Then, I go searching once more on the empty cots of my unit and I bear in mind the place I’m.

Chapter 22

Caleb

Simply yesterday, I had my workforce’s blood on my palms and right this moment, I’m going residence.

I at all times thought I’d really feel in a different way about it. I believed I’d really feel happier, however one thing feels misplaced, like a puzzle piece that simply received’t match proper till you notice you’ve bought it in backward.

I look straight forward at Boxcar’s cot. He’s nonetheless there, sleeping quietly. His soiled shirt nonetheless sits in a clump on the ground. My lips twitch together with the remainder of me on the reminiscence of final evening.

Fox’s cot is empty. Simply as empty as Rogers’ and West’s. Often, it solely takes a hiccup to wake me, however I will need to have slept by way of him tying off his boots.

I throw on some contemporary garments and step exterior into the desert solar. It’s one way or the other harsher than ordinary and every breath feels much less satisfying than the final. I scan the camp for Fox’s face however he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Fawn!”

Paxton waves me towards the command tent and I slip inside. The boys he introduced with him sit across the tent, every certainly one of them staring me down as I scan their onerous faces.

“Sure, sir?”

“Chopper leaves in an hour,” he barks, chewing on the tip of a pencil. “You and Carson higher be on it.”

I nod. “Completely, sir. We will probably be.”

“Good.”

He waves me off and bends right down to sift by way of a stack of paperwork on the nook desk.

I linger for a second extra. “Sir, I’d like to talk with Fox earlier than I am going. Are you aware the place he’s?”

“Who?”

“Fitzpatrick, sir.”

Paxton pauses and stands up taller. “Oh, him,” he says, sliding the pencil out from between his enamel. “Fitzpatrick was transferred out this morning.”

“The place?” I ask, my pores and skin crawling with confusion.

He hesitates, furrowing his forehead so a shadow casts over his eyes. “Doesn’t matter anymore,” he mutters. “Rattling airplane went down. He’s gone.”

My coronary heart sinks. His tone is so chilly, so impersonal like he simply misplaced a pawn on a chessboard.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

He glances up and his eyes glide over me. “I mentioned Fitzpatrick is gone,” he repeats with annoyance. “Shot down. No survivors.”

My senses stop. I can’t really feel something. No desert warmth. No sounds. No scents. Simply the blinding, white lights of rage filling my imaginative and prescient.

“That’s not doable,” I lastly say, refusing to imagine it.

I simply noticed him. He was right here final evening. I spoke to him. He can’t be gone.

Paxton laughs and my palms roll into fists. “No, honey,” he spits, “that’s actuality. Now get out of right here. I don’t have time to carry your hand after each damaged nail.”

I lunge ahead. The others shout as I wrap my fingers round Paxton’s throat. His eyes develop vast with shock and each little bit of amusement drains from them as I squeeze.

“Fawn! Let go!”

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