Which is both good and bad. The good part is obvious. The bad part means he’s being held captive and tortured. Those fuckers cut you, beat you, starve you, put you out in the desert heat that’s beyond brutal—which means not only is there heat exhaustion to deal with, but your entire body gets thrown out of whack when your electrolytes are off-balance. Shit, we had guys in BUD/S training back in the day who either had seizures or started acting all sorts of fucked up from being exhausted and not eating when we got the opportunity to do so.
And right when I’m thinking all of this, it’s like the Gods want to punish me. Because on one of the television monitors, the one playing the BBC News, they interrupt the current newscaster for “Breaking News.”
In a press release just received from the United States government, it has been confirmed that a Special Forces unit has been ambushed in the Helmand Province of Iraq and only bodies were recovered. They are dismissing the reports from ISIS that they have a Special Forces officer captive. Families of the fallen have been informed.
Photos flash across the screen. Shaw Dempsey’s face stares out at me. Fuck. Shaw was a good man. The other three guys I didn’t know very well as they’d joined the Team after I had left.
And even though I knew it was coming, I can’t withhold the groan of anguish when his name and photograph are displayed on the screen.
“Goddamn it, Hendy.” My words come out as more of a whisper. Grinding my palms into my eyes, I abruptly shove my chair back, nearly tipping it over in my haste to stand.
I need air. The room feels like it’s closing in. I can’t take it. I can’t do—
“Go.” Kane’s softly uttered word—more of a command—is spoken with understanding. “I’ve got this. Just do what you need to do, man.” There’s compassion in his eyes because he knows what it’s like. All too well.
Grabbing my keys from my desk, sliding on my sunglasses, I pocket my phone before I stalk over to the door without another word. Ignoring the weight of Noelle’s gaze as I pass by her desk.
And barely make it inside my truck before what little composure I managed to hold on to finally crumbles.
Chapter Two
Noelle
My gaze collides with Kane’s as soon as Foster leaves the office.
“Is he,” I hesitate, “going to be all right?”
Kane’s eyes study me for a long moment, the Texan’s expression sober and unlike his usual jovial demeanor. Finally, his eyes move to the same monitor that had been the bearer of bad news. His lips curl inward. “I sure as hell hope so.”
Yeah. So do I. Because, although I’ve been distracted since my stupid past is trying its damndest to catch up to me, what happened just moments ago sticks out in my mind. The way Foster’s face fell only to have the most desolately shuttered expression come across it. The way his expression closed off made my chest tighten with worry.
I can handle Foster Kavanaugh giving me shit while I gave it right back. But this? An obviously hurting Foster Kavanaugh is completely uncharted territory, and I have no idea how to handle it.
A few months ago, we all heard the news report of ISIS claiming to have a Special Forces member held captive. I witnessed his frustration and worry at not knowing his friend’s whereabouts and it had been in that brief moment we had the faintest truce.
Moments like that one, along with those when I see the look in his eyes when he gazes at his sister, Laney, and witnesses how happy she is with her husband, Zach, is when I remember he has another side to him. A softer one not many get to see.
A part of me wishes I were a person who could elicit that softer side of him. But I know it’s safer this way. I’m safer this way, keeping him at a distance with the way we interact.
“You planning on coming clean any time soon, darlin’?” My head jerks up at Kane’s words, his southern drawl as thick as ever, eyes studying me with unnerving intensity.
Immediate unease sets in. “Come clean?” Please, don’t bring up what I think you’re about to bring up. Please. Just. Don’t.
Lowering his head slightly with one eyebrow raised, he says, “You know what I’m talking about, Davis.” Gesturing with his head toward where my cell phone normally sits on my desk, where now there’s a vacant spot. I’ve gotten so sick of it flashing and distracting me that I’ve stowed it in my desk’s bottom drawer, along with my purse. “Those calls you keep ignoring.”
I try to hold his stare. But, you see, the thing with working amidst individuals who have been trained to pick up on every little nuance that normally goes unnoticed by the average person? It sucks. It’s like spending eight plus hours a day with the Oracle in that movie, The Matrix. You know, where she tells him not to worry about the vase, then he says, “What vase?”, and promptly knocks over a vase of flowers, shattering it. Creepy, right?
Well, imagine that times three. I don’t really include Foster or Lee in that because I haven’t ever felt the weight of their eyes on me, haven’t felt as though they were looking through me, looking into my head, and were able to read my thoughts.
But with Kane, Doc, and Miller? Total Oracle moments. I swear, if you asked them, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were able to tell you my blood type. Just by looking at me.
Letting out a long sigh, I rub my temples in an attempt to ease the stress from my situation. From the drama I thought I’d managed to leave behind. “I don’t want to talk about it, Kane.”