I stare at the man who knows more about me than half the guys I served with.
“Who the fuckareyou? Most of that is classified way above any Special Forces pay grade.”
“Ryker McCabe. But if you breathe that name to anyone, you'll regret it. I could end you in a heartbeat and not lose a wink of sleep over it.”
“Lunatic,” I mutter and pat my pockets, searching for my phone. “I'm done with this conversation. Thanks to you, I have to find a new bar. Don't follow me.”
McCabe arches a thick, light brown brow bisected by a jagged scar. “Looking for this, Doc?”
My mobile dangles from his fingers.
“Hand it over.”
I'm six-three, but this asshole has at least half a foot on me. He holds the phone aloft, and I have no hope of reaching it. “I went to a lot of trouble—and expense—to find you, Doc. Hear me out. If you tell me to fuck off when I’m done, I’ll drop you at any bar in town with enough cash to pay your tab for a month. You can disappear into a bottle for the rest of your life—however long it lasts—and never see me again.”
We face off with one another for a full minute before my shoulders slump. I should walk away. But when was the last time I was curious enough to care. About...anything?
Ten years? Fifteen? Not since my last mission with the PJs. This McCabe asshole knows how to get a man's attention.
“I guess I’ll take that coffee now.”
“You honestly expectme to agree to this?” In the distance, one of the island ferries streaks across Elliot Bay. McCabe drove us to a park overlooking the water in Sunset Hill. The houses here are worth millions. There's no one around, and Ishouldbeworried he's about to murder me where he can easily dispose of the body. Instead, I’m slouched against the back of the bench. Almost…relaxed.
“Yes.”
He cracks his knuckles one at a time. A single pop. Then another. And another. My gaze never leaves his fingers. Three of them aren't straight. Broken at least once in the past. Maybe more. Not set properly. Burn scars slash across his left hand. The right...those look more like cuts. Jagged ones.
“Setting up an illegal medical practice. Being on call twenty-four hours a day. Treating...anything and everything that could go wrong in the field. No one’s that stupid. Or desperate.”
Ryker turns his big body on the bench. I've sobered up enough to figure out his eyes aren’t actually one color. Heterochromia. A rare, genetic trait found in less than one percent of the population.
“I am.” With a sigh, he runs a hand over his bald head. More scars there. I don't know what happened to the man, but it wasn't good. Or quick. “Doc, my team goes places no one else can. We get the job done. No man left behind. No matter what. Three days ago, I had to pay a veterinarian in Bogota to give a former Navy SEAL a transfusion from my own fucking arm because it was either that or bury him.”
“I’ll never be field ready again, McCabe. Nerve damage in my left leg from the crash flares up?—”
“I wouldn't take you on mission if the world were ending,” he snaps. “I need to trust that every member of my team is the best at what they do. That they'reattheir best at all times. And you, Doc, are a drunk.”
“Don't you think I know that?” I push to my feet, the coffee long gone, and stalk to the edge of the manicured expanse of grass. A flimsy wooden fence is all that stands between me and the inky darkness of the water far below. “I didn’t want to retire.Even with my injuries, I fought it for two years. Until I couldn’t cut it anymore. Couldn’t stand watching guys I trained—guys I served with—do the very thing I wasbornto do. I tried the ER down in L.A. But that…didn’t end well. Moved to Seattle and did two years up here. But I was so fuckingbored…so tired of feeling useless, drinking was the only thing that took the pain away.”
“You need a purpose again,” McCabe says quietly. I jerk back, shocked to find him standing right next to me. The man is utterly silent when he moves. “I did.”
“Special Forces, you said. How long you been out?” I peer up at him, but we're far enough away from the street lights, his face is mostly hidden in shadow.
“Six years. Wasn’t my choice to turn civvie. You ever hear of Hell Mountain?”
I suck in a breath. Everyone who’s served in the past fifteen years has heard of Hell Mountain. And what happened to it.
“His name is classified way beyond my clearance. But the guy’s a legend. Crawled through the snow for two days before he was found. Then went back and blew the place off the map,” one of my patients tells me when she finds out I served in Afghanistan.
“Holy fuck. You’re the one who broke out.”
He doesn’t confirm or deny, but he doesn’t have to. The proof is all over the man’s skin.
“There were two of you.”
He makes a low, strangled sound. Almost pain. “I’m giving you a chance, Doc. Don’t make me regret it.”
A chance at what? Redemption is a pipe dream. But maybe a purpose isn't outside the realm of possibility.
