Chapter One
So I may be tainted in my truth
When I claim I’m bullet-proof
But every half-assed assault
Has been a death by default
—Abby Ahmad, “Tri-Me”
Chief Petty Officer Chris Waldron knew he looked like hell and he felt a hell of a lot worse.
He didn’t know how long he’d spent strapped to a bed staring up at a plaster ceiling in some kind of drug-induced haze while his body healed and his mind remained numb.
He floated in and out of consciousness, mainly because the doctors kept waking him up, which was really starting to get on his last fucking nerve.
He’d been a SEAL for eight years, long enough to know that complaining never did anyone much good. But inside his head—man, he was bitching up a storm and a half.
Someone had shoved his iPod earbuds in, and until the battery died he’d been slightly contented listening to AC/DC’s Back in Black album in a continuous loop.
He woke himself up singing the chorus of Creedence’s “Green River” out loud. The nurse was staring at him as if he was crazy and normally he’d be all Oh honey, I could give you some of this crazy if you’d just lay yourself down here.
But not today.
Because even though she was pretty, with a kind face, he realized on some level that his mind could take longer to heal than his body if he didn’t start dealing with what had happened. Sex wasn’t the answer.
Still, the nurse was so intent on staring at his eyes—the two different colors tended to do that to people—that she’d forgotten about the needle she was supposed to inject into his IV tubing. Now the drug that had kept him foggy hovered in his periphery.
He was slower than normal, but still pretty damned fast. The nurse called for the doctor, but it was too late. He’d yanked the needle out and held the IV pole like a weapon, since they’d confiscated all of his.
“Son, it’s all right—you’re on a U.S. Military base infirmary in Djibouti. The nurse was trying to give you your pain meds but we can talk about it first.” The doctor spoke slowly while Chris stared at him, willing himself to believe that, but his body was still reacting—his hand held tight to the IV pole in a fight-or-flight response, and since flight wasn’t an option, he was going to bash whoever came near him with the damn pole.
“Chris, come on, man—put that down before you fuck someone up.”
It was his CO’s drawl, heavy like thick syrup, which meant Saint was as tired as Chris felt.
“No more drugs,” Chris told the doctor while he continued to retain possession of the I won’t take any more drugs pole.
The doctor looked at Saint, who said, “If he needs them, he’ll ask.”
The doc relented, motioned to Chris for his arm, which was bleeding all over the place, and Chris reluctantly let go of the metal pole.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he told the nurse as she put a bandage on his arm.
“You’ve got a great voice, Chief,” she said with a smile. Saint rolled his eyes because normally one comment like that could make Chris a one-man concert. But even though the music was still playing in his head, all he did this time was say, “Thanks.”
He remained seated at the edge of the bed once he and Saint were left alone, struggling to get his equilibrium back. He stared down at his bare feet and felt a sudden urge to rip the hospital gown off his body. Which he did promptly, throwing it on the ground while asking, “How long have I been here?”
“Twenty-four hours. You made it to the helo on your own steam.”
He didn’t remember that fully. The memories were there, but the edges blurred, bleeding into the bigger, slow-moving picture like he was attempting to see clearly underwater.
Cam. His teammate’s face was the last thing he remembered seeing before he surrendered to the safety of unconsciousness. “Where’s Cam?”
“Already in Germany—he stopped by to see you before he left.”
“I remember, thought I was hallucinating.”
“You’re getting transported there yourself at 0500 for evaluation before they’ll take you home.”
Chris took stock of the various bruises and contusions on his body—a few stitches here and there, but nothing major. His head, however, was a different story. There was a definite aching throb behind what was left of the narcotics. “Concussion?”
Saint nodded. “No fractures. You’re pretty banged up, but you should’ve been hurt a hell of a lot worse. They held you here so they could run some tests.”
Chris closed his eyes for a second and said a silent prayer to his momma, who he was sure was responsible for this one. “Do Jake and Nick know about this?”
“It’s been all I could do to hold them back. They’re calling every hour on the hour. They weren’t going to tell your father but—”
“He knows.” His dad always knew when things went wrong—it was next to impossible to hide anything from a parent with second sight. His brothers would’ve found out by the more traditional routes and were, no doubt, freaking. Not that he would’ve been any different had one of them been in his position.
“Are you awake enough to answer some questions for me?” Saint asked.
It wasn’t really a question, since Saint had already pulled up a chair. His CO had remarkable patience, but Chris could tell it was wearing thin.
He didn’t relish this conversation one bit, thought about Jake and Nick and wished his brothers were here with him now.
He wondered if he’d make it through this without throwing up.
It wasn’t every day that you had to tell a man how his best friend died. Their team was close, for sure, with so much history tying all of them together. This was the first tear in the fabric. “Yeah, I’m awake enough.”
“What’s the last thing you remember about what happened with Mark—what did he say?” Saint stared at him steadily, searching for some kind of answer before Chris even began speaking.
“He told me he was going in, against Josiah’s orders. He told me to stay put. I tried to talk him out of it, but he pulled rank. And I don’t remember him going in, Saint. I remember every other fucking thing . . . but all I remember is Mark’s hand on my shoulder and then . . .”
And then Josiah, the FBI member of the Joint Task Force Team and the man in charge of the Op, was arguing with them, angry that Mark had gone in against Josiah’s direct order to stand down. Chris and Cam insisted on going into the embassy—which was already taking heavy fire—but they were at least fifteen minutes behind Mark for the hostages. Inside was chaos; they both heard Mark yelling down the hall but they couldn’t get that far without leaving the ambassador in greater jeopardy.
“We made a decision to get the ambassador and his wife out and then go back in for Mark,” Chris said. “Everything was happening at once and we had a split second.”
“Don’t second-guess it.”
Chris nodded, swallowed hard. “I was just outside the building, Cam was maybe twenty feet ahead of me, with the ambassador and his wife and their kids close behind. I was backing him up.”
“Were you alone?”
Chris thought hard. “No. Josiah was with me.”
Chris and Josiah were providing cover, with Chris ready to go back in for Mark, when the explosion rocked the building. He’d been thrown hard, woke up maybe half an hour later, ears ringing and still looking for Josiah and then for Mark.
“And then they killed him,” Saint spoke quietly, his voice tight with anger. “The rebels killed Mark and took him away from there so they could have an American trophy rather than leave him in the building to die in the explosion. There are already reports that have the rebels claiming they killed a U.S. Navy SEAL after they’d gotten him to give them some classified information about anti-terrorism initiatives.”
“There’s no way Mark would’ve given intel.” The rebel soldiers might have killed him in the most inhumane way imaginable, but they’d never broken him. Chris was sure of that.
“His body still hasn’t been found.” Saint spoke quietly, stared at the white wall of the hospital room, a tinge of disbelief in his voice that this was really happening. His jungle greens were fresh, his blond hair damp, as if he’d just showered, but there were circles under his normally bright blue eyes, his mouth pulled into a tight, grim line.
Saint and Mark had come up through BUD/S together, had served in Coronado and had come to Virginia to take charge of Team Twelve.
To leave Mark behind in this country left a knot in Chris’s stomach that no amount of IV drugs could take care of. No body meant no closure, signified a failure. “I’m sorry, Saint.”
“Don’t give me that sorry bullshit, Chris. Mark died doing what he loved. You did everything you could, so fuck the guilt. He’d kill you for it.” Saint’s words were more than ironic, and more than true, and still Chris knew it would be a long time before he was able to let any of this go.
“They’ll keep looking?”
“If they don’t, I will. I already told the admiral that.” Saint stood, looked toward the small open window, jaw clenched for a second before getting back to business. “You should get some clothes on. There’s a...
