Page 63 of Freeing Lark

She shifted closer. “Tell me about it.”

“I can’t tell you everything.”

“I know.”

“Operational details are⁠—”

“Classified. I understand.”

He nodded. So he told her what he could. It was easier than he thought it would be. She possessed a certain quality that made confessing his deepest, darkest secrets feel effortless.

When he got to the part when Bullet was running toward them and the final shot, he stopped and took a deep breath. “Then he died.”

Lark’s expression softened. “He said something, didn’t he.” It was more statement than question. “Something that haunts you.”

Hoot stared at the floor. “Yeah.”

“What was it?”

“Pray.”

She was quiet. “What does that mean?”

“I’ve wondered the same for eight years?” He swallowed. “At the time, I thought it meant exactly what it sounded like.”

“A plea?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No.”

She frowned. “Are you sure?”

Hoot looked at her. “He was dying, Lark. I was holding him. He barely had enough strength to speak.”

“But you said he was yelling your name before that.”

Hoot nodded. “Several times. That’s when he saved my life.”

“And paid for it with his,” she whispered, obviously remembering their earlier conversation about Bullet. “And then he said pray.”

Swallowing hard against the lump forming in his throat, Hoot uttered a simple, “Yes.”

She stared into space. “What if that wasn’t the whole word?”

Hoot frowned. “What?”

“What if he was trying to say something else?”

He felt his pulse quicken. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “But what if pray wasn’t a request?” Hoot went still. “What if it was a warning?”

The thought hit him like a grenade detonating inside his chest. A warning. He’d never considered it. Not once.

For eight years, he’d carried that final word as a plea. A dying young man’s desperate request for grace.