by Cat Johnson
His mind had been spinning in the same circles for weeks and still he'd taken no action regarding them.
Maybe there would be another op soon—tonight would be good—something to take the decision out of his hands.
Damn, he was pitiful. He used to know what he wanted and go after it. He used to be a confident man both in his job and in his personal life.
Now, he barely recognized himself. He was a mess and all because of two women. The one who'd purposefully ripped herself out of his life and the other one who'd unwillingly fallen into it.
Sure he could still take out a terrorist with a single shot, or with his bare hands if it was necessary, but it seemed beyond him to sit down and eat dinner at the kitchen table because he was alone.
Maybe he needed to get a goldfish. Though with no one there to take care of it if he got called away for an extended period he'd come home to a dead fish, which would be more depressing than being alone in the first place.
Grant ducked his head under the hot spray of the shower to rinse off the shampoo that was running into his eyes. He could barely make it through a shower now. Being distracted was becoming the norm over the past few days he'd been back as he alternated between feeling sorry for himself and arguing with himself over the situation with Jen.
The sound of his cell ringing on the vanity an arm's reach from the shower had Grant cussing.
It could be command. He couldn't ignore it so he reached for the towel to wipe his face before grabbing the cell and hitting the button to answer. "Hello?"
"Grant. Hi."
"Jen?"
"Yeah. I didn't expect you to answer. I figured you were still away so I was just going to leave a message." She paused and then said, "Are you home?"
"Uh, yeah, I am." He couldn't bring himself to lie.
"Oh."
He couldn't stand the sadness he heard in that single oh as she had no doubt pieced together that he was home and could have called her but hadn't.
"Jen, I was going to call you." Eventually. "I just couldn't figure out what to say."
After a moment's hesitation, she said, "You don't have to say anything."
"No, Jen. You don't understand. It's not you—"
She let out a bitter sounding laugh. "Are you trying to say, it's not you, it's me?"
"No." Though that was exactly it. "The divorce—"
"Grant. Stop. You don't have to explain. It's fine. I get it. It was a one time thing. Have a good life for yourself. And thank you for giving me my life back."
The line went dead before he could say anything to stop her. Before he could explain. Before he could repair the damage he'd done.
That had gone about as badly as it could have. He'd been stupid. He couldn't let the chief decide what he should do.
The old man didn't know Jen. Hell, he barely knew Grant anymore. They'd worked together when Grant had been a young SEAL. Now Grant was a team commander with years of ops under his belt, not to mention a failed marriage.
Grant should have followed his gut and called Jen like he'd promised he'd do. Talked it out with her. His fears. The obstacles.
She would have understood what he was feeling. That they both needed space. And even if she didn't agree with that, at least she would have known he hadn't just used her for a night and then ditched her.
He had to fix this. Still naked and standing in the shower while leaning out of the spray to protect the cell, Grant hit to dial.
The call went immediately to her voicemail. She'd probably turned the phone off because she didn't want to talk to him.
Grant bit out a loud curse that echoed off the tile walls.
He couldn't blame her one bit. He deserved it.
Chapter 19
"We got called in at zero-seven-thirty for this?" Mack blew out a breath loud enough Grant could hear it from his seat.
"Right? I thought it was gonna be a mission briefing, not a damned lecture," Rocky said.
Grant listened to the men on his team grumbling from their seats in the row behind him.
"The professor's kinda cute for an older chick. I'd do her," said Dawson, the youngest among the guys.
"Dawson, you're what? Like twenty-four and single. You'd do anybody." Rocky's statement was followed by a chorus of chuckles from the team.
"Shh. Guys, we're going to get in trouble." Thom's warning had Grant smiling. Thom always had been a rule follower.
"What's she gonna do? Give us detention? Or homework?" Brody's sarcastic question was followed by his snort.
Grant finally decided he'd had enough. They weren't the only team in the lecture but it seemed his team was the only ones misbehaving like damn school kids.
He turned in his seat. "She can't but I sure can. How's a twenty mile run with full pack sound? Zero-five-hundred tomorrow good for everyone?"
Spinning back to face forward, he figured he could decide later whether to make good on his threat, depending on how the guys behaved for the rest of the lecture.
"See. Told you we'd get in trouble," Thom hissed.
"Eh, he didn't mean it."
"Shut up, Brody." Rocky took disciplining Brody into his own hands. "Let's not tempt him."
The lecture was actually on an interesting topic. The professor in front of them had researched ISIS's tactics regarding recruitment and use of child soldiers. It was something the team needed to know to better fight the enemy, but it was also something that Grant was personally interested in after having gotten to know Jen's passion for the subject.
Jen might not be answering his calls, or his texts, but learning more about a topic they'd discussed, back when she had still been speaking to him, made Grant feel somehow closer to her.
". . . the situation is in direct contrast to that in Somalia."
The word Somalia caught Grant's attention. He tuned in to what the professor was saying as she continued.
"Unlike the child soldiers in Africa who are coerced and kidnapped, forced to become drug dependent and then placed unwillingly into the role of soldier, ISIS uses ideology. It actively recruits children who want to join the cause. In some cases we've seen this is happening with their parents' permission, and in fact the family is willingly giving their blessing.
"ISIS appeals to the mothers to hand over their sons, these cubs of the caliphate, as they are called. They hope to inspire pride that their sacrifice will aid the Islamic State. But this tactic is not new. It echoes closely Saddam Hussein's cubs of Sadam.
"Many might assume the children would be used solely as suicide bombers, however we've seen this to not be the case. In the three-hour attack on the Tariq base in Iraq, three children played an active role alongside the five adult fighters and were used strategically before eventually detonating their suicide vests.
"Of the estimated fifteen-hundred ISIS child soldiers, we approximate eighty-nine have died. The child fighters are being brought into the fold. Indoctrinated. Taught. Trained for the future. Of course, children in battle pose a unique challenge to our coalition forces."
He considered that last statement for himself. Among Jen's kidnappers had been a boy of maybe twelve who'd been killed during the extraction. One of the rescue team's bullets had taken him out.
In the dark, with the child dressed just like all the rest and wielding an automatic weapon, the shooter—whoever it had been—wouldn't have known his age. But would it have mattered to Grant if he had known?
If it had been a daylight battle and Grant came face to face with an armed enemy who was clearly a child, how would he have felt taking that shot?
He had no doubt he would take the shot, but would he hesitate? Even a fraction of a second could cost a life. His own, or a member of his team, or Jen's.
Grant couldn't say that anything else the professor was telling them was a surprise. ISIS had already proven itself to be forward thinking.
As an organization it was always planning for the future, whether that was the immediate plan of succession to fill a leade
rship position after a coalition attack or this—insuring the loyalty of the next generation of jihadists.
The child enemy soldier posed an interesting dilemma.
No doubt that was why they were here today listening to the lecture. The scenario was bound to happen eventually and they needed to be ready mentally for it.
It would affect any one of them, but he could only imagine the guys with kids of their own even more so. It was definitely something for command to be concerned about.
He remembered the shock and horror in Jen's voice that night in the dark immediately after they'd rescued her when she was describing how one of her captors was just a boy. It had affected her profoundly and she hadn't even seen the body—or had to pull the trigger.
That thought brought Grant around full circle, back to the realization that even weeks after that last phone call when Jen had hung up on him, and almost two months after the night they'd spent together in DC, his mind turned to her more often than not.
Now that was really something to be concerned about.
Up in front of the base lecture hall, the professor said, "We're going to take a quick break, let's say fifteen minutes, then come back and divide into breakout sessions to discuss what we talked about here today."
There was a loud groan from behind Grant.
"Great. Now we get to talk about our feelings." Mack sounded unhappy about the prospect.
"Just when I was fixin' to take me a nap too," Brody said.
Grant couldn't deal with the men who were acting like children. His mind was set and he was already up and out of his seat. He had fifteen minutes to get in touch with Jen and make her listen to him before he had to be back in his seat.
Chapter 20
The refugee camps in Turkey were eye opening, to say the least. Jen had thought after seeing the desperation and poverty in Somalia she'd be prepared for anything.
She'd been wrong.
The sheer masses of displaced Syrians driven from their homes, from their country, raised the bar for desperation.
Just caring for the basic needs of so many was a full time job and an enormous expense. It was like providing food, housing and sanitation for an army, except this army was made up not of soldiers, but of families.
Mothers trying to tend to their children in conditions no better than animals lived in. Elderly who should be enjoying their twilight years sat with glazed eyes, in shock at their new reality or maybe just lost in their memories of better times from the past.
The UN needed volunteers to help organize it all, and Jen was happy to help, though some days it seemed the job was too big. That she was just one more mouth to be fed when there were already so many.
"We're heading out for the day. You coming?" Jen's coworker's question interrupted her reverie.
"In a minute. I have to use the phone quick."
The girl smiled. "Okay. See you back at the tent later."
Jen picked up the phone on her desk. That was one good thing about this job. They had internet and phone service. No cell service but the landline was reliable and that was all she needed as she dialed her parents' phone number for her weekly call.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Mom."
"Jen." Her mother let out the usual breath filled with relief. "It's so good to hear your voice. Thank you for checking in."
"I promised I would and I will." Jen had kept her promise for the month she'd been there and she would continue to do so until her time there was up—or she landed the other position she had her eye on.
A paying position that would allow her to still help people and do something meaningful and not feel like a pauper doing it. Jen forced her mind away from the opportunity, oddly superstitious she'd jinx it if she got too excited about the possibility of getting the job.
"Jen, you know your father and I worry about you."
"Yes, I know, Mom. Thank you for worrying." Jen's lips tipped up into a smile.
To be fair her parents had handled her leaving better than she'd expected. Even if she did have to call them at exactly the same time and same day every week.
"Well, it's not as if you're in the next room anymore like when you were staying here. Or even in the next town. And after last time . . . Oh my God, that reminds me. I can't believe I forgot to tell you right away when I first picked up the phone. That nice SEAL we had dinner with called."
There was only one man that could be. "Um, what? Grant called you?"
"Mmm, hmm. It was at the beginning of the week. The house phone rang and you know me, I wasn't going to answer it because I didn't recognize the number on the caller ID. The phone scammers and telemarketers have really been working overtime lately. I'm tempted to cancel the phone service—"
"Mom!" Jen was ready to crawl out of her skin. "Get back to the SEAL."
"Oh, yeah. Grant um . . . Milton was his last name, right?"
"Yes." Her heart pounded so hard it was difficult to get a word out. "He called the house?"
She hadn't been aware he even had her parents' number. Though he had admitted he had access to her records so it would be easy enough to find. Her parents were old school. They had a landline and a phone number listed in the white pages. The same number they'd had since she'd been a child.
"Yes, that's what I was saying. He called the house and something made me answer even though I didn't recognize the number. It was very sweet of him to call. He said he was just checking in on us. That he wanted to make sure you were doing all right."
Grant was checking in on her. Was it out of guilt because he'd been a dick and had sex with her and then didn't call, pretending to be away when he was really home?
The memory and the anger had her breathing heavier.
But what if he'd called because he really did care? Jen swallowed hard at that thought afraid to let herself believe that. Afraid to hope.
"What did you tell him?" she asked.
"That you're away doing your volunteer work again, of course."
"What did he say after you told him that?"
"He asked all about it. He wanted to know everything. Where you were. Who you were helping. Who ran the organization. How long you'd be gone."
"And you told him?"
"Yes, of course. It was nice that he was interested. It's not a secret. Is it? Jen, you never said not to tell people where you were or what you were doing." Her mother's tone had shifted to one of censure mixed with panic. "Everyone we're close to knows—"
"It's okay, Mom. It's not a secret."
"Good, because you never said—"
"I know. It's fine you told him when he asked."
The question remained, why had he asked? Why was Grant so interested in the details?
And why did her hands shake from her just hearing his name? Even after the months that had passed, even with all the distance she'd put between them, she still hadn't gotten over him.
Not at all.
Chapter 21
"Nice of you to join me." Hoping the sarcasm was obvious in his greeting, Grant cocked one brow high as his soon to be ex-wife walked toward him.
Bethany let go of the leash and the dog took off at a run toward Grant. Tail wagging, the yellow lab jumped, planting two big front paws on Grant's knees.
Grant used both hands to rub the dog's big head. Leaning down, he said, "Hey, buddy. It’s nice to see you."
"I'm five-minutes late." She came to a stop in front of the bench where Grant had been waiting for a good twenty minutes because, unlike her, he was always early.
"Ten minutes," he corrected.
"Whatever." Bethany scowled as she watched the dog and master reunite.
"I wish you'd let me keep him at the house when I'm home."
She leveled a glare at him. "So he can be alone all the hours you work, and then you can get shipped out and I'll have to drive over and get him?"
Hating that she was right, he didn't answer. Instead he continued to pet the dog while dodging the big slobbery tongue trying t
o lick his face.
"So how's Jim?" he asked. He'd been able to keep that info under his hat for weeks but this morning he was feeling in the mood for a fight.
Jon's computer guru had been right. Bethany's reaction now proved it. Her eyes grew wide and she literally leaned away from him, as if afraid he'd strike her. Like he would ever hit a woman. He scowled at the thought.
"What? You didn't know I knew?" he asked.
"It's not what you think—"
"Oh, I'm sure it's exactly what I think." He'd done a little bit of digging on his own and found his old neighbors had gotten a divorce, leaving good old Jimbo free to pursue Grant's wife.
Ex-wife in four months, he reminded himself.
A third of a year had never seemed so long. He sighed.
Bethany shook her head. "What's wrong with you? I bring the dog to visit you anytime you want. I didn't ask for half of what I was due in the divorce. We both knew the marriage wasn't working so I'd think you'd be relieved to get out of it. I really don't know what more you want from me, Grant."
He glanced around them at the park, bustling with dogs and owners. "This is where you finally decide you want to talk about our marriage?"
He'd offered to go to more counseling. To therapy. To mediation. Whatever she'd wanted. But apparently Bethany preferred a crowded dog park on a beautiful autumn weekend morning.
Her timing always had sucked.
"There is nothing to talk about in that department." She surprised him by sitting on the bench next to him. "That doesn't mean I don't care about you."
He lifted his brow and shot her a sideways look. "Now you care about me?"
She pulled her mouth into an ugly line. "I always cared about you, Grant. I'm worried about you."
"Thanks, but the last thing I need or want is your concern." He drew a new ball out of the pocket of his jacket—a canine bribe, he supposed, to insure the animal's love.
Grant showed the toy to the dog before throwing it a few yards away. As usual, the animal took off after the ball, leash trailing behind him on the ground.
