Page 142 of Stealing Blinds

A haunting French pop song serenades us as we pick up our pace and round the corner. For several strides, none of us speak. There is some military-esque chitchat on the comms that doesn’t fully take root with the roar of the waiting chopper devouring it.

The grounds open up to sun and sky, cliffs and sea. A sultry gust rips over the craggy bluffs. The floral accents and evergreens rollick in delight. And for just a beat, the scenery bathes us with vows of another round.

There are cards left behind, but plays still to be made.

Eventually, as we close in on our departure point, I break the silence with a quick confession. “My father always promised he’d get that mask for my mother since they passed over it on their honeymoon, but he never got around to it. So, it was a parting gift to my mom. In his honor.” That garners the heated stares of both men at my sides as I finish. “I never thought I’d survive this. I didn’t care if I did.”

Jax releases a shuddering breath, but there’s understanding within it.

And Cash? He tucks me into his side and throws out something he asked once before—after the Boston heist that went so terribly wrong. “And now?”

“Now I have the masterpiece of a life that I’d do anything to preserve.”

He winks in that carefree way of his that makes any moment lighter. “Mission accomplished then.”

As the words dangle in the air, something shifts. I’ll never understand how the mind knows to slow down, to soak in the grievous revelations before they strike. Premonitory flashes. But it happens that way, doesn’t it?

Time twisted when the call came about my father. I still remember the lecture hall shaking like the earth was cleaved in two as my phone vibrated. The scent of paper and stale coffee permeating the air. The way a red-haired girl a few seats ahead of me spilled a bag of pens and pencils, the tinkling jingle becoming a deafening echo.

And Cash described something similar when he said he heard his mother through the flames, a whisper to accept the unthinkable and a penance to relive it. Again and again.

In some out-of-body ordeal, this cliffside haven morphs to wistful remembrance. Kisses in the ocean and cuddling at dawn. Flamethrower s’mores, family pranks, cinnamon rolls with a tiny magician, and Big Top awards.

A birthday that hurt less and power restored with an oiled massage.

Beauty in the broken.

I see it all there, frolicking with the breaking waves below and taking flight with the yellow-legged seagulls.

Sparkling with the trickling blood from the fallen pilot.

A crimson river that will lead to nothing but affliction.

The gravity of what’s to come slams into all of us at the same time. Seconds before the bullets fly, we begin to run. I peer over my shoulder, spotting guards about one hundred or one hundred fifty yards back. Pistols raised. Steps resolute.

Cash and Jax fire in return, chaos pours through the comms, and we dash like the wind.

“Past the chopper,” Cash instructs, which doesn’t make a lot of sense because there is nothing past the helicopter except an expanse of land and air and a thirty-foot drop into rocky waters.

He wants us to jump?

When I lift my chin to question him, his ocean blues are latched to Jax. And in the span of three seconds, life shatters and fragments into what once was and what might’ve been.

“Love you, Sly. I’ll always be your way,” he says while gripping my hips and throwing me.

Jax is several feet away, but catches me easily, extending a cryptic warning as he sprints with me to the edge. “Tight like an arrow, yeah?”

To the tune of gunfire and my sobs and erupting bedlam, we soar to the sea.

Arms crossed. Feet pointed. Muscles taut.

Dreams abandoned.

The last clear utterance I hear on the comm before cool water envelops us is, “Man down.”

SYLVIE

The impact is jarring. The physical burden mimics the emotional transition in striking clarity.