Rescuing Mary

by Susan Stoker

  “I’m. Fine,” Truck bit out between clenched teeth.

  “How’re things with Mary?”

  Truck let out a breath of frustration and turned to Beatle. “You think now is the time to discuss this? We’re about ten minutes from storming the castle, so to speak.”

  Beatle shrugged. “We know what the plan is. We’re just waiting until it’s time to kill all those motherfuckers. I want to know how my friend is doing. Things looked good between you and Mary at the bank.”

  Truck knew Beatle was fishing, but he needed someone to talk to, so he didn’t put him off like he might’ve at any other time. “I thought so too. But something’s off. I don’t know what.”

  “You or her?”

  And that was the question. Mary had definitely softened toward him, but he wasn’t sure if it was enough. “Me.”

  “You regret marrying her?”

  “No.” The answer came immediately. Truck didn’t regret what he’d done. Mary was still alive because she’d gotten the treatment she’d needed.

  “Then what?” Beatle asked.

  “I don’t want a pity wife. I want a real one. I want what you have, Beatle. A woman who looks at me as if I’m her everything. A woman who’s happy to see me when I come home at the end of the day. Maybe has dinner waiting and who doesn’t mind when I don’t want to talk after a tough mission. I want someone who isn’t afraid to touch me, and to be touched in return.”

  “So you want the Disney version of a relationship,” Beatle drawled.

  “I guess,” Truck mumbled.

  “You might as well divorce Mary the second you get back then,” Beatle said. “Because there is no such thing as a Disney relationship.”

  Truck looked at his friend in surprise. “Don’t tell me that Casey doesn’t love you more than anything.”

  “Oh, she does. But there are plenty of times when she’s not happy to see me at the end of the day. She’s tired and cranky from teaching and driving all the way back home from Baylor. I’d move in a heartbeat, so she could be closer to work, but you know as well as I do that I can’t. I have to be near the post in case we get called up for a last-second mission. And there are plenty of nights when I go to bed, ready to love my woman, and find her dead to the world or she tells me she’s just not in the mood. Relationships are messy, Truck. You might see me and Casey holding hands and smiling at each other in public, but you don’t see the times we fight or when she refuses to get anywhere near me. When I’m so tired from work all I want to do is sit and watch football on television, and she tries to talk to me and I snap at her to leave me alone.”

  Truck stared at Beatle with wide eyes. “You two having trouble?” he asked.

  Beatle blew out a silent breath of frustration. “No. You’re missing the point.”

  “Then make it clearer, asshole,” Truck huffed.

  “Being with someone you love means you deal with the shit as well as the roses.”

  “I think I’ve dealt with more than my fair share of Mary’s shit,” Truck told his friend.

  “Yeah, Mary having cancer sucks, but just because she’s better doesn’t mean that everything is going to come up roses from here on out. How does she feel about her diagnosis? Is she scared it’s going to come back? Does she have other side effects from the disease or drugs that are making her irritable? She had a mastectomy, right? How does that make you feel? How does she feel about it? Does she have to wear different clothes now?”

  Truck was silent for a beat, then admitted, “I don’t know. We don’t exactly talk about that stuff.”

  “Communication is key,” Beatle said. “I screwed up when Casey first moved in. I didn’t ask her how she was feeling about a lot of stuff. Her new job, leaving Florida, if she had any residual fears from her LSD trip…I just assumed she’d talk to me about that stuff if it was bothering her. Turns out, she thought I wasn’t asking because I didn’t care.”

  “I care,” Truck said immediately. “I want to know everything about Mary. About her childhood—which I know was shitty—about her job, about how she’s feeling. I love her.”

  Beatle leaned in closer and hissed, “Then talk to her, man. If she won’t touch you, you reach out to her. Tell her how much you love the feel of her hand in yours. Tell her when you’re feeling vulnerable about your scar. Remind her that you chose to be with her over every other woman.”

  Truck thought about Beatle’s words for a long moment and realized he was right. He’d been afraid to talk to Mary, really talk to her, because he didn’t want to hear her say that she wanted a divorce. That since she was better, she didn’t need to be married to him anymore. But maybe she was waiting for him to make the first move. That made more sense. As much as she was brash and bold, she wasn’t all that confident when it came to relationships. He knew it was because of how she was brought up, but he hadn’t ever come out and asked her point-blank about it.

  She needed reassuring as much as he did. And the second he got back to Texas, he was going to be a different kind of man for her. He wouldn’t force her to talk to him, but he was going to make sure she knew how much he loved her, and that he was there to talk whenever she needed it. He’d open up to her about his own life, his own feelings. Not about her—although he was going to make sure a day never went by without him telling her how important she was to him—but how he felt about work, his family, their friends…everything.

  “Thanks,” Truck said softly.

  “You’re welcome,” Beatle responded, then picked up his binoculars and gazed down on the rebel camp.

  “Moving in sixty seconds,” Ghost’s voice said through their earbuds.

  “You ready to kick some ass?” Beatle asked as he grinned over at Truck.

  “More than,” Truck responded. “Those fuckers are as good as dead.”

  “Damn straight,” Beatle said.

  The two men shifted and got into position. Their job was to attack from the back side of the chow tent. Twenty or so of the rebels were inside eating lunch. If they could take them out, it would cut the number of rebels in half, making the rest less likely to turn on the girls and more likely to flee for their lives.

  Beatle and Truck heard Ghost counting down from ten in their ears, and at the word Go, all hell broke loose.

  Time had no meaning in the middle of battle. If asked, Truck would be hard pressed to say if minutes went by or seconds. He focused entirely on the task at hand and everything else faded into the background. He focused on covering his teammates and getting the job done. Truck didn’t know how many rebels he’d taken out once the shooting started, but ultimately, it didn’t matter. He lost track of Beatle in the chaos of battle, but knew the man was to his right somewhere. The air was full of smoke and the smell of gunpowder, and he could hear yelling outside the tent, but he didn’t take his concentration from the men hiding behind overturned tables. Every time a head popped up from behind a table to try to shoot at them, Truck fired.

  He heard a yell from his left and turned to aim in that direction, then hesitated for a split second—because he wasn’t expecting to see what he did.

  One of the rebels hadn’t just popped up from behind a table to shoot at him. No. He’d leaped over it and was running toward him as fast as he could.

  Truck squeezed the trigger of his weapon, taking the man down, but not before he’d gotten way too close for comfort.

  The man went down on his knees and swayed. His hate-filled eyes met Truck’s for a split second—and then he grinned. An evil, nasty grin that made the hair on the back of Truck’s neck stand up. He raised his weapon to fire again…and noticed too late what the man held in his hands.

  Grenades. Two of them. And the pins were nowhere to be seen.

  Truck had enough time to yell “Gre—” but before he could finish the warning, the chow tent exploded in a shower of body parts, wooden table pieces, and metal.

  “Sitrep! Sitrep!” Ghost yelled, his voice echoing through the earbuds of the other Delta Fo
rce men.

  Trigger and his team had secured the girls and gathered them all together in the largest of the three tents they’d been held in. Three had been killed in the raid, but Lefty, Doc, and Brain had taken out the men guarding them before they’d been able to shoot any more. Brain was put in charge of speaking to the girls, as he was the only one who could communicate with them. He was a language savant and spoke more than thirty different languages, hence his nickname.

  Doc was tending to the injured girls, and seemed to be doing his best to keep his temper under control. The girls were beyond freaked out. They were emotionally scarred, and it was more than obvious which ones had been abused, as they cringed away from the Deltas anytime they got close. The little French girl was found hiding amongst them as well. They weren’t yet sure if she’d been assaulted. During the short time the teams had been watching the rebel camp, the captors hadn’t seemed to differentiate between the local girls and the international ones.

  Oz and Grover were standing guard outside the tent holding the former hostages, and Lucky and Lefty were doing their best to get the trucks started so they could get the hell out of there.

  Coach and Blade had disappeared into the surrounding trees, chasing after the rebels who had decided to cut and run rather than stay and fight.

  “Dammit, Beatle. Truck. Sitrep!” Ghost barked harshly, even knowing they probably wouldn’t answer. He looked over at Fletch, who was staring at the smoldering tent that used to be standing thirty feet away, but was now nothing more than a smoking mess.

  “Coach and Blade, get your asses back here. Pronto,” Ghost ordered as he and Fletch made their way cautiously toward where the tent had been standing.

  “You need us?” Trigger asked.

  “Hold,” Ghost said, his eyes scanning for his teammates. He’d heard the gunfire coming from inside the tent, but he’d been busy taking out his own share of the rebels. Beatle and Truck knew what they were doing, and he hadn’t been concerned. In all their surveillance, they hadn’t seen any weapons other than the rifles the rebels were constantly holding. No RPGs, no explosives. The rebels were prepared, but they weren’t exactly a well-oiled Army machine. Their clothes were worn and torn and the highlight of most of their days seemed to be chow time.

  Ghost gestured to Fletch to go to the right and he went to the left, his eyes constantly checking for any kind of movement. He came upon a few rebels who were still alive and dispatched them without mercy. He’d seen for himself the terror in the little girls’ faces. He had no sympathy for the men who’d kidnapped and abused them. None.

  At one corner of the smoldering rubble, he saw a leg wearing a pair of black pants.

  Kneeling, Ghost frantically tore boards and debris away from the man. He sighed in relief when he saw a pair of familiar eyes blinking up at him.

  “Beatle? You okay, man?”

  Beatle nodded and slowly sat up, with Ghost’s help. He shook his head sluggishly and said, “Holy shit.”

  “Where’s Truck?” Ghost asked, more relieved than he could say that Beatle seemed to be all right. There was a trickle of blood coming from the side of his head, but otherwise all his limbs seemed to be good, and he was quickly becoming more and more aware of his surroundings.

  “He was over there the last time I saw him,” Beatle said, pointing to where they could see Fletch cautiously combing through the debris. “We were picking them off one by one when a rebel ran right toward him. Truck shot him and the guy went down to his knees. Truck yelled something, then kaboom.”

  Ghost hauled Beatle up and kept one hand on his teammate’s elbow and the other on the trigger of his weapon. The last thing they needed was one of the rebels to pop up and shoot them. They made their way toward Fletch, their eyes constantly on the lookout for either bad guys or Truck.

  By the time they made it to Fletch, Beatle was walking almost normally. He’d regained his balance and was kicking at wood planks that used to be tables as he went.

  “Where exactly did you last see Truck?” Ghost asked, well aware that time was running out. They’d made enough noise for any rebel in a ten-mile radius to hear them, and they wanted to get the hell out of dodge before reinforcements showed up.

  “There,” Beatle said, gesturing to a point about ten feet away from them. Without a word, the three men fanned out and began lifting every piece of wood they came in contact with.

  “Oh, shit. Found him!” Fletch said urgently. “Help me!”

  Ghost tasted bile in the back of his throat at the tone of Fletch’s voice, but didn’t hesitate to close in on him. With Beatle’s help, they threw off a large wooden tabletop, two arms, a leg, and someone’s intestines before completely uncovering Truck.

  He was lying on his back, his arms outstretched, his weapon nowhere to be seen. He looked like he was sleeping, but all three Deltas knew that wasn’t the case.

  Ghost leaned down and put his fingers on Truck’s carotid artery and held his breath.

  He immediately breathed out a sigh of relief at feeling the strong pulse. “He’s alive,” Ghost told the others.

  “Injuries?” Fletch asked.

  “Not sure,” Ghost said. He looked up and saw a metal box lying nearby. At one time it probably held ammunition, but it was empty now. It did have a huge dent in the side…about the size of a human head. “Help me turn him over so I can check his back. Careful, keep his spine straight.”

  With Fletch and Beatle helping, Ghost did a quick battlefield survey of their friend. His spine seemed all right, no protrusions of his spinal cord, and Ghost didn’t see any blood pooling under him either. Glancing down at his limbs, nothing looked obviously broken.

  But with the way he’d been buried by debris, he probably had some fractures of some sort.

  “Truck?” Ghost said loudly as he squeezed his friend’s shoulder.

  Truck moaned but didn’t regain consciousness.

  “Come on, buddy. You gotta wake up. You’re huge, and it’ll take too many of us to haul your carcass out of here.”

  No answer.

  Beatle leaned down and lightly slapped Truck’s face. “Stop fucking around, Truck. We’ve got seventy freaked-out girls here that we need to move. This is no time to sleep on the job.”

  Remarkably, Truck’s eyes fluttered and he moaned again, even as he shook his head.

  “Easy, man,” Fletch soothed. “Open your eyes, buddy.”

  They all watched as Truck opened his eyes, then immediately closed them again. “Fuuuuuck,” he swore. “Motherfucker, my head hurts.”

  Ghost sighed in relief. If Truck was awake enough to bitch and moan, he was going to be just fine. “Yeah, well, that’s because the tent you were standing in exploded.”

  “Awesome,” Truck muttered. “Sitrep?”

  “The girls are good. Rebels are either dead or have fled,” Fletch said, filling him in.

  Truck opened his eyes in a squint and looked up at his friend. “Girls?”

  “Yeah, they’re okay,” Fletch repeated. “You look a bit banged up, but your spine is good. No broken legs or arms, although you’ll have to tell us if anything is fractured or not.”

  They watched as Truck moved each of his legs, then his arms. He tried to sit up, and moaned in pain and collapsed backward. “Extremities are good, but feels like I have at least a couple of broken ribs. Fractured at the very least.”

  “Anything else hurt? You think you have internal injuries?” Ghost asked.

  Truck pressed his large hands on his abdomen. After a moment, he said, “I don’t think so. Although my head is pounding. It hurts. Bad. Can hardly keep my eyes open, the light hurts so much.”

  “Concussion,” Beatle said. “You dizzy or nauseous?”

  “Both,” Truck told them.

  “Can you walk?” Ghost asked.

  Truck took a deep breath and nodded. “If that’s the only way to get out of this shithole and back to civilization, then yeah, I can walk.”

  “Fuck yeah, you can,
” Fletch said softly. “Come on, we’ll help you stand.”

  The three of them helped Truck stand and held on when he wobbled in their grip. It took a minute or so before they felt he was steady enough to stand on his own.

  Just as they let go of him, Truck turned his head and puked.

  He wiped his mouth and swore. “Fuck, I hate throwing up.”

  “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here,” Fletch said.

  Ghost took the lead, with Truck following and Beatle and Fletch at the rear. Truck was in no shape to defend himself against any rebel who might still be lingering. They walked toward the trucks and, as they got near, Coach and Blade materialized out of the surrounding trees.

  “We heard,” Blade said, gesturing to his earbud. The group had an open mike, and they’d obviously been listening to the situation with Beatle and Truck. “Good to see you have a hard head,” Blade joked.

  “That’s what she said,” Truck replied.

  Everyone chuckled, and they continued toward the vehicles with the girls and Trigger’s Delta Force team.

  Lefty stepped out from between two trucks as the group approached—and everyone watched in disbelief as Truck moved faster than they would’ve thought possible for a man with his injuries.

  He grabbed the pistol out of the holster at Ghost’s waist and had it pointed at Lefty before he could say a word.

  “Don’t move, asshole,” Truck ground out.

  “What the fuck?” Lefty said, but obediently raised his hands in surrender.

  Within seconds, Trigger, Oz, Grover, and Lucky appeared, and quickly had their weapons drawn, which made Coach, Beatle, and Blade pull their pistols.

  “Everyone calm the fuck down,” Ghost ordered, holding his hands up and stepping in front of Lefty, facing Truck. “Put down the gun, Truck.”

  “Who the fuck are they?” Truck asked, not lowering the gun.

  “What do you mean, who are they?” Ghost asked.

  “I mean, who the fuck are they? When we came in here, it was just the six of us. Speaking of which, where’s Hollywood? Do you assholes have him?”