Chapter 17

THE REPAIR TRUCK PARKED out front was Tristan’s first clue that his run of bad luck hadn’t ended. The caution tape across the elevator doors and the out-of-order sign were the second and third. He pushed through the stairwell door and took the steps at a jog to Rossi headquarters on the fourth floor. He intended to complete his expense report and turn in his month-end billable timesheet then go home and sleep for a solid twelve hours. It wouldn’t make up for the deficit of the past week, but it was a start.

On his way home from Santa Barbara on Sunday night, he’d called Keiran for his next assignment. Then he’d done a U-turn and headed north as intel last placed the fugitive he was going after in Washington state. The skip had headed to his girlfriend’s house, the first place anyone would look, but he was gone by the time Tristan arrived. He’d given him a good chase from there. All the way to Nebraska, near McCook, where Tristan grew up before he caught up with him.

It had been a long drive home, especially with the skip in his back seat constantly complaining. Tristan managed to tune him out most of the time, awash in memories.

His postage stamp-sized hometown, nestled in the southwest corner of the state, was known for its friendly people, four shimmering prairie lakes, and a few historical markers dotting the landscape. Surrounding it were miles and miles of farmland, including the Rogers’ family farm, passed on from father to son for 120 years, until it ended with him.

Letting it go was one of his many regrets. His dad was probably still spinning in his grave that he’d sold his legacy outside of the family. He was in a dark place then, and his decisions weren’t sound.

Like letting Melissa go without a fight. They had been together for a decade. While on leave before everything went to shit, they talked about making it permanent, and he’d put a ring on her finger. But when he got home, everything was different, especially him. His brooding silences were hard for her to deal with, but it was the violent nightmares that truly troubled her, his shouts and thrashing jolting her awake night after night. He’d ended it, so she wouldn’t have to. He was seriously messed up and saw no reason to inflict his misery on her.

As time passed, he coped with his turbulent emotions—grief, anger, and especially guilt—by closing himself off, and turning to work to fill the empty hours.

By the third-floor landing, his legs felt like lead and he slowed to a walk. After ten days on the road with barely three hours of sleep per night, he was running on fumes.

He couldn’t blame the lack of sleep solely on the surprisingly elusive skip. Dreams had plagued him. Not the terrifying kind but the ones that left him drenched in sweat and shaken for a different reason. Every night, the sights, sounds, and sensations of his scene with Piper played out in vivid detail.

Afterward, he’d lie staring at the ceiling, waiting for his body to cool and his persistent hard-on to subside, often taking care of it when it wouldn’t. The few moments of physical release couldn’t mask the wounded look in her eyes from his deliberate indifference. She had offered to cook for him, dammit. Despite being tempted, like with everyone else, he pushed her away.

His solitary life suited him. With each passing year, he had a decreasing tolerance for other people. Working for Rossi, he couldn’t avoid them, but he liked and respected the men on his team, and the job allowed him to use his skills. The club was more social than he liked, but it offered an outlet for his creativity and allowed him to meet his physical needs. Only one thing brought him true peace since his time in Afghanistan—shibari. A calm came over him when working with the ropes. The smell of the natural fibers, the rough texture against his fingertips, and the intense focus required to the exclusion of everything else soothed his troubled mind and heart.

Piper had the potential to outshine Narissa. Blindfolded and restrained, she’d tuned into him in no time, displaying an unparalleled response for a beginner. He yearned to bind her in jute rather than metal, to fuck her while suspended, to test her limits and see where they could go together, but he had to resist. She’d want more than he could give, and she deserved so much better.

With a growl of frustration, he pushed through the steel door, walked down the short hall, and into the Rossi lobby. The receptionist looked up, a smile of greeting on her face, but she didn’t speak and returned to her typing. In his mood, it was understandable, really. Piper had a name for it—resting pissed face.

He huffed a little laugh, the seldom heard sound echoing through the empty hall as he walked to his rarely used office. The things she said sometimes made it hard to keep a straight face.

An hour later, after turning in his paperwork, clearing out his inbox, and reviewing the details of the new case assigned to him starting tomorrow, he shut down his computer and headed for the stairs.

He was almost to the door when he heard someone call, “Chief, is that you?”

With his hand on the door, Tristan turned, shocked to see Gary Mitchell, a teammate from his old unit, striding toward him.

He was a few years his junior. Nearly a decade ago, he’d seemed like a kid. Now he had a touch of silver at his temples.

“Mitch. It’s good to see you,” he said as he shook his outstretched hand.

“What are the odds of us crossing paths here?”

“Quite high,” Tristan replied, “since I work for Rossi.”

“No joke?” he asked in surprise. “I’m here for an interview. If things go well, we might end up on the same team again.”

Tristan nodded, genuinely pleased to see him doing well.

“I’m done here and have nothing planned for the rest of the day. Do you have time to grab a beer and catch up?”

“I would, under any other circumstances,” Tristan said, shocking himself by actually meaning it. Typically, he found reunions and reminiscing about the past about as appealing as having a root canal with no anesthesia. “I just returned from an out-of-state case. After ten days on the road, I’m completely out of steam.”

“Sure. We’ll do it next time,” Mitch suggested. “Maybe then we can have that beer as co-workers.”

“Should I put in a good word with the boss?”

“The interview went well, but that couldn’t hurt.” Mitch grinned his same old lopsided smile. “Thanks.”

They shook hands again, and Tristan opened the door. Then he remembered he’d taken a Rossi SUV to Santa Barbara and from there through five states after the skip.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“I live here now. I’ve got a place in Culver City.”

“That’s out my way. Could I trouble you for a ride? I don’t have my truck, and I’d hate to pass out behind the wheel of a company vehicle.”

“No problem. Glad to do my part in keeping you alive.” His response served as a solemn reminder he’d done his part once before.

The drive to his place at midday didn’t take long. He managed to stay awake mainly because Mitch was a talker. He thought he answered when asked a question, but he couldn’t be sure with memories triggered by seeing a teammate filling his head.

Afghanistan was hot, dusty, and dismal. In short, it was hell on Earth. Still, his team had been a cohesive group, and, in their downtime, or when on leave, they carved out a few good memories. But one event overshadowed everything.

Would he ever look at Mitchell or anyone from his unit and not see the horrors of that dark day eight years ago or the faces of the men they lost?

LATER THAT EVENING , needing to sleep but unable to, Tristan sat in the dark of his living room sipping a beer—his third—his mind on the failed mission.

It seemed like any other hot summer day in southern Afghanistan. A light breeze blew, which would have been welcome if it didn’t bring fine particles of dust and sand along with it. No matter how much he showered, he couldn’t remove the grit.

Their mission that day was to escort a convoy of humanitarian aid workers and a medical team to a village in the Kandahar Province, in desperate need of food and medicine after recently being liberated from enemy hands.

They were five clicks out when chaos erupted. A barrage of bullets dinged off their armored vehicles. Tristan and his team were safe, but the same wasn’t true about the volunteers in that ambulance or canvas-top truck. And the insurgents didn’t give a damn about the giant red cross emblazoned on both.

Their captain’s orders came almost instantly. “Flank and return fire.”

The driver didn’t hesitate before moving up into position, as Tristan and the other five men piled out. For what seemed like an eternity but wasn’t more than a few minutes, they took on enemy fire, bullets whizzing by their heads, kicking up dirt and debris. And they gave as good as they got, to protect the civilians in their care.

The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder when the call came, “Cap’s been hit!”

“What’s his status?” Tristan demanded.

“A bullet to the head. He’s gone, Chief.”

Cursing erupted from the men surrounding him. With the continued bombardment, they didn’t have time to grieve the man and the leader most of them had served under for years. That would come later. It was now up to Tristan, the highest-ranking NCO and second-in-command, to get the rest of them through this alive.

“Foster. Get on the horn with the CO in the village,” he directed his communications sergeant. “Have him send what help he can. And contact command. Tell them we need air support.”

“Roger that, Chief.”

As the battle raged on, his ears rang from the rapid pop-pop-pops of automatic rifles and the click-click-boom of grenade launchers. Despite their best efforts, the enemy was gaining ground because he and his men were both outnumbered and outgunned, their mobility severely hampered by the civilians they had to protect. They also had limited ammo, each round fired shrinking their chances of making it out of this alive.

“Where’s our air support?” he shouted through his headset.

“Command said they’re twenty minutes out.”

Tristan cursed under his breath. Twenty minutes was an eternity when under attack. “And the platoon in the village? Where the fuck are they?”

“They’re taking fire too,” Foster said grimly.

The sudden mantle of responsibility weighed on him. Every decision he made could mean the difference between life and death for his unit and eighteen innocent civilians, primarily volunteers. When Tristan glanced around, he could see their fear and the grim determination etched on the faces of his teammates, despite fighting against overwhelming odds.

“What’s the plan, Chief?” Nolan shouted over the din. “We can’t hold them off much longer!”

Using his field glasses, Tristan surveyed the rise where the enemy positioned themselves for the attack. The stretch of land between them was dotted with red markers.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Undetonated ordinance and land mines were a risk throughout the war-ravaged country, some dating back to the soviet invasion. Traversing a marked field took time they didn’t have and required not being shot at.

He made a split-second decision. “We’ll split up and attack from their flanks. They’ll have no choice but to move forward into the minefield or retreat.”

Without Cap, there were eleven of them. Four held the line of defense, providing cover. His best sniper was on the move, getting into position. Nolan circled left with two men, and he went right with two others. Once they signaled readiness, Tristan issued the attack order.

He didn’t know how long the battle raged. His ears rang from the constant report of gunfire, grenades exploding, the crack of Mitchell’s sniper rifle reverberating in the distance, and the always gruesome scream when someone got hit. Luckily, not any of his men.

“They’re retreating,” he heard through his earpiece. “What’s left of the bastards.”

“Hold your fire,” he ordered his small team.

They stopped, straining to listen. Then they looked up, hearing the hum and prop whirr of A-29s in the distance.

“Better late than fucking never,” one of his men muttered, the sentiment hanging heavy in the dusty, smoke-filled air.

“They’ve confirmed they’re bugging out,” Foster radioed in.

“Prepare to move out,” Tristan ordered while his two front-line teams doubled back. As they jogged double time, he gave more orders. “Contact the CO in the village for a status. We need shelter and more manpower if they come back with reinforcements.”

“On it, Chief,” Foster promptly responded. “But you need to get here asap.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing, “It’s Nolan...”

He didn’t have to say more. Tristan knew from his tone. Dread knotted in his gut. “How bad is it?” he asked, already at a flat-out run.

Receiving no answer, he repeated in a shout, “How bad?”

“It’s a chest wound. Two of the docs are working on him. It doesn’t look good.”

He ran the fastest mile of his life. Ignoring the blood pooling on the hard-packed ground, he dropped to his knees beside Nolan and gripped his hand when he reached for him.

“A straggler...got me...on the way back,” he said between gasps and weak coughs.

“Don’t talk,” Tristan urged. “Save your strength.”

He glanced at the trauma surgeon who was working to stabilize Nolan. Grim-faced, he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Pain pierced Tristan’s chest as if he’d been shot, too.

“Tell Lydia I love her,” his long-time friend rasped, his breath shallow and ragged, and the crimson stain spreading on his pale lips a grim testament to his fading strength.

“Tell her yourself,” Tristan growled, gripping his hand harder. “You’re not dying in this godforsaken place.”

“Hug AJ for me.” Nolan grimaced in obvious physical pain, but his next words bespoke the emotional anguish as well. “Never got to see my boy.”

Fucking hell, it wasn’t fair.

His eyelids fluttered shut, and Tristan implored, “Stay with me, bud. Don’t give up.”

“Watch out for them. Lydia will need...a strong shoulder.” His voice trailed off, and his eyelids fluttered shut.

“Dammit, soldier. No one dismissed you,” Tristan roared when the hand in his went limp.

“The bullet clipped a major artery,” the surgeon told him quietly. “I’m sorry there wasn’t more we could do.”

With a smothering sense of loss, he knelt beside Nolan’s lifeless body.

Fucking war! They had driven back the insurgents, saving the medical team and aid workers, but lost two good men in the process.

“Chief, you’re bleeding. Were you hit?”

He glanced up at the doctor, who nodded at his left shoulder. He followed his gaze to his blood-soaked sleeve. “It’s nothing.” The only pain he felt was the fire searing through his chest.

“We’ll take care of Nolan,” Foster said, sounding as raspy as he did. “Get your shoulder looked after before you bleed out, too. Speaking for the men, we refuse to lose our captain, master sergeant, and chief on the same fucking day.”

HIS THROAT DRY AND tight, Tristan put the bottle to his lips. Finding it empty, he slammed it onto the side table. He ran his hands down his face, trying to shake off the flood of memories. Even now, years later, he could still hear the gunfire echoing in his head, see the pain ravaging Nolan’s face, and smell the blood—so very much of it.

He thought he had everything locked down tight. But today, seeing Mitchell out of the blue had triggered the unresolved anger seething within him—and the guilt.

Their losses that day left the ten remaining men completely gutted. They persevered because what other choice did they have? Under the leadership of a new captain, and with a new operations sergeant assigned to their unit, they continued the fight in a war that had stretched on for nearly two decades with no end in sight. But their once-cohesive team had forever changed that day.

One by one, the men moved on with transfers or promotions, many returning to civilian life. Tristan stayed in another two years, finishing his term but not re-upping for another.

There had been an inquiry. The orders he’d given were confirmed as the best course of action. He and his surviving teammates, who’d fought like hell and saved many innocent lives that day, had received commendations. But a medal couldn’t assuage his guilt and anguish, and it sure as hell didn’t help him forget standing at attention at Nolan’s funeral, his eyes burning, his throat constricted, making it almost impossible to swallow.

When the guns had fired, and his friend’s widow wept, he made a vow. To never let himself become so deeply attached to anyone again—it hurt too damn much. He’d kept his promise to Nolan, and sure enough, Lydia and AJ had burrowed under his skin. He would always be there for them, but with a new man in her life, he could and should step back.

That would leave him even more alone.

“But that’s how you want it,” he whispered to his empty apartment—and even emptier life.

Pushing to his feet, he strode to the kitchen and grabbed another beer. He twisted the cap, flipped it into the trash, and sucked the bottle dry. It didn’t numb the pain, ease his guilt, or fill the hollow place in his gut and his heart, but he knew Lydia was right. What happened sucked, as did the perpetual dark clouds hanging over his head.