by KB Winters
“Are you sure?”
Dylan nodded and reached for my hand. “You have to trust me, Em.”
“I do.”
“I have to do something,” he said. I looked at his bloodstained shirt and pointed to the bathroom. “Wait here,” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
A few minutes later he came out of the shower with a towel around his waist, water dripping from his hair. I pulled the towel away and ran it through his dripping curls before he took me in his arms and kissed me deeply. “Take me to your bed, Em.”
We had to keep quiet, out of fear of alerting Tommy in the next room, but we made love. It was slow and sensual and erased all the fears and drove the horrifying nightmares from my mind.
***
Two weeks later we stood in a room barely recognizable from the pub as Jimmy and Tommy had left it. Everything from the furniture and paint down to the light fixtures and doorknobs had been replaced.
“The place looks great, Patrick,” I said, dropping a kiss on the man’s cheeks.
“You’re going to have to get used to calling me Paddy,” he said. “There’s a rumor going around that it won’t be long before you’re officially one of the Malloys.”
My cheeks flushed. “Wishful thinking on the part of Mrs. Malloy. Unless you know something I don’t.”
Paddy flashed me a wry, sad grin. “I had a talk with the lad. Said he’d be a fool to let you slip through his fingers.”
“And what did Dylan say?”
“He just told me he had to report back to active duty. Holds his cards close to his chest, that one does.”
“There you go then. The news is no news.” I tried to laugh it off, but my heart was heavy with not knowing what Dylan had on his mind. I’d been here before, déjà vu all over again, a farewell party before he ships out.
My eyes flitted across the room to where Dylan was standing with his parents. Tara was out of the picture. Dylan eventually told me her story and while it went a long way toward resolving my anger, I was mostly just relieved she was gone and that her face would no longer be there to remind me of the ugly past.
“Well I wouldn’t go picking out china patterns just yet, Patrick,” I said, patting him on the arm. “Dylan has some big decisions to make.”
As if he overheard his name, Dylan turned and smiled at me from across the room.
Patrick nudged me. “I trust he’ll make the right ones this time.”
I said nothing. I wouldn’t let myself get my hopes up. Dylan would be flying back to his unit overseas, but I could see his gut was twisted when anyone asked him if was going to sign up for another tour or come home to Brighton for good. The expectation was that he was a homeboy after all, like everyone else in this town. But they didn’t know Dylan like I did. They didn’t know the ghosts waiting for him, especially after the last few weeks.
The O’Douls had been taken down, just as Dylan promised. The pub on Fourth was boarded up, and while everyone had their own version of the truth, no one knew what really happened that night. In the end, the police and FBI were called in and quickly dismantled the organization. A body was found outside O’Doul’s—Eddie O’Doul—killed with the same gun used on Gregory O’Doul. It was determined that the crime syndicate had some internal fighting that resulted in the killings. That wasn’t what put them away, though. Rather, it was an anonymous tip that led them to the storage facility that belonged to a pair of Irish men where the feds found nearly a dozen women and children who had been kidnapped from Central America and were being used as sex slaves under the guise of a bar supply company.
Dylan never confirmed to me, but I knew that he’d been the tip-off. In the end, all that mattered was that a giant human-trafficking ring was taken down, and the O’Douls were running a skeleton crew that couldn’t possibly worry about taking over more property from the Malloys. Paddy had his bar back, his son Frankie behind the wheel, and everyone was ready to move forward, out of the shadows of the destruction and tragedy.
Not least of all, myself.
Dylan sidled up to me at the buffet table and glanced down at the picked over remnants as I started to clear away empty dishes. We’d thrown a little reopening-slash-goodbye party, catered by the diner.
“Well, the cake’s gone, pretty sure that means the party’s over.”
I smiled. “Guess you’ll be heading home, huh?”
Dylan stroked the side of my face. “Not unless you’re with me.”
“Tommy is with my mom for the night.”
“Good. Cause I plan on making you scream my name before the night is over.”
I looked into those deep eyes. It was time for me to live in the present. For tonight that was all I could count on.
Epilogue
Dylan
Ma fixed my favorite breakfast of pancakes and sausage, and Pops went over the box scores from last night’s Celtics game, whistling his disgust at another loss, all three of us pretending it was just like any other morning.
I’d already been home twenty-eight days and had to report for active duty in forty-eight hours. A day to travel back to the desert and a day to recover from jet lag, and I’d sign in. If it weren’t for Emma, wanting to be with her, needing to be with her, I’d have gone back last week. Not that I didn’t care about my parents’ or love being with them. I just couldn’t answer the question staring back at me from their sad eyes every day: Aren’t you going to stay home?
Even after everything that had happened, I still didn’t have an answer for them. For Emma. For myself. Never has walking through the rooms of my home felt like torture. The guilt of leaving my parents’ alone with their grief was eating me alive. What kind of shitty son did that?
I’d gone over my options until my brain was fried. I could sign up for another tour with the Navy, serve my country, and live a life few men get to experience. I was also qualified for a six-figure bonus if I stayed in the game.
What red-blooded American would pass that up?
It wasn’t just the rush of adrenaline when we went out on a mission, or taking out another bad guy. That was a high in itself. It was knowing I’d honed every cell and muscle of my body into peak physical and mental conditioning that would level the jerks pedaling workout videos on late night TV. It was being ready at the drop of a hat, or a command from my CO to gear up to meet the greatest challenges facing our country. I had sophisticated technical and language skills that qualified me to outwit those who wanted to sabotage our national safety. My country had made an incalculable investment in me. I was in my prime—twenty-seven-years-old, locked and loaded.
Was I ready to set that all aside to fix toilets and put up storm windows in the apartments my father owned?
What would I do in Brighton that would allow me to use my training and passion in civilian life? I’d lain awake night after night, trying to come up with something, and there was nothing. If I stayed, even to be with the woman I loved, I’d see a life of disappointment, depression even. What would that do to Emma? How could our love sustain that burden? She’d had enough trauma in her life than to see our love go down the drain. She deserved so much more.
But as I sat here with my ma and pops, both of them trying to put on a good face as they prepared to say goodbye to me again, I had to ask myself, what was my obligation to them? I’d given damn near eight years to my country. Did I owe the United States another contract? Another eight years? Or, was it time to give back to my parents for all they’d sacrificed?
I said goodbye to Emma and her family last night. She didn’t even ask when she’d see me again. But little Tommy did, and that’s when I broke down. I lifted him up and held him close to my heart. “Soon, little buddy,” I said. “Soon.” And I’d damn sure come home on leave more often to keep that promise.
Ma finally broke the silence at the breakfast table. “Did you get your laundry, son? I left it on your bed.”
I swallowed the rest of my coffee. “I sure did, Ma. Thanks. Wis
h I could take you with me as my personal maid.”
We all laughed, and I got up from the table and took the mug to the sink. “I’ll put my gear in the trunk, and we can get going.”
I didn’t want them to drive me to the airport, but it was an argument I knew wasn’t going to win. A gentle snowfall had started, and Pops had already filled the gas tank. Ma put on her heavy coat, keeping her head down as she pulled on her galoshes as if that would hide her tears, and we were off.
***
“Petty Officer Second Class Malloy reporting for duty.” The clerk behind the desk in Kuwait glanced up at me and began the paperwork. By nightfall I’d caught a ride on a transport to the desert and met up with my team.
I stowed my gear and after sitting in on a report of the day’s mission, learned the leaker was still loose and the enemy was still ambushing our units out in the field. Lieutenant Johnson told me while I’d been gone we’d lost three of our guys, and I left for my bunk wanting to take out the bastards who’d ambushed them. But as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out.
Hours later, I woke up and reached across the small bed for Emma. When all I ended up with was an armful of military blanket, I opened my eyes, not sure where I was or what time it was. An armored vehicle started up outside and brought me forward in time with a heart-stopping backfire. I was back at work, in the Middle East.
One day stretched into the next in a dead run for the X on my mental calendar that marked Decision Day. I tried to act as though the calendar didn’t exist, doubling up on my workouts to make up for the slack in my gut from Ma’s home cooking. The Navy required we meet optimum performance standards to get into the SEALs. I always made it my business to go one better. They wanted 100 pushups in two minutes. I gave them 150 in a minute fifty-five. A mile and a half run in full pack in 9:30? Try eight minutes. And on down the line. I worked out hard every day, beating my desire for Emma into exhaustion, or at least, I tried to.
And as much as I tried to get her off my mind, I could still smell her perfume before I fell asleep, feel the silkiness of her hair while I was breaking down my weapon, taste her sweet cherry lips in my dreams.
So, I worked faster, trained harder, and focused more on our missions. Work was more urgent than ever. The enemy was gaining ground. Politics at home were putting pressure on the military to wipe out the terrorists, and we were on constant high alert.
On the little down time we had, we’d shoot hoops and talk about women like nothing special was going on. But we seethed with desire to go out on the raids, take out the bogeys.
Two months rolled around. I had three days to go before I had to re-up or process out. We got some intel that the head of a terror cell thought to have taken out our guys was visiting in a nearby village. He had a good size crew with him, and to say they were dangerous was a understatement. They were a mobile destruction crew, and the word was he was leaving at dawn, and if we didn’t get him that night we’d miss our chance.
****
We were eighteen strong as we approached our target, seventeen SEALs and Chip Sherman, the CIA agent I trusted most who handled communication, crept up on the farmhouse quiet as fog coming off the Charles River. We took out the guards outside the entrance before they even knew we were there, slipped inside, and blew away the occupants sitting cross-legged in a circle on the floor before they could set down their tea.
We grabbed everything we could: computers, laptops, phones and were back to our unit before the dust cleared.
The captain confirmed our intel was correct, the guys we took out were really bad guys. The mission didn’t solve the problem of who was leaking intel to the enemy, but we’d scored a big hit.
I should’ve been happy. Should’ve sealed the deal that this was where I belonged.
But instead of elation, the hole in my gut seemed to get bigger. Yeah, I was pleased and proud we took care of business tonight. And I’d do it again if I had the chance. But all of a sudden, I wondered if this was what I wanted for my future. Hadn’t I seen enough killing? Hadn’t I taken out enough men, seen enough bloodshed, lost enough brothers? Is this what I wanted the rest of my life to be about? Kicking ass and taking out the bad guy?
I couldn’t answer that question because I honestly didn’t know. What I did know, without a doubt, was that if I wasn’t sure, if I wasn’t fully committed to the mission, I was a danger to my unit. And that was what made up my mind. I didn’t belong in the SEALs anymore. If I faltered, even for a nanosecond, someone’s life could be in danger, even my own. And I couldn’t live with that.
The next day, I told my captain I was shipping back home.
***
I had to report to Coronado to sign my final papers. It had occurred to me to call Emma and have her meet me there and make a vacation of it. Spend some time in the sun, stretch out on the sand, show Tommy the great zoo they have in San Diego. But when it came down to it, I never even told her I was coming home. I didn’t tell anyone.
I scoffed to myself. What the fuck was wrong with me? I was one of those bastards with one foot on the gas and one foot on the brakes. I wasn’t excited about going home, and I was definitely torn apart at leaving the SEALs. For eight years my whole identity had been tied up in the service. Now, who was I? I couldn’t answer that question so I just went through the motions of saying my goodbyes and exiting from the military until I landed in Coronado.
California. Man, I could fall in love with California. Endless sun, beautiful women, and great beaches. Maybe a few days in California would help me figure out my next move.
I still had three hours before I had to report for my separation interview, so I hailed a cab and said I wanted to see the first beach we came to. I wanted to walk on sand that wasn’t booby-trapped with landmines. The driver looked at me like I was a little crazy, but I just grinned.
I should’ve been on top of the world. In a few hours, I’d be a civilian. Ex-Navy SEAL. No more missions, no more covert shit, and no more me. Fuck. I was going to lose myself, the man I’d become. The reason I’d left in the first place was to avoid the life so many people in Brighton faced. What was it called? Quiet desperation? And here it was facing me square in the eye.
All of a sudden, I felt like I’d wasted the past eight years. I’d put myself on the line for what? To give it all up? I grabbed my shoes and socks and trudged back up the beach and found a crab shack, ordered some lunch and a beer. I really had to think this through.
I was checking my e-mail on my phone, killing time until I had to catch a cab back to the base when I heard someone call my name. “Malloy? Is that you?”
I looked up and it was Chip Sherman, the CIA agent who was on the last raid with me out in the desert. I did a double take. “Sherman? What the fuck are you doing here? You following me?
He sat down and ordered a beer. “No, I’m on assignment, nothing I can talk about now, or I’d have to kill ya.”
CIA agents didn’t have to wear uniforms but Chip and the others always suited up when we out on raids, so it was odd seeing him in shorts and a t-shirt, like we were grabbing some R&R.
“What are you doing here, man? You never told me you were coming back to the States.” Chip and I were buddies, but he’d left the unit for another assignment before I left for the States. We’d promised to keep in touch, but I hadn’t told him my deployment was over.
“I go where Uncle Sam needs me the most.” He snorted.
“But you have a family. How do they deal with you being all over the map?”
“Yeah, it’s getting old, man. Especially with the kids in school. But we work it out.”
“Are you staying in San Diego for a while?” I asked. “Pretty sweet assignment.”
“Nah, I had to deliver some cargo. I’m on my way back to Langley tomorrow.”
I nodded. “Virginia. Going to be pretty frigid still after the desert and California. I’m expecting the same shock to my system. I’m heading back to Brighton.”
“R&R?�
�
“Nope, I’m retiring.”
“Good for you. What are you going to do?”
“Damned if I know. Well, you know my kid brother died a few months ago, and well, my folks are having a real tough time of it so I thought I’d be with them while there’s still time, ya know.”
Chip nodded. “I totally get it. Boy, that’s going to be culture shock. You should think about applying to the CIA. They could use someone with skills like yours. Virginia isn’t that far from Brighton. You could visit.”
“Yeah?” My heart ramped up a bit, but then I realized I was going home to be with my family, not visit them.
“Actually, that wouldn’t work. At least not now. I need to be with them. It’s just a shitty time, my brother and all.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking of getting out, actually. Starting something on my own.”
I laughed. “A private CIA?”
“You’ve read the news. All these fucking terrorist attacks. Corporations need private security. Thinking I’d set up shop offering security for cities maybe, corporations and the like. Lots of opportunities out there these days. A little dream of mine. Maybe retire early, you know?”
I knew my face must have lit up like a neon beer sign. “No kidding?”
Chip obviously caught on to my enthusiasm.
“If it’s something that interests you, I could use a partner. With our skills, we’d be gangbusters together. It would take some funding, though.”
I had over a quarter of million dollars tucked away. I leaned in closer, my pulse racing at the possibility of a real life opening up for me again. “I think we should talk. Where are you staying?”
***
I settled into the window seat and buckled my seatbelt. The nonstop to Logan Airport was just under six hours. Plenty of time to draft the partnership agreement I’d promised Chip I’d e-mail him by the weekend. I looked out the window as I heard the wheels retract and we headed east, my heart rate pounding in my ears—
