by Zoe Dawson
“And everyone?”
“Chry is still recovering, Aella took a bullet to the arm, but it was a graze. Me, Saint, and Striker are all fine. How is Preach?”
“It was touch and go, but he pulled through. They’re airlifting him to Walter Reed as soon as he’s stable. He lost a lot of blood.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Alek?”
“He’s with Anna. Not sure what to do with him except keep him safe. We’ll sort that out later.”
“Right. I should have been clearer. He has a relative in DC. He can’t stay in this country now, not with his uncle trying to murder him. He’ll be safer in the States.”
“Will he? Darko has a long reach.”
“True.” A disturbing sensation settled in his gut. “What can we do, LT? He saved our lives. If it wasn’t for him, Chry and I would be buried and gone right now. I can’t let Darko murder him like—”
“Like?”
2-Stroke took a huge breath and let it out. “My father murdered my brother, and when he came for me, I killed him.”
There was silence on the other end of the line and 2-Stroke closed his eyes, the trust he’d seen the team put in their boss bolstering him.
“Geezus. I’m sorry about your brother. I’m afraid I don’t have one ounce of regret or sympathy for your father. I’m sure it was tough on you. For that, I’m also sorry.”
“Thank you, LT. I appreciate it.”
“This doesn’t have to be said, but you know we will always have your back. Get your asses to the border and I’ll sleep better at night. That’s an order,” he growled.
“Yes, sir.”
There was a gravelly chuckle. “You’re calling me sir?
2-Stroke leaned against the front of the house and crossed his ankles, a flicker of amusement surfacing.
There was another gruff chuckle. “I’m not going to let that go to my head. Keep it tight.”
He disconnected the call and 2-Stroke stuck the phone into his jacket pocket.
“Hey,” Saint said as he stepped onto the porch. “Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping, just heard you talking.”
“Can’t sleep either?”
“No. Got…some…thing on my mind.”
“You mean someone.” 2-Stroke looked pointedly toward the barn.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Duh, yeah.”
“Well, it’s almost over. She goes back to DC and I go back to San Diego.”
“Yeah, long distance sucks, and with our schedule…it might be the right call.”
“How about you?”
2-Stroke’s first inclination was to clam up, but then he remembered that the brotherhood was about more than just operating together. “I love her. We got some things to talk over, some things maybe to figure out, but we’re putting that on hold until we get back to the States.”
“You think she’ll come back as our liaison? That could cause some problems.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked her, but she’s got some healing to do.” He stared toward the rough road. The wind had come up in the night, and there were streamers of snowdrifts in the lane. Thank God it wasn’t enough to slow them down. “I was really scared there for a while. I thought she was going to die. Chry and I have known each other for a long time, but I left her without a word when I went to BUD/S.”
“It takes a lot of focus to get through training, man. Don’t beat yourself up. It might have been the easiest thing to do.”
“It wasn’t easy. It was damned hard, and I missed her every day. But my reasons I thought were sound.”
“Like?”
“All my life, I couldn’t seem to protect the people I loved. My mom…she died from cancer. My brother was murdered. Dean left us to our abusive, alcoholic father. I thought for a long time that I didn’t deserve to have people in my life, that I didn’t matter. I became a SEAL with that mindset—”
“What the fuck are you talking about! Of course, you matter! We go out every goddamned day and put our lives on the line for anyone who needs us, to protect the US, for justice, for whatever we’re ordered to do. You’re an integral part of this team. You keep us from getting blown up. I’ve never heard such horse crap.”
2-Stroke held up his hands, surprised and warmed by Saint’s outburst. “Okay, Zach, tone it down. You’ll wake up Chry or Dean. And I don’t need him nosing in right now.”
“That pissed me off. Are you over it now?”
2-Stroke stared at his teammate, something in him melting, then grinned and shook his head. “I think I better be.”
He mulled over what Saint had to say about Chry staying on as their liaison and about how it was too difficult for him to handle a relationship with Aella long distance. 2-Stroke had to wonder if he’d talked to her about it.
He pulled into the gas station and got some of Chry’s money to pay for the gas. He filled up the tank, then went inside to pay.
Just as he finished the transaction, Zasha walked out of the women’s restroom, and their eyes clashed over the rows of merchandise.
She opened her mouth to yell, but he was on her, punching her square in the face. She flew back and he turned and ran past the open-mouthed clerk, slipping on the gravel as he exited. Pelting for the van, he climbed in and gunned the engine, fishtailing out of the station.
“What?” Chry asked as she looked at him in alarm.
“I swear we have the worse fucking luck! Zasha was in there.”
“Did she see you?” Saint asked.
“Fucking yeah.”
The three of them in the back of the van started to pull out automatic weapons.
Moments after that, as they headed for the safety of the back road, the sound of a chopper roared in the distance. The engine grew louder as it closed in, kicking up dirt and leaves in an opaque spin of debris. Then the door slid open.
“Holy shit! RPG! RPG!” Striker yelled, but for them it was too late.
Then the blast hit. The percussion of the explosion shattered whatever windows still had glass in them. With a giant shove, the blast kicked up the rear of the van, the ground rushing toward his face. The force tossed them ass up and over—inside three tons of machine filled with gasoline.
The vehicle landed on the roof, but the crunch of steel didn’t end, debris shooting over the van. 2-Stroke reached for Chry, but the after-blast kept coming, knocking the Mercedes so hard it pushed it several feet. Thunks of rubble slammed into the van for a full minute before it stopped. 2-Stroke froze as the shock vibrated through the vehicle.
For a moment, he couldn’t see, then realized blood was covering his vision. He looked back to find the other three all crumpled in a heap amongst the torn metal and rubber.
“Striker!” he shouted, his heart in his throat. His brother stirred, and 2-Stroke breathed a sigh of relief.
Striker woke with a jerk. Aella was whimpering and Saint came to slowly. He shook his head.
“We’ve got to get out of here. They’re going to be here any moment!” 2-Stroke ordered.
“I-I can’t,” Aella cried, and her gaze was on her leg.
“Fuck!” Saint said, now moving like lightning. “Compound fracture.” He looked at Striker. “Find my medical bag. Bring it,” he said, then he turned back to her. “I’m going to lift you, babe. This is going to hurt.”
Her jaw clenched and she nodded. He scooped her up and she screamed.
“Wha-wha—” Chry mumbled as she came awake and flailed for a moment trapped in her harness. 2-Stroke cut her out of her seat belt and caught her as she fell. She cried out and clutched her side. He turned and kicked out the windshield, clearing the glass.
“Let me get her out, then I’ll take Aella,” 2-Stroke said.
“I’ve got it,” Striker said as he kicked at the van’s mangled back door with powerful blows with his booted feet. “Saint! Let’s go.”
2-Stroke picked up Chry and started to run, the others close behind him. To his utter disbelief a sedan was heading righ
t at them. “Striker! The car!”
His brother sprinted to the head of the line and held up the automatic weapon. The sedan stopped and the two people inside piled out.
They ran in opposite directions as the five of them sprinted to the car. 2-Stroke set Chry in the front seat and Saint set Aella in the back amid her cries of pain.
As soon as the doors closed, 2-Stroke turned the car around and stomped on the gas. The chopper was banking and coming around. Striker broke out the back window and took aim with his MK-14 as the chopper came in for another salvo.
With a popping noise, his brother discharged the weapon and there was a loud explosion. Looking in the rearview, he saw the helicopter falling out of the sky and landing in the road, breaking apart in a rush of debris. Out of the smoke and fire, five jeeps raced.
“We’re almost to the border,” Striker yelled. Up ahead, 2-Stroke could see the border crossing station and that it was currently unmanned. He looked beyond and cheered when he saw his LT and team. “Hoo-yah!”
Automatic gunfire sounded from behind them, peppering the vehicle. Saint and Striker returned fire, but as they neared the crossing, a tire blew, and the car swerved and ran onto the shoulder of the road.
“We have to run!” he shouted and was out of the car, lifting Chry into his arms as Striker used the passenger side door to lay down some fire. “Hold on,” he said as her arms went tight around his neck. Leaving one arm free to pull out his sidearm. 2-Stroke gave Saint and Aella cover as Saint picked up the writhing woman and ran for the SEALs who were pacing back and forth, gesturing for them to hurry. The jeeps stopped coming as the men piled out and took cover.
“Striker,” 2-Stroke yelled, and his brother broke off combat and started after Saint. 2-Stroke turned and ran after him, holding Chry close, his legs pumping. Sweat poured off him. As he neared the border, the automatic gunfire stopped, but he didn’t turn around to find out why. He kept running.
Then a single shot cracked in the air. Something hit him in the back and punched the air right out of him, a pinching, burning pain that spread to his chest and stung, then turned sharp. He felt dizzy, a cold, damp flushing feeling suffusing his face. He made it a few more steps, then started to crumple as the energy seemed to be sucked out of him.
Hands and arms were there taking Chry, but 2-Stroke was already falling. He hit the ground, immediately tasting blood, coughing and having a hard time taking a breath. He heard a dissonance of voices above him, but he suddenly couldn’t breathe.
Chry, he thought, realizing that he’d been shot. I’m sorry.
16
2-Stroke woke slowly. It was like walking through a field of cotton candy, the pink behind his eyelids. The first thing he thought was that taking a breath didn’t hurt, though there was discomfort in his upper chest. He opened his eyes and realized that the soreness was because his chest was tubed up, a machine whirring rhythmically beside him.
“Hey, there,” Saint said. “Welcome back.”
“What happened?” 2-Stroke asked. Then the memory came rushing back at him. “Chry! Where is she? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” Saint said, pushing on his shoulder to keep him against the mattress. “She’s in LA. She got shot in the upper thigh and it required some surgery. The Navy flew her home to get treated as one of the best surgeons for her type of injury is there.”
He closed his eyes, his relief flowing out of him as the tension in his shoulders subsided. “My brother?”
Saint’s jaw tightened. “He was called back to San Diego. The brass was pretty pissed. We haven’t heard anything yet.” He leaned forward. “He didn’t want to leave you, but he had no choice.”
“I understand. He’s not going to get out of this unscathed.” He was also relieved that Dean was all right, but he could only hope the brass would overlook his rash actions and give him a pass. It wasn’t likely, but there was always hope.
“I know. He knows it, too.”
“Aella?”
“She’s here at Walter Reed. She had a compound fracture of the tibia, and she’s in traction after her surgery that repaired some muscle and nerves. She’s looking at about eight weeks of recuperation, but the orthopedic doctor expects she’ll make a full recovery.”
Aella must hate this as much as he did. She was looking at a much longer recovery time. What he knew of the ATF agent, she was going to chaff against her physical restrictions.
“And Alek?”
“Anna pulled strings and he’s currently with his mom’s cousin here in Bethesda. The guy was overjoyed to see him. He’s a wealthy lawyer and plans to get Alek somewhere safe along with beefed up security. He’s in good hands.”
“I wish I could have said goodbye.” He felt nothing but gratitude for the teenager who had risked his life to save them all.
“Yeah, the kid was broken up about the two of you. Maybe in a day or two you can talk to him on the phone.”
“I would like that.”
Saint smiled. “Now that we’ve got everyone out of the way, how are you feeling?”
“It doesn’t hurt to breathe anymore.”
“That’s good.” Saint sat down in the chair next to the bed. “Darko sniped you, but as soon as you went down, they turned around and left. We had Federal Government troops to back us up. It seems that the President of Republika Srpska is in some hot water for failing to stop Darko in Banja Luka. The State Department is demanding answers, but he keeps saying that he does his best with the criminal element and can’t control what they do.”
“That’s because he was part of the conspiracy to kill a federal agent and a Navy SEAL.”
Saint nodded. “You’re doing great, by the way.”
“What’s all this?”
“A few chest tubes since you experienced a pneumo-hemothorax. We flew you out the next day once you’d stabilized.”
“English, Doc?”
“When you have a hole in your torso, air comes into the chest cavity. When there is enough air from the outside, it gathers around your lung and collapses it. This air surrounding the lung keeps it from expanding and that keeps you from breathing. You were also bleeding, which compounded the problem.”
“Now was that so hard?”
Saint chuckled. “The even better news is that the bullet didn’t hit anything vital, so your lung is already expanding as we drain the fluid. You had to have surgery and that’s why you were flown here. Dr. Charles repaired your lung and pleura…tissue around the lung. They did it through these tiny cameras which cause less scarring and will give you a quicker recovery. Your doctor doesn’t expect there will be any long-term repercussions. You should be out of here in a couple of weeks.”
That was great news and maybe it was the painkillers kicking in, but he couldn’t seem to hold on to the anxiety of knowing Darko and Zasha were still out there. He was sure when he was recovered, his worry about them plotting something else would grip him again.
“Okay, bro. I will talk to you later. I’ve got another twelve hours before I have to be on a plane back to San Diego myself. Want to say goodbye to Aella.”
2-Stroke nodded but grabbed Saint by the sleeve before he could leave. “I wanted to thank you for coming after me. I know I’ve been…reserved, but I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and Chry. I can’t imagine what would have happened to her if you hadn’t been there.”
“You have to know we will always have your back.”
“That’s what LT said.” 2-Stroke smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I get it loud and clear.” He took a breath. “Hey, before you go, could you get me some drawing materials…a notebook, a couple of pencils?”
Saint grinned. “Yeah, I think I can manage that. Rest and listen to the doc. I’ll be back later with your stuff.
After Saint left looking like he had one heck of a heavy heart, 2-Stroke took another two weeks to recover enough to go home. He only got periodic texts from Chry that her surgery went very well, and she was on the mend. Her mes
sages were bare-bones, and 2-Stroke couldn’t help wondering if, now that they were out of that life and death situation, maybe she was having second thoughts about him, about his lifestyle, about his choice of job. There were things they needed to talk about, but he was reluctant to bring up anything that could be tension-filled after they had been through months of torture, starvation, pain, and terror, not to mention a desperate run for their lives and getting shot multiple times.
On the day he was to be discharged, the team was being recalled back to San Diego, but 2-Stroke wasn’t going back there. He was going to LA to finish his recovery, see his brother, and visit Chry.
As he was getting dressed, the stitches in his side itching beneath the simple white bandage, he took a deep breath, feeling no pain. He wasn’t exactly one hundred percent, but he would be once he rejoined the team.
When they filed into his room, he smiled. “You guys getting ready to ship out?”
Fast Lane nodded. “How are you doing, kid?”
He had always resented being called kid, but now he realized it was a term of endearment from his rough-and-tumble LT. “Feeling great thanks to the great care I got here. Thank you all for being there when I needed you. Hoo-yah!”
They all echoed the call almost as one voice, and all those barriers he had thought were so insurmountable were gone. This was his team. These were his brothers. This was his duty to serve with them, their bond ironclad, their dedication without measure.
The brotherhood was everything and the reason he would continue to give everything he had for the fight.
“We’ll see you when you get back to San Diego. Rest and get better,” Fast Lane said as he squeezed 2-Stroke’s shoulder, but before 2-Stroke knew what he was doing, he rose and hugged his CO, who hugged him back. He went down the line: Dragon, Pitbull, Hemingway, Mad Max, Dodger, and Saint, whom he hugged just a little bit tighter.
“I owe you a beer when you get back from LA,” he said.
2-Stroke nodded, then they were gone, and he went through the administrative steps to get discharged. He headed immediately for Dulles International Airport and his booked flight to LAX.
