by Cat Johnson
Emma looked insulted. “No. Of course not. What do you think I am?”
She thought it best not to answer that question. Instead she eyed the still corked bottle Emma had abandoned on the table. “That wine coming anytime soon?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” Emma cringed and reached for it. “But I think it’s good Jerry knows you’ve not only moved on with your life, but you’re also doing really well.”
“I guess.” Still, even if it was only about her job and apartment, Becca hated the idea of his knowing anything at all about her after the cowardly way he’d ended their relationship.
The blessed wine was winging its way toward the sofa, transported by the hands of Emma, when Becca’s cell phone rang.
“What now?” She’d been so close to finally relaxing. Becca let out a sigh filled with all of her frustration and glanced at her phone. The number was a local area code, but unfamiliar. Wondering who it could be wouldn’t get her the answer, so she hit the button and said, “Hello?”
“Miss Hart? It’s Jim Mooney.”
“Uh, hi.” Who the hell was Jim Mooney?
With one wineglass in each hand, Emma perched on the sofa and whispered, “Who is that?”
Becca shrugged and silently mouthed, “No idea.”
“Um, I’m at the condo and there’s a man here who says he used to live in this apartment with you, and the wall unit belongs to him. He wanted to take it today.”
Jim. The condo. The pieces began to fall into place. Jim was her tenant, though his checks were imprinted with James R. Mooney III so it was no wonder it had taken her a few seconds to put it all together. But it was the other piece of the puzzle that had her blood pressure rising until she could hear the pulse pounding in her ears. “Jerry is there?”
“Yes, that’s the name he gave me.”
“There right now. Inside the condo?” She was having trouble wrapping her head around that concept. How dare Jerry think he could go to her condo and try to take the furniture.
“Yes. I didn’t want to turn it over to him without checking with you. And I kind of was counting on the shelves staying here. I’ve got my TV and my stereo—”
“Oh, no, Jim. That wall unit comes with the apartment, and if he tries to take it, call the police. I’m on my way over now.”
“But I thought . . . Aren’t you in Oklahoma?”
“No, actually. I’m home visiting family. I can be there in five minutes. If you could ask Jerry to wait outside for me, I’d appreciate it. And if he doesn’t want to go, tell him not only will I call the police, I’ll also be calling my father, the retired cop who still has a sidearm.”
“Oh.” There was a pause, and then Jim said, “All right, then. I guess I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
She might have scared her tenant off for good, but it would be worth it. Becca disconnected the call and stood. “Son of a bitch! You won’t believe this. Jerry is at the condo trying to steal the wall unit.”
“What?”
“I’m sure he got the bright idea from talking to you this morning. When he heard the furniture was here but I was in Oklahoma, he probably figured he could get away with telling the renter it was his and it would be too late for me to do anything about it by the time I found out.” Becca’s blood pressure rose so high she felt light-headed.
“Why would he do that? Does he have any claim to it?” Emma stood, glass in each hand, looking like she didn’t know what to do.
“No. I mean he paid for half of it when he moved in, but that’s because he needed it for all his damn video game equipment.”
Emma waffled her head side to side. “Well . . .”
“Don’t you defend him.” Becca gave her sister a scathing glare. “If he wanted it, he should have taken it when he moved out. And he should have given me my half of the money back. He didn’t. He left it and he can’t come get it months later.”
“Then by the same token, if you’re going to keep it, you owe him half the cost—” Emma took one look at Becca and clammed up. “Never mind. Um, do you want me to come with you?”
“If you want to.” Becca had her coat on and her purse in her hand when Emma trotted after her. She eyed the wineglasses still in her sister’s hands. “You can’t bring that in the car.”
“What if I get a to-go cup?”
She frowned deeper. “No.”
“Oh, you’re no fun.” Emma put the glasses down on the table in the entry hall and grabbed her coat. “I hope this doesn’t take too long.”
“You and me both.” Becca opened the door and got hit with a brisk November wind.
“Is your tenant cute?” Emma followed her out and pulled the door closed behind them.
Becca frowned at her sister. “You need to get yourself a boyfriend.”
“I’m trying. Why do you think I asked about your renter?” She pulled the two sides of her coat tighter together. “Come on. Let’s go so we can get back. I have a lasagna in the oven.”
That news gave Becca one more reason to dispense with Jerry quickly, before he ruined her appetite for Emma’s homemade, extra cheesy and oh-so-tasty lasagna.
The drive to the condo wasn’t a long one, but by the time they arrived, Jerry had already left. Perhaps the threat of the police, or their father, had been too much for him.
She’d always known he was a coward, so it was no surprise really, but it did make Becca extra glad she’d changed the locks right before her tenant moved in. She wouldn’t put it past Jerry to try to use his key to sneak in when no one was home and help himself to what he felt he was entitled to.
After Emma had determined that Becca’s tenant, though a handsome man for his age, was too old for her, they left again and headed home. She pushed through Emma’s door more exhausted than before, but the smell of the lasagna and the sight of the wine greeted them, and that was enough to revive her spirits.
Becca gulped a swallow of wine, still so angry with Jerry she had no hope of even tasting it, forget about appreciating the flavor. “You know what really pisses me off?”
“Do tell.” Emma grabbed her glass and headed for the kitchen, leaving Becca to follow.
“That I dated him at all. I wasted two years of my life on that man.” Two years of her life were gone, and she wasn’t getting any younger.
“So what are you going to do about it?” The sound of the oven door squeaking open accompanied Emma’s question.
“What can I do? I mean I’d love to get revenge but . . .” Becca considered that idea.
Maybe she could somehow put bedbugs in his mattress. How would one go about obtaining and transporting those nasty things? Too risky. She’d probably end up becoming infested herself.
“I’m talking about Tucker. You’ve got a great guy who is obviously into you and all you keep telling me is how you don’t want a relationship with him.”
Becca had already made the comparison between the two men herself. Where Jerry seemed to run from any sort of confrontation as if his life depended on it, Tucker ran toward it. Literally, and his life did depend upon it. “I was trying to not rush into something. After the disaster with Jerry, I thought that was the smart thing to do.”
“Mmm, hmm.” Emma had a knack for agreeing in the most judgmental way.
“What am I supposed to do? He doesn’t call. He doesn’t write, even though I’ve written him.” She was getting pretty tired of this total lack of communication. Of course he was at war, but still. He’d managed to call her once. Surely he could do it again. Becca realized she’d somehow gotten back to the anger stage again, and took another sip of wine.
“Becca, come on. It’s not as if he’s ignoring you to go hang out with the guys to drink and play pool or pick up women. He’s at war, for God’s sake.” Emma cocked a brow. “So let’s move forward, past right now while he’s somewhere in Afghanistan serving our country, and think about the future. What are you going to do once he’s home?”
She hated to admit it, because her sister would jus
t gloat, but Becca had no choice. “If he wants a relationship, and that’s a big if considering he hasn’t been in touch”—she watched Emma make a face that told her to move past that issue and continued—“then I’d be willing to explore getting serious with him.”
Emma let out a huff. “You are unbelievable.”
“What’s the matter now?”
“You’ll explore getting serious? You can’t give in just one tiny bit.” Emma shook her head.
“I did give in. I said I’d be willing. And you know what, I’ll go one step further. When I get back I’ll talk to his military friend Logan. He might be able to tell me more about where Tucker is and why he isn’t calling.” Because in spite of waffling between hope for a future together, and anger over the present, there was a steady undercurrent of concern for Tucker’s well-being that Becca couldn’t shake.
“That’s a very good idea. I approve. Now, until then, can you please try to enjoy your visit?”
Becca was goal oriented, but there was nothing she could do about Tucker, short of looking up Logan’s number and calling him during their Thanksgiving break. She’d just have to wait and do as Emma suggested, enjoy her visit home. “Okay, I’ll try.”
After the hike from the outpost, Tuck and the squad finally arrived at the base, sweaty, dirty, and happy to be there. He dumped his pack next to the rack he used when he rotated back.
He let out a long breath. It was cooler now than when he’d first arrived, but hiking in full gear still worked up a sweat. “It’s good to be back. I need a shower.”
“I’m more looking forward to decent chow.” Conseco dumped his own pack on the floor. The body armor and helmet he hung on a nail.
Thanksgiving had already come and gone without a whole lot of hoopla or any turkey, but real food cooked at the base rather than meals eaten out of foil packs at the outpost was something to be excited about. That, and the phones. Tuck needed to call home, and to call Becca.
Speaking of Becca . . . there was a stack of white, or what had once been white, envelopes on the one and only table in the room. One look at the ‘to’ and ‘from’ addresses penned in neatly looping feminine script told him they were all from her.
Letters. For him. His pulse quickened. That happened pretty often nowadays, but it was usually because someone was shooting at him. It was nice to feel excited about something other than combat for a change.
“I’m guessing that goofy-ass grin on your face means those are from your girl.” Conseco dropped onto the cot.
“Yup.” Tuck checked and he was grinning from ear to ear. He couldn’t have controlled it if he’d wanted to.
“You tell her you love her yet?”
This had become a regular thing between the two of them. Every time they rotated back to the base, Conseco would ask the same question and Tuck had to deliver the same answer. No.
At least this time he had a good excuse to go along with the no. “I haven’t called her because the last few times we were back here, the satellite was down.”
“Don’t need a satellite to mail a damn letter. And besides, I’m betting it’s not still down now.”
“We just got back . . .” Tuck noted Conseco’s disapproving expression and gave in. “Fine. I’ll go over now.”
“Wait. Aren’t you going to open those first? There could be some nice pictures in there.” Conseco waggled his eyebrows.
“No, I’m not going to open them first.” He would have liked to read her letters now, but talking to Becca would be far better. Then he could save the letters for later. Open them in private when Conseco wasn’t watching him so he could savor the time with each one. He grabbed his body armor and pulled it on. “Be back in a bit.”
“Fine. I’m taking a nap.” Conseco waved a hand in Tuck’s direction and closed his eyes.
After planting his helmet on his head and grabbing his rifle, Tuck headed out and across the base. He was just pulling open the door of the communications center—if you could call the tiny brick and mortar building with a few shared computers and phones inside that—when he heard the explosion.
Tuck ducked low and ran to take cover behind the ammo hooch. He tried to hear where the sounds of the attack were coming from. The base became a whirlwind of action around him with men running for their gear or their post.
Thompson sprinted the distance across the open area and dove, hitting the ground next to Tuck. He was breathless as he said, “The outpost is under attack.”
The same outpost where Tuck had been an hour ago. He should have been there to help defend it. Instead he was here.
From his position behind the makeshift walls, he could look across the base and see Smith in the guard position manning the Squad Automatic Weapon. He opened it up, raining fire upon the hill where the insurgents were taking cover while they targeted the outpost. The nearly deafening noise drowned out the more distant sound of the squad at the outpost defending themselves against the attack. The SAW jammed from the heat created by the sheer number of rounds Smith fired. While he cursed loud enough for them all to hear it over the ringing in their ears, a radio nearby squawked.
Seconds later, Conseco joined them. “The forward observer radioed in. The fucking Taliban bastards are trying for the wire.”
Tuck gripped his M4 tighter. “If they get inside the wire . . . ”
“Yeah, I know.” The expression on Conseco’s face clearly showed what he was thinking. It was the same thing as Tuck and Thompson and every man there.
Every one of them knew if the insurgents made it inside the boundaries of the outpost, the men inside were on their own. The base’s mortars were ranged in but how could they fire when the enemy was inside the American outpost? The .50-cal wouldn’t be able to protect the soldiers on the inside any better. The base couldn’t fire at the bad guys nor could air support when they finally arrived in an hour, for fear of hitting their own men.
The outpost would be overrun. For the occupants it would be a close-range battle to the death. Or worse—every American soldier’s worst fear—they’d be captured. Dragged away to be used for propaganda. Put on television for their families, their country, and the world to see before the Taliban finally decided to finish them off on video.
In a choice between taking his own life and being taken alive by the enemy, there was no choice. Tuck touched the grenade in his pocket. They each carried one, just in case.
“Conseco, Thompson, Jenkins.” With a radio to his ear, the captain shouted in their direction. “You three, get over there!” He issued the order and then spun to yell to Smith on the gun.
Without even remembering how he came to be there, Tuck found himself as part of the three-man relief team, sprinting full out across open terrain as Conseco and Thompson covered him. His pack was loaded with as much weapons, ammunition, and medical supplies as he could carry.
He hit the ground behind a shale outcropping, took a knee, and provided covering fire for Conseco and Thompson as they sprinted past his location. Then it would be his turn again. They’d move this way, bounding, until they covered the distance between the base and the outpost. It was like a deadly version of a child’s game of leapfrog.
They were taking too long. The only thought in Tuck’s mind was that he hoped there would be someone left alive to help by the time they got there. Actually, one other thing crept into his mind on the side of that mountain amid the gunfire and gnarly spiked-leaved holly trees. It hit him unbidden and was enough to have him setting his jaw and running faster than he thought he could, determined to save both his squad and himself.
Becca.
The sound of the enemy fire was overwhelming, while outgoing fire had dropped to almost nothing. Tuck guessed they were getting hit so hard and so steadily, the men inside couldn’t even get to the mortars to fire back. And by now, the outpost’s machine guns had probably overheated and jammed just as Smith’s had.
If they took much longer to get there, it might be too late.
“Fu
ck the bounding. I’m sprinting the rest,” he shouted to Conseco and Thompson, who’d just passed him and ducked behind cover.
“All right. We’ll cover you,” Conseco yelled back.
Tuck ran full out in a straight line toward his destination, covering as much distance in as little time as he could. He somehow made it to a spot right outside the wire without getting hit. The enemy was too damn focused on firing inside the outpost. He turned to cover his teammates and they matched his sprint, hitting the ground next to him, panting for breath.
Conseco picked up his radio and was mid-sentence with the captain, telling him they were at the gate and about to enter, when a heavy barrage of grenade blasts hit inside the wire. That was followed by a deafening sound from the radio. Conseco stared down at the device in his hand and then looked up and shook his head. “The frequency’s jammed.”
Which meant none of them had radio contact with each other, the outpost, or their backup at the base.
“We’ve got to get in there.” Tuck sized up the distance to the gate, so close. Mere yards now.
Conseco glanced at them both. “One at a time will give them time to pick us off.”
“Then we all go together. On three?” Thompson suggested.
“On three,” Conseco agreed.
Tuck nodded and shifted his weight, ready to move. On Thompson’s count of three, he bolted through the gate and into the middle of hell.
Inside it was a tough decision where to go first. They had to both defend the position and help the wounded. That raised the question of where the wounded were and whether any of them were still alive to be helped.
Ducking behind a Hesco, Tuck shouted, “Any suggestions?”
“They’re targeting that bunker hard. There must be friendlies alive inside,” Conseco shouted back.
But the incoming fire seemed to originate from everywhere. They were completely surrounded. How could three men defend an outpost against that? Frustrated, Tucker glanced at the sky. “We need those Apaches here now.”
