I didn’t lie. Not technically. All of thatistrue.
“Do you have a record?” he asks.
“No! Why the hell would you think that?” I start to pull away, but Doc is holding my hand tightly. Gripping it. Like he’s desperate for the contact. I get the sense he doesn’tneedmuch. From anyone. But right now, he needs me. So I relax—or try to—and return my cheek to his chest.
“Because you tensed…when I said Special Forces.”
Of course, he’d pick up on that. In eight years, my poker face hasn’t gotten any better.
“They’re going to deliver me straight to the nearest police station. I killed a man. And I almost killedyou.”
“McCabe and his team…they’re the good guys. They won’t…” His voice fades away, his eyes closing once more. I don’t try to keep him talking. I can’t. Those four words shattered my control.
I killed a man.
It doesn’t matter that I killed hundreds in my almost twenty years in the army—directly and indirectly. Dozens of firefights. RPGs. Drone strikes executed on intel from my team.
Parker is the only man I’ve killed out of uniform. It doesn’t matter that it was him or me. Him orbothof us. That doesn’t make it right.
Nothing about this situation isright. Bastian was supposed to be one of “the good guys” too. Same with Collins. Sutton. Doherty. Bowen. I trusted them, and they took everything from me.
Will Doc’s “good guys” do the same?
I almost get up half a dozen times. My gaze keeps drifting to the bright red life raft strapped to the rear of the plane with the blue and white paddles.
If I leave now, I can make it to shore in an hour. But then what? My feet are bloody inside my boots, and my hip is on fire. There’s a whole drum section playing against the inside of my skull. A concussion? Probably.
Pressed to my side, Doc still shivers. He needs me. And right now, I need him too.
My eyelids are so heavy. I’m almost floating. But not. My limbs don’t want to move. Even my fingers feel sluggish. You’re not supposed to sleep with a concussion though. Right?
Doc coughs weakly.
“You’re okay,” I say softly. “Just breathe.”
“How long…has it been?”
I tighten my fingers on his and angle his hand to see his wrist. “Twenty minutes. I’ll get you some water.” Carefully, Iextricate myself from his hold and dig in his rucksack until I find a canteen.
He takes a couple of sips, but he’s so pale. There’s less blood than I expect when I check his side, but what if he’s bleeding internally?
“Your friends will be here soon,” I say, hoping I’m right.
“McCabe isn’t a friend. It’s…complicated.”
“Sounds like a story I need to hear. And we’re stuck for now. So…”
Doc shakes his head, then grimaces. “Not mine to tell. McCabe would kill me.”
I’m not sure I want to meet this McCabe. I hope the others with him are less inclined toward murder.
Doc is restless, shifting his legs on the sleeping bag, flexing his fingers like he needs something to grab onto. But when he tries to push up on an elbow, I plant my hand on his chest and hold him in place. His heart thumps steadily under my palm. “Stay down, Doc.”
“Can’t just…lie here.”
“Yes. You can. You’re just proving that the clichés are true. Doctors make terrible patients.” He’s not the only one who’s shivering now, and I slide back down to share my body heat. “Well, here’s a different question. Why don’t you go by Gage?”
He grimaces and turns his head away. “Ask me anything else.”
