The newbie guy—Fang—shot off the rocking chair and bolted toward the bathroom without a word. The rocker slammed back against the wall, showering plaster on the slate floor. The call sign Fang was actually an acronym for Fuck, Another New Guy. Once some other newbie came into the squadron, the current Fang would get a permanent nickname. The old Fang—Marcus Dupre—had become Data due to his computer/math-geek ways.
Frowning, Liam turned to Data, Fang’s teammate this mission. “Is he doing okay?”
Sprawled on the rattan sofa in military-tan boxer shorts, Marcus Dupre set aside his Sudoku Supreme book. “Have to confess today was a tough one, even for someone like me, who’s been around for a while.”
Marcus had been around for all of eight months.
Not that Liam saw the need to point that out. Normally he wouldn’t pair up a new Fang with a recent Fang, but Dupre was rock solid. And while Liam had tried to direct the two of them toward what appeared to be the lighter rescue, sometimes seriously bad shit just happened in this job.
Liam dropped into the rocker, tossing his toiletries case on the floor beside him. “Wanna talk?”
The Clapton tune from Franco’s guitar segued into a mellow Jimmy Buffett riff.
Marcus shrugged. “Not exactly the mission for a fresh-faced Ohio farm boy like Fang to get his feet wet. While we were down there…” Pausing, he scratched his neck, his collar bone, the back of his neck, as if he couldn’t scrub off the itch of memories even after a shower. “We had to cut through a dead woman right down the middle to save her teenage daughter.”
The guitar music faltered, then slowly restarted, the only sign that anyone else was listening in. The images, the smells… Liam didn’t have to work hard to know exactly what that must have been like.
“Shit.” Liam glanced at the bathroom door, running water echoing from beyond the thin panel.
The kid hadn’t looked right all evening, but surgically sawing through a dead body to reach a live one? That would leave crazy horrors clogging the brain, impossible to block or forget. And the stench. God, the smells that clung to the air even now like rancid meat in a septic tank.
This kind of day packed a punch for even the most seasoned warrior.
His gaze shifted to Franco, pouring his attention into classical music now. Bach, maybe? Regardless, his “stand back” vibe came through loud and clear as he picked away faster and faster on the well-worn acoustic.
Liam had spent so much time in marital counseling he should have received some kind of honorary certificate for having processed the gamut of psychobabble. Although it didn’t take a PhD to see the emotional carnage rattling around inside Hugh Franco.
The floor creaked a second before Cuervo stepped out of the bedroom. He stopped at the counter in front of a box of MREs—meals ready to eat. “I see the catering staff is as high-end as ever.”
Bubbles grunted without looking up, moving on from cleaning his gun to sharpening his survival knife.
Cuervo tossed back a handful what looked like generic M&Ms. “Somebody’s a Debbie Downer.”
Gavin “Bubbles” Novak never laughed and rarely talked. Whoever had given him that call sign had a serious sense of the ironic.
Cuervo held out his hand with the rest of his candy. “Want some? They’re yummy.”
Bubbles eyed him for three slow blinks before saying, “You’re a sick puppy.”
“Laugh or lose my cookies?” Cuervo chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. “I’ll go for laughter. Gets a person through the day, right Major?”
Liam just smiled. Usually he did agree with that mantra, but today was harder than most. The responsibility of leading his team, keeping their heads on straight, weighed heavy on his shoulders. There weren’t many opportunities for him to blow off steam these days. But this was the only life he knew, the path he’d chosen at the expense of everything else.
He eyed his team, his family, his kids to keep safe.
Cuervo snapped Hugh Franco’s leg with a towel. “Practicing up your tunes for a hot date, Franco?”
Cocking one eyebrow, Hugh caressed his way through the notes. “This just happens to be Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. It’s called culture. Give it a try sometime, bro.”
“Has everyone lost their sense of humor?” Cuervo pitched back the rest of the candy, his wiry frame not showing the least sign of his junk food habit.
“I must have left it in the pile of mangled corpses.” Franco’s fingers picked up speed on the neck of the guitar, emotion damn near pouring from the strings.
Cuervo took the hint and dug around in the MRE box without commentary. His sugar high would send him pacing around the room, but eventually he would crash.
Quiet settled over the room long enough that Liam considered snagging a bedroll of his own and heading to the other room. The next shift would come around soon enough, with a new level of horrors as the chance of finding survivors decreased.
With a final check-in look at Marcus Dupre and Hugh Franco, Liam shoved to his feet. The floor predictably squeaked under his feet. The room seemed to tip sideways, but God, he was so tired he’d probably gone a little loopy. His shower sandals slapped the scarred wood floor. He leaned to grab his gear and bedding—