CHAPTER NINETEEN
Riggs
Three years earlier.
The Afghan heat stifled the air, even inside the Humvee. The vehicle jostled over the rocks along the dirt road barely visible among the shimmering rays emitting from the ground. Renner Shaw’s focus as he drove was on the wheels of the Humvee in front, everyone in full field gear.
“How much longer?” Riggs asked from the gunner seat. “My ass is going numb.” He might as well have been sitting on a concrete slab covered in needles. His position on gun in the open-aired turret was one of the most crucial. First line of defense.
Dorian West manned the radio in the front passenger seat. “Just around this bend. How are we looking, Murph?”
Murphy scanned the horizon and surrounding ridges checking for insurgents or other unfriendlies. T-man, or Taliban, specifically. “We’re lookin’ like a cherry-covered prostitute for the vultures out here, sir.”
Riggs wanted to snort, but he knew better. Not with their executive officer on the line in the other Humvee. He wiped his brow, sweat pouring from his soaked hair under the tactical helmet. All this effort for three small tribal leaders to negotiate peace. Apparently as remote as they were, these groups were highly coveted assets in the region. Could offer the best chance for influencing those around them if they came together as a joint alliance behind the same goal. Or at least behind a meaningful truce.
The front car carried their XO and sole translator, after their last one had gone missing. Not unusual in this part of the world. Made doing their jobs that much more difficult.
“Scan that ridge line again,” Dorian ordered. “We’re going to dip behind this bank, then only a klick away to target.”
“Copy,” Murphy replied.
The wheels skidded off path, and Riggs banged his head on the side shield. “Shit!”
Renner fought to square it off. “Squirrel.” The man’s personal twisted expression for avoiding a possible IED. Part of standard procedures when driving in the sandbox.
“Two-one to Two-two, report,” came their XO’s voice on the radio. Obviously, he’d seen the maneuver in the rearview mirror.
“Two-two all clear. We’re good.”
They jostled around the final bend, and the tribal village came into view. A few dirt packed shacks huddled together that blended in with the landscape. A longer hut on the outskirt had a dark cut of fabric hanging from the small entrance.
The first Humvee in their convoy pulled up a dozen yards away from the group of huts. The two doors opened, and their XO stepped out with the translator and driver. He looked their way, only a hundred yards behind.
“Streets are empty,” Murph announced from under Riggs feet. “Could be good or bad."
Riggs snorted. “They’re all at happy hour. What I wouldn’t give for a siesta.”
“I dream of tequila,” Renner added as he maneuvered around the last pile of rocks.
“Look alive, boys. Keep your guns down,” Dorian ordered. “Mission here is support and protect.”
“Hoorah.” The team said in unison.
Before Riggs descended from his chair, the translator walked up to a tribal elder, the XO beside him. A faint hiss came from somewhere behind them, and their XO looked up.
The hiss increased, so loud, but too fast for him to react.
The whole group of buildings exploded in a fire ball.
The blast of heat scorched Riggs’ face.
He ducked down in the turret, waiting for the inevitable blast to reach their car. Tear his limbs off. Because this was surely the end.
The roaring caught up with the searing heat, deafening and world consuming. Debris careened into the shield around his gunner seat, several pieces pinging off his helmet.
He lifted his gaze. Dirt and dust hung in the air as chunks of the hut fell around them. Among body parts, weapons, and a helmet. The helmet rolled across the hood of the Humvee, and revealed their XO’s shredded face.
Orders screamed through the radio, a crackling high-pitched voice, one impossible for Riggs to decipher. The roaring in his ears was too loud. He gripped the MK19 and squeezed the trigger, firing continuously into the ball of smoke and fire in front of him.
The vehicle turned off the path, and sped down the rocky path, away from the blast. But Riggs’ seat turned easily keeping the hundreds of rounds trained on the threat.
Voices bellowed through the radio, but they didn’t make sense. More debris fell around him, half a weapon with an arm still attached.
He glanced at his torso to make sure it wasn’t his arm. Or from those inside his own vehicle. He still had both arms.
Rocks pinged off the Humvee. Then more, faster and harder. They finally registered in his brain as gunfire.
“Contact, ten o’clock!” Murphy yelled.
Riggs reacted on instinct, swirled the turret around, and fired at the row of insurgent fighters racing down the ridge in jeeps and land cruisers, all carrying M16’s.
“Sniper! One o’clock on the ridge!” Renner kept his head low, even though inside the bullet proof shielding.
Dorian called in on the radio for an evac and airstrike, but command response drowned out behind the repetitive fire.
Minutes felt like hours as they continued to fight off the insurgents and outrun their vehicles. The bastards had to be running out of fuel at this point, with how long it took their own caravan to get out here. Not to mention, Riggs was running low on ammo.
Eventually, command came through the radio with their extraction point and time. Not nearly soon enough for the team. They’d be singing Hail Mary’s for St. Peter by then, or perhaps for the devil himself.
One of the land cruisers burst into flames from Riggs’ shot, hitting the fuel tank just right.
Murphy took out a few men in the other vehicles, but they were still outnumbered by the time they reached the extraction point.
A sniper shot took out their front wheel, and then a rear wheel.
Renner steered the vehicle as best he could behind a large hill of rocks. “We're FUBAR,” he announced.
Everyone piled out, gripping their AR’s and using the side as shielding. They didn’t have long before the cars circled them.
The heavenly sound of chopper blades thumped overhead. Their rescue helicopter. Finally.
Enemy fire merged on the rotor head.
The chopper opened fire on the ridge line.
The team was pinned down against the Humvee.
Murphy reared back after a ricochet skimmed his face. Blood trickled down his chin. “Run for the bird!” he screamed. Then positioned behind the shield, and fired. Picking off more insurgents.
Their team ran ahead to the chopper, now poised over the hill.
Renner jumped in first, followed by Dorian. They reached down to grab Riggs’ hands, and swung him inside.
More shots slammed into the side of the chopper.
Renner and Dorian fired back along with the chopper gun, but the pilot maneuvered the bird around to a better position.
To pick up their last member. Too high off the ground.
Riggs lay on the floor, reaching down for Murphy.
His friend fired behind him as he clambered over the rocks to get into position.
“Reach up!” Riggs yelled.
Murphy dropped the rifle, letting it dangle around his neck, and reached up. He jumped. His hands wrapped around Riggs’ wrists.
He yanked up with all his might, and pulled his friend onto the skid. His friend’s eyes were wide, full of adrenaline.
“FUBAR just went FUBAR,” his friend quipped.
“Shut up, and get in here,” Riggs barked, his grip tight.
Then Murphy’s body jerked. His hands loosened. Then he jolted again and again. His pupils dilated, and the thumping around them intensified.
Dorian and Renner screamed behind him.
A vicious sting ripped into Riggs’ shoulder. He fell back from the force. Dragging Murphy’s body over him.
Skylar
“They tried CPR, but Murphy was gone.” Riggs lay bare chested on her couch, the room dim surrounded by the apple scented candles.
She draped over his body and let her warmth reheat his chilled skin. His heart beat in a steady rhythm under her ear.
He caressed her head, his voice breaking toward the end, especially on Murphy’s name.
Skylar closed her eyes, holding her breath. After she’d shared her story of flying toes in the operating room, no wonder he’d turned pale all those nights ago.
“I found out later it wasn’t a bomb,” he continued. “It was a drone strike. Friendly fire, meant for the fighters we ran into.”
She shook her head against his chest.
The muscles in his body had tensed underneath her as he told his story, as if remembering the pain.
“After that, we rotated home. No peace accord signed, no alliance. Fighting grew worse in the region. They offered me Murphy’s flag at his funeral, since his family was gone. They offered our squad various combat medals, but I gave mine to Dorian, along with Murphy’s flag.”
Skylar knew better than to say those words. They didn’t offer comfort. They were a cop out. The silence she offered urged him on.
“The next few months of physical therapy didn’t go well. I wasn’t healing as fast as I wanted. Completely discouraged. Dorian and Renner came by as often as they could, but I was too angry. I almost wished I hadn’t come home.”
“I’m glad you came home,” she muttered.
His arms tightened around her. “One night, Renner convinced me to watch this comedy special. A bunch of veterans-turned-comedians. For those two hours, I forgot all about my rage. I didn’t feel useless or helpless. Life had a purpose at that point. To make people feel good.”
She smiled against his chest, and lifted up on her elbow to see his face.
From the veins in his neck and temple, Riggs was clearly tortured as he remembered the pain. But his eyes and expression still so unbelievably handsome.
“Sadly, I’m no comedian.” His hands trailed down her back, lingering just above the curve of her ass. “But I’m very good at other ways of making someone feel good.”
Yes, he is.
“You make me laugh. The king of corny lines. That’s something.”
Finally, his touch moved lower to her bottom, cupping her, and his fingers brushing closely to the junction between. “I hope I do more than that.”
“I can make your heart skip a beat. I’m certified to do it.”
He kissed her bottom lip. “I hope you passed CPR, ‘cause you took my breath away.”
“Ooh, even better. I’m an expert at mouth to mouth.”
He brushed her hair back. “I’ve got one more stellar line.”
“Lay it on me.”
His voice turned serious. “Do you have a bandage? I scraped my knee falling in love with you.”
Skylar gasped, the space between them evaporating with her last resolve. “Do you mean that?”
“Which part?” His eyes twinkled.
“You know damn well which part.” She reached lower to exam his knee.
He fluttered his mouth along her lips. “I love you, Skylar.”
Well, damn.
So much for keeping things casual.
She kissed him, long, slow, building into a fervent need. “If you need a heart, I’ll give you mine.”