Whoever was hitting the base of his skull with a hammer was about to lose their life. Just as soon as he could move.
“Get up, asshole.” Sam. “We’ve got work to do.”
Lifting the arm thrown over his gritty eyes, Ash glared at his so-called friend. “Be nice or I’ll puke all over your Cole Haan oxfords. Fucking pretty boy shoes.”
The foot that landed on his chest wasn’t wearing a designer dress shoe. The nudge was from a well-loved pair of tactical boots. “Let’s go, Coleson. We’ve got armed militia holding seventeen hostages and our contact at the DOD’s pissed you’re not answering your phone. Time’s ticking.”
He sat up, but gripped the edge of the sofa when his office spun. “Somebody turn this merry-go-round from hell off.”
“You think he’s still drunk or did that twelve-hour nap sober him up?”
Beck answered Sam’s question. “He’s finally sober, but let’s give him a water gun, just in case. If anything, it’ll be entertaining. Can’t wait to watch him reload.”
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here.” He ran a hand down his face, feeling a week’s growth of beard.
“Sorry, sir,” came Beck’s amused reply. “I’m sure your accuracy with a Super Soaker is awe-inspiring. And considering your jovial mood? I’d say you’re one hundred percent sober. Back to normal.”
“Christ, you jokers talk loud. I’m gonna go sleep at the public library.” A bottle of Gatorade landed in his lap, narrowly missing a sensitive target, and Ash scowled. “Your aim sucks.”
“No,” the former SEAL replied casually, “your balls are too small. Sir.”
Beck and Sam’s combined laughter induced the hammering again, and he stood, taking inventory. Did his mouth feel like a cat pissed in it during the night? Check. Was his head a pin drop away from exploding? Check. Could the acid churning in his gut melt a Buick? Check.
Had he really thrown away the best thing that ever happened to him because he was an egotistical jerk with a chip on his shoulder and abandonment issues? Check.
After chugging the entire bottle of florescent green liquid at once, Ash wiped a hand across his mouth and hung his head.
“Time to roll, brother.” Sam clapped his shoulder. “Bad guys still gonna bad, even though you’re a hot mess.”
He shook off the cobwebs from a five-day drunk and hit his private bathroom. A scalding hot shower, a half dozen aspirin, and a gallon of water later, he was suited up and grabbing his range bag, the weapons ready to go on a moment’s notice.
“Don’t need those,” Sam said. “We’re flying commercial to Utah. Turns out, Provo’s a hotbed for terrorist activity.”
Something wasn’t right about this mission. First, they weren’t taking any heavy assignments right now. Ali was due yesterday. Second, flying commercial meant relying on outside sources for weapons. Less than ideal.
“I need a full briefing, Sammy.” And the liquor-induced fog to recede.
“In the car,” he replied, walking through the lobby where Beck, Mike, Nolan, and Grady waited.
They followed Sam out single file, Ash picking up the rear.
Carrie held the door, wishing each man a personal farewell. Another oddity. “Good luck,” she said to Sam. Grady got a compliment. “Stay safe, handsome.” Beck and Nolan each got a wink, along with a suggestion. “Try not to mess up those pretty faces, boys.” Mike got an air kiss and a stern order. “Don’t die.”
When Ash passed by, he tensed, prepared for anything. “I hope a Greyhound bus full of scorned women kidnap you, strap a vice on your balls, and make you drink prune juice until you have shit coming out your mouth.”
Well, that was a lovely sentiment. His most loyal guard dog had chosen Team Olivia, not happy with his recent behavior.
She could get in line.
Piling into a shiny black Suburban with Grady at the wheel, Sam briefed Ash on the surprise mission.
“There’s a group of armed militia who’ve taken a rural community center outside Provo hostage. Seventeen people, including a Utah senator.”
Black sunglasses eased the pain from the sun, but damned if Grady didn’t hit every bump in the road. A hundred push-ups after his shower had gotten the blood pumping, but the aspirin had yet to kick in. “If there’s a government official involved, why call us?”
“Given the bad press the FBI’s received on their hasty handling of similar situations, they’ve decided to outsource. We’ve been reviewing all relevant data for the last ten hours, putting together a game plan.”
Pissed at his selfish bender, Ash nodded, knowing the level of planning required to guarantee a positive outcome.
“I’ve coordinated with the local Sheriff,” Sam added. “Initiated taps on the phone lines and Internet running in and out of the center. Nothing of note yet. Here’s what we know about the players.”
He handed Ash background checks for the six militia members, as well as any interesting history on the known hostages. Scanning them, he saw nothing justifying an entire team effort. Six on six? This was hardly a fair fight. Had Ash been in charge, he would’ve grabbed Beck and headed out.
Guzzling more water, a flash of blonde hair in the car next to them caught his eye, and he pictured Liv, lonely and broken in his rearview mirror. Stomach cramping, he swallowed back the bile. Maybe he’d order a half dozen vodka shooters and put himself back to sleep.
Two hours later—sans vodka—he inhaled the thin mountain air of Utah, feeling almost human. In a near carbon copy rental of the black SUV, Sam drove an hour into the remote wilderness, meeting up with a former Marine who dabbled in the arms trade.
Donning their operational uniforms, the gear pitch black to blend in with the night, they ran through the plan again, Sam throwing out potential roadblocks to ensure a successful mission. The Sheriff’s office would start a fire to create a diversion for any media outlets catching wind of the standoff, Scorpio would go in and subdue the six militia, and the deputies would follow to remove the hostages. They’d be back in San Diego before dawn.
Cake.
It was only when Sam handed each man his preferred hand gun and assault rifle that Ash put the pieces of the odd mission together. The assortment of firearms, including his favored 9mm and M-4 assault rifle, were plugged with yellow plastic. Not live rounds.
This was a drill.
Ash’s blood boiled. “What the fuck, Sam?”
A drill wasn’t unusual. Sam keeping him in the dark was.
“Just getting your head on straight. This is the only way.”
Looking at each of the guy’s black-painted faces, he saw only stony concentration and laser focus. No different than a real mission. Training was vital to maintaining a peak physical and mental condition, and in their military careers, they’d run just as many drills as real-world operations. Scorpio was the same. Sometimes the guys knew ahead of time, sometimes they didn’t. Both Ash and Sam always knew.
This set a precedence.
But yellow caps or not, they were running the op as a real-time event.
Hustling through wooded terrain on silent feet, he gave Beck a questioning look, getting an apologetic nod in return. He and Sam cooked this up to whip him back into shape.
Once at the community center, located three klicks from the evac point, their plan went exactly as Sam laid out. If live fire had been involved, they would’ve eliminated every militia member—or captured, pending instructions from the company hiring them—without harming a single hostage. The operation was flawless, playing out without fault.
Until the last shots were fired—from Ash’s weapon.
Checking the basement of the structure, Ash called the all-clear in his headset and scaled the rickety steps on ghost feet, slinking along the wall as he headed toward the rally point. A dark shadow crossed his periphery, and he pivoted to his right, firing the 9mm instinctively, taking a two-tap insurance shot. One bullet might wound, two would kill.
A flood of florescent light blinded him as somebody hit the switches, lighting up the vacant building used for police and military training, the walls made of plywood, the bad guys made of cardboard. Thick dust filled his nose and stars swam in front of him when he whipped off his NVG’s.
Once his vision cleared, he almost dropped to his knees.
Beck, the dark shadow Ash had mistaken for the enemy and shot twice, stood there, just as dazed. Not harmed in any way, but stunned at his boss’s fatal mistake.
Running a hand down his torso, Beck automatically checked himself for hits. “Needed that like I needed a hole in the head.”
“Christ, why the fuck didn’t you report your location?” Turning in circles, Ash palmed the top of his head, taking in heavy gulps of thin air as the other four shuffled in.
“On your right. I identified my location twice, the second time as you cleared the top step. On your right.” Methodically recalling the previous ninety seconds for Sam, Beck searched for an excuse to cover Ash’s tail. “Maybe background noise filtered my mic.”
“If you said it, you said it,” Ash shot back, thunderstruck by his deadly error. “Don’t fucking sugarcoat it to make me feel better.”
He looked at each of them, all wearing the same state-of-the-art headsets and mics set to the same frequency, and they nodded, verifying Beck’s recollection. On your right.
Throwing his helmet against the wall with the force of a fast ball, it rattled to the floor as he threaded his fingers through his hair, tugging in frustration.
“Let’s go,” Sam ordered. “We’ll regroup in the car.”
The guys followed his order, but Ash turned away, pacing as the implications set in. If this had been real, Beck would be dead.
By his hands.
“I’ve never seen you this bad, Ash. Even when Scorpio opened and you’d shut yourself up in that office for days at a time, you were still focused. Anti-social to the max, but I’ve never known you any different.” Sam clapped a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Get it figured out with Olivia or continue to be a dumbass, I don’t care either way, just stop shooting our employees, okay? Our insurance will skyrocket.”
Picking up the helmet, he handed it to Ash and gave him a shove, forcing him toward the evac point.
Sam’s vest pocket buzzed as they exited the structure. “Hey, babe. How you holding up? Want me to bring home mint chocolate chip?”
Ash’s disgusted snort echoed off the forest walls, and he shook his head when Sam glared. No outside contact was allowed during a mission, drill or not, no exceptions. Now wasn’t the time for a personal call from the wife.
Especially when his own wasn’t speaking to him.
“Yeah? How long do you think?” Sam’s easy jog sped up as he checked his watch. “Okay, no problem. On my way.”
When he pocketed the phone, Ash threw him a smirk, keeping pace as they dodged trees and crossed uneven land at a dead run. “What, no sappy goodbye? No cheesy back and forth over who should hang up first?” Using his best girly voice, he mocked Sam. “No, you hang up first. No, you. Oh, my gawd, no, you.”
A broad smile split Sam’s face, the jab missing its mark. “Change of plans. We’re flying home private.”
“Yeah? Why don’t we order champagne and caviar while we’re at it? It’s not like I just fucking killed Beck or anything.” His blood pressure raged.
“Ali’s in labor. Holy shit, Ash.” Sam laughed, the botched mission forgotten. “I’m about to be somebody’s dad.”
And instead of being happy for his best friend and business partner, instead of sharing in his nervous excitement during the rush to get him to the hospital, Ash felt only one sharp, stabbing, and shameful emotion.
Envy.
Two weeks had passed since Marshall’s funeral.
Since he’d seen her beautiful face.
Since he could look at his own in the mirror.
He hadn’t been home since then either, but he knew she was there. Keeping her word and not running. Waiting for him, like he’d waited for her. A quick drive-by each night to see the lights on and her shadow in the window fed the wounded beast inside him.
Smart enough to figure out his motivation behind the ugly ultimatum, though it had taken the week following Utah and a bottle of Wild Turkey to do so, Ash knew he was testing her. Seeing how far he could push before she’d retreat, or if she’d stick around, proving the past was really behind them and her love was strong enough to endure another hardship.
The sound of keys unlocking the double doors to the suite surprised him. It was Sunday and the guys were off, leaving him to wallow in his misery alone. Tapping his keyboard, the screens on his desk went dark, and he leaned back in the chair, running a hand down his face.
Familiar footsteps sounded in the hall before Sam poked his head into Ash’s office. “Hey. What, are you living here now? Jesus, you look like shit. Go home to your wife.”
“Thanks. Shit’s the look I’m aiming for. The outside can match the inside. And you shouldn’t be here, either.”
Ali had given birth with Sam by her side, twenty-one hours after her phone call. He’d been in the office minimally since.
“Thought I’d show this little lady around,” he said, swinging the door open, a baby carrier in his other hand. “Annabelle, meet Uncle Ash. He might be grouchy and a little scary, but he’ll teach you everything you ever wanted to know about counterterrorism.” Lifting the alert newborn up, he grinned. “Ash, meet Annabelle. One of my two reasons for living.”
Ash didn’t have a choice. He looked at the tiny girl, just shy of six days old, knowing it would hurt.
And it did. It hurt like a motherfucker. He’d crash landed in a Blackhawk in Yemen, evading capture with a ruptured spleen and six broken ribs, and it hadn’t hurt this bad.
Her entire head smaller than his hand, she was a scant little thing wrapped in a blanket with rainbows on it. And cute, too, though he had little to compare her to.
“Christ, Sammy, are you sure she doesn’t need another week or so in the oven? There’s nothing to her.”
Sam laughed. “Fully cooked, the pediatrician says. And seven pounds is a respectable weight. Eats like a pot-bellied pig.” Setting the carrier on the floor next to the desk, he pulled out a chair and sat, slouching. “Thought I’d give Ali and Pete a break for a few hours. Let them take a nap in silence. Even the dog is sleep deprived.”
Looking down at the pint-sized person, Sam’s grin returned, and he shook his head in amazement, sheer joy written all over him.
Ash reached into his bottom desk drawer, pulling out a brown paper sack stuffed in the back. The plain bag had no markings, but was worn soft from handling, both time and travel showing in the creased edges.
He handed it to Sam.
“What’s this?” Paper rustled as he opened it, peering inside.
Ash’s head tilted toward the floor, but he didn’t look at the baby. “For your pork chop.”
Staring at him in question, he pulled out a square of pink cashmere. “A baby blanket?”
The handmade blanket was pure pashmina, woven by a craggy-faced woman in a village in Pokhara, Nepal. Fingers gnarled by a lifetime of weaving, she’d sold him the lightweight wrap at a street market just over four years ago. Lasting a lifetime, the high-quality wool could be handed down for generations. Speaking only Sherpa, the woman’s grandson translated, asking him about the purchase. When the boy relayed Ash’s answer, the old woman smiled, a road map of winkles grooving her face as she replied. “A gift for your baby daughter. That is good,” the boy repeated in broken English. “One day she gives to her own child. A gift passed down from her father.”
Clenching his jaw, Ash organized the files on his desk alphabetically and lined up the ink pens by size and color, overcome by the memory.
“Where’d you get this?” Sam questioned, knowing the fine piece of goods came from his time overseas. “Morocco?”
“Nepal.”
Confused, he glanced up. “You bought a pink cashmere baby wrap in Nepal? You haven’t been to Nepal since The Unit.”
Spinning a paperclip in circles, Ash considered moving to the window ledge.
“Do you think we deserve to be punished for what we did?”
Sam hesitated. “You mean like the universe having a checks and balances system? Law of attraction, reap what you sow, kind of thing?” When Ash nodded, he shook his head. “No. We did what we had to, what we signed up for and were paid to do. Making the world a little less dangerous, one scumbag at a time. It’s what we still do.”
At Ash’s pointed silence, Sam went for blunt. “You gotta forgive yourself, Ash. Absolution comes from within, not anywhere else.” He tapped his chest. “We’re all worthy of it. And we’re worthy of happiness, too. Even you.”
He nodded, not completely convinced. History had taught him otherwise.
“Thank you,” Sam added in a rough voice, folding the pashmina and sliding it back into the bag. “Ali will probably cry and want to hug you. It’s best not to fight her. And I’m still waiting to know why you bought such a thing so many years ago.”
Mewling sounds came from the floor, but the newborn quieted when Sam tucked the rainbows tighter and set the carrier rocking. The tender, paternal gesture, from a former Army Ranger he’d raided Al-Qaeda and ISIS fighter camps with, validated his re-gift.
A tiny, deeply loved girl would sleep under the treasured pashmina. Just not his girl.
And with a lump in this throat, he finally told Sam who the other person in his marriage was. “I had a daughter once, too.”