Broken Hero Read online

  While it’s disturbing me to not have a past, at the same time, it’s liberating to be free of the baggage that comes with it.

  I finish up the breakfast burritos Baker left for me and clean up my dishes. Judging by the immaculate condition of his house, I get the feeling Baker is a fastidious man and doesn’t tolerate sloppiness all that well. I’m his houseguest, so the last thing I want to do is be a bad guest.

  After cleaning up, I wander down to the library. Stabler is following me closely as if he’s protecting me. Or, he’s just hoping for more treats – one of the two. I step into Baker’s library and feel completely at home. I know that reading and books are a major part of my life. I can feel it in my bones.

  I put on a pot of coffee, then walk through the library, admiring the collection of titles he has. It’s an impressive array of books, and I’m pretty certain they’re not here just for show. The spines of the books all look like they’ve been well worn as if he’s read them more than once. It’s obvious Baker is a well-read man. I can absolutely respect that.

  I pour myself a cup of coffee, grab a mystery from the shelf, and settle down onto the overstuffed couch. With it being such a gloomy day outside, snuggled up on the sofa, reading a good book, and having a cup of coffee sounds like the perfect way to spend the day. Stabler curls up on his little loveseat, looking completely content to do the same.

  I take a sip of coffee and set the mug down on the table, then settle back into the sofa, and crack the book. I dive in with relish, savoring the words as I read them. I can’t explain it, but having the book in my hands, immersing myself in the words, just feels – right. It feels good. I can get used to spending my days like this.

  As I sit there, it occurs to me for the first time, that to have this kind of house and lead the kind of life he leads, he has to have money. Serious money. The kind of money you’re not going to make as a civil servant. It makes me wonder how he has the kind of money he does, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a nervous flutter in my belly.

  A U.S. Marshal isn’t going to make the kind of money it takes to build a place like this. There’s a part of me that wonders if Baker was on the take at some point in his life. That part of me wonders if he worked for one of the cartels or some other group like that, taking piles of cash in exchange for information on witnesses. Hell, in my head, I wondered if he carried out the hits himself.

  I have a really hard time reconciling that image – the cartel yes man – with the image of the man I’m slowly getting to know. Baker seems like a genuinely good man with a good heart. He’s taken it upon himself to protect me. He’s been kind. Compassionate. He’s been caring and has shown himself to be, at least to me, a decent man. I can’t make myself believe that he’s in bed with the cartel.

  But then, if he’s not taking money for doing illegal things, how can he afford his lifestyle?

  The front door opens and then closes, and Stabler jumps off the couch and bolts out of the room, off to greet Baker. I listen to the hollow thump of his footsteps and the click-clack of Stabler’s paws as they come down the hallway. I sit up and set the book in my lap as Baker steps into the library.

  “Good news,” he says. “I found your bags.”

  He sets the two bags he’s carrying down on the couch beside me. They look totally unfamiliar to me, and I stare at them as if they’re a coiled snake about to strike, a bizarre sense of dread stealing over me.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I clear my throat and nod. “Yeah, it’s just – odd,” I say.

  “What’s odd?”

  “I don’t know; it’s just that earlier I was thinking about the whole amnesia thing.”

  Baker pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down on the couch opposite me. Stabler takes up his perch on his sofa and stares at each of us in turn.

  “What about it?” Baker asks.

  I shrug. “Just that – it sucks, and I hate not being able to remember a thing about my past,” I say. “That all of those memories are just – gone. Everything I’ve done, all the people I’ve known – they’re just gone. I hate that there’s nothing but a blank spot in my head.”

  He takes a sip of his coffee. “I hear a but coming.”

  I give him a small nod. “Yeah, but, in a way, the whole leaving the baggage of the past, in the past, isn’t without its appeal,” I say. “And yet, here we sit, with the literal baggage of my past staring me in the face.”

  Baker chuckles, his voice a rich, low rumble. It washes over me, sending a pleasant tingle dancing along my skin.

  “I can take them out back and burn them, if you’d prefer,” he says. “Make a symbolic clean break from the past and all.”

  I stuff all of it down. They’re just bags. There’s nothing sinister about them. I pull the first one over and unzip it quickly before I have a chance to think about it. I stare inside and look at the clothes. A sudden wave of gratitude washes over me. I’ve been wearing Baker’s oversized shirts, sweatpants, and whatever Doctor Medina has been able to scrounge up for me for days now, so it’s going to be nice to have my own clothes to wear – relics of the past or not.

  In the other bag, I can tell it’s more than just clothes. I can feel a box in the bottom of the bag. Not just a relic of the past, but the old ghosts that come with it. I don’t want to open it – don’t want whatever’s inside to come popping out like some evil jack-in-the-box from hell.

  I want to continue existing in this little fantasy of plush libraries, and dreamy men. At least, for a little while longer.

  Baker gives me a warm smile as if he understands where I’m at in my head right now, and he doesn’t press me to open the other bag – which, I appreciate.

  “So, I gave you the nickel tour already,” he says. “Ready for the dollar tour?”

  “There’s a dollar tour?”

  “Absolutely,” he says. “And since you might be here for a little while –”

  “I will? I ask. “I thought Marshal Parr was coming for me.”

  “He is, but it may take a little longer than we’ve been expecting it to,” Baker says. “I called him shortly after I got your bags and he’s having some problems. He’s concerned about operational safety. More than that, he’s worried about the mole within the Marshals. He doesn’t want you sticking your head out too soon. Not without a solid plan in place to protect you.”

  “Great,” I say, then look around the library, and smile. “But I guess there are worse places to be stranded.”

  Baker smiles. “Come on,” he says. “I think there are some things you need to see.”

  I stand and follow Baker out of the library, Stabler prancing close behind.

  Chapter Twenty

  Baker

  As I lead Isla down to the back room, flashes and snippets of my fantasy the night before float through my mind. I can almost feel the press of her naked body to mine, taste her mouth, and hear her voice, breathy and ragged as she comes for me.

  I clear my throat and try to push them all aside as my cock stirs in my pants. Walking around here with a raging hard-on is about the last thing either of us needs right now. It’s hard to control though when simply looking at her makes the basest instincts within me flare up like a bonfire.

  “So, anyway,” I say, trying to distract myself. “All of the walls and doors are reinforced with steel; the windows are made out of the same bullet-resistant glass the windows in presidential vehicles are made out of –”

  “Jesus, Baker. Expecting to be invaded by a hostile army?” I joke and laugh nervously.

  He shrugs. “I’ve found it pays to be prepared. When you’re not ready for anything and get caught with your pants down, you’re seriously fucked.”

  “Kind of makes you sound a little paranoid.”

  “Yeah, so you and Walt keep telling me.”

  On the one hand, I know it sounds a little nuts to have this fortress out here in the middle of nowhere. On the other hand, it’s practical. Hernan Zavala is go
ing to come for me one day – or at least send his men after me when he figures out where I am. For all I know, he already knows and is just biding his time to strike. That would be quintessential Hernan.

  While I recognize the almost obsession securing my place has become, in my defense, neither Walt nor Isla has endured what I have. Isla has come the closest, but it’s different for her. Isla’s pain is tremendous, but it’s different than what I’ve gone through. Neither of them fucked up so bad, the woman they loved was gunned down right in front of them. Neither of them had to endure the pain of that kind of loss.

  We walk into the back room, and I lead her over to the walk-in closet on the back wall. Stepping inside, I flip on the light. To all outward appearances, it’s a large walk-in closet. Nothing remarkable about it – and it was designed to be that way.

  “It’s a closet,” Isla says.

  I give her a lopsided grin and walk to the rear wall. I reach behind a stack of towels on the shelves next to the back wall and flip the small switch hidden there. The door in the back wall swings open, revealing a gently sloping ramp that leads to my custom-built underground bunker.

  “You’re kidding me,” Isla says, a note of mirth in her voice. “You actually have a Batcave.”

  I shrug. “Somebody has to fight the villains in this surprisingly crime-infested town.”

  Her laughter threatens to melt my heart, and I look at her, feeling nothing but a profound warmth that spreads through my entire body. Stabler trots on ahead of us through the secret passageway, and I lead Isla down.

  “Trust me; I know how crazy this all seems –”

  She raises her hands, palms out, at chest level. “No judgment from me,” she says. “I don’t know what you’ve been through or –”

  I chuckle. “You don’t know what you’ve been through either.”

  “That’s true,” she agrees and laughs. “Cheap shot, but it’s true.”

  We get to the bottom floor of the bunker. I’ve tried to make it somewhat more comfortable, but there really is no escaping the fact that it’s an underground, concrete vault. It has a kitchen, a bedroom, a living room, a fully stocked pantry, an office that has a security suite, and a bathroom. I’ve furnished it and have given it all the creature comforts of the place upstairs, but there are no windows and the views of the stunningly lush green world outside that go with it.

  I’ve mounted a number of large flat-screens around the bunker that play views of the forest on a continuous loop, but it’s an incredibly cheap substitute for the real thing. Nor is the air, which isn’t fresh, but recycled and circulated through a system of filters and scrubbers – though I have tried to pipe in the aroma of the forest with a secret set of air-flow tubes.

  For energy, this bunker exists on a different grid than the house upstairs. Different solar panels and wind turbines. Even if they cut the power to the house above, we’ll still have power down here. They won’t be able to cut us off and wait us out, simply because they’re not going to know where to find the power generating grid for the bunker. We even have our own generator for the bunker that’s entirely different than the one upstairs.

  The bunker is an entirely self-contained place and one that will sustain life for a good long while. I tried to think of everything when it came to the bunker, mostly because I know when Hernan comes for me, I have no way of knowing how long I’ll have to stay down here.

  “This is kind of like something you’d see in some dystopian movie or something,” she says, her voice tinged with a note of what sounds like either awe or fear.

  I walk her through the bunker and show her everything she needs to see. “If something ever happens to me while I’m watching over you –”

  “Nothing can happen to you. You’re Batman,” she says, a smile creasing her lips.

  I laugh. “Well, even Batman has his weaknesses,” I say. “If something were to happen to me though – or if shit starts to go sideways and I tell you to – this is where you need to be. When I give the word, you haul your ass over here and seal yourself inside. You’ll be able to call the Sheriff from the security suite and also monitor what’s going on topside thanks to some hidden cameras I had installed.”

  “Wow,” she says. “You’ve really thought of everything.”

  “For both of our sakes, I certainly hope so.”

  We walk into the living room, and she drops down onto the couch, and I sit in the large recliner. As he does topside, Stabler hops up onto the loveseat and stretches out. Isla looks at him and laughs, shaking her head. A moment later though, a shadow crosses her face, and I can see her struggling with something. I don’t know if it’s a memory or what, but it’s bugging her.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  She looks at me and her lips compressed into a tight line. There’s a flicker of worry behind her eyes, and she’s reluctant to speak.

  “Isla,” I persist. “What’s bothering you?”

  She looks at me, and I can clearly see her decision to say something – or not say it – is weighing heavy on her.

  “Whatever you have to say, you can say,” I tell her. “It’s perfectly fine.”

  She lets out a soft breath and looks at me, her eyes suddenly filled with uncertainty and doubt. She bites her bottom lip, but I see a steely determination rise in her eyes.

  “I was just curious,” she says. “About you, I mean.”

  “What about me?”

  She sweeps her arms wide to encompass the bunker and the house upstairs. “I just – how can you afford this if you’re not on the take too?” she asks bluntly. “I mean, there’s no way you can have the kind of money it takes to build a place like this from the ground up, unless you’re taking dirty money. Maybe not Zavala’s money, but somebody’s. Right?”

  I laugh long and loud, and she looks at me like I’ve either lost my mind, or that I’m an evil, shady, dealing from the bottom of the deck kind of a guy – the kind of guy she should fear, and exercise extreme caution around. I laugh because it’s so outlandish and is anathema to everything I am. But she’s not going to know that. She doesn’t know me.

  “It would seem that way, wouldn’t it?” I ask. “Civil servants make shit.”

  “Exactly,” she says. “So, who’s money are you taking? And does Marshal Parr know?”

  “He knows the truth about me, yes,” I tell her. “He’s known for a lot of years now. Did you know he was one of my senior officers when we were back in the Corps? He helped shepherd me through Force Recon training.”

  “Force Recon?”

  I nod. “Think Navy SEAL’s – only better,” I say.

  “That still doesn’t explain how you have the kind of money it would take –”

  “I come from money, Isla,” I explain. “Very few people – right now, the list is you and Walt –know that my father founded Redmond Energy in Texas, or that I’m the current majority shareholder, and CEO.”

  “CEO?” she asks, looking at me with a dumbfounded expression on her face.

  “In absentia, basically,” I say. “I’ve got a board who runs the day to day operations – mainly because I have no interest in it at all. I simply collect the checks and leave the big decisions to better people. But, technically speaking, I’ve been the CEO of the company since my father died and passed it on to me.”

  I honestly can’t believe I’m telling her this. It’s my most closely guarded secret and has been all my life. Jenny died without knowing this about me. And yet, when I look into Isla’s eyes, I know I can trust her. Know she’ll keep my secret.

  More than that though, as I stare into those eyes that sparkle like chips of jade, I want to open up to her. I find that I want her to know everything about me, just as I want to know everything about her. It’s fucking bizarre – I don’t open up to people. Especially about the fact that I’m loaded. When people know you have money, it tends to complicate things.

  With Isla though, I don’t want to keep secrets. I don’t want to hold back. I want
her to know me – every part of me. I want Isla to see me for who I am, warts and all.

  “If you’re worth millions –”

  “Billions,” I correct her.

  I know it sounds like bragging, or perhaps arrogance, but I genuinely feel it’s important that Isla have an accurate picture of who I am. The way her eyes bug out of her head is almost comical, as is the way her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. I give her a small smile and walk over to the kitchen area. I pull a couple bottles of water out of the refrigerator, twist off the cap, and walk back, handing her one of them. We both take a swallow and let the almost manic energy filling the air between us die down. It takes a minute, but she finally seems to regain her composure.

  “If you’re worth billions, why would you hide it?” she asks. “And why would you do such risky jobs like going into the Marines, or work as a U.S. Marshal. You aren’t nearly as likely to get shot sitting in a board room.”

  “And that’s precisely why I did it,” I say. “Because sitting in a board room, all day, every day, for the next fifty-plus years sounds dull. It doesn’t inspire me or fill me with passion. I want to live, Isla. I don’t want to just sit around talking about renewable energy sources. I wanted to live my life in a way that lights me up inside. A way that fulfills me and leaves me satisfied. When I die, I want to die knowing I lived my life on my terms and was my own man every step of the way.”

  “I can’t imagine that went over too well with your father,” she says.

  “Actually, it’s because of him. He encouraged me to find my passion. To find the thing that would make me happiest in my life,” I confide. “He never wanted me to be a corporate drone unless it was what I wanted. After the company boomed, I remember him telling me that the money would always be there and that I should focus first on my education, and then on finding my passion. He encouraged me to chase my dreams, regardless of how outlandish and impractical they seemed.”