Chapter Two

Doc

Four Years Ago

I reach for the glass of whiskey, but a massive hand snatches it away.

"What the fuck?" I'm drunk enough not to care that the guy towering over me is the size of a mountain. My punch sails past his bald, scarred head. I lose my balance, the barstool crashes to the ground, and my ass hits the sticky floor a second later.

By the time I lurch to my feet, the fucker's drained the last of my drink. A wad of bills lands on the bar top. "He's cut off. Permanently."

"Whaa...? Who you do think are—goddammit. Who do you think you are?" I slur. Trying a different tactic, I slap my hands against his chest in a futile attempt to get him the hell out of my way.

He reaches for a thermos sitting on the bar and slides it in front of me. "Coffee. Drink it, and we'll talk."

"Shove it up your ass and I'll go back to my whiskey a happy man."

In the dim lights of Slade's—one of the sleezier pubs at the edge of downtown—the hulking man is nothing but scars and shadows, dressed all in black, his long-sleeved t-shirt straining over muscles that belong in a steroid ad. Cold eyes peer down at me. I must be worse off than I thought. I can't tell what color they are. Blue? Green? Hazel?

I blink hard, waiting for him to say something. Or deck me. He's angry enough. But he merely crosses his arms over his chest and waits.

"I don't care how big you are, asshole. I was Air Force Pararescue. You want a fight, I'll give you one."

He snorts. "I did ten years in the Special Forces, Fly Boy. And any PJ worth their salt knows size doesn't mean shit in a fight. Sobriety, on the other hand..."

"I'm not that drunk."

"Bullshit." Special Forces plucks the thermos from the bar and jerks his head toward the door. "You want to test me? Come on. I'll humor you. But we're not doing it in here. Even if this place would look better with some...redecorating."

The bartender extends his middle finger at the man, who returns the gesture with an honest-to-God growl before heading for the door.

I am drunk enough to follow him, though the voice in my head knows it's a mistake. I'll be lucky to walk away with my life. Or the use of my legs. But my pride won't let me ignore the asshole.

Outside, purple streaks paint the sky. Summer days in Seattle last forever, but the sun's close to the horizon. Shit. I hadn't realized how late it was. I started drinking at five.

"I didn't pay my tab..."

"It's closed," the man says. With a flick of his fingers, he sends my credit card tumbling to the ground at my feet. "You're welcome."

Lunging for him, I almost manage to brush his arm before he sidesteps me with the grace of a dancer. My knees slam into the asphalt. "Goddammit."

"We can stop any time, Doc."

Doc?

"How do you know I'm a doctor?"

The guy's rough laugh grates on me. "I know everything about you. Even the name your parents gave you. The one you paid to have erased from all your government records." He offers me his hand, and I stare at it for a long moment before he shakes his head, grabs my elbow, and hauls me up.

"You were born Ga?—"

"Don't say it, asshole," I snap. "No one's called me…that…in twenty years."

"Have it your way. Doc. You graduated from the University of Michigan Ann Arbor Medical School at twenty-four. But rather than residency, you opted for the Air Force. Probably because your grandfather was a career fly boy and he passed away in your fourth year.

"After Basic, you fought your way right into the Pipeline. Made it through on your first try. Impressive. A year into your third re-enlistment, you were shot down over the Al-Faw peninsula trying to save a frogman with altitude sickness. The docs were convinced you'd spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair, but you proved them wrong when you walked out of Walter Reed two months later without even a cane. How am I doing so far?"

I stare at the man who knows more about me than half the guys I served with.

"Who the fuck are you? Most of that is classified way above any Special Forces pay grade."

"Ryker McCabe. But if you breathe that name to anyone, you'll regret it. I could end you in a heartbeat and not lose a wink of sleep over it."

"Lunatic," I mutter and pat my pockets, searching for my phone. "I'm done with this conversation. Thanks to you, I have to find a new bar. Don't follow me."

McCabe arches a thick, light brown brow bisected by a jagged scar. "Looking for this, Doc?"

My mobile dangles from his fingers.

"Hand it over."

I'm six-three, but this asshole has at least half a foot on me. He holds the phone aloft, and I have no hope of reaching it. "I went to a lot of trouble—and expense—to find you, Doc. Hear me out. If you tell me to fuck off when I'm done, I'll drop you at any bar in town with enough cash to pay your tab for a month. You can disappear into a bottle for the rest of your life—however long it lasts—and never see me again."

We face off with one another for a full minute before my shoulders slump. I should walk away. But when was the last time I was curious enough to care. About...anything?

Ten years? Fifteen? Not since my last mission with the PJs. This McCabe asshole knows how to get a man's attention.

"I guess I'll take that coffee now."

"You honestly expect me to agree to this?" In the distance, one of the island ferries streaks across Elliot Bay. McCabe drove us to a park overlooking the water in Sunset Hill. The houses here are worth millions. There's no one around, and I should be worried he's about to murder me where he can easily dispose of the body. Instead, I'm slouched against the back of the bench. Almost…relaxed.

"Yes."

He cracks his knuckles one at a time. A single pop. Then another. And another. My gaze never leaves his fingers. Three of them aren't straight. Broken at least once in the past. Maybe more. Not set properly. Burn scars slash across his left hand. The right...those look more like cuts. Jagged ones.

"Setting up an illegal medical practice. Being on call twenty-four hours a day. Treating...anything and everything that could go wrong in the field. No one's that stupid. Or desperate."

Ryker turns his big body on the bench. I've sobered up enough to figure out his eyes aren't actually one color. Heterochromia. A rare, genetic trait found in less than one percent of the population.

"I am." With a sigh, he runs a hand over his bald head. More scars there. I don't know what happened to the man, but it wasn't good. Or quick. "Doc, my team goes places no one else can. We get the job done. No man left behind. No matter what. Three days ago, I had to pay a veterinarian in Bogota to give a former Navy SEAL a transfusion from my own fucking arm because it was either that or bury him."

"I'll never be field ready again, McCabe. Nerve damage in my left leg from the crash flares up?—"

"I wouldn't take you on mission if the world were ending," he snaps. "I need to trust that every member of my team is the best at what they do. That they're at their best at all times. And you, Doc, are a drunk."

"Don't you think I know that?" I push to my feet, the coffee long gone, and stalk to the edge of the manicured expanse of grass. A flimsy wooden fence is all that stands between me and the inky darkness of the water far below. "I didn't want to retire. Even with my injuries, I fought it for two years. Until I couldn't cut it anymore. Couldn't stand watching guys I trained—guys I served with—do the very thing I was born to do. I tried the ER down in L.A. But that…didn't end well. Moved to Seattle and did two years up here. But I was so fucking bored…so tired of feeling useless, drinking was the only thing that took the pain away."

"You need a purpose again," McCabe says quietly. I jerk back, shocked to find him standing right next to me. The man is utterly silent when he moves. "I did."

"Special Forces, you said. How long you been out?" I peer up at him, but we're far enough away from the street lights, his face is mostly hidden in shadow.

"Six years. Wasn't my choice to turn civvie. You ever hear of Hell Mountain?"

I suck in a breath. Everyone who's served in the past fifteen years has heard of Hell Mountain. And what happened to it.

"His name is classified way beyond my clearance. But the guy's a legend. Crawled through the snow for two days before he was found. Then went back and blew the place off the map," one of my patients tells me when she finds out I served in Afghanistan.

"Holy fuck. You're the one who broke out."

He doesn't confirm or deny, but he doesn't have to. The proof is all over the man's skin.

"There were two of you."

He makes a low, strangled sound. Almost pain. "I'm giving you a chance, Doc. Don't make me regret it."

A chance at what? Redemption is a pipe dream. But maybe a purpose isn't outside the realm of possibility.

It's quiet enough, I can hear my own thoughts now that the whiskey's worn off. They're too loud. The memories too vivid. One voice rings out over all the others. Her voice.

"I'm sorry, Doc."

Something rustles, and a second later, McCabe slaps an envelope against my chest.

"What's this?" I don't have to ask. Not much else feels like a thick wad of cash. Or smells like it.

He shrugs like I'm not holding at least ten grand and starts sauntering back to his truck. "Your first month's salary. And a phone number. You've got forty-eight hours. If you're in, call me."

"And if I'm not?"

The street light casts harsh shadows over his scars. "Then I was wrong about you, Doc. And I'm almost never wrong."

Before I can come up with a reply, the engine starts with a low purr. Seconds later, he's gone, and I'm alone. Holding more money than I can count and staring out over the dark water.