Sitting down, he answers my question. “Same shit, different day really. I’ve got a pretentious, spoiled, and very irritating actress who won’t do a thing she’s bloody well told. And a fucking footballer who thinks the world revolves around him because he’s paid millions to kick a bag of air around a football pitch.”

He slams his drink on the table and leans in as his voice rises. “Both of them pull every trick in the book to jeopardise their own safety. Then they think I’m the dick for telling them in no uncertain terms it’s me who holds the cards, not them. They don’t get that when someone has made a very real threat against them, they actually might be in fucking danger and that’s why we’re there. You can imagine how that goes down with the lads. Same old, same old.”

His rant makes me laugh, because I can imagine the talking down these ‘famous’ people have had. Bear and the lads take safety very seriously. Anyone who jeopardises it will be taken down a peg or two. I would’ve loved to have seen their faces.

He spins his drink in between his palms and sighs. “Baz and Dean are on ops abroad, they haven’t checked in for two days.” Concern flickers through his eyes and my insides tense a little; that pair are fucking good. My hand unconsciously lifts my glass to my lips, a silent prayer for our buddies.

Besides babysitting people old enough to know better, this is the other darker side of ‘Pegasus.’ Our previous occupation combined with his present one. He runs operations for some pretty scary bastards and a classified government section we worked for called ‘The Underdogs.’ Deniable because we’re rogue, and paid accordingly. If caught, it’s tough shit. If we’re lucky, our bodies end up being identified by fingerprints and the tattoos we all have. But sometimes that’s not enough. My hand runs over my abdominals, and my skin burns under the ink.

Since leaving The Underdogs, I’ve run a few jobs for Bear and helped him out when he’s asked. We trust each other, years of friendship that can’t be broken by having nails ripped from your fingers or a gun at your temple kind of loyalty. Our trust is binding. Plus it pays well, and I don’t really have to work. But I haven’t done a job since… her.

“Enough of that shit. How’re things with you?”

He wants to change the subject and I can’t blame him, forty-eight hour silence isn’t good by any standards. But I don’t want to talk about my fucked-up life, either.

“Another pint?” My head indicates towards his empty glass and he nods in reply.

My alarm wakes me from another endless day of pain, and night of alcohol therapy. My head pounds, my mouth feels like a dog has taken a crap in it, and I’m still wearing last night’s clothes. Put bluntly, I feel like shit.

Sitting up on the side of the bed, I rest my elbows on my thighs. My fingers push into my temples, trying to relieve the ever-present tension behind them. I can’t go on like this, but I don’t know how to go on without her. It’s been months since she’s been gone. Yet I struggle to face every day, knowing she’s not by my side. Not mine.

I’ve dealt with a lot of shit in my life, but nothing I’ve seen or done prepared me for the pain caused by a 5’3” woman with the eyes of a storm.

I stand up and rock a little before gaining my balance. I know what I need to do. The only thing I know will focus the pain. My hand digs around in my jacket to find my phone and I call Bear.

“Hi, mate, how are you this morning?” he asks, and I cringe. He sounds like he’s shouting, but I know he’s not.

“Yeah, shit, man.” I sigh and take a deep breath before asking him for a lifeline. “I need a job.”

“You’ve got a job. You haven’t been doing it, Spud has. What are you on about?”

“You know what I mean. I need a job. I need to focus.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from him when he understands my request.

“Look, mate, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Uncertainty shouts loud and clear in his voice.

“Fuck, Bear, I need to go on a job. I can’t stand to wake up every morning, roll over, and she’s not there. It’s just a cold, empty space and it’s fucking killing me. I’m killing me… please. I need this.” I’m begging my best friend for something he might not be prepared to give me.

“Noah, you’ve been out of the game for well over a year now. Your head’s fucked up, and you expect me to send you on a mission?” he asks incredulously.

“Yeah.” I know I’m asking a lot from him. There’s a silence as he debates what to do, whether to save me from myself or let me drown in my own shit.

“Okay… but I need you to pass the fitness test, and I want you down the range. I need to know I’m not sending you on a suicide mission. You’re not fucking expendable.” The tension in his tone is evident, but I don’t fucking care.

“Cheers, mate.” I hang up, knowing that’s exactly what I am.

My stomach growls and I’m unable to remember the last time I ate. I strip my clothes off as I walk to the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I grimace at my reflection. Dark circles rim my bloodshot eyes. My cheeks have hollowed out, my ribcage is clearly visible, and my muscle tone has halved. When I get onto the scales, the numbers register in my head. I’ve lost thirty-two pounds? Fuck. I need to gain some mass, and fast. There’s no way Bear will send me out yet.

But the call to Bear gives me focus. I head downstairs and drag out my protein shake powder from the back of the cupboard. After I finish making the drink, my next stop will be the gym, followed by a quick trip to my lock-up to collect my weapons of choice. My hunting knife, Berretta PX4 handgun, and Heckler & Koch MR762A5 Rifle. Bear will work me until he sees me fit for task, and I’m making sure that’s soon.

He doesn’t need to know that I don’t care if I live or die. I just want to numb the pain the only way I know how.

Two Years and Five Months Later

I PULL UP outside my car workshop, kill the engine, and glance out of the window at the white rendered building. A stroke of luck meant I managed to buy this place cheap. It’s in a nice area, but the structure was a shit-hole. With a little elbow grease and a lot of work, I turned it into my idea of what a car workshop should be. It’s classy but practical and modern, smooth lines but with a little attitude—like the perfect woman, but I’ve learnt there’s no such thing.

I get out of the car and can already hear the loud thump of rock music pouring through the air. I shake my head. Spud. He’s worked with me from the start, nearly six years ago, and he’s a good friend as well as my family. It was with both Spud and Bear’s help that this place opened on time. I’ve got a reputation that precedes me in both the field of cars and ladies. Luckily the one for cars is fantastic and earns me a pretty penny. The one with women, not so much. Although saying that, I’ve been offered a few quid in that area too, but I’m not doing that shit. If I’m going to fuck a woman, it’s because I want to, not because I’m being paid.

I stroll into the workshop and spot Spud working in the engine bay of a black Camaro. He’s oblivious to my presence as he concentrates. I take a few seconds to appreciate the car’s curves. It’s gorgeous. I never thought there would be much call for mechanics dealing with muscle cars in the UK, but I surprised even myself by making a go of it. It’s not like we need hundreds of cars coming through a day, so with the one or two restorations a month, plus the general stuff, we are busy enough.