Masters at Arms

Section Four

The Unbreakable Bond Forms

November 2004, Fallujah, Iraq

Damián hunkered down, awaiting orders. Sergeant Miller signaled for Grant and Wilson to cover the south-facing wall, while he and Sarge took the east. The insurgent weapons fire seemed to be coming from the east, which made sense based on their recon, but he was beginning to think there was more than one enemy stronghold holding this rooftop in its sites.

Despite being in country four months, this was his first real battle since arriving in Fallujah. Sure, there had been some roadside bombings. Those happened almost every day—and still scared the shit out of him. Never could predict or prepare for them. But his battle training really kicked in today. Now, if only they could get out of here with the unit intact.

Damián preferred the earlier days of this battle for this city, when they’d let him use his sniper skills against the insurgents. But the shaky truce limited him to firing only in defensive situations. He knew the insurgents had placed a bounty on Marine snipers. And for good reason.

Their latest intel indicated there was a prime target in a building a thousand yards away and they’d continue to wait until they had a chance at taking their shot. They’d taken turns watching for hours today. Nothing.

Unlike most Marines, Orlando saw the faces of his targets clearly. His high-powered scope homed in on their faces, their eyes, their weapons. And when he hit center mass, even saw the expressions on their faces as they fell dead. One shot, one kill.

But sometimes he replaced their images with those of the Jerk-off who pimped Savannah’s body out. Or the two sadists who tortured her. Even her sugar daddy.

Damián sighed.

“He’s gone to ground,” Sarge announced after getting the latest radio transmission. He ordered everyone on the rooftop to take advantage of the lull and grab a Meal, Ready-to-Eat from their gear. At first, he had appreciated being able to eat a hot meal on the run, but if he saw another beef stew MRE as long as he lived, he’d barf. They ate in silence, each of them probably wondering if they’d manage to complete this mission.

Damián’s mind wandered back to what had gotten him to this rooftop in Iraq. After being fired from the hotel, he’d tried for weeks to find another job. Nothing. He’d sold his Harley, but not for nearly as much as it was worth. After a few months, when he could no longer make rent, he’d been evicted from his apartment. The only option he could see was to join the Marines.

It hadn’t been a bad gig. He liked being a Marine. He’d been afraid it would be like being in juvie hell again—but the discipline and structure here were different. He wasn’t just out to survive on his own. He had his buddies to look after, too. He knew they were looking out for him, too. A band of brothers. Well, Grant wouldn’t take kindly to being called a brother, but she was as tough as the rest of them.

He’d also met some good friends he expected to keep for life. Sergeant Miller, the blunt African-American from East St. Louis, had fought alongside him on recon and sniper missions since Damián had been in Fallujah.

Lance Corporal Grant, sitting against the other wall, had become a great friend, too. She was easy to talk to. Hard-edged, but honest. He didn’t usually have female friends, but she was a Marine first—just one of the guys—and a damned good listener. He’d even told her about Savannah. Damián admired Grant’s kick-ass strength. Maybe, being a woman, she had to come across even tougher just to show her worth among the guys.

Grant sure made it clear from the start she wasn’t here to be a Marine Mattress—having sex with any and all Marines interested. He liked that about her, not that he hadn’t noticed her physical attributes. Blonde, five-nine, muscular build. She just wasn’t interested in anything more than friendship with the men in the unit. Said she preferred to top anyway and that she couldn’t picture any of them tied to her bed. Hell and hell no! So, the two of them were just going to remain buddies.

Then there was Doc. Damián smiled. The Navy corpsman he’d roomed with back at Pendleton sure did keep things interesting. At first, the guy had pissed him off royally. Arrogant. Privileged. Driving a freaking Porsche. What the hell was he doing in the Marines? But over the months since that night at the sex club, the man had grown on him. His unit couldn’t ask for a better corpsman. He’d patched up just about everyone at some point or other. Luckily, only for minor injuries. He hoped that remained true today.

Damián still remembered Doc dragging his ass to that fetish club, where he’d learned BDSM wasn’t all about violence and inflicting pain. That was just plain wrong. It was about a consensual exchange of power. Having control over another—and yourself. Making sure her needs were met before thinking about your own. He could understand that. Definitely something he might be interested in trying when he got stateside again.

Damián wondered when he’d ever get the chance to be with another woman. He’d sure enjoyed himself with that redhead. He smiled.

“What’s so funny?” Sarge asked.

“Just thinking about what a f*cking great life I have in the Corps.”

Sarge grunted. “Yeah, right. I’ll bet you were thinking about some sweet p-ssy waiting for you back in California.”

Damián’s smile faded.

Ah, Savannah.

He’d replayed the scene at Thousand Steps Beach over and over in his head. He and Savannah had connected so perfectly that day. He’d never been with a woman who turned him on as much or responded to him as well as she had. He thought it had been good for her, too. So, why had she ignored his attempts to contact her? He was in the phone book. She could have called him. She knew his name. He regretted not exchanging phone numbers, but the best he’d been able to do was leave printed messages in the mailbox at her gate. No response.

Well, he’d also staked out the hotel in La Jolla for a few weeks. She hadn’t returned, at least not while he’d waited for her there. What had become of her? Had she continued to let men abuse her for money? He gave his head a mental shake. He didn’t like to think she’d returned to that life.

No, he preferred to picture her going to college, getting her degree. Maybe she’d go on to become the social worker she’d wanted to be. Help kids who needed her. That’s what he hoped…

The rocket-propelled grenade came over the wall and rolled to land mere feet from Sarge’s hip. Damián froze. No one f*cking moved. He looked over at Sarge, who just kept eating. He didn’t f*cking see it. Grant and Wilson kept talking, oblivious, too. After what seemed like an eternity, Damián shoved Sarge to move, shouting, “Take cover!” Sarge bolted up and grabbed Damián’s arm, propelling him in front of him. Damián’s body felt like it was moving through thick mud. Everything happened in slow motion. He couldn’t move fast enough.

Grant and Wilson reacted at last, but too damned slowly. Damián rushed toward them, trying to push them toward the other end of the rooftop. At the last moment, Damián turned to check on Sergeant Miller, who was right behind him. The blast deafened his ears, the percussion of the explosion knocking him backwards, hard against someone. They went sprawling across the roof.

Mother f*cking insurgents.

It felt like a f*cking wall had fallen on top of his chest. His foot was on fire. He opened his eyes and saw Sarge’s head, or what was left of it, lying on his chest. The man’s bloody brains showed through the hole in his head. Sarge’s body lay prone across Damián’s chest and abdomen. The pool of blood forming on Damián’s chest felt warm. What the f*ck?

A roaring in his ears merged with high-pitched screams. Then he realized the screams were his.

“Madre de Dios! No! Sarge, don’t you f*cking die!”

He knew Sarge was gone, but kept yelling at him as if he could bring him back by the sheer volume of his voice. He looked up and watched as Grant and Wilson, on either side of him, lifted Sarge off him. Damián turned his head away, watching in horrific fascination as Sarge’s blood ran down the rooftop toward Damián’s feet, where it mingled with another pool of blood. The one forming around his own mangled foot.

What the f*ck?

“Corpsman up!” Wilson called.

How could that be his blood? He didn’t feel the burning pain in his foot anymore. As he stared, the image blurred. A wave of dizziness caused his stomach to lurch. He was going to lose his MRE. His head slumped back against the warm concrete.

Serious f*cked up shit. Was he going to die here? Dreams of returning home and finding Savannah faded. The sun disappeared into a cloud. Sudden blackness. Damián closed his eyes.

Such a f*cking wasted life.

* * *

“Corpsman up!”

Shit. Marc heard the call come from the rooftop of the building across the street. Holed up in the make-shift command headquarters, he grabbed for his pack and a litter.

“We’ve got your back, Doc,” Master Sergeant Montague yelled, then he and several other grunts moved into position near the doorway and windows with their rifles leveled at the buildings where they suspected insurgents were still hidden. Marc ran out of the abandoned house toward the one across the street where the recon team had been staked out for the last couple of hours.

The rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire echoed behind him and from a nearby building as he zigzagged across the street. He dodged the bullets stirring up sand and dust around him. Lucky for him, the stairway to the roof on the outside of the building had a high cement wall he could crouch behind as he made his way upstairs.

When he reached the roof, he stuck his head around the corner to assess the situation. Two Marines down, two upright. Marc stayed low as he crossed the roof and hunkered down beside the one with the worst injuries. A quick check of Sergeant Miller’s nonexistent pulse and the damage to his head told him he needed to focus his efforts on the other one.

Two grunts crouched nearby over this one. Orlando. F*ck, no! Grant had a white-knuckled grip on the wounded man’s hand. His buddy’s boot—and foot—had been blown clean off, leaving a bloody stump of bone, tissue, and an exposed artery. Losing blood fast.

Shit. Don’t you die on me, Orlando!

“Orlando! It’s Doc. You’re going to be fine.”

The man opened his pain-filled eyes, clenching his teeth to keep from screaming. Sweat broke out on the younger man’s forehead. Marc put on his gloves and pulled a tourniquet from the bag. Orlando groaned and tried to raise his head to see the damage.

“Keep his head down!” Marc ordered Wilson and Grant. The last thing he needed was for Orlando to see his foot and sink into shock.

Even though Marc was seven years older than Orlando, he’d connected with the man during training at Pendleton. Orlando had been so damned serious. Marc had loved finding ways to get him to lighten up. The kid also had a huge chip on his shoulder back then. He’d acted like the whole damned world was against him. It had taken the Corps a while to knock that shit out of him, but you couldn’t ask for a better Marine. Marc had been impressed by the strength and courage the man had shown. He was one of the best sharpshooters in the unit, which is probably what landed him on this rooftop in the first place.

Marc applied the tourniquet and bandaged the bloody stump.

“Grenade came over the wall,” said Wilson, holding the kid’s forehead. “Orlando and Miller saw it first. Orlando shoved Grant and me away. Sergeant Miller took the brunt of the explosion.” Wilson looked over at Miller and closed his eyes tightly.

The sergeant was the first fatality the recon unit had suffered. Marc had learned to stay numb most of the time. Since the scene with Gino over Melissa, he’d never been one to show much emotion, so it hadn’t been hard to do. He wouldn’t even try to process the loss of Miller’s life for a while.

Focus on the living.

Marc checked Orlando for other wounds, but didn’t find any visible ones, not that this one wasn’t serious enough.

“How bad, Doc?” Orlando spoke through gritted teeth, his lips whitened by the effort not to scream. Despite the kid’s bravado, he looked scared shitless. The young man was about to get a lesson in maturity no one should have to learn. If it didn’t kill him first.

Marc tried to remain calm, even though his heart beat so fast he was sure Orlando could hear it. He doubted the surgeons would be able to reattach the foot, but as his corpsman, he’d do his damnedest to keep him alive until they could take over. If Orlando was lucky, the amputation site would be low enough not to cause too many problems later on.

“Your foot’s pretty banged up. I’m going to hook you up to an IV and we’ll have you medevacked out of here in no time.”

“Will I lose it?” he whispered, as if afraid to put the idea out there too loud for the universe to act on.

“The surgeons will do all they can.” He needed to get Orlando’s focus on something more positive. “You’ll probably be going home soon.”

Orlando tensed in pain, gripping Grant’s hand even tighter, and then his body slumped against the roof, his head lolling to the side. The kid’s body began to shake. Shock. Marc inserted the IV needle and adjusted the drip then heard the scream of an incoming mortar round.

Instinctively, he shielded Orlando’s chest and head with his own body, spreading his arms out to cover as much of his wounded buddy as he could. The blast hit the wall beside him, taking out a portion of the cement structure. Marc felt chunks of cement slam into his back and side, stinging the skin where he didn’t have protection from the SAPI plate.

F*cking sitting ducks.

Marc shouted, “Let’s get him off the roof!”

“Sure thing, Doc!”

“Staging area’s across the street. I’ll send up a 9 Line request.” Marc knew it could take up to ten minutes for the medevac chopper to arrive. “Then we’ll come back for Miller.”

As Marc made the call, he gasped for air. What the hell? He watched the two grunts load Orlando onto a litter, pick it up, and start for the stairs. Marc rose to his feet to follow, but felt a crushing weight against his side and chest. He tried to catch his breath, but couldn’t fill his lungs with air.

He managed to fight the pain and take a few steps before his vision blurred. The pain in his side was so f*cking sharp, it inhibited his ability to breath. Gasping for air, he watched the rooftop stairway swim before his eyes. He pitched forward into blackness.

* * *

Adam wondered why his last tour had to be so f*cked up. If he could get his units out of Fallujah without major casualties, it would be a miracle. He hoped the RPG he’d heard explode hadn’t resulted in serious injuries, but knew Doc would take care of his troops. He always did.

While the Coalition Forces still seemed to have the upper hand, Adam knew there were many more bloody days ahead before they’d be able to claim the Sunni stronghold. He just wanted to finish up this deployment and get everyone home in one piece. He was getting too old for this shit. He’d retire as soon as he got stateside again.

The scream of a mortar round brought him back to full alert. The blast looked like it had hit the rooftop where his recon team was. F*ck. He needed to get up there. He turned over operations here and had managed to get across the street, hunkered down in the stairwell, when he looked up and saw Wilson and Grant rushing down the stairs bearing a litter.

Adam stood and provided cover for them. Damn. Who’d gotten hit? He and the remaining troops inside the staging building continued to pepper the area with gunfire as Adam followed the grunts with the litter back across the street. Once inside, he looked down at the unconscious Orlando.

“Doc radioed for the 9 Line Medevac, sir,” Grant reported.

Good. He needed to get the kid out of here. Adam looked through the doorway, expecting to see the corpsman. And where was Miller? No one else came down the stairway.

“Where’s Doc? Miller?” Adam barked.

“I thought Doc was right behind us. Maybe he stayed with Miller, sir,” Wilson said as he covered Orlando with a blanket. “Miller didn’t make it.”

God f*cking damn. He’d lost another man. “I’m going back over there.” Adam put his helmet on and adjusted the strap.

“Right behind you, sir,” Grant said.

“Grab a litter.” Doc’s job was to save lives. He’d be upset about losing Miller, even if he couldn’t have prevented it. Although Doc had been trained to use his rifle, Adam knew the corpsman wouldn’t be thinking about protecting himself right now. No Marine left behind.

They headed across the street, insurgent gunfire spraying bullets at them as they ran. At the top of the stairs, they turned the corner and found Doc lying face down. A few feet away lay Miller, his head blown apart.

F*ck. No hope for Miller.

Doc’s right side was covered in blood that had soaked into his camo and had begun to pool by his outstretched arm. His medical bag lay beside him. Several pieces of shrapnel had embedded themselves deep in the back of the SAPI plate, but some must have entered the side of his torso where the plate didn’t provide protection.

Doc gasped for air.

“Get the scissors out of his bag!” Adam screamed, then surveyed the damage.

God damn it! A piece of cement steel protruded from the side of the corpsman’s chest, under his arm. While Grant rooted in the bag, Adam reached out and placed his hand on Doc’s shoulder. “Hang on, Doc. We’ll have you out of here in no time.” Adam accepted the scissors from Grant and cut the camo away, being careful not to jar the projectile.

No telling how much of it was buried in his chest or which organs had been damaged. A number of small pieces of shrapnel were embedded in his skin, as well. Pressing the walkie-talkie button on his shoulder device, Adam shouted, “Wilson! Check the ETA for the 9 Line. Doc’s in bad shape.” Adam didn’t know if Doc had even gotten off the request before he’d collapsed.

He took a bandage from the bag and cut it to the center, then pressed it on the skin against the wound around the metal, sealing the wound as best he could without shifting the metal protruding from his side. He hoped.

The walkie-talkie squawked. “Three to four mikes,” Wilson reported.

“Doc! Stay with me!” He hoped the man had those three or four minutes. Blood trickled from the corpsman’s mouth. The steel projectile must have punctured his lungs. Adam felt so f*cking helpless.

To his surprise, Doc gave them a thumbs-up sign. He’d thought the man had been unconscious. Then Adam heard the Blackhawk approaching. Thank you, Jesus.

Small-arms fire reached a fever pitch around them. His other units must have located the insurgent holdout. He hoped there were no more casualties. This had been the worst battle his units had fought this entire deployment.

Another clusterf*ck. He’d almost gotten them all home safely this time.

Wilson arrived a few moments later leading the medevac team. Adam backed away from Doc’s side as the medical team threw the litter and supplies down, unloading the instruments they’d need to save Doc’s life. Please, God, don’t let me lose D’Alessio.

His mind flashed to Kandahar. Another D’Alessio. F*cking Christ, he needed to check and see if there was a connection. He’d gotten so used to calling this one Doc, he hadn’t thought about the two men having the same surname. Maybe his mind hadn’t wanted him to process the name and be reminded of one of the two men he’d lost in that ambush.

Shit. Was Doc related to Gino D’Alessio?

Adam watched helplessly as they listened for lung sounds in Doc’s chest. “Pneumothorax, maybe even hemo-pneumo. Let’s just load and go!”

As the medivac team prepared Doc for transport, Adam motioned for Wilson and Grant to help him load Miller’s body. They carried the litters down the stairs, Doc’s going down first. Four other grunts brought Orlando’s litter from the staging area. The kid lay unconscious. Thank God for small favors. At least he hoped he was just unconscious.

At the chopper, Adam watched helplessly as two of his men were loaded, to be taken to the Combat Support Hospital. He surrendered Miller’s body to them, as well, for transport to the Marine morgue at the same location. Another angel.

God, don’t let me lose any more of my troops.

While You’re at it, get the rest of my units the f*ck out of Fallujah in one piece.

* * *

“Orlando?”

Marc’s throat was raw. His chest burned as if a fire-breathing dragon had taken up residence there. The nurse looked down at him with a puzzled look on her face.

“What, sweetie?”

“How’s Orlando?”

“I don’t think we have a patient here by that name, but I’ll check when I get back to the desk. Maybe he’s already been taken to Ramstein.” She put the blood-pressure cuff around his arm and inflated it. When he opened his mouth to ask another question, she admonished, “Don’t talk.” After she recorded the information in the chart, she said, “You’ll probably be heading to Germany yourself in a few days. We’re just waiting for your lung to re-expand fully before we fly you out.”

Pneumothorax. That explained why his chest hurt so badly. He didn’t remember anything other than trying to stabilize Orlando. The nurse stuck a thermometer under his tongue. Marc closed his eyes. Keeping them open required more energy than he could muster. Why was he so damned tired?

“Your master sergeant came by to visit earlier. I told him you’d probably be up to having visitors tomorrow.”

Marc didn’t even know where “here” was. Must be the CSH in Fallujah, if Montague was here. His eyelids grew so heavy he didn’t try to open them again, even after she pulled the thermometer out of his mouth.

“Temperatures up a little.” The nurse patted his forearm. “That’s right, sweetie. You just get some sleep and let your body heal. A hemo-pneumothorax isn’t anything to mess with.”

Hemo, too? Blood in the lungs. Shit.

When he awoke again, the room was dark. Marc knew he wasn’t alone, but didn’t know who sat in the corner until he heard him speak.

“’Bout time you woke up.” Master Sergeant Montague moved his chair closer to Marc’s bed.

Marc smiled. “Getting lazy in my old age, sir.” His voice sounded raspy and weak.

Montague grunted. “Don’t tell me about old.” Marc looked at his top sergeant and thought he did look older than the last time he’d seen him. Dark circles under the man’s eyes told of sleepless nights. Worry. Or worse.

Miller. Oh, Dio, they’d lost Miller. But what about Orlando? The others? Had anyone else died? Is that why the master sergeant had come to visit him personally? Marc couldn’t form the words to ask.

“How you feeling?”

Marc shrugged. His chest didn’t burn as much as it had earlier.

“You’ve been out of it a couple days. Quite a fever. They said they’ll keep you here until they know there’s no more infection.”

Marc nodded. Even that small exertion made him tired. He tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t quite fill his lungs. He closed his eyes and took several shallow breaths, fighting the panic over feeling smothered all the time. Why didn’t the Top tell him about Orlando? Had the kid made it?

Christ, he had to know. “How’s Orlando?” he whispered.

Montague ran a hand through his hair. Marc’s heart hammered against his chest, reigniting the fire. Oh, Dio, no! He took several more shallow breaths, trying to regulate his heartbeat and relieve the stress on his heart and lungs. Was he ready to hear the words he’d been dreading since he’d come to?

“I should have said something sooner. I’m sorry. They couldn’t reattach the foot.”

The breath Marc had held whooshed out, releasing some of the burning from his chest. “He’s alive?”

Montague’s eyes opened wider in surprise. “Oh, hell, yeah, Doc. Shit. I thought you knew that much.”

As best he could, Marc breathed a sigh of relief.

“You did great work. You always do. Grant told me you shielded Orlando and took the brunt of the mortar attack yourself.”

Marc looked away. If someone had told him a year ago he’d have been prepared to lay down his life for another, he’d have said they were crazy. But for the first time in his life, with this small band of Marines, he felt a part of something so much bigger than himself. A noble cause. A desire to think of his buddies before himself.

The master sergeant looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection sooner. You’re Gino D’Alessio’s brother.”

“Yeah.” Marc had been wanting to ask Montague about him since before they deployed, but there never had been an opportunity.

Fire burned the backs of Marc’s eyes. He closed the lids before he embarrassed himself. He’d always wanted to know the details about how Gino had died. Now, he needed to know how he’d lived and fought. Had he wanted to serve?

He opened his eyes and stared at Montague a long moment. “Sir, was Gino a good Marine?”

Montague looked down at the floor, unable to maintain eye contact. His voice was a harsh whisper. “Damned fine Marine. One of the best men who’s ever served under me.” He looked up at Marc. The pain in his face took Marc’s breath away again. “I’m sorry I got him killed.”

Marc didn’t understand. It was an ambush. Bad intel. How could that be the master sergeant’s fault?

“I trusted the wrong people.” His Top looked down at his hands. “We’d worked with these Afghan soldiers for months. They swore we had friendlies in the village. I led my men into a f*cking ambush. Called for air support. No helos available. Called for Hotel Echo…” he said, referring to high-explosive artillery shells. “Nothing. I should have made sure those things were in place before we went in. I shouldn’t have trusted anyone.”

Would Gino have been alive if there had been backup? Maybe. But the master sergeant wasn’t to blame for the lack of it. Marc knew enough about the insanity that takes place in a war zone to know those things just happened sometimes. You can’t predict and plan for everything. You couldn’t know who to trust. The enemy and the US-backed foreign military all looked alike. Infiltrators were common.

“I don’t blame you, sir.”

The master sergeant reached up to rub the back of his neck again. “Your brother was one of my best.” He glanced up at Marc. “I’m not just saying that to make you feel better, either. He was my lead scout in the recon unit. When we drew gunfire, he and another member of the team hunkered down behind some boulders. They returned fire. But we were taking it from all sides. From the village. From the caves in the cliffs above us. Total clusterf*ck.”

He paused, looking down again, deep in thought. Then he looked back at Marc. “Clearly, you’re brothers.”

Puzzled, Marc furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“When an incoming mortar round came at them, your brother shielded his buddy from the blast. Just like you did for Orlando.”

Marc could see the scene as if he were there. Tears welled in his eyes and he turned away. Gino, the brother he’d admired growing up, who had done everything right. Gino who loved serving as a Marine. Gino who had even died right, saving someone else. Images of his big brother’s body being blown apart by flying rock and debris as he’d tried to protect someone else forced Marc to place his arm over his eyes, hoping to block the image out. No such luck.

Marc regretted that they’d fought over some damned woman the last time they’d been together. He’d never again let a woman come between him and the ones he loved.

Had Gino been with Marc on that rooftop a few days ago, guiding him in how to honor the Reconnaissance Marine’s Creed? Regardless, he felt a bond with his brother he’d never imagined he would experience again after Gino had been killed.

Montague reached out to grasp Marc’s forearm and squeezed, bringing his back to the present. Marc had to know one more thing. “Did he succeed?”

The older man looked thrown off by his question, then realization dawned and he smiled. “Hell, yeah. Sent his buddy home to his wife and newborn baby. If you’d like to meet them sometime when we get stateside, I’ll hook you up.”

Marc had to clear his throat to speak. “I’d like that very much, sir.” How soon would he be shipped home? Would this injury put an end to his service? “I’m not ready to go home yet, sir. You think they’ll let me return to the unit after I recover?”

“Above my pay grade. What’ll you do if they send you home?”

Marc knew the chances of remaining on active duty were slim. He thought for a moment about his options. “Guess I’ll go back to Colorado. Not sure what I’ll do once I get there.”

“Why not go to school and train for something in the medical field? You’re damned good at it, you know.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

The worry lines on the man’s face relaxed a bit. “I’m retiring after this tour. Maybe I’ll just follow you to Colorado. My wife always loved the mountains there. Still thinking that’s where I want to go, even without…” The master sergeant looked down and twirled his wedding band. “Thinking I’ll move to Denver and start a fetish club.”

Marc wasn’t sure what the appropriate response would be, so he remained silent. Was the man serious or joking? Then he realized he was dead serious.

“Well, maybe I’ll just join your club. I was known as Master Marco back in the day.”

Montague laughed. “Thought you might be like-minded. Saw you and Orlando at a fetish club in L.A. just before we deployed.”

Oh, shit. They were lucky they weren’t busted. Then again, if the master sergeant was there, too…. Talk about a “Top.”

Montague grew serious again. “My wife Joni and I talked about owning our own club. Those years between the Gulf War and Kosovo were some of the best in our marriage. Total power exchange.” He remained lost in the memories.

Marc had never found a woman willing to do a power exchange with him. He realized he hadn’t even come close with Melissa.

Could he ever open himself up to another woman? Everyone thought the Dom in the relationship had the power, but that was nonsense. The sub held all the power. He’d like to find a woman he could trust completely.

The master sergeant continued, breaking into his thoughts. “We wanted to show others how satisfying a Dom/sub relationship could be for the right couples. Planned to live off my pension and open our house up for weekend classes and BDSM scening.”

“I’d like to meet her someday.”

Adam looked at him, pain filling his eyes. “I lost her to cancer two years ago.”

Shit. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I didn’t know.” Maybe that explained something about why the man had been such a hard ass in those early months after Marc had joined the Marine unit. He sure didn’t seem like one once you got talking with him.

Silence fell between them. Uncomfortable, Marc blurted out, “Until I sort out my future plans, I’d be happy to help you get the club started. I’ll need a diversion.”

“I might just take you up on that.” Montague stood. “Now, get better so you can get home and start living again.”

Marc realized he hadn’t started to live in the first place until he’d joined the Navy and then been assigned to the Marines. If he was discharged, would that end? The thought of what lay ahead scared him. He’d changed since enlisting. He wanted his life to stand for something. He definitely had no plans to work at the family’s ski resort. No, he was going to make a difference in some way.

Damned straight.

But doing what?

* * *

Two months later, January 2005, Ramstein Air Force Base, Ramstein, Germany

“Take cover!”

Grenade. Move. Damn it, move! Damián slammed his body against his buddies, trying to push them away before the damned thing went off. The world exploded. Blood. Pain. So damned much pain. Grant and Wilson standing over him. Damián tried to get up. What had fallen on him? Dizzy. Sarge. Where was Sarge? Damián opened his eyes and saw his sergeant’s bloody brains spilled over his chest.

“Madre de Dios! No! No! No!”

Damián jolted awake from a dead sleep, his screams reverberating through his ears. Sweat trickled into his eyes. His heart pounded like a sledgehammer, igniting a responsive throbbing in his right foot. The lingering effects of his nightmare receded by slow degrees, but the pain in his foot persisted. He sat up, shoving the sheet aside, and reached down to massage away the ache.

Thin air. He stared at the bandaged stump above where his foot should be.

F*ck.

He closed his eyes and slumped back against the pillow and sheet, both of them cold and wet from his sweat. How many times would it take before he stopped reaching for something that wasn’t there? He’d left the damned thing behind in Fallujah. But the phantom continued to haunt and taunt him every time he fell asleep.

Damián stared up at the ceiling. What in the hell was he going to do when they sent him home? They’d told him he’d be taking rehab in San Diego for a few months. But what were they rehabilitating him for?

Would he ever be able to ride his Harley again? Hold down a job?

Carry Savannah to their Laguna cave?

Well, he didn’t have to worry about that one. He’d had dreams of returning home to her as a man, finding her, and convincing her she belonged with him. He wanted to take care of her, slay whatever dragons pursued her, and love her the way she should be loved….

But he wouldn’t be carrying her anywhere ever again. He wouldn’t saddle her with a cripple, even if he could find her. She deserved a whole man—nothing less to match her perfection. He tucked away the memories of their one idyllic day at the beach. Those images would have to last him the rest of his life.

He should have just fallen on the grenade and been done with it. Why hadn’t he? A hero would have done that. They’d pinned a god-damned Purple Heart on his chest a few days ago, but he’d stowed it away in his seabag. All he’d done was get wounded—and let a man die. Why did he need a f*cking reminder medal for that?

If he’d been a true hero, he’d have saved Sarge’s life. The man had a wife and three kids back home. F*ck. Just months from returning home and he’d been killed by a f*cking hand grenade. So damned senseless.

Dios, you took the wrong Marine home.

Damián heard a squeaking wheel and looked up. “Doc? What are you doing here?” The corpsman wore a hospital robe that barely fit across his shoulders. He wheeled an IV pole that kept veering away from him. Each time, he’d pull it back in line.

Damián had heard what the man had done to save him from further injury. Doc had taken the very shrapnel in his chest that might have finished the job for Damián. Another wasted opportunity. Another man became a casualty because of him.

“Just got here this morning. Took me a little longer to get out of Fallujah than you.” Damián watched as Doc’s gaze roamed over him, head to foot…and stub. His gaze stopped to linger there a little longer, then returned to Damián’s face. “Wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Can’t complain.” Not out loud, at least. “How about you?”

“Coming around. Should be headed home in a week or so if the infection doesn’t come back.” Doc took a series of shallow breaths as if the exertion of walking and talking had taken a toll on him.

“Take a load off, Doc.”

“Thanks.” He pulled the chair closer to the bed. “How about you? Any news on when you’ll head home?”

Home. He had no home to go to anymore. He’d always dreamed about having a home with Savannah. But that dream had faded one November day on a rooftop in Fallujah.

“Nah. They say I’m headed eventually to the Naval Medical Center near Pendleton for rehab.”

The two remained silent for a moment. Doc broke the solitude and asked, “Then what?”

Stunned by the question, Damián just sat there and stared back at him. He really had no f*cking clue what he’d do after that. He didn’t even see himself finishing rehab. What would be the point? Damián shrugged.

“Don’t you have a girl waiting for you?”

Damián looked away. “No. There was one once, but she was out of my league.”

“You’re a Marine now. You’re going to find you’re in a league of your own. You’ll have women falling at your feet.”

Damián met Doc’s gaze and said, “Foot, you mean.” He pointed at the stub.

“Nobody’s perfect. You have a lot more going for you than looks and a body. The right woman will overlook shit like that if she really loves you.” Doc ended his speech by sucking several more breaths into his lungs.

Damián wished the man wouldn’t get so riled up. No way would he change his mind. First chance he had, he’d put an end to this miserable life. When Doc caught his breath, he asked, “Does she even know what’s happened?”

“No. We haven’t kept in touch.”

“Maybe if she knew…”

“I don’t even f*cking know where she is!” Damián regretted his tone as soon as the words came out. “Sorry, Doc. It was nothing more than a day of hot sex with a Latino on the beach. Let’s just drop it.”

“Orlando, you have more integrity, courage, and honor than anyone she’ll ever meet again.”

Those words burned in his craw more than any others. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn’t do anything courageous. Sarge is dead. You got wounded trying to save my sorry ass. You guys are the heroes, not me.”

Damián’s chest hurt now, too. He put his forearm over his eyes to hide the embarrassing tears that sprang from nowhere. “I’d like to get some sleep now.” He knew his voice sounded ungrateful, but didn’t care.

“I’ll see you later.”

Madre de Dios. I wish everyone would f*cking leave me alone to just rot and die.

Courage? Integrity? Honor? No f*cking way. He was nothing but a lousy Chicano scared shitless. What the hell was he going to do now?

* * *

Marc slowly made his way back to his room. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his legs shook at the effort. Just this short excursion left him feeling as weak as a runt-of-the-litter gattino refused its mama’s tit. When would he experience the simple pleasure of filling his lungs with air again?

His talk with Orlando haunted him. The kid was f*cking wrong if he thought women would never want him again. Maybe that one girl had broken up with him, but that was before he’d become a Marine. Women loved Marines. Especially heroes like Orlando.

Right now, Orlando’s feelings of hopelessness worried Marc the most. He needed to get through to him before the kid was shipped back to San Diego. Chances of seeing him again after that were slim.

He’d talk with the nurses to be sure they stayed on top of the man’s depression. He knew they were monitoring him already. Depression was common for an amputee. But Orlando meant a lot to him. They’d trained together to be recon Marines. They’d even played hard together. He remembered the redhead at the L.A. fetish club. Orlando didn’t need a foot to please a woman.

Dio, he didn’t want the kid to become another suicide casualty.

Marc entered his room and saw his bed ahead of him, hoping he’d get there before his legs gave out. So f*cking weak. So close…

“Marco!”

Mama? Marc turned slowly to find both of his parents standing in the doorway.

Shit.

“Mama? Papa? What are you doing here?” They had a business to run. This was the height of the skiing season. His mother came toward him. Dio.

“When we heard you were injured…” Were those tears in her eyes? She reached up and stroked his cheek, and he just marveled at what looked like real tears streaming down Mama’s plump face. For him?

“We’ve been waiting for you here in Germany….” Her voice cracked and she wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

“Waiting for you to get out of the hospital in Iraq,” Papa finished.

Marc noticed the dark circles under both their eyes. Their clothes looked as if they’d slept in them. How long had they been waiting here? Why hadn’t they booked a hotel room?

“I’m fine. You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“They said you almost died,” Mama said.

Who told her that? He hadn’t been that bad off.

“They said you saved a man’s life,” she said, then smiled, her mouth quivering.

Marc turned away. He sure as hell wasn’t a hero. The heroes were people like Miller and Orlando. Like Gino.

“I was just doing my job, Mama.”

“Well,” said Papa, “we want you to know we’re proud of you, son. The whole family is so proud of you.”

Marc looked from one to the other. While having them be proud of him wasn’t his goal or even anything he cared about, for some strange reason, the words made him feel better. Then Mama wrapped her arms around him. She hadn’t done that since he was a little boy. He’d always been in trouble, and was more likely than his brothers to be punished. Marc put his arms around her shoulders and hugged her in return.

“I hated that you joined the military, Marco. But that was just because of Gino…. I didn’t want you to…”

Marc pulled away to look down into her eyes. Tears streamed down her face and she did nothing to wipe them away this time. Papa wrapped an arm around her, too, obviously as stunned by her emotional state as Marc was.

“Mama, you won’t believe this, but I’m actually serving with Gino’s unit. With his master sergeant even.”

“No!”

When Mama looked as though she’d collapse, he and Papa grabbed her by either side and guided her to the only chair in the room. Marc was careful not to dislodge his IV. He hadn’t told her before because he didn’t want to remind her, but needed to tell them what he’d learned.

“Master Sergeant Montague told me about Gino. Mama, Papa, Gino was a real hero, a brave Marine. He saved a man’s life.”

His mother rocked herself. Seeing her exhibiting such maternal emotions shook Marc to the core. She’d hardly cried when she’d heard about Gino, at least not in front of him. Something inside his chest broke, as loud as if his rib had cracked. He’d never thought of her as being vulnerable. Of course, Gino was special to her. His brother always had been her favorite one. For good reason. He’d never given Mama any trouble.

Easier to love.

Marc hunkered down beside her chair, but his legs began to shake and his lungs grew tighter and tighter. He wanted to comfort his mother, but his head grew light. When he gasped for a breath, Mama looked up, “Marco, you must get into bed!” She motioned for Papa to help her get him to the bed. They guided him to the bed. Marc collapsed against the pillows, trying to catch his breath. Damn. He hated feeling so f*cking weak and helpless.

“Go get the nurse, Papa,” Mama said, lifting his feet into the bed and pulling the sheet up over him.

Between his gasps for air, Marc said: “No nurse, Mama…I’m fine…Just moved too fast…Hard to catch my breath still.”

But Papa had already left for the nurse’s station. Marc could have pointed out that there was a call button, but instead focused on catching a decent breath. When would he be able to breathe normally again?

“Here, take a sip of this.” Mama held a straw to his lips and he sucked down the ice-cold water. Even something as simple as that left him shaky.

“What’s up, Doc?”

The blonde nurse who had checked him onto the floor bounced in and quickly checked his pulse.

“Just a little dizzy and short of breath. Moved too fast.”

“Well, hon, you’d better stay in bed a while and save those moves for later.” She wiggled her eyebrows and he smiled. She’d been flirting with him since he’d arrived this morning.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Your parents have been camped out all night waiting for your flight to get in. You got away from them while they were out to get a bite of breakfast.”

Marc’s chest squeezed tight. “Yeah, we were just…catching up now.”

Her smile faded as she helped him to sit up in the bed and pressed her stethoscope against the middle of his back. “Take as deep a breath as you can for me without hurting yourself.”

He did the best he could, although it was anything but deep, then he felt the familiar hitch in his side.

“Good enough for now. I’m going to torture you with the spirometer later, though, so you’d better rest up. Don’t want you catching pneumonia on top of that hemothorax.” She helped him lie back down against the pillow. He grunted from the exertion.

“Maybe we should leave and let you get some rest,” Papa said.

“I want to stay,” Mama said to him, then looked down at Marc. “If you don’t mind, Marco. I promise not to upset you again.”

“You didn’t upset me, Mama. I’m glad you’re both here. But I’m afraid I won’t be much company. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes open.”

Mama pressed her warm fingers against his forehead and drew them down over his face to close his eyelids. “Just sleep, my son. We’ll be here if you need us.”

The next thing Marc remembered was opening his eyes and seeing that Papa had found himself a chair and he and Mama were huddled together, their sleeping heads leaning on one another, hands clasped together.

Sweet. He couldn’t picture himself growing old with a woman. He liked women too much to settle for one. Besides, you had to let your guard down if you were going to let someone that close. He didn’t want to be that vulnerable to a woman ever again.

He turned away. For now, he’d like to get stronger so he could see if the blonde nurse was all talk and no action. Somehow, though, he pictured she might be the one into wielding the whip.

Still, he held onto the dream of finding that perfect little subbie to work with. Maybe he’d find her at the top sergeant’s BDSM club.

* * *

Five months later, June 2005, Naval Medical Center, San Diego, California

Adam rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the crick he’d gotten on the flight from Denver, as he walked down the hallway beside Doc. “Any change?”

Doc gave him a sidelong glance and shook his head. “None. He’s got no fight left. Won’t let anyone visit. Not even his sister. Does the bare minimum with the therapy staff. Won’t wear his prosthesis.”

They walked slowly down the hallway toward Orlando’s room. He didn’t want to walk too fast, in case Doc had any lingering effects from his collapsed lung. “Sounds like he needs a swift kick in the ass.”

Marc smiled and glanced at him. “That’s why I called you, sir.”

Adam grinned. “Cut the sir crap. I’m retired. Besides, when I was off duty, the only person who needed to call me sir was Joni, my wife.”

Marc smiled, but Adam could tell it was a pity smile. He’d opened up to Doc more than anyone else about Joni.

“I’ve tried to get through to him for the last couple weeks. He’s f*cking stubborn. But next week I start classes to train with the search-and-rescue squad. I have to get back to Denver tomorrow.”

When they reached the room number they were looking for, Adam stopped and glanced over at him. “Good choice, by the way.” Adam was proud of how far the kid had come from the cocky SOB who had joined his recon unit as their corpsman to someone who could lay his life on the line for someone else. “You’ll make a fine SAR worker.”

The younger man looked down at the floor. For a once-arrogant man, he sure didn’t take compliments well. Maybe he wasn’t arrogant at all, just hiding some past hurts. “Anyway, I’m glad you called me out here. Hate to see the kid discharged just to go do some damn fool thing because he hasn’t gotten his head on straight yet.”

“You and me both.” Marc reached for the door handle to Orlando’s room, and then paused. “I’ll wait out here. He’s sick of seeing me. Good luck.”

Adam nodded, and then entered the room to find the blinds closed and the room in near darkness. No wonder the kid was depressed. He marched to the window and opened the blinds full force.

“What the f*ck? I’ve told you to keep them closed!”

Adam turned and came around the bedside curtain to see Orlando lying there, the white sheets bunched around his waist. Shirtless. His dog tags hung against his brown chest, buried in a diamond-shaped tuft of black hair.

“You talking to me, grunt?” Adam tried not to smile as the kid practically came to attention while lying flat on his back. God, he missed having that kind of power over people. Couldn’t wait to get his club started. At least, he’d have submissive women responding to him like that again. Even better.

“Master Sergeant Montague!

“What’s this I hear about you refusing to follow orders?”

Regaining his composure, the kid slumped back against the pillows. “The orders make no sense.”

“Come again?”

“There’s no point fixing me up.”

“Since when does a grunt decide which orders to follow and which to ignore?”

Orlando turned away. A new maneuver was in order. He remembered the night he’d seen them at the fetish club in L.A., getting a screaming redhead off on the St. Andrew’s cross, right before they’d deployed. Of course, when he’d seen Doc and Orlando, he’d high-tailed it out as fast as he could. That would have been a real morale buster if the two could have held it over his head.

“So, have you ever restrained a woman on a St. Andrew’s cross?”

Orlando looked back at him. If the man could blush, he would have. “Say again?”

“I asked if you were into kinky sex—tying women up, spanking them, that sort of thing.”

Orlando seemed unsure how to answer. “I tried it once—well, maybe a few times.”

Well, hell. Adam knew about the one time, but didn’t know there’d been others. He’d just figured Doc had dragged him up there. This might be just the therapy the kid needed.

How the hell many Doms did he have in his unit, anyway? D’Alessio for sure. And he’d heard rumors Grant was a Domme, although he’d never been able to speak with her about it. Sexual harassment regs and all. Serving with a female Marine was like dancing on eggshells and trying not to break one.

Right now, Orlando was the one needing a little dominating.

“Well, I can tell you one thing, grunt. I’d rather be with a sexy redhead right now making her round ass all nice and pink than to be looking at your ugly face.” He watched as the kid’s face did flame a bit at the mention of a redhead. Adam tried not to smile at the look of surprise on the young man’s face.

Orlando got over the shock of Adam’s words pretty quickly, though, and the defenses came up yet again. Stubborn wasn’t the word for this one.

“Guess I didn’t tie mine good enough. She got away.”

F*ck. What kind of woman would dump a man while he was recovering from something like this? If you asked him, good riddance to her. Adam would find the kid as many women as he needed to get over her. But obviously, she’d sunk her claws in him pretty deeply. He wouldn’t get over her very easily.

Joni would never have ditched him, no matter what had gotten blown off. That’s what she’d told him—and he believed her.

“Come back to Denver with me. You can help me out with a little business I plan to start.”

Orlando took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Adam could tell he was choosing his words carefully, afraid to disrespect his former top sergeant. “I don’t need your charity, sir. When I leave here tomorrow, I’m just going to hole up in a motel in Solana Beach and get a good drunk-on.”

Memories of his own two-week bender in Minneapolis after Joni died came back to Adam full force. He didn’t want to count the number of times he’d come close to pulling the trigger with his Magnum, rather than go on without her. Would Orlando have access to a weapon? If not already, he’d have little trouble getting one.

No way was he letting this kid leave here alone.

“It’s a BDSM and fetish club.”

* * *

Damián wondered if he’d heard the man right? “Pardon, sir?”

“You heard me. I’m starting a kink club—bondage, domination, discipline, SM, fetish, any kind of kink you want to get on. Doc’s joining me, but we can always use another good Dom.”

Damn. Damián felt his dick going into a full salute just thinking about it. First hard-on since before the grenade blast. “I’m no Dom. I’m not interested.”

“The hell you aren’t.” Montague grinned, and then directed his attention to the tenting of the sheets.

Damián adjusted the sheets to hide his stiffy, and then slid his leg out to reveal his bare grotesque stump. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m missing a foot.”

“Well, last time I checked, most of the ladies at BDSM clubs are more interested in a firm hand and a stiff cock. You still seem to have both of those in your inventory. Sure, there may be some chicks with a foot fetish, but you still have a good one, don’t you?”

Damián was speechless.

How could he get the master sergeant to see he wasn’t good for anything anymore? Still, even though his former Top was out of uniform, wearing his Marine t-shirt and blue jeans, Damián couldn’t just out-and-out tell him no. He’d spent more than a year under the man’s command.

“I’m supposed to continue outpatient therapy for the prosthesis.”

“Denver’s got an amputee center for vets.” The man got more serious. “But I’ll damned well make sure you do as you’re told. You won’t be pissing around the way you’ve been doing out here.”

Damián had only planned as far ahead as tomorrow—with a couple bottles of tequila and a pistol. That’s all he’d thought about for weeks. Months. So, why did the thought of starting over far away from all the memories of Southern California appeal to him so damned much? He sure had nothing to lose, certainly no more than if he stayed here.

“Look, sir…”

“Cut the sir crap. I’m retired. Call me Adam.”

“I appreciate the offer, but…”

“Sure, there’ll be plenty of butts for you to redden once we get you trained and open up the club.”

Damián knew his former Top was being deliberately dense, because the man wasn’t stupid. No way. He threw his arms up in exasperation. “Fine! I’ll go with you!”

The older man smiled. “I knew you would. I’ve booked our flights back with Doc tomorrow afternoon. You just do whatever they tell you between now and tomorrow.”

* * *

Six months later, December 2005, Denver, Colorado


“Madre de Dios! No! No! No!”

F*ck. Another nightmare. Adam tossed back the sheet, jumped up, and ran across the hallway into Damián’s room. The kid had been plagued with these f*cking nightmares for months, just about every night. Adam went to the bedside and laid his hand on Damián’s shoulder. He knew from experience any kind of pressure on the kid’s chest would trigger a PTSD response.

“Damián, it’s Adam. You’re dreaming. Wake up!” The boy’s arms thrashed in the air like a rattlesnake on the attack and one blow caught Adam on the cheekbone before he could block the punch. Adam winced. The kid had been working on his upper-body strength. Judging by that blow, he’d say Damián was getting back to his pre-injury conditioning.

“Sarge! Don’t you f*cking die on me!”

Adam knew what the kid was reliving, after hearing how Miller had bled out lying on Damián’s chest. He couldn’t imagine what the kid had gone through when he’d realized that. Grant said Damián hadn’t been unconscious at first. He’d seen Miller’s brains….

Adam needed to bring him back to reality before the kid hurt himself. Using his former top sergeant’s voice, he tried again. “Orlando! Wake up! That’s a f*cking order, grunt!”

Damián’s body stiffened. He stopped thrashing and Adam finally was able to grab and hold Damián’s wrists still against the pillow at the sides of his head. He opened his eyes, his gaze darting around as if waiting for more incoming. His breathing was shallow and rapid as if he’d just climbed Mt. Evans on foot.

“You’re okay, Damián. You’re safe. You’re in your own bed…in Denver.” Adam kept up a litany of calming statements, waiting for the crazed look to leave the kid’s eyes. Damián looked around as his pupils adjusted to the darkness. “It was just a bad dream.”

The young man’s eyes cleared. “F*cking nightmare.” He continued to breathe rapidly.

“Yeah, it was.”

“You can let me go. I won’t punch you.”

“Again, you mean?”

“Aw, shit. I did it again?”

Adam smiled. “Barely stung me. I’d like to see the day when a young pup like you can get the better of me.”

“Why do you keep putting up with my shit? You haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in six months.”

“Sleep’s overrated. I’ve been a Marine for more than twenty years. My body doesn’t need much sleep to function.”

“You’ve had to put your club opening on hold, too. I’m costing you money.”

Adam stood up to assume his maximum intimidation stance. He placed his fists on his hips, his elbows at a ninety-degree angle, and tightened the muscles of his bare chest. “Now hear this. We’re Marines. We look out for each other—on and off the battlefield. Until you’re ready, the f*cking club can wait.”

Damián closed his eyes, crooked his arm, and draped it over his eyes.

“You aren’t going to get rid of me just because you can’t see me.” Adam sat on the edge of the bed. “Now, tell me about the dream.”

Damián’s therapist said the more he talked about the experirence, the less power it would have over him. Joni had done that with him while he was on his medical leave recovering from the Afghan ambush. She’d held him, cried for him, and just let him talk until he was all talked out.

If Damián kept talking, more details might come out, especially the ones he was afraid to admit even to himself. Adam talked him down from the nightmares every time. Just in the last month, he’d gone from nightmares two or three times a night to only once a night. Progress.

“The same one. Grenade goes off. Sarge blocked the blast for me, but wound up…” Damián stopped rattling off the usual details, but his breathing became shallow and rapid again.

“Deep breath. Now!”

Damián responded, taking several deep breaths actually. “Should have been me.”

Adam knew guilt had been eating at the kid all along. Hell, he knew that feeling firsthand. No amount of therapy would help either of them lose that. They’d survived while others had not.

“You’d have done the same thing if you were in Miller’s place. Hell, Grant and Wilson said you were trying to protect them. Stop blaming yourself for what some f*cking insurgent is responsible for.”

Damián lowered his arm and looked Adam in the face. His body began to shake, almost imperceptibly at first, then harder. Adam rubbed the scar on the back of his neck.

“I froze.” The words came out in a whisper. Tears streamed unheeded down the sides of Damián’s face.

F*cking breakthrough. This was the first time Damián had admitted to freezing. The kid’s pain tore Adam’s guts out. After what he’d watched him go through the past several months, he’d thought they’d never get at what was eating him. He never wanted to give the kid a hug more than he did now.

Where the f*ck did that come from? He didn’t need to baby him.

“Tell me what happened.” Adam started to reach out and squeeze his arm in support, but backed off. Touching him might interrupt this confession of sorts. He needed to let him talk, release some of his demons.

Damián turned his head away and pulled his legs up, the right knee tenting under the sheet a few inches lower than the left because of the amputation. Lost in the memories, he remained silent for a moment. Then he groaned in anguish. “I saw the grenade first. I just stared at it. Oh, God!” He cried out and Adam couldn’t help but reach for his hand, which Damián grabbed onto with a death grip. “I just f*cking stared. I looked at the others. They didn’t see it! But I couldn’t move for like a minute.”

“Just seemed like a minute. Grenades go off in seconds. You’ve just slowed the motion down in your head.” Adam sure could relate to that. He’d had those same slow-motion memories from the ambush in Kandahar. Watching and not being able to protect or save his men.

Damián stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. “By the time I screamed for them to take cover, there wasn’t enough time. Grant was talking with Wilson. She didn’t f*cking know. I nudged Sarge and we both moved at the same time. I thought he’d moved fast enough, but I didn’t make sure. I went after the others. When I turned back, Sarge was right behind me, but too close to…” His body stiffened and he squeezed his eyes shut, as though feeling the impact of the explosion again.

Damián pulled his hand away and hugged himself, squeezing his eyes shut. Adam couldn’t stand it anymore. He pulled him up to sit, wrapped his arms around him, and held him tightly. The kid began shaking harder, as if in shock.

* * *

Smothered. Even though he wasn’t lying down, he still felt the crushing weight against his chest. Sarge. He struggled to get the body off him.

“It’s me. Adam. You’re safe, Damián.”

Not Sarge. Adam.

“You did everything you could. It’s not your fault.”

“Oh, God. I tried. I f*cking tried. I couldn’t…” He wrapped his arms around Adam and held onto the man who had become his lifeline. Surprisingly, the smothering feeling receded a bit.

“You did everything right. You couldn’t save everyone. No one could.”

“Why? Why’d he have to die? Why not me?”

Adam continued to just hold him, but Damián noticed that his former Top’s heart was pounding hard against his chest. When he spoke, Adam’s voice had become raspy. “That’s above my pay grade—and a question I’ve asked myself a million times, too. But you have to quit blaming yourself.”

Easier said than done.

“I will, if you will.” But Damián knew they’d both probably go to their graves asking themselves the same question.

Adam cleared his throat. “What you have to do is find something or someone that will make your surviving worthwhile. Find a cause that moves you. Find a woman who needs you. Just f*cking find something you can do to make the world a better place for at least one other person.”

Damián held on tighter. He knew tears were falling onto Adam’s chest, but didn’t want to ease away and reveal the evidence. The man had been like a father to him the past six months, taking care of him day and night. Making sure he did his PT exercises. Forcing him to wear the god-damned prosthesis until finally it stopped rubbing his stump raw.

The man had had no f*cking life as a result. Adam should have been enjoying retirement, not babysitting him. Why hadn’t he just left Damián in San Diego to finish off what the grenade had started? How could Damián ever repay him for the sacrifices he’d made?

Puckered skin? Damián’s hands rested against what felt like puckered skin on Adam’s back. What the f*ck? He pulled back and felt Adam’s body go stiff.

Damián looked him in the eye. “Turn around.”

“You don’t give me orders, son.”

“What happened?”

“It was a long time ago. Kandahar. Ambush. I took some shrapnel to the back.”

While he rattled off the cold, hard facts in a non-emotional way, Damián knew from the pain reflected in Adam’s eyes that the man must have battled his own demons. From where Damián’s hands explored, half the man’s back must be riddled with shrapnel wounds. The master sergeant had been through just as much as Damián had.

How had he stayed so strong, so normal, so sane?

Was Damián his cause, to help him handle his own survivor guilt?

Maybe there was hope for Damián yet. He needed to quit feeling sorry for himself and find some worthwhile cause to dedicate himself to.

But what?