Free Dying for Her: A Companion Novel (Dying for a Living Book 3) by Kory M. Shrum Page B

It is my fault Caldwell is what he is. I started this.”
    Jackson interrupts my pity party. “‘A true war is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things men have always done. If a war seems moral, do not believe it. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, you must know a war is what has always been—an absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil.’”
    “Did you memorize that whole book?” I ask.
    “I read it every night.”
    “You need a new book,” I say.
    “If you don’t tell her you’re dying—”
    “If I tell her, she’ll try to replace me.” I know that kid and her stubbornness. She’s about as good at accepting no as a stallion accepting the reins.
    “Yes,” Jackson says, emphatically. “Yes. If not her, then Rachel.”
    “Now you’re asking me to play favorites.” I snort and pull my leather jacket tight. I can’t imagine being any colder, but there’s got to be colder, right? There’s death.
    “I don’t deserve to be saved,” I tell her. I sound repetitive even to myself.
    Jackson runs a hand over her head. “If you won’t let them save you, then you have to prepare.”
    For what? Heaven? Hell? I wasn’t sure either existed. I say, “I’ve been writing it all down. Does that count as preparation?”
    She looks at me then, the white of her eyes reflective in the moonlight. “All of it?”
    “Everything I can remember.”
    Her face pinches as if a sharp pain has run through her. “Even Micah?”
    “I can leave him out if you want,” I say, a peace offering.
    “No.” She looks up at the few stars we can see. “Someone should know.”

Chapter 18
    Wednesday, March 26, 2003
    T he next morning, before I even left my apartment, I put in the request for all the Sullivan files. I specifically wanted whatever was recorded at Jerome, but I kept my request wide, just in case something interesting was churned up. Then I drank a beer. It was early, but I was having one of those mornings where everything was just a little stiffer than usual and beer helped with that.
    I was at my desk by ten. Keeping a schedule—whatever the schedule—helped me focus. I’d been in the military too long to just free-fall through a day now.
    Maisie’s folder was open on my desk when Charlie appeared, a woman in tow. When I first saw her, I did my best to keep my face blank, though I recognized her immediately.
    “This is former military officer Gloria Jackson,” Charlie said. He’d quit shaving. His stubble was almost a full beard.
    Jackson and I shook hands.
    “She is a recent release like yourself,” he went on.
    “Not released,” she said. Her face grimaced then. “Not exactly.”
    “Have a seat,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
    Charlie leaned forward one hand against my desk. “Captain Jackson is part of the pilot program I was telling you about.” When I looked confused, he offered clarification on her role. “She is an AMP.”
    I remembered then. The pilot program was an attempt to pair remote viewers, with their ability to draw the future, with NRD-positive individuals, to serve as death replacement agents. This way, someone who could die, but not really, would save lives.
    The program still had some bugs. Not all deaths were replaceable and people were still trying to figure out how to make money from this. Insurance companies, healthcare professionals, and law enforcement agencies all wanted a piece of the pie. The paperwork was outrageous, but we had won support by maintaining some stable replacement statistics for the last couple of years.
    In the beginning the FBRD had two major functions. First, to investigate all crimes connected to Necronites. Mostly that meant cleaning up the mess from The Great Panic and camp detainment. This meant finding people, reintroducing them to society, that sort of thing. Our second biggest task was to make these individuals