Licensed to Kill

Chapter 15

Despite the meaning for his steering wheel drumming, it made me happy to see that he still had those little quirks that I remembered so well. He was still the same amazing man that I loved four years ago, just a little harder and wiser now.

"I'm just pissed at myself," Dallas grumbled, shaking his head like he was shaking away the thought.

"Why? What about?" I pressed.

He waved a hand and pursed his lips as if he was stuck between wanting to tell me and wanting to blow off the whole conversation.

"Dallas-"

"I'm angry because I gave up," he said flatly, a tortured look in his hazel eyes. "I'm pissed at myself for being stupid enough to believe that you'd really moved on. At the time, I wanted so badly to find some way to get back to the States and kick Matt's ass for touching my girl. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was for everything that had happened, and profess my undying love for you. But I kept telling myself I had to think rationally. I knew it would just fuck up your emotions that much more if you believed that I was dead and then I showed up again. I let myself buy into the idea that you'd found someone new. You'd moved on. I had no place in your heart anymore... I told myself I had to take a step back and let you be happy with someone else. I couldn't fuck that up for you. Now... I'm just angry that I believed something that wasn't even the case and I let you go when I should've kept trying."

My heart hurt more with each word he spoke. I could practically feel his pain and I hated that he was so mad at himself. He hadn't done anything wrong. It had been a misunderstanding. A stupid, fateful misunderstanding...

Maybe things would've been different, but there was no sense in rehashing it now.

"Dall-"

He slammed his fist against the wheel and choked back his emotions, keeping them in like a caged bear.

"I should've kept trying, Tali! I should've never let you go!" he shouted, glaring at his faint reflection in the windshield. "I should've kept trying..."

I placed a comforting hand on his forearm and awkwardly leaned over the console to rest my head on his shoulder. I could feel his pulse ticking wildly in his arm, but it was gradually starting to slow down. I listened to his breathing and I could feel the movement through his body with each time that his chest rose and fell. I waited until his expression softened and he was fairly calmed down.

"I love you, Dallas," I said softly, sliding my palm up and down his arm and tracing my fingers over some of his tattoos. "I don't blame you for anything that happened. I'm not mad. You didn't give up on me. You were doing what you thought was best, trying to ensure my happiness. I love that you cared that much."

He grabbed my hand and squeezed it in his, slipping his fingers in between mine. "But don't you hate how everything turned out? Don't you wish you could go back and change it?"

"Of course, I do. I wish that night in D.C. had never happened. I wish Jordan and Bartley had never lied to me. I wish I'd never shared that night with Matt so that you never would've seen it and gotten the wrong idea. I wish everything had been different. That's all I've done for the last four years, though – wish. I'm tired of wishing things were different, Dallas. I believe everything happens for a reason, and for whatever reason, fate brought us back together. So while I have you, I'm going to make the most of every minute with you. I'm not going to spend our time together talking about the past and wishing we could go back and change it. I have you now, and I love you. That's enough for me."

Dallas opened his mouth to say something else, but the phone rang. It was Alana calling back with her findings.

"What have you got for me?" I answered the call, still holding Dallas's hand.

"This is actually quite strange," Alana said. "I looked into Bellucci and the prison records show that he's still in the prison in Brandenburg. It doesn't say anything about the feds pulling him out."

"That doesn't make any sense," Dallas frowned.

"That's what I thought. So I looked into his ongoing prison record and it's actually been updated since the day he left, as if he's still there. It looks to me like you're dealing with someone on the inside who is being paid to keep up Bellucci's record, likely to prevent the feds from getting word of his escape."

Dallas and I exchanged a confused expression.

Alana continued, "I also found no records of any kind with the name Camilla Dietrich. You were right about her being fake. And Tali, I can't access any video footage. It's all deleted after thirty days."

I wasn't surprised. I was going out on a limb thinking there was a possibility that that security footage could still exist.

"Alana, do me a quickie," Dallas piped up again as we passed a sign signaling that we were nearing Wiesenburg. "Check the records at the post office in Wiesenburg and see if Camilla Dietrich or Diana Lindsey comes up. I have a hunch we'll find a P.O. box in one of those names."

"Hold on. That'll just take me a couple minutes," she said, typing away at her computer still.

I muted the call while we waited and nestled back against Dallas's arm.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into all this," I sighed.

I felt really guilty for Dallas having to go on the run with me across a foreign country with madmen shooting at us and who knew how many people trying to track us down. It was only a matter of time before we got shot at again, and knowing that terrified me for his safety.

I knew Dallas could take care of himself just fine. He always had. I couldn't count how many times he'd been shot or stabbed and survived. He was like Superman in my eyes. But now that I had him back, I couldn't help thinking about that night in Washington, and I realized that no matter how high up I put him on a pedestal, he wasn't literally invincible. It was likely a matter of hours before someone hunted us down again, and all I could think about was how horrible I felt for pulling Dallas into such a dangerous situation and him risking his life right alongside me. It wasn't fair to him. What if he got hurt again? What if this time it was worse? What if this time was the time?

I wanted to lock him away in a safe house that no one could find. I wanted him to be somewhere safe – somewhere free of gunfire. I wanted to protect him.

"I dragged myself into all this," Dallas corrected me, kissing my forehead and pulling the car into the post office parking lot.

Before I could protest, Alana came back on the line.

"I looked up those names and nothing pops up in the registry. However, I looked through all the names of people who got P.O. boxes in the last few months, and there were only three people the week of February 17th," she told us. "But only one of those people hits me as odd because he's the only foreigner. The box is registered to Miguel Santiago of Madrid, Spain. His company name is Santiago Enterprises. It's P.O. box 6319. I'm looking up the company right now and... yeah. As I suspected, there's no such thing as Santiago Enterprises. His company is fake."

"Well, let's go pay Santiago's box a visit then. Shall we?" Dallas smirked, shutting off the engine. "Is the box still in use?"

"Yep!" Alana chirped. "It's been in use for three of its six months, but I don't see that any mail has been delivered to it at all."

After a few more minutes, we ended the call and I followed Dallas into the post office where he worked his magic, flashing his federal badge and requesting a key to the box.

The woman at the counter seemed shocked to have federal agents in the post office, but happily complied with our request, no questions asked.