Chapter 8 - Ashes and Amber
The glass of Kentucky bourbon sat on the mahogany desk, catching the amber light of the desk lamp.
Declan swirled the dark amber liquid, watching the ice cube gently clink against the crystal rim. The Mercer Island estate was profoundly quiet. The storm outside had finally passed, leaving behind a crisp, washed-air evening that smelled of wet pine and distant salt water from Lake Washington.
For the first time in twenty-four months, the old gunshot wound in his left shoulder didn't ache.
He sat back in his leather executive chair, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the dark expanse of the lawn stretching down toward the water. Mercer Island was a fortress, but tonight, it felt less like a prison and more like a home. The ghosts that had haunted the hallways—the memory of the fiery explosion, the endless nights holding a cold, unresponsive hand, the bitter thirst for blood—had finally been laid to rest.
The intercom on his desk buzzed softly.
Declan pressed the talk button. “Go ahead.”
“Mr. Walsh,” Marcus’s gruff voice came through the speaker. “Confirmation just came in. Private charter out of Boeing Field. Flight bound for Zurich departed twenty minutes ago. The passenger used the passport you provided.”
“Good,” Declan said evenly. “Close the file on that operation, Marcus. Permanent archive.”
“Understood, boss. What about the Moretti situation down at the docks?”
Declan took a slow sip of the bourbon, letting the burn settle warm in his chest. “Let them know the tax dispute is settled. We’re pulling out of the shipping lanes in Tacoma effective next month. I’m scaling down operations.”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, as if Marcus couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Scaling down, sir? Are you sure?”
“Never been surer,” Declan replied. “Take care of the payroll, make sure Tessa’s family is set up at the new clinic in Vancouver, and take the rest of the week off.”
“Yes, boss.”
The line went dead with a soft click.
Declan set the crystal glass down on a slate coaster. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out an old, dog-eared photograph taken twelve years ago in a small café outside Boston—long before the syndicates, long before the war, long before the bomb. In the picture, Camille was laughing, her dark hair blowing in the wind, holding a paper cup of coffee and looking entirely carefree.
He stared at the image for a long, quiet moment. There was no anger left in his heart. Only a quiet, solemn acceptance of a chapter closed forever.
May you like
With steady fingers, Declan placed the photograph face down inside the drawer and pushed it shut.
He stood up, walked over to the window, and watched the distant city lights shimmer across the dark water of the lake. The rain had cleared, and for the first time in a very long time, the night sky was entirely clear.
