or a busted lip. Of course, all injuries came with countless lashings as if his mother was a bad girl and deserved constant punishment. She’d sometimes stare at him as if she was waiting on him to help her, but he didn’t anymore. He was too afraid.