After Grady left the impound yard, he took his bike through a few paces on a nearby frontage road. Nothing crazy, just to make sure that the engine components of his bike hadn’t been damaged or the wheels hadn’t been even slightly bent. Everything checked out, which was a miracle in itself. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for him. He hurt, every muscle in his body growing stiffer by the minute, but he needed to get back to Callie’s house. If she wasn’t there, he would wait until she arrived. He didn’t think he’d relax until he had eyes on her again. Also, they needed to talk. There was no more putting it off.

Before they did, though, he had to do something else he’d been putting off—this one for nearly a year. After David’s funeral, Callie had given Grady a journal. A journal that David had kept in Afghanistan. He had yet to open the pages, to read the final words his friend had penned in the midst of that sandy, hot hellhole. Callie had handed it to him in person, saying that perhaps reading David’s private thoughts would give him a sense of peace, of connection to the friend he’d lost so suddenly and tragically. Grady had never opened it.

He’d tucked the well-worn leather journal into an empty ammo box and then stuffed it into the battered duffle that contained old, worn fatigues, scuffed boots with the sands of Afghanistan still stuck in the soles, and his crumpled up dishonorable discharge papers. Before he could face a future, with or without Callie in it, he had to face the past. David was gone. He wasn’t coming back. He didn’t believe in “closure.” That sort of shit was just for the movies, but it would be a step forward—if not toward peace, well, at least perhaps letting some of that rage go. Just a little.

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say to Callie when he saw her, but he did know one thing. For the first time since he had returned from the Middle East, the first time since David’s casket had been lowered into the ground, he felt an inkling of hope. Callie had given that to him. Her unwavering faith in him. Her loyalty, even if he didn’t deserve it. Whether their friendship morphed into something more or not, he would always be grateful. Her touch had let him see that perhaps, just perhaps, his future wasn’t as dismal as it seemed.

But what kind of life could he offer her? He didn’t want to leave the Kings and he couldn’t expect Callie to turn her life upside down for his sake. He couldn’t imagine her chucking her life or her jobs to be his old lady. But he did see her in his life more than he had allowed her to be this past year. Could they make it work? Did she even want to?

He pulled his motorcycle off to the side of the road in the darkness, leaving the lights on so nobody would rear-end him. He’d already lived through one crash in the last twenty-four hours and didn’t need to tempt fate with another reminder of his vulnerability.

Vulnerability. He’d never really thought of himself that way, but maybe it was time for such serious self-reflection. Like Levi said, he needed to figure some things out. He had long resisted going to the VA, resisted psychological mumbo-jumbo, veteran’s groups for PTSD, and other crap that he considered nothing more than a waste of time. What good would it do him to go to a group if all he heard were everybody else’s tragedies and stories about buddies that had been blown to smithereens by IEDs and insurgents bullets? How many times did he have to hear about fellow soldiers having to pick up friends in pieces, stuffing those pieces into body bags while trying to keep their own heads from being blown off? He knew he wasn’t the only one dealing with memories permanently emblazoned into brain cells. No one wanted to hear his sad stories, either.

He’d been told that in time, things would ease, that it wouldn’t be so difficult, but he hadn’t believed it. He wasn’t sure he did now, but maybe Callie would succeed where others had failed. Somehow, with her, he found a peace absent everywhere else. The shrinks at the VA, Levi, and even Callie had assured him that given time, he would find his equilibrium. He would find his “new normal” and maybe, if he tried, some of the rage would go away.

He had been charged with recklessly endangering his squad that day, even though he’d just been following orders. Orders from Captain Andrews, passed down through Lieutenant Gerard. They’d been stationed at an FOB well ahead of support but armed with a radio that could call in coordinates or information necessary for an air strike or support. The mountainous region of Kandahar had been shrouded in near full darkness that night, only a sliver of moon in the sky. Grady had had his doubts about the intel that the captain passed to the lieutenant, but the younger officer told him that orders were orders.

The area was a hotbed for insurgents, and IEDs were all over the place. It had gotten to the point that the insurgents knew just how wide the bomb-clearing apparatus attached to the front of a Humvee was, quite useful for exploding IEDs before they took out foot patrols. Unfortunately, the insurgents had quickly adapted their strategies, planting those devices just outside of range, easy targets for soldiers walking alongside the troop carriers and Humvees . . .

Grady’s chest hitched with pain as memories rushed through his mind. The night that had exploded into a ball of yellowish-orange flame. The rapid spurt of gunfire, the screams, the confusion, the shouts, everyone diving for cover. But David hadn’t. It was too late for him. He was already in pieces, and Grady had simply stared at what remained of his best friend, stunned with the suddenness of it all. He was no stranger to sudden death out there in the desert, but this had been different. David had been blown to bits, another man had lost the lower half of his left arm and leg, and yet another had suffered a severe concussion and resulting brain injury. David had been brought back in bags while the other two had been evacuated to Kabul and then to Germany, both destined for well-deserved medical discharge.

And Grady?

Grady and the remainder of his men had forged ahead, engaging the insurgents while support from behind moved forward to collect the injured. Grady and the three members of his team had come upon what looked to be like an abandoned village, a small outpost. They’d been wrong. They exchanged bursts of gunfire with the insurgents, which gradually spattered out. Grady had thrown a couple of grenades, his teammates had blasted the hell out of the tents and mud structures, the insurgents gradually falling back, taking their injured and dead with them.

Grady and his men had hurried back to their earlier position, and then, after waiting more than an hour for support ordered by Captain Andrews, finally moved forward again. Grady had remained behind to give a formal report to Lieutenant Gerard while Captain Andrews had taken several men forward with him to check out the village. It was only then that Grady had learned, through Captain Andrew’s report, that insurgents had not taken over the village. They were just civilians. They had been found lying dead in their homes . . . a couple of old men, three women, and two teenage boys. All of them had been killed by Grady and his men. According to Captain Andrews, there was no indication that insurgents had ever been there. No armed men, no nothing. It had been supposedly nothing more than a peaceful village.

Stunned, Grady and the remainder of his squad had been brought in front of his superiors and severely reprimanded. All of them denied the claims made by Captain Andrews. It hadn’t mattered. The military had wanted to make a quick example of Grady and his so-called rogue companions. His men had been sent back to the states. Grady had avoided prison time at Fort Leavenworth, but they had all received dishonorable discharges. One of the guys had since committed suicide. The others disappeared.

Grady had formally protested and in response, had told the military board that he’d followed the orders of the captain, and that any lack of intelligence or verification of that intelligence had been the responsibility of the officers. It didn’t seem to matter. The captain recommended—strongly recommended—that Grady also be returned to the states to undergo psychological testing, which surprised Grady to no end. Where did that come from? No one had ever questioned his mental stability, and yet the captain had implied that after so many combat tours, Grady Corben was no longer reliable in the field. He had clashed with the captain before, more than once, but never once did he think that the captain would have made such accusations against him.

Back in the states, he’d again tried to fight the dishonorable discharge, but, as cited to Grady in the letter he had received, the captain had been able to show proof that Grady had known all along that the intel was likely bogus and that he had deliberately disobeyed orders not to take his squad into the mountains and attack the insurgents that had fired on his patrol, killing David and wounding two others.

Grady shook his head, trying to clear it of the memories, but he knew he couldn’t keep pushing them back forever. By the time he pulled his bike up to his cabin in the corner of the compound, sweat glistened on his brow. Not from pain, but that familiar rage that brewed in his soul, ever seeking release. He turned off the bike and climbed off, relishing the pain now, welcoming the distraction from that anger that burned so deeply. He pushed the door of his cabin open and strode inside, not stopping as he made his way to the tiny bedroom and even smaller closet.

There was the duffle, stuffed into a corner of the closet. He snatched it by its canvas handle and yanked it out, tossing it onto the bed. With trembling fingers, he unclipped the hooks that had until now closed the bag tightly into the grommets, knowing that if he hesitated even slightly, he might change his mind. He upended the entire bag, watching his fatigues and boots spill out, just the sight of them taking him back to a place he didn’t want to go to. Along with the fatigues plopped out a soft, scuffed leather journal.

He sat down on the bed and gingerly plucked the journal from the pile, sucking in a deep breath. He still didn’t know if he had the balls to face whatever was written on the pages inside, but he no longer had a choice. If he wanted a future with Callie—and damn it, he couldn’t deny that any longer—then he had to do this first. He owed it to David, and to himself. The rest of the world fell away as Grady opened the cover and began to read.

After several minutes, a small smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he read David’s thoughts, his memories of life at the forward operating base, conversations with Grady, and how much he missed Callie. Had Callie read through it before giving it to him? After he was finished with it, he would take it back to her, where she could treasure it, and maybe, if she hadn’t read it yet, some day she just might.

He flipped through the pages of the book. A frown washed over his face. It stopped about half way through. A shiver ran through Grady when he realized he’d found the entry right before the day that had changed everything. His hands shook and he flipped back, reading David’s musings several weeks before his death and leading up to that fucked-up day. David hadn’t written every day, only when they were back at the camp area and he had the time. As he got nearer to where he knew the words ended, Grady’s pulse kicked up, as did a knot of dread in his stomach, followed by nausea. Like a punch to the gut, it all fell into place. It all made sense now, but not the kind of sense that he ever would have imagined.

With an angry growl, he finished reading, down to the last sentence. Fuck! Why hadn’t David confided in him? If he’d told Grady just some of his concerns and suspicions . . . he surged upward from the bed, barely stopped himself from slamming his fist into the wall, and rushed through his cabin toward the front door. He needed to find Levi and Seth. He now knew what had happened in Afghanistan. He knew who Callie’s stalker was. He knew. It was too late. For David and for Grady. David was dead and Grady’s military career had been flushed down the toilet. But it wasn’t too late to mete out justice to Captain Mark Andrews. The bastard was going to pay, and he was going to pay dearly.

Grady leaned low over his handlebars, the wind whipping at his face and hair, tugging at his jacket. Fuck speed limits and road laws. He was likely breaking every one in the state to get to Callie’s house. He had to talk to her, tell her what had happened. To David. To himself. David’s journal was warm against his skin, tucked into the back waistband of his jeans, nestled against his semiautomatic. He didn’t understand yet how Callie played into all of this, but he wasn’t going to take chances. He was going to get Callie, and then they were going back to the compound. The men in the club were the only ones he trusted to keep her safe while he was busy with Captain Mark Andrews. He’d quickly explained to Levi and Seth before he’d left, told them what he learned, and they assured him they would be ready to roll when he needed them. Both of them. Grady hadn’t realized just how much that meant to him until Seth had immediately come on board to back him up, no questions asked.

When he pulled up to Callie’s house, the windows were dark. The porch light was still on, casting a small portion of the front yard into a yellowish glow. He drove his bike up into her driveway and parked it behind her car. Relief surged through him once more. She’d made it home safe. Ignoring the protest of his muscles, he quickly climbed off his bike and hurried to her front door, knocking sharply. He was probably waking her up, but he didn’t care. This was important.

No answer. He knocked a little louder and then placed his lips close to the seam in the door. “Callie!” Her neighbors lived close on either side, and he didn’t want to wake them up or prompt a police visit by banging on her door and hollering out her name. Why didn’t she answer? She knew it was him and just didn’t want to answer the door? He reached for her the doorknob, surprised when it turned easily in his hand.

What the hell?

Cautiously, he opened the front door, his relief now morphing into outright fear. He stepped into a dark foyer, the dull glow from the porch light only vaguely illuminating a portion of her living room, dark shadows of her sofa, an easy chair, the television. It was then that he noticed the glow from the kitchen. He quickly turned toward it, freezing. The refrigerator door stood open, a carton of milk lying on its side on the floor, a puddle of milk spread over the linoleum. A small paring knife lay on the floor nearby.

“Shit!”

He bolted out of the kitchen, through the living room, and into Callie’s bedroom. Somehow, he knew she wouldn’t be there, but he was compelled to check. Muttering darkly under his breath, he immediately knew what had happened. Callie’s stalker, Captain Mark Andrews, had come to pay her a visit. He’d taken her. Somewhere.

What did Callie have to do with any of this? As he rushed through her house, an idea niggled in the back of his mind. Mark Andrews was a schemer, engaged in illegal activities not only in Afghanistan, but possibly before and after.

Maybe Lieutenant Gerard had found out. Maybe that car accident the lieutenant had died in wasn’t an accident after all. Maybe Callie was a loose end. Maybe Andrews feared that David had confided in her, or she had found out some other way. That meant that she was a potential target to eventually be eliminated. And after her, was he next?

A low growl echoed from his chest. This past year, he blamed himself for everything. David’s death. His own dishonorable discharge. He’d begun to think he’d really lost it and had even begun to question his own sanity. And it was all Mark Andrews.

The red crept up in his vision, and Grady desperately tried to tamp it down. He couldn’t lose it now. His heart pounding, his hands trembling with adrenaline, he moved to the front door and called Levi. The moment Levi picked up, he spoke.

“She’s gone. Were you able to find out anything?”

“Yeah,” Levi said. “He lives off base, but he wouldn’t risk doing anything at his house. He and his wife are going through a divorce, and she lives at the residence. He has an apartment near the base, but he wouldn’t take her there either. No privacy.”

“Shit!” Grady exploded.

“But I found something else. His father owned a gas station north of town on Rimrock Highway, between Humboldt Road and Meridian. It’s not in service anymore, but it’s never been sold.”

Had Andrews taken Callie to be abandoned gas station? Or somewhere else?

“Call the cops, Grady—”

“And tell them what? That I believe that Callie’s been kidnapped? I’ve got no proof! They’re not going to believe a word that comes out of my mouth.”

“Doesn’t matter. Just tell them that the front door of her house was open and what you told me, about the mess in the kitchen. They’ll come out and take a look. Who knows, the fuckers might actually find something. Keep them busy, Grady, and in the meantime, head up to the gas station. We’ll meet you there.”