Ghosts

His stomach rumbled, an unwelcome reminder that breakfast and the early morning departure of a political contingent on a photo op tour happened hours ago. In hindsight, not stopping for lunch wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done.

Alex’s left eye twitched. It was the only movement he couldn’t control.

Numbers, symbols, diagrams, and maps played in his head like a PowerPoint slideshow. Some moved fast—others more slowly as he shifted the information before him into useable, actionable order.

Same shit, different day.

Shut up and pay attention. Nobody cares about your whiny bitching.

Opposing inner narratives. Jesus. Just what he didn’t need.

Muted laughter floated on the air, causing him to scowl. The sound didn’t bother him. The fact he was trapped in a fucking cramped piece of shit office instead of hanging with his Justice team triggered the reaction.

Anyone who thinks a promotion and the saluting that results are a fun time needs an ass kicking. He hated it. Hated every second of being a major. This fucking bullshit wasn’t what he signed on for. When he got the gold oak leaf that signified his new rank, some shithead commented that he was on track for lieutenant colonel and a silver oak leaf.

He hoped they were kidding but knew they weren’t.

Fuckers.

Scraping his fingers back and forth, he scratched the side of his head and forced his attention to the situation in front of him.

“It’s a win-win, Major. We can crush the infiltrating insurgents and send a strong message at the same time.”

He glanced at the obnoxious, grizzled captain who resented every breath Alex took. The guy was a simmering vat of toxic negativity and who could blame him, really? Gordon Roberts was a king-size shit who did not react favorably to being passed over for a promotion. Gordy was a dick with an attitude, and as far as the career captain was concerned, Alex stole his command.

Jesus, the line of people who figured they were next in line for his promotion was so fucking long and full of cynical shit that Alex needed a roster to track who hated him on any given day. How was it possible to steal something you didn’t even want?

Standing next to Captain Roberts was a low-level commander from the national security force. He sighed and shook his head—earning Alex’s sharp gaze. It wasn’t always easy to read these guys, and despite the inevitability of partnering with Afghan nationals, he wasn’t a fan of giving them hall passes. The more people roaming around—people he couldn’t intimidate—the greater the danger.

Habit—pure, simple habit—made him glance to his right where a makeshift valet held his armor. The constant threat of incoming was a fact of war life. Keeping his weapons and armored gear within easy reach, a necessity.

Rising slowly, Alex pushed the rolling chair away from his legs and put both hands on his cluttered desk as he leaned over a spread of intelligence reports.

Roberts moved forward with his finger pointing at a surveillance photo. From the periphery, Alex detected activity. Still bent over his desk, he looked up.

The Afghan commander leaned to his far left to peer out a window. He was dressed in the traditional perahan tunban and a dark brown vest that the locals favored.

Gordon’s scowling expression was full of questions. He must have detected the same disturbance Alex had.

They straightened at the same time and turned toward the window where the Afghan commander stood.

Instinct or maybe an omen sent Alex diving sideways to grab his armor as Gordon Roberts swung in the opposite direction.

Time ground to slow motion. Loud shouting thundered in the background.

Alex’s hand grabbed his armored vest. The Afghan commander shouted with clear alarm.

In the blink of an eye, all the air was sucked from the small, cramped office followed by a tremendous boom that sent him flying. He slammed against a wall as the room exploded into a nightmare scenario of shrapnel, flying objects, smoke, and fire.

Pain—searing, soul-destroying agony—inhabited one whole side of his body. He recognized the taste of blood as it spilled from his mouth.

And then a deathly quiet descended. Was he dead? Is this what dying felt like?

Struggling to keep his eyes open, Alex could only see red smoke. He tried to move and ended up roaring with pain.

Maybe he wasn’t dead, after all, ’cause he was pretty fucking sure the afterlife didn’t hurt or bleed like a motherfucker.

His head was swimming. He tried to hold on. He had a command to lead. Alex attempted to call for help, but nothing came from his mouth.

From faraway, he heard Sinjin yelling his name. Relief coursed through Alex’s body—briefly obliterating the agony.

Draegyn St. John was his north star. If Sinjin was here, everything would be all right.

His eyes closed, and he surrendered to the blackness dancing at the edges of his consciousness.

Draegyn would take care of him.

* * *

Drae was sure his heart would beat right out of his chest, but that didn’t stop him from exerting superhuman effort as he plowed through the smoking debris in search of Alex.

Cam was by his side, shouting instructions to everyone else who, like them, went running toward the explosion.

All around them, soldiers were frantically tossing debris aside in search of the dead and injured. He picked up a chunk of wall and tossed it. That’s when he saw Alex’s hand and went into full berserk mode.

“Cam! Get over here. Help me, man.”

They found Alex badly hurt with blood pouring from every inch of his body and a leg wound that looked like ground meat. He was alive –barely. Luckily, it took only seconds for an entire medical team to descend on the area and take control of the situation.

By the time Alex was stabilized and ready to be medevac’d, the staggering toll of the suicide bombing was on everyone’s lips.

Aside from Alex, there were a handful of injured and a dozen American deaths.

Discovering the suicide bomber was a local mother, someone known and trusted on the base, explained the dark looks and mumbled curses about the number of civilians hurt or killed. She took out her young son in the blast and immediately earned super villain status.

Exhausted and close to the edge, he and Cam staggered numbly to their quarters after making sure the military doctors understood just who the fuck they were working on. Drae had a hard time holding his shit together when he whipped out Alex’s formal name in order to make an impression on his medical team.

Knowing that Alex’s dad, the formidable Cristián Valleja-Marquez, would fully expect he and Cam to take control of Alex’s situation in his absence, Drae barked his friend’s rank and title so there’d be no misunderstanding.

Alexander Valleja-Marquez, a major in the U.S. Marine Corps and some sort of hereditary Spanish aristocrat who may or may not have a title, needed some good old American-style medical magic.

He’d been a bit of a tool about it but didn’t care what anyone thought. As long as Alex’s VIP status was understood, he was willing to do almost anything.

“Here,” Roman muttered. He pushed a coffee mug into Drae’s hand until he was forced to take hold or end up wearing the scalding brew on his thigh.

The glow from an improvised fire pit cut the inky nighttime blackness. Team Justice, minus the Major, gathered on discarded crates, beach chairs, and an uneven bench constructed from a bunch of wood scraps he’d found lying around.

Frowning, Drae muttered to the haggard interrogator, “Sloate’s dead. Did you know?”

Roman barely spared half a nod. For a nanosecond, Drae considered telling the guy again how sorry he was about his wife’s death. Roman knew firsthand how it felt losing someone to the terrorists. Sometimes the cold-blooded assassins masquerading as holy warriors did their dirty work in places far from the war.

Dallas cracked his knuckles. Without moving his head, Drae’s eyes swung to their imposing muscle man. Rafael D’Alessandro had the name and physical presence of an action hero. He’d more than earned his team nickname, Muscle. The dude could bench press a Maserati without breaking a sweat.

He also knew way too much about shit like the equal right’s amendment and the latest fashion trends.

Cam sat next to him—his folding chair at an angle and his booted feet propped on a crate. When Dallas cracked his knuckles, Cam glowered at the beefy muscle man.

Clutching the hot drink, Drae wrestled with the frantic thoughts cluttering his mind—pushing every aside except for what mattered right now.

Domineau moved in and out of the shadows on the periphery. He didn’t know for sure because Rafe was the only one she confided in, but Drae suspected she was more than just a little upset. She was like the rest of Team Justice. Everything was fine until the Major got hurt. That was when all bets were off, and each of them entertained a personal “Come to the Lord” moment.

Priorities. That was what the team needed to focus on.

They’d lost a man. Bryan Sloate was gone and with him went the future his girlfriend and kid expected.

Not all that long ago, Team Justice had made promises and agreed to oaths that would last each of their lifetimes.

After a solemn nod of inevitability, Drae took control and spoke in a commanding voice despite a throat thick with emotion.

“Bryan swore the Justice oath. He would honor his commitment and expect the same from each of you.”

Flicking a cigarette into the fire, Domineau moved out of the darkness. “It’s not like any of you can pick up and walk away, so I’ll be the one to make contact.”

She seemed unconcerned about returning Stateside. Drae frowned with confusion until Roman filled in the blanks that Domineau hadn’t.

“We got actionable intel from an interrogation. Langley wants control of the debrief. Smoke is headed Stateside to deal with her fellow spooks.”

Alex almost dying would trigger an avalanche of shit, starting with Domineau heading out. A dense, dark cloud of finality loomed over everything.

He looked at Cam and found his friend’s eyes turned his way. The man calling himself Cameron Justice was on the same page as Drae.

This shit was done—as in stick a fork in it and hand me a plane ticket home.

Roman let loose with an angry grunt.

Rafe stared at Domineau. The two appeared engaged in a telepathic conversation.

Drae grimaced. Sloate—dead. Alex—barely alive. Yeah. He’d had enough.

As Alex’s lieutenant, Drae slid into the shoes of their fearless leader.

“I think it’s safe to say that this portion of the program has ended. Act two, or however the fuck you choose to call it, is waiting for Team Justice far, far away from this shit hole.”

Everyone nodded and grumbled. He looked pointedly at Smoke.

“Domineau Rivera. You’re our point person for setting up the Sloate endowment. I expect a full report.”

She nodded, lit another cigarette, and went back to lurking in the shadows.

He asked, “Roman Bishop. What’s your deal?”

The snarling scowl on Bishop’s face didn’t surprise Drae. The man had personally suffered and given enough.

“Fucking out of here at the first available opportunity.” Roman delivered a healthy spit on the ground near the fire. “Gonna shave my head and wander around a silent commune. Reset my damn self.”

“And you, Dallas,” Drae called out. “Rafael D’Alessandro. Still planning to go home and work with Dad?”

Rafe’s gaze moved to the figure stalking in the shadows. It wouldn’t surprise Drae in the least if the muscle-bound giant ended up house hunting in Virginia. He couldn’t imagine the guy letting Domineau slip away without one hell of a fight.

“Invoking the Yoda Clause.” Rafe sniggered. “Can’t say for sure, Sinjin. The future is a work in progress, so who the fuck knows.”

Finally, he fixed Cam with a direct look. “Speak your truth, Jason. Is this shit a career, or are you ready to bounce?”

Jason’s response was instant and emphatic. “Nah, man. I’m done. Alex is all that matters. Wherever he ends up, that’s where you’ll find me.”

Drae’s head bobbed on its own as Cam spoke. It was always going to be him, Cam, and Alex.

“It’s settled then,” he said. “Losing Sloate and being without the Major brings the curtain down on Team Justice. The time has come.”

Everyone stood.

Acknowledging who they were and where this moment took place, Drae snapped to sharp attention and gave a crisp salute.

“A warrior’s farewell. Team Justice for life.”

The saluting vow moved from person to person. After a moment of heavy silence, they gathered in a group hug.

Emotion clogged Drae’s throat. All of them had tears in their eyes.

Team Justice version 1.0 was at an end. The future loomed large.

As everyone else drifted away, it was just he and Cam.

“You’ll establish a link with Cristián?” Cam asked in a rough murmur.

“On it.”

There didn’t seem like much else to say, so they doused the fire with dirt and headed into the darkness.

Tomorrow, he’d start disentangling from the military. Hopefully by this time next year, a new life would be in the making.

Justice 2.0