Page 44 of Royal Salvation

As he and Bishop got out of the car, the front door opened, and Reaper felt like he’d been thrown back in time. The feelings of not being good enough, of not being strong enough barrelled down on him as if that little boy seeking approval was still inside him buried deep. He wasn’t that child any longer though. He was a man, and he was here to protect the woman he now knew owned his heart.

“Son, this is a surprise.”

On closer inspection, his father looked older, weaker somehow, not as invincible as he’d seemed growing up. He was still dressed in a formal shirt and tie, a crease down the front of his trousers as if he expected someone of importance to turn up.

“Dad, I hope you don’t mind me dropping by like this.”

The fact was, Reaper had discussed it with Val, Hurricane, and Bishop and catching his father off guard had seemed the best approach. He didn’t trust him and giving him more time seemed counterproductive.

“Of course not. Come in.”

Reaper stepped inside with Bishop following his lead. The home was sparse with as little furniture as possible. Two easy chairs, a television, and a coffee table. The kitchenette had a small table with four chairs. There weren’t any pictures on the walls or clutter of any kind, and Reaper wondered how his father could go from living in such warmth as their family home to this cold nothingness.

“This is my friend Bishop.”

“Nice to meet you, Bishop. Any friend of my son is welcome here.”

Reaper didn’t know where the friendly behaviour was coming from, but he didn’t trust it. His father always liked to come across as nice but when it was just the two of them, he was a bastard.

“Would you like some water, tea, coffee?”

“Water would be good, thanks.”

Reaper followed his father into the kitchen that led to a small, terraced area. His gait was off. The usual upright, almost military march his father had was gone and had been replaced by an irregular gait and he’d lost weight too.

His father handed him and Bishop a glass of ice-cold water and indicated they sit at the bare kitchen table. Reaper sat opposite his dad, the man who’d made him who he was in some ways and felt a flicker of sadness for the man in front of him who had nobody in his life that seemed to care or mean anything to him.

“Mr Carson, Reaper and I would like to ask you a few questions if that’s possible.”

His father curled his lip. “Reaper?”

“I apologise. Justice.”

His father’s eyes, so like his own, came to his, and yet they held none of the warmth he hoped he had. “Is that what they call you?”

Reaper locked his jaw. “Yes.”

Malcolm Carson glanced at Bishop, his eyes assessing now. “You work with my son at the search and rescue place?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Malcolm shook his head, his hand shaking slightly as he lifted the water to his lips. “Damn waste of a fine soldier.”

“I wouldn’t agree with that, Mr Carson.”

“Colonel Carson,” his father corrected.

Bishop shot him a look but spared the eye roll he knew he wanted to give him at his father’s ridiculous posturing.

“Enough, Dad. Can we ask you a few questions or not?”

An impatient sigh rolled through his chest and Malcolm waved his hand. “Get on with it then.”

Reaper sat forward a little but not enough to tip his hand to how important this was. “Do you remember Parker Richardson and Micah Rawlings?”

As if a button had been pushed, he saw his father’s defences go up. “Maybe, I can’t remember every soldier.”

“This is important, Dad, think. Parker and Rawlings went by Playboy and Chess. Do you remember? They were on my team with me.”