All for You

by Jessica Scott

  Evan was the investigating officer because he outranked Marshall. Still, it was a sticky thing to investigate someone in your own unit. But Reza trusted Loehr to do the right thing. The man didn’t know how to do the wrong thing.

  Reza snorted. He supposed that was why Loehr was such a good match for Claire. They kept each other on their toes.

  A short time later, he walked into the battalion headquarters and headed down the hall toward the conference room. Evan was already there, drinking from a stainless steel mug branded with the Reaper design. He glanced up when Reza walked in.

  “Hey, Sarn’t Ike.”

  “Sir.”

  They’d served together on the mission in Colorado and on that last rotation to Iraq. Evan had been part of the team that had been responsible for putting together legal reviews on some of the actions Reza and his boys had then carried out. It was nice knowing there was a team somewhere blessing off on the targeted operations that in theory were helping to keep his boys—and in theory at least the Iraqis—safer.

  “Anyway, you know why you’re here.” Best not to pull punches.

  Reza pulled up a chair and leaned both elbows on the table. “Yeah. Wisniak and the allegations he’s made.” Reza took a sip from his coffee. “Have you heard he was admitted to the psych ward again?”

  Evan scribbled a note. “Nope, that’s first heard.”

  “He attempted to kill himself but there’s a twist.” Reza pulled out his phone and showed Evan the screen shot that Captain Marshall had sent him last night. “Wisniak thinks he was set up.” He explained how Wisniak thought the text messages had been faked while Evan scribbled quickly.

  “You know I can’t use any of this officially? It’s all hearsay.”

  “I know, but you need to question Song about his cell phone and you might want to talk to Captain Marshall about his boys. It’s crossed the line if they’re assaulting people.”

  Evan scrubbed his hand over his jaw. “Marshall is a grade A fuckstick,” he said grimly.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Reza sighed. “I question, though, whether he knows the full extent of what’s going on with his boys.”

  Evan frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  Reza leaned back from the table. “We always say the commanders are responsible for everything their formation does or doesn’t do, but honestly, how can they possibly know everything? I’m the last one to defend Marshall but I’ve seen good commanders get rung up for shit they just didn’t know.”

  “Wisniak told his shrink that he informed Marshall and then the harassment got worse.”

  “But what did he tell Marshall? Did he lay it all out or did he say something vague like ‘I feel like the guys are fucking with me’?” Reza paused. “It makes a difference, especially for guys like Marshall, who act only on facts.”

  Evan continued writing quickly. “Good point, actually. I’ll have to interview Marshall again to find out just what Wisniak told him.” He looked up.

  “What do you think?” Reza asked cautiously

  “I think Marshall’s boys are out of control and he’s not doing anything to rein them in, either because he doesn’t know, refuses to see, or simply can no longer control a gang of marauding asshats that he was a part of. I’ll know more once I talk to Marshall.”

  Reza leaned forward and took a pull off his coffee, staring off into space. “Do you ever think we’re not fighting the good fight anymore?”

  Evan tossed his pen onto the table and leaned back. “Every day I question what I’m doing, brother. Every day.” Evan studied him quietly for a moment. “You thinking of hanging it up?”

  Reza lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “Not much out there by way of jobs for a washed-out infantryman unless I want to go mercenary. I kind of like that whole food on the table thing.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You know where I think you’d be great?” Reza lifted both eyebrows, waiting. “Middle school gym teacher.”

  Reza choked on his coffee, coughing roughly. “Where the fuck did you come up with that good idea fairy?”

  Evan grinned. “You’ve got the kind of personality that people look up to. Think of the difference you could make in a little kid’s life before they end up all fucked up by their parents.”

  “Yeah, cause I’m such a great fucking mentor.” The tattoos on his arms ached with failure.

  “Just saying. It’s a lot like what you do now except you’d be teaching kids how to hit a ball or make a basket instead of kicking in doors. You know, if you were serious about getting out.”

  Reza frowned. “Yeah, well, thanks; but there aren’t a whole lot of soccer moms who would be comfortable with a man like me teaching their kids to play ball.”

  “You’d be surprised. People look at the uniform and see the shiny hero, not the mud, blood and tears that go along with it sometimes.”

  Reza said nothing as he stood. The idea of him wearing bad shorts and a whistle to work was beyond insane. He’d go crazy without the constant stress and strain of army life. It might take everything he had some days to get up and go to work but it was all he knew, all he’d ever done.

  His upper arm itched and he rubbed it absently. The idea of hanging up his career in the middle of the war felt like…treason. Worse, cowardice. What kind of soldier would he be if he cut and run while his boys headed back into combat without him? He’d survived so long and so much crazy shit, going back downrange felt like the only way to thank the fates that had kept him alive for so long.

  It felt like a sin not to prepare soldiers the best way he knew how.

  He crossed the quad toward his company operations office, not really wanting to deal with Marshall. Then again, there was never a good time to deal with Marshall but today was going to be particularly bad when Marshall found out about the memorial. And he would find out.

  Reza had passed the point of caring. He walked into his office and turned on his computer. Temptation beckoned to him from his desk drawer. He held the bottle in his hands, twisting the cap off and on until his hands no longer shook as he logged onto his e-mail and skimmed for anything important.

  He could do this. On. Off. On. Off.

  Three e-mails but the most important one was from Giles asking about Wisniak. He fired off the update and included that he’d finished his interview with Evan. He didn’t expect a response from Sergeant Major Giles and he received none.

  Reza was getting ready to face the most aggravating part of his duty day when Teague walked in. Reza was instantly on edge. Teague hadn’t shaved and looked like he’d been up a hell of a lot longer than Reza. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Foster and I were up commiserating last night.

  “You look like you were doing a lot more than commiserating. What was the occasion?”

  “Two years since the firefight where we lost Deek and Bo.”

  Reza sat back in his chair, his heart twisting with the memories the names inspired. Lieutenant Deek Merreck and Sergeant Dave Bonamie. “They were good dudes.”

  Teague scoffed quietly. “Does anyone ever say, ‘man, they were such fuckheads’?”

  Reza didn’t laugh. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold up for another trip down memory lane. He was keeping things together by a strand of five-fifty cord and hundred-mile-an-hour tape as it was. “No, I suppose not.”

  They sat together in silence for a long time. There were no words that could put the myriad of feelings churning inside him to voice. There was no need, either.

  The silence of shared experience said enough.

  After a long while, Reza glanced at his watch.

  “Ready for the memorial ceremony?” he said, looking at Teague. They’d pulled it together in record time—less than 24 hours. It would be small but the people that mattered to Sloban in life would be there to commemorate his death.

  It was the right thing to do.

  It still sucked.

  “Are we ever ready for those?” T
eague asked quietly.

  “No,” Reza said softly. “I suppose not.”

  * * *

  “Specialist Sloban?” Reza’s voice did not break as he called the roll. A small crowd of soldiers from across the Reaper brigade surrounded the ramp of the Bradley.

  These were men who remembered Sloban from before he’d begun his descent into drugs. There were still a few of them around and willing to brave the shit storm of disobeying an order.

  Reza couldn’t have been more proud.

  He owed Teague a beer after this. Marshall was likely to have kittens if he knew that they were having a ceremony for Sloban but Reza didn’t rightly care.

  “Specialist Neal Sloban.” His voice rang out across the silent crowd. Heads were bowed. More than one battle-hardened infantryman wiped his eyes.

  Silence greeted Reza’s call once more.

  A third time, his voice rang out.

  “Specialist Neal H. Sloban.”

  Reza turned and saluted Teague. “Sir, Specialist Sloban out of ranks.”

  His voice cracked. Teague returned Reza’s salute then motioned for him to come up onto the ramp. The ceremony was less formal than one conducted by a chaplain. By rights, Captain Marshall, not Teague, should have officiated.

  Sadly, Marshall wasn’t alone among those who were of the mind that suicide was an act of cowardice that did not deserve to be memorialized.

  Reza counted himself lucky that he served with men of character, even if he was not such a man himself. He rubbed his hands against his sides as he climbed the ramp. Facing the crowd, he recognized men from his old platoon. Familiar faces like Shane Garrison and his pain in the ass sidekick Vic Carponti. Teague and Foster stood at the edge of the crowd. Foster didn’t look like he was holding up too well. He was either hung over or still drunk and Teague—while he was putting on a good show—didn’t look like he was doing much better.

  But this was important. The most important thing Reza would do today.

  “We’re here today because one of us has fallen.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat roughly. “We lost a brother by his own hand.” Reza paused. “And that pisses me off.”

  All eyes lifted as one.

  “Sloban was a good kid. A brave warrior. But those of us who knew him best failed him. None of us knew how badly he was hurting. None of us took the time to make sure he was okay. We failed him.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “We’re not supposed to be here right now. Some of our leaders think we should pretend those who die by their own hand do not deserve the honor of a memorial ceremony. But we’re here because we know better.” He swallowed a lump blocking his throat. More than once. “We’re here because we know that all of us have come home different. Maybe not as broken as Sloban was. But different. Changed.” He paused. “I’m tired of losing our brothers to an enemy we can’t see. I’m tired of saying good-bye to friends who made it through the war only to come home and face a different battle alone.” His eyes filled and he blinked the tears back. There were nodding heads in the crowd and still he kept going. Unwilling to break down in front of the boys. “I want you to look at the man next to you.” Awkward shifts in the crowd but no one moved. “Do it. Look the warrior next to you in the eye. Tell him you’ve got his back.” At the edge of the crowd, he saw Teague rest his hand on Foster’s shoulder. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he said. His voice barely carried over the small group. “We can’t rest. We can’t stop. We’ve got to do better.” He paused. “Our soldiers deserve better.”

  Reza stepped off the ramp. A hand clapped him on the shoulder. A gesture of sympathy. He swallowed roughly as Teague called for anyone who wanted to speak. A few soldiers stepped up, sharing their favorite memories of Sloban before the war had done something to the fun kid they’d all known.

  “What’s the fuck is going on here?” Someone jabbed him hard in the shoulder.

  Reza turned slowly, yanking on his emotions. Marshall. Who else?

  Reza wasn’t in the mood to deal with his commander. Not at all.

  “What’s it look like?” Reza said, offering a salute that was ignored. He dropped his hand.

  “I thought I said no memorial ceremony.” Marshall looked ready to explode.

  “No, you said you wouldn’t do a memorial ceremony. We decided to do one anyway.” Reza felt someone come to stand behind him. He hoped it wasn’t Teague. In his present condition, Teague looked ready to battle and Marshall was a likely candidate for an ass whooping.

  “This borders on mutiny,” Marshall growled.

  “Do you know how to spell mutiny?” This from Teague behind him.

  Great.

  Reza flexed his hands and widened his stance.

  “Go fuck yourself, Teague,” Marshall said. “If you were a real infantryman, you’d have already commanded instead of hiding out on the staff.”

  “Maybe there are limits to how many hairy asses I’ll kiss to make major. Feel free to continue for the both of us, though,” Teague said. There was no humor in his voice.

  “You’re in charge of this ceremony?” Marshall said to Reza.

  Reza lifted his chin and said nothing.

  “You’re fucking pathetic, Iaconelli,” Marshall spat. “Sloban died because of you and you’re going to stand here and get all weepy and teary-eyed?” Marshall dragged one finger beneath his eye. “You’re a goddamned disgrace to the NCO Corps.”

  Reza didn’t think.

  His fist connected with Marshall’s jaw before he’d even realized he’d moved. Marshall caught him with a vicious left hook and the brawl was on. Teague tackled Marshall and even though Marshall had a good thirty pounds on him, Teague was willing to fight dirty. Reza got a couple of good shots in on Marshall before someone dragged him off.

  Garrison. He should have known the fucking Boy Scout would break up the fight.

  “Fucking stop, Ike.” Garrison shoved him back as Carponti yanked Marshall off. “Calm your ass down before you get court-martialed.”

  “You messed up your hair,” Carponti said to Marshall. But despite the smart-ass comment, Carponti looked pissed and ready to fight. Reza took a single step backward.

  Marshall wiped his lip then spat onto the concrete before he tried to take one last shot at Teague, who blew him a kiss. Foster knocked Teague back a step. “Cut the shit. Sir.”

  Garrison broke the crowd up, effectively ending the memorial ceremony. Reza tried to melt into the crowd, not really interested in hearing Garrison’s lecture.

  “You need to fucking stop, Ike.”

  Reza hung his head, clenching his fists at his sides. Garrison had always been a Boy scout. Maybe that’s why he grated on Reza’s last nerve.

  “I’m not really in the mood to listen to your preaching, Garrison.”

  “I’m pretty sure I don’t give a shit.” Garrison stepped in front of him, forcing Reza to either take a step back or stand his ground.

  He stood his ground.

  “You need to stop drinking. You need to pull your shit together. Sergeant Major can’t protect you forever and you might have just cashed in your last favor with this little fiasco.”

  “I’m really not interested in your opinion. And for the record, I’m not drinking. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”

  “Do you realize what you just did? You gave that asshole a way to throw your ass out of the army. You’re a hell of a good infantryman. You’ve got more combat time than most of the leaders in this entire brigade. But none of that is going to mean jack shit if you get yourself court-martialed over some stupid captain running his mouth.” Garrison did something Reza didn’t expect. He gripped Reza’s shoulder.

  It took everything Reza had not to pull away.

  “I’ve heard all of this before. I’ve got things under control,” Reza said.

  “Punching your company commander is your idea of control? How much did you have to drink before you came to work today, Ike?” Reza frowned, but Garrison continued. “There are a
lot of people who would move heaven and earth to protect you but you’re out of favors this time. You have to get sober.”

  He yanked away. “Fuck you, Garrison. I told you, I’m fucking sober.”

  He heard the echo of another conversation. Another friend, worried about him.

  Reza took a step backward, shaking his head. “I’m not drinking but shit, but I might as well.”

  Garrison refused to relent. “Maybe you’re not but you’re still not one hundred percent. There are too many people who care about you for you to keep doing stupid stuff like this.” Garrison walked off, leaving Reza alone in the motor pool.

  Hitting Marshall had felt good, damn good, and long overdue. But regret throbbed in his veins now that the adrenaline from the fight had worn off.

  Garrison was right.

  He’d just given Marshall a way to end his career.

  He’d managed to stay sober. Mostly. And he’d fucked up.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. Sarn’t Major Giles needed him in his office.

  The bitter irony rose up to choke him.

  What was the point in staying sober when all he did was fuck things up anyway?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Goddamn it Iaconelli, I’m fucking through with you.”

  “Sergeant Major.” Colonel Horace’s voice had been calm. Dead calm.

  There had been no emotion in his eyes at all when he’d handed Reza the paperwork advising him of his rights.

  Reza twisted the cap off the bottle and slammed back another drink. So this was what falling off the wagon felt like. Again. Shame threatened to choke him each time Reza swallowed another hard bite of liquor. Officers tended to frown on assault. He grimaced down at the bottle held loosely in one hand, then stared at the form on his beat-up coffee table.