Fighting For Valor

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Copyright © 2019 by Patricia D. Eddy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  If you love sexy romantic suspense, I’d love to send you a short story set in Dublin, Ireland. Castles & Kings isn’t available anywhere except for readers who sign up for my mailing list! Sign up for my newsletter on my website and tell me where to send your free book!

  http://patriciadeddy.com.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Patricia D. Eddy

  For Binky. You will always be the best.

  Foreword

  Hi. I don’t usually put a letter in the front of my books. But Fighting For Valor…this book is different.

  This isn’t your everyday military romance novel. First, the hero and heroine don’t actually meet until Chapter Twelve. If you’re a long-time reader of the Away From Keyboard series, you’ll understand that each of the men and women in these books have their own personalities, their own issues, their own brokenness that makes them beautiful and perfect and real.

  This book is no different. However, Jackson Richards’ backstory is more complicated than anyone else’s.

  I had a choice to make when I published this book. I could start it in the present day and let it proceed like a standard military romance novel. Or…I could honor Jackson—and all of the readers who’ve stuck with me ever since Breaking His Code—and give you a peek into his long-term history.

  There was no choice for me. Honoring Ripper…it had to be done.

  I hope this won’t diminish your enjoyment of Fighting For Valor. There’s plenty of action, plenty of emotion, and plenty of the beautifully broken characters you love.

  And once Ripper meets Cara…well, you’ll get all the sparks and tension you’re used to.

  Cara is me. Truly. Her particular challenges—ADHD and anxiety—they’re my challenges, too. In fact, Cara’s probably the closest character to me, I’ve ever written.

  Oh, and there’s also a dog. An adorable German Shepherd named Charlie. And because I’m a total and complete animal lover, I’m going to tell you right now: NOTHING BAD HAPPENS TO THE DOG. EVER.

  I hope you enjoy Fighting For Valor. Make sure to check out the bonus scenes linked at the end of the book. They’ll only be available for readers who buy Fighting For Valor during release week!

  Love, Patricia

  Chapter One

  Six Years Ago

  Hell Mountain - An underground prison deep in the Hindu Kush

  Ripper

  My hands are numb. Fuckers won’t take the chance I can break free, so they tighten the cuffs past the point of pain every time. The metal chair arms dig into the undersides of my wrists. The hood they shoved over my head before they dragged me in here makes it impossible to see more than a dull glow from the overhead lights.

  I’m alone. That much I know. I can hear Ryker—head of our Special Forces team—cursing down the hall. Kahlid’s—the meanest of the Taliban’s torturers—going at him again, trying to force him to talk. Our captor’s overly-sweet and patronizing tone carries, but I can’t make out his words. Only the sounds of fists on flesh, the occasional scream or grunt, and then Dax, Ry’s second in command, demanding Kahlid do something…physically impossible.

  By Ry’s estimates, we’ve been here six months. One hundred-and-eighty-four days trapped in the depths of Hell Mountain. I’ve lost count of the number of bones they’ve broken. The number of new scars criss-crossing my back, my arms, my chest.

  “Hey, assholes! Pick on someone your own size!” I call out, hoping to draw Kahlid away from Ry. As the commander of our ODA team, he’s taken the brunt of the torture. Both because Kahlid thinks he knows more than me and Dax and because Ry keeps goading the asshole. Trying to protect us.

  Ryker McCabe is the biggest, baddest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. Almost seven feet tall and the size of a small house. Kahlid’s never even come close to breaking him.

  “Pig fucker!” Ryker growls. Kahlid’s reply is softer, the words obscured by the twists and turns of the cave tunnels. I can’t just sit here doing nothing…waiting for my turn under the knife, the blowtorch, or the strap. So I strain against the cuffs, and the left arm of the chair creaks. Another jerk of my arm and the whole thing wobbles. Kahlid and his men are usually more careful than this. Maybe Ry was locked to this piece of shit last. He would have done his best to destroy the damn thing.

  Blood oozes around the cuffs as I contort my body, wedging my right leg against the loose piece of metal. This is going to hurt. A lot. Taking a deep breath, I start yelling the first few words of Bohemian Rhapsody. I hope to all that’s holy Ry and Dax can drown out any noise I make next.

  A moment later, Dax joins in, then Ry’s rough voice echoes down the hall. For six months, we’ve communicated in taps and scratches, changing up our code every week. Bohemian Rhapsody’s our current signal to “make as much fucking noise as possible.”

  As we hit the second verse, I use all the strength I have to push against the chair. The metal creaks, strains, and then I’m on the floor, my left shoulder dislocated, pain rolling over me in waves, but the chair’s in three pieces and my right hand is free.

  Get up. Now. Move.

  This could be my only chance. They never leave me in here for more than an hour or so, and it’s been at least twenty minutes. A little more maneuvering, and I slide my cuffed left wrist down the now-destroyed arm of the chair. My bloody fingers shake, and I yank the hood off my head, then use the scratchy material to wipe my hands.

  Holy hell.

  Two ancient computers sit against the far wall. Both of them on. I can work with this. As I stagger towards them, I remember I’m supposed to be singing, curse under my breath, and pick up the tune again—badly. Never could sing worth shit.

  I’m useless without both arms, and I grab my left wrist, wrench my arm straight out in front of me, and scream as the shoulder pops back into the socket.

  For too long, I fight not to pass out, but then shake my head. Hard.

  Think, dumbass. Computer. Message.

  Before the song ends and we have to start all over again, I manage to open a command prompt on the woefully out-of-date terminal. If I’m not careful, though, Kahlid and his men will know what I’ve done and they’ll move us—probably somewhere even worse—so I have to cover my tracks.

  Every mission has a dropbox protocol of sorts. Specific codes to use and places to send a message when you can’t f
ind an encrypted connection to CENTCOM. My fingers aren’t working right. Half-numb and still bloody. It takes me three tries to type in the IP address I memorized before we left base months ago.

  I can’t authenticate. Too risky and time consuming. But I’ve thought a lot about what I’d do in this situation—in every situation. It’s what we trained for. Adaptability. So many days and nights alone, bound, or thrown down in the pit at the end of the tunnel without food or water. Nothing to do but think.

  I fall silent as I type, but Dax and Ryker pick up my slack until Ry screams.

  ODA-94820RJT008000-AF-HK-ACHERON

  I have no idea if anyone will see the message or understand my code. My initials. My birthdate. AF for Afghanistan. HK for Hindu Kush. And Acheron—another name for Hell. It’s the best I can do. The message disappears into the ether, and I cover my tracks with a few lines of code that look like I’m trying to open an encrypted connection to a dummy server the Army runs.

  Wait. I don’t hear anything. No more singing. Just…footsteps. Fuck.

  “Resourceful,” the heavily accented voice says from behind me. I whirl around and only have time to register the amused gaze of one of Kahlid’s men before he fires a stun gun, and I go down, my entire body twitching and my vision shrinking so I can only see a single drop of blood on his boot before I fade away completely.

  It’s hot. The stagnant, thick air reeks of sweat, human waste, and filth. I force my eyes open, but can’t see anything in the dark. Am I dreaming? Am I dead? No. My shoulder throbs with every breath, and I reach up to poke at it gently… Fuck. I’m naked. This is new. My hand falls to the ground. Dirt. Darkness and dirt. Where am I? This doesn’t smell, sound, or feel like Hell.

  Slowly, I rock up to my knees, dizziness threatening to send me back onto my ass, but I suck in the hot air and will my heartbeat to slow. Control. I’m a master at it. Controlling my body. My mind. As the rapid beat calms, I shuffle forward.

  All of six feet until I find curved stone. What the fuck? Using the wall for support, I stagger to my feet, then turn around. “Jackson Richards. Listen carefully, fuckers. That’s the only piece of information you’ll ever get out of me.”

  My words echo, and from the sound, this whole place is less than ten feet across. And tall. Despite my shoulder sending shooting pains down my back, I feel as high up as I can. The stones are rough, but arranged in a way I can’t find a handhold anywhere.

  What I think is halfway around this hole, my foot comes in contact with something plastic. A bucket. Using it for reference, I continue around the space. My estimate is spot on. I’m in a goddamned well. Tilting my head back, I repeat my name and listen for the echo. Twenty feet down. Give or take. With no way up or out. No food. No water. And only a bucket to piss in.

  I sink back down onto my ass and drop my head into my hands, elbows on my bent knees. Is this the end? Did Kahlid or one of his flunkies throw me down here to die?

  “Go for it, shitstains. I dare you.”

  Light chases away the darkness, burning my eyes. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Six hours? Ten? Not more than that. Any longer in this heat and I’d be dead from dehydration.

  Something lands with a thunk next to me, and then the light fades away as whoever’s up there drags a cover over the top of the well. Feeling around, I close my fingers around a plastic water bottle.

  My hands shake, and I twist off the cap and suck down half the bottle in three gulps. It’s stale, but so much better than the parasite-infested swill Kahlid always gave us.

  I’m not in Hell. From the heat, I’m nowhere near Hell.

  Think. What do you remember after sending the message?

  Attempting to channel Ryker, I search my memories. Over the months we’ve spent as prisoners, he’s taught us how to remember everything. Or…almost everything. Some things, it’s better to forget.

  The stun gun. Darkness. Then…a truck bed. At night. I couldn’t see or move. I could smell the dust, though. I made some noise when we went over a deep rut in the road, then there was pain. My head. After that…nothing for a long time.

  Loud voices. Pashto. But the accent was different than Kahlid’s. If I had to guess, I’m a good four or five hours away from Hell. A completely different part of Afghanistan. Why?

  Now that my eyes have adjusted, I can make out a dim halo around whatever covers the top of the well. I’m messed up—dysentery, malnourishment, and so many blows to the head—my mental capacity is probably severely compromised. But there’s also a faint line that’s a little lighter than the rest. A small gap between pieces of wood?

  Keeping my gaze fixed above me, I try to stay conscious long enough to see the sun fade away.

  I still don’t have any answers. The light’s totally gone now, and it’s finally cooler. The air feels just as thick, though. Hard to breathe. Every time I get up and try to find a handhold or foothold along the wall, I end up dizzy.

  Once or twice, I thought I heard a truck pass close by. Voices. But they could all be in my head. My tongue is so dry, it’s stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I gave up trying to keep my eyes open long ago. It hurts too much.

  A skittering sound from behind my left shoulder makes me flinch, but I’m too tired, too weak to move. Rats, probably. I can deal with rats.

  Something tickles my upper arm. Fuck. It’s too light to be a rat. Too big to be a spider. I fling it away, and a quiet thwap sounds from across the well. “Serves…you…right…” I whisper.

  But then, something stings the bottom of my foot. The pain flares, bright and hot, all the way up to my knee. I can’t see anything, can’t find the damn thing. What the fuck is it? My low moan echoes off the walls, and my heart rate spikes. Another sharp pain in my calf, and I slam my hand down onto something squishy. Almost…rubbery.

  Panic takes over, and all my efforts to remember the list of poisonous species in Afghanistan short-circuit.

  Focus!

  Not a snake. Oh, shit. Scorpions. Some of the most toxic species in the world live in this country.

  My left leg is going numb. This is bad. So bad. Even worse when I hear more faint scratching to my right. I’m going to die here. Alone. In the dark. In agony. With no one to hear me scream.

  Chapter Two

  Ripper

  A heavy weight hits my thigh. The light from above is faint. Like…twilight. I try to focus, to see the slats again, but I’m dying. I know it. The scorpions come every night. Some of the bites are infected. One of the water bottles they threw a while ago—I don’t know how long—landed on one of the swollen welts, and it broke open, the scent making me retch.

  My fingers twitch, about the only movement I can still manage. I let my head fall to the side, peering up as a dark shape descends the rope ladder. They’re going to take me. Move me. Try to get me to talk. The joke’s on them. I can’t make a sound. I’m too weak.

  Six times—I think—they’ve tossed a bottle of water into the well. The last one lies unopened. I couldn’t muster the strength. I’m covered in bile, piss, and blood, and hours ago, I made peace with my death.

  “There is no cause for this,” the man says when he stands over me. “I will take care of you, my friend. Trust me.”

  I can’t see his face. Can’t make out any of his features. He’s only a diffuse, hazy form in front of me, and as he grabs my arm and hauls me up over his shoulder, I pass out.

  “You are very sick.”

  “This will hurt.”

  “Drink, Isaad.”

  Fragments. That’s all I have. I’m lying on a soft pallet. It’s not so hot. I think…I try to wiggle my toes. There’s a sheet over me.

  Something presses to my chapped lips. Cool water slides down my throat. Just a sip. I try to ask for more, but no sound comes out.

  “Isaad, you must wait. Only a small amount yet.” A gentle hand dabs my forehead with a cloth. I can’t even open my eyes.

  Who the fuck is Isaad?

  “I have given you antibioti
cs. In a few days, you will regain your strength.”

  I’m so dizzy. The voice seems to come from all around me. Where is he? I can only manage a grunt, and then the cool compress is back.

  “Trust me, Isaad. I will protect you.”

  More bits and pieces. But are they memories? Hallucinations? Dreams?

  A taste of banana. A sip of sweetened tea. Something pinching my arm. Antibiotics? Drugs? I don’t know. Don’t care. I’m not tied up. Not vomiting. Not hearing Ryker and Dax scream in pain.

  Whatever I’m lying on depresses slightly, and I force my eyes open. The man sitting on the cot has a neatly trimmed beard, black hair, and gray eyes. “Who…?” I whisper.

  “My name is Faruk. My…employer...he wishes you to suffer. But he is not here now. So I can help you, Isaad.”

  “Name…isn’t…”

  “It is now. There is no use in fighting it. Please, Isaad. I will protect you, but you must listen to me.” Faruk leans over me, a hand on either side of my shoulders. “The man I work for…he is a sadist. He will kill you to obtain what he desires.”

  “Then…let…me…die.” I can barely force the words out, even after what I assume is several days of care. “Never…gonna…break.”

  “You will, Isaad. I have seen it before. So many times. But if you let me help you, I can make things easier. I can spare you much pain.” His tone is so calm, so soothing. A hand slides behind my head, lifting me slightly. “Drink.”