“Fuck!” I roar. It’s him…the fucking nightmare that will never leave me alone. John Nash. His arm is draped around Windsor’s shoulder like it’s always been there, like it belongs there. I see red. No, I see blood red. “Fuck!” I scream again. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I’m overreacting. I know it, but I can’t control my impulses. She doesn’t make me crazy; what I feel about Windsor makes me fucking crazy.
Through my bloodlust I’m aware Stone is beside me looking at the photo with narrowed eyes. “It’s probably not what you think,” he explains.
I shake my head. Calming down isn’t going to happen right now. I scrutinize the photo further. The arm isn’t the biggest thing. Windsor is looking sideways at Nash who is looking directly at the camera—a huge smirk on his asshole wiped face. She’s smiling…or laughing? Looking at him. It’s a look that is reserved for me…the person she’s in love with except, fuck, there she is looking at him like he’s God’s fucking gift.
Stone bends down to look more closely and says, “I’m sure they are drunker than shit. Look at Morg. Her hair is flat…Windsor probably doesn’t even remember taking this picture.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better? What if he took her home? If he fucked her, I’ll kill him, Stone. So help me God I will annihilate everything he’s ever touched. She’s mine now. She’s fucking mine,” I growl. I know I sound like a raging, possessive asshole, but there is no controlling it now. I look up at Stone. He looks scared as shit as he gazes back at me. I don’t see that look on his face very often and when I do, it isn’t directed at me.
“Get your head straight, Mavvy. It’s a photo. She loves you,” he says, trying to bring me back down to Earth. “Send her a message or call her if you’re so worried. She’ll explain it. That’s the thing with Facebook. Shit always looks one way when it’s usually the opposite.”
He’s right. I’ve been able to gather that much during the brief time I’ve had an account. I take a deep breath and I pull up my messages after studying the offending picture for a few more beats. I tap out a message asking how her night out was and I let her know I’m thinking about her. And that I love her.
I feel better for a moment. Stone puts his hand on my shoulder. “You’ll have to deal with the jealousy, man. They’re out there in the world and we’re here with the pause button jammed down. It’s part of it. If you don’t have trust, you don’t have anything.”
I suck in another breath, determined to calm my racing heart. Control. I need to be in control. I have a job to do—a large, very precarious important job to do. Getting insane over Windsor’s life isn’t a luxury I have. Especially now. Fuck. I’m mad I let a photo affect me.
“I just hate that asshole, Stone. I hate him and what he did to her. It’s why she’s so scared of me…of her feelings and yet look,” I say pointing to the image one more time. “She gives him the time of day. She hangs out with him and he obviously makes her laugh—or happy. It’s twisted and I can’t tell her that. I let her do what she thinks she needs to do, but that’s not healthy is it?” I ask, curiously. “She won’t tell me she loves me and she looks at him like that!” I sound like a whiny fucking child. Luckily, Steve took my first outburst as his cue to leave.
“What’s not healthy is your fuckin’ attachment to this girl, Mav. It’s making you act crazy. There is no gray area. Black or white—pick one and live your damn life. Trust her and be with her, or don’t and walk away. If her friendship with Nash bothers you so much, break it off. Is it a deal breaker?”
My chest tightens. Nothing is a deal breaker. I’m fucking sick in the head. I’ll take Windsor in any form. “No,” I say simply.
I click on my messages again and find no new replies. I shut the laptop. “Let’s go to the gym,” I say. Stone doesn’t say anything else about Windsor or my insane outburst. His silence is steadfast and comforting. It says he’ll forget this whole thing happened. “I have to work this shit out of my system before tomorrow night.”
Grabbing a set of ear buds from his bunk, Stone says, “fuck yeah you do.” He follows me out of the shitty ass door.
_______________
She deleted the photo. I came back from my workout and the photo was magically missing from her Facebook page. She sent me a reply message and didn’t mention anything about Nash joining them.
Now, I’m not a fan of the saying “omission is a form of lying” because I’m a large offender. If you want to know something, ask. If it’s something you don’t know you should be asking—that’s one thing. But Windsor knows I saw the photo. She should explain it. I messaged her back asking if any guys joined them. Her reply? You’re my guy. Evasive. Guilty. Something must have happened between her and Nash. It’s the only explanation. I’ve felt sick for the rest of the day, my stomach grumbling with fucking unease.
I remember listening to a teammate whine like a fucking baby because he couldn’t trust his girlfriend back at home. He was all over the place that day, like a God damned loose cannon. I couldn’t fathom something so stupid fucking up my game that badly. But it did. Now I know why. I can’t think straight.
I’ve never wanted to not think about something more in my life. I’m ready to go earlier than I usually am. All my gear is on and double-checked, my guns are loaded, and I’ve gone through my mental checklist three times. It pisses the other guys off when someone gets jocked up early because it makes them feel like they’re behind. Everything is a competition in my world—even when it’s not. All the guys are outside getting ready. Stone stands beside me, also fully ready to rock with his ear buds in. I hear screaming rock blasting into his ears, drowning out the sound of the 47’s blades beating the hot night sky. His head bobs to the beat, his eyes straight ahead—he’s in the zone. The sight of him gives me pause. He’s ready…I’m not. My brain is somewhere in cyberspace analyzing my girlfriend’s body language and cryptic messages.
A slight restlessness is still present when I go over exactly what I’m going to do tonight. I replay the favorable scenario in my head over and over in a methodical practiced manner. We’ve practiced tonight’s mission over and over, every minute detail is fine-tuned, and if something goes wrong? I know exactly how to handle it. It’s not a back-up plan; it’s just option B, or C—all the way down to Z if need be. It’s not about luck, it’s about skill, and that I have. I can’t listen to music like some of the guys. I need my thoughts clear. That’s where I find my zone.
My thoughts clear even further on the short helo ride to the target compound. The adrenaline hits my system when the dust starts swirling at the helo’s approach for landing. Our advance is silent by most people’s standards, but the bad guys won’t be sleeping after we land. They’ll know we’ve fucking arrived. Apache helos swarm the air around us to protect the slower 47 we ride in. The noise is like death for those who know exactly what the sound means. To me? It lulls me—lets me know it’s game time. The second the helo touches ground, our boots hit the ground too, breaking into a sprint.
By the time my eight buddies hop out before me, rushing to be the first in line to be the first on target, I’m there, in that perfect place where skill meets Thomas Maverick Hart. Stone is in front of me with his hand pressed by his ear, listening to the radio as we move, fanning the huge fucking compound. When the big, black two-rotor 47 disappears into the air, it leaves us in pitch-black darkness—our favorite way to work. Our specialty.
Silence wraps me as I move swiftly toward my goal. Like always, the bad guys have no idea we’re coming until we’re on top of them. Combine that with this quiet, dark night and we’ve got a perfect fucking storm—bad for them, good for us. The compound is exactly as intel said it would be. A large structure with smaller buildings surrounded on all sides by walls. Stone is point man for the smaller building we’re headed into. I follow behind, covering him with my rifle up, methodically scanning around nearby and far off in the distance.
The other guys have already broken into
groups to clear the buildings they are responsible for. This is the point where repetition kicks in. I’ve done this before. Maybe even something so similar that my mind goes on autopilot. The heavy nods, my night vision goggles, provide the perfect green view of everything around me. I see a few farm animals through the metal gate we’re about to enter, but it’s completely unguarded. The bad guys weren’t quick enough. I smile. I make quick work of blowing the lock off and with a small clank, Stone and I are in and pounding dirt toward the small building. He stops, pressing himself against the wall when he gets to our point of entry. I join him a second later, our heavy breathing permeating the thick night air. Though we’re used to all the gear we carry, it’s still fucking heavy as shit.
Stone stoops to check the door and then places the slap charge by the hinges. A few gunshots break out in the distance, and though we ignore it as best we can, I know Stone is thinking the same thing as I am. Someone’s doing work. Another small grin crosses my face as I scan the area surrounding us.
I don’t have to see him; I know he is pausing, waiting for me. Focusing my attention on the door I drop one hand and squeeze the top of the back of Stone’s thigh, signaling I’m ready, I’m here, and it’s time to kick some fucking ass. We back up a few paces before the charge blasts and black dust blows in all directions. We ignore it completely and enter the building over the debris. It’s quiet inside. Too quiet. It means the fuckers are going to hide. Luckily hide and seek is one of our favorite games. There’s no question now, even if they were hard sleepers, they know we have arrived.
We enter a small room to the left. Stone slips in as I clear my corners, knowing precisely which areas he’s responsible for and which I am. I know the exact speed at which my gun needs to travel, the way my feet need to be placed. A thousand specific details that were a bitch to learn are now coming together to form a perfect, stealthy killer. More than that, a protector for my point man. The room doesn’t have very many places for people to hide and we soon discover no one is hiding in this room. Count to ten, mother fuckers.
Stone and I make our way upstairs and clear another bedroom without pausing. There’s only one more room left. It’s at the end of a long corridor. It’s still pitch black—no light coming from the door. Creaky floorboards twinge under our heavy weight, but at this point it’s no matter. We know the people we’ve come for are behind the door in front of us. We approach cautiously, ready for the gunfire that will surely blast through the door any second. Keeping to the wall, we stack up a few feet from the door, me behind Stone. I hear his breathing pace pick up as adrenaline spikes. For most people this would be a detriment. We require it. A small flash of light lands on Stone’s boots, the light coming from the bottom crack of the door. Just as quickly, it’s gone. Ready or not, here we come.
The door isn’t locked. I squeeze the back of Stone’s thigh. He turns his head, which breaks protocol. “Tighten your fuckin’ towel, T.H.,” he breathes, a goofy smile crossing his face. He calls me T.H. And that’s all it takes to trigger it. Windsor. Windsor. Windsor whispering T.H. into my ear. Kissing Windsor. Windsor and Nash. Stone opens the door and gunfire litters the air like the Boston Symphony. Windsor.
I see Stone in front of me, in slow motion, firing his rifle into the room. I hesitate not even a half second, maybe not even a Nano second. Windsor. I pull the trigger and begin firing in succession at the bad guy who has a shitty table on its side as cover. I forget to the clear the corner, my corner. I turn to glance at Stone and I see it written in his tense body language. I fucked up. His eyes grow large, round in surprise. Because I don’t fuck up. I don’t fuck up because this is the only thing I’ve ever been good at. Another half second passes.
The bad guy, the one in my corner, shoots and I hear the familiar tink, tink, tink of a grenade, but I don’t know where it’s at because I can’t take my eyes off of Stone who is on his knees, clutching his bleeding side with both hands, his face a mask of disbelief. Another second ticks by. Then another. I send a kill shot to the corner and watch the bad guy slump down the wall, staining it as he slides to his final resting place. I stoop next to Stone, my whole body trembling. He looks at me, briefly, and nods. In another slow-mo moment, I watch as Stone throws his arms out and falls forward over the explosive green oval, covering it with his own body.
And the grenade detonates.
You know that feeling I was trying to explain? About how death changes the air. I feel it now. It soaks into my awareness and wraps around me like dark clouds. It’s different this time. No elation or adrenaline buzz. And I know this death, the one I sense right now, isn’t like the others. I’m the one dying. Or my brother is. Maybe we both are. One fate is more preferable than the others.
I feel nothing. I know nothing. I deny everything. Darkness, the most helpless feeling, takes over. I want to feel Stone—to be close to him. Because I’m scared he’s right.
My newest attachment not only made me crazy, she just pulled the fucking pin from thousands of miles away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Maverick
Present Day
I HOLD THE letter in my hands like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. I’ve memorized the size, shape, and weight of the envelope. I promised Morganna we’d open the letter together and it’s the least I can do. It was like a never-ending nightmare when I woke up in the hospital.
First, I see Monica’s face. And if that wasn’t enough to throw me into an absolute fucking fit of rage, they told me Stone died. My brother—the only person who was there for me for as long as I can remember is gone forever. Denial would be the easiest way to cope, but even that doesn’t fill the jagged hole in my heart.
Tiny pieces of the mission float back to me as the days pass and I’m finally at the point when anytime I close my eyes, I see my best friend sacrificing himself for me, bits of his body coating me as I lie on a dirty floor wishing I’d made the move first. It would have been easier to wallow in my pretend denial had my darling wife been absent.
After I threatened Monica, she left the hospital and promised to finally sign the divorce papers. Morganna gave them to her at least seventeen times in the past five years. It took seeing me shot up, in a hospital bed, looking her in the eye and telling her that I never loved her—that I will never love her, for her to see the light.
Monica never truly wanted me, she wanted my career…my community. I married her at a courthouse when she got pregnant five years ago on a trip back to my hometown with Stone. It was my pathetic attempt to win my family over by doing the right, moral thing. Of course her convenient miscarriage came two weeks after the wedding. She’d manipulated me into giving her exactly what she wanted.
When I found out she lied about being pregnant, I left her. It was also the very last time I did anything because society deemed it “right” or “moral”. She’s refused to divorce me ever since.
I pay her monthly. Partly to keep her mouth shut, and also because somewhere inside me I’m a good person. I loved the idea of having a baby. I wasn’t fond of Monica, but the idea of a baby is one I eventually liked. The day I walked away from Monica, I distanced myself that much further from my parents. To them, my loser status reached new, unfathomable depths. Little did they know…little did they know.
Morganna blasts into my bedroom, wearing huge sunglasses and sweatpants that hang off her body. She’s unrecognizable. She hasn’t answered a phone call from anyone except the guys or me since it happened. I can’t even think the words without feeling ill. Morg looking like hell is a reminder I don’t want. I pick a spot on the wall and focus on it.
Taking a deep breath I say, “You look like shit. He’d hate it. You know he’d hate it.” My voice is hoarse from rarely using it…and because emotion clogs everything.
She kicks off her shoes, pulls the covers back on the other side of my bed, and gets in, sunglasses on.
I roll to my side and truly look at her. “Hey,” I say, clearing my voice. I lift her glasses t
o rest on the top of her head. “You actually have to go in public tomorrow, Morg.”
The funeral. I shiver. Her sad eyes, rimmed with permanently wet, black lashes meet mine. What I find there crushes me. Dealing with my grief is one thing—I can internalize it—but Morganna’s is quite another. It takes me a full three seconds to swallow.
“I can’t do it. I really can’t,” she sobs. “It’s not real, Mav. It’s not real. I woke up this morning and I forgot for one tiny second. And then it hit me all at once. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe without him…my heart,” she whispers bringing both hands up to her chest.
I know exactly what she’s feeling. It’s a full-blown panic attack; except the misery is so overwhelming that it takes my breath away. I hug her close to my body and listen to her sobs, feeling her cry against my chest. I try to find the spot on the wall again, but I’m not quick enough. A solitary tear slips out and runs down my face.
“Have you talked to her?” she asks, looking up to my face. I shake my head. Windsor. The thought of her pains me. The thought of kissing her reminds me of death. Monica told me she was at the hospital. Driving away Windsor by letting her assume I’m married is the only good thing Monica has ever done. Because I don’t think I can look at her without facing harsh reality. How much heartache can one person deal with before it drives them mad?
I’ll soon find out. Morganna’s assistant fields both of our phone calls. I haven’t even asked him if Windsor’s called or texted. Attachments kill people. I’m living, breathing proof. I may take breaths and my heart may beat, but I’m not alive anymore. The good part of me died in a dusty room far from home.
“He’d want you to,” Morg whispers, trying to ply me with my own words. “You can’t blame yourself.”
A random stranger would be able to recognize the guilt that sits on my shoulders. I shake my head. I would have died for Stone in a heartbeat. He did what I would have if I were thinking clearly. I’m not sure which is worse. The guilt I carry or actually being dead. The latter seems preferable at the moment.
The Crazy Good SEAL Series: Books 1-3 Page 24
