Joan Johnston - Outcast

“Saving your life,” Ben said. “And maybe the lives of other innocent drivers. You’re drunk, buddy.”

“Give me my keys!”

Waverly grabbed for the keys and Ben deftly stepped aside. Waverly’s momentum carried him forward, so he lost his footing and landed on his hands and knees. He came up mad and he came up swinging.

Ben bunched his hand into a fist around the keys and hit Waverly hard in the chin. “Damn it, Waverly!” he shouted as he nursed his stinging knuckles. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Waverly was out cold.

Ben stuffed Waverly’s keys back behind the visor and returned to heft his friend over his shoulder. He hauled Waverly inside, grunting with the strain as he headed up the broad, winding, Gone With the Wind staircase. He could hear the shouts and laughter of Waverly’s friends coming from the kitchen and parlor.

“Damn you, Waverly,” Ben snarled at his unconscious friend. “Julia’s going to give me hell if your chin is bruised tomorrow. But I promised her I’d get you to your wedding alive and well. And, by God, that’s exactly what I intend to do!”

“Wake up, you sonofabitch!”

Ben felt himself falling off the bed and realized the sheet and blanket had been ripped out from under him. He hit the Aubusson carpet on his hands and knees, searching frantically for his XM107 .50 caliber long-range sniper rifle. Which wasn’t there.

A breath shuddered out of him as he reminded himself he was no longer in the desert. He was in his bedroom at The Seasons. And he stank with the foul sweat of someone scared shitless.

He’d been dreaming again. The same lousy dream. He looked at his shaking hands, expecting them to be covered with sticky red blood. His fingertips were callused but clean.

“Get up!” Waverly ordered.

Ben sucked in a breath and shoved himself upright enough to see a furious Waverly standing in boxers and a T-shirt on the other side of the bed.

“I told you I had to get back to D.C. last night. Look at this!” Waverly leaned across the bed to shove The Washington Post under Ben’s nose.

Ben was still hung over—he’d celebrated Waverly’s wedding after he’d put the groom to bed—and he struggled to focus his eyes. The headline was hard to miss: “Gang Riot Leaves 3 Dead.”

“This is all my fault,” Waverly gritted out between tight jaws.

“How could it be your fault?”

Waverly threw the folded paper in Ben’s face. “That call last night was from my confidential informant. My CI told me trouble was brewing between MS and the One-Eight, that a shoot-out was likely. I knew those kids. I could have intervened. Maybe I could have prevented those deaths.”

“And maybe not,” Ben said, pushing himself to his feet.

“Both gangs will be out for blood now. I need to get to D.C. and find the other boy involved in that shooting—the one still left alive—before the whole city erupts in gang violence.”

“Have you forgotten you’re getting married at one o’clock? You don’t have time to go to D.C. The only place you have time to hit is the shower.”

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