“Things haven’t been fine!” JD argued. “Oli fucked you over—and you’re pretending to be fine because—” he hesitated, looking sideways at Marcus for help with finishing the statement.
“It’s like you’ve decided we’d take his side, and you just—abandoned ship. Decided to cut your losses and left us to deal with him.” Marcus looked at him as if he couldn’t believe how stupid Abe had been acting.
Aberlour cleared his throat. What could he say? What was there to say?
“I’m—”
“I swear on myabuella’s head that if you say you’re fine I’ll bite your fucking nose off and shove it up your ass,” Carlos vowed heatedly before Abe could finish.
Abe’s mouth closed. The sparkplug of their team frequently got worked up, but it was rare to see him so angry. Certainly not directed at one of his own. The first time had been when Oli had been in surgery. Aberlour had chalked it up to frayed nerves but now—
“You want to go off, get laid and get drunk, fine, but you take us along. You need to let us pound Jack Daniels back with you. You don’t do that alone!” JD sounded genuinely hurt.
Aberlour had thought he knew what was wrong with Team Specter. He’d thought—well, that they resented him for weakening the bond between him and Oliver, but that wasn’t the problem at all.
“You don’t push us away, you fucking asshole. Never!” Carlos insisted, looking like he was two seconds away from following up on that threat of biting Aberlour.
“I think what the kids are trying to say—” Marcus began, momentarily interrupted by JD’s instinctive protest, and Ghost’s light smack to the back of his head. “Is that we’re a team. All of us in equal measure. You fight, you drift apart, it’s all fine. No one said you had to be glued to Oli’s side for us to follow you—”
It was fucking astounding. The understanding, the pain, the bond. All of it, like a string that pulled from Aberlour’s chest to theirs, in perfect accord. He stared at each of them for a long minute, and none of them uttered a single word, a truly exceptional feat for such yappers. Then Aberlour cracked a smile and gave a gentle nod of understanding. He didn’t speak. Wasn’t sure he could without tears welling up and breaking into sobs.
“Move over. Carlos is due an ass whooping,” Aberlour finally managed, after a long, tense minute.
The reaction was exactly as it should be. Carlos bitching in quick Spanish, Marcus laughing like he might hack up a lung, JD calling for blood, and Ghost smiling with satisfaction.
Aberlour wasn’t a threat at video games, but he gave it his best shot. They played all evening, and when they all got tired of getting schooled by Ghost, they went out for a beer and shot some pool.
It felt like spring. Nothing was green, or clean, or quite as it should be, but it was mending and thawing something thathad once been beautiful. Slowly but surely, fixing the hollowed-out parts of him. Aberlour had lost Oli. He had. But he had more than just Oli. He had a world in these men, and while their military careers might be coming to a close, what theyhadwould remain intact as long as he let them in.
As they stumbled back to base together, five drunk Americans, living up to the stereotype by being as loud and belligerent as possible, Aberlour allowed these wonderful moments with his men to sink into his bones.
“It’s good to have you back, Abe,” Marcus whispered to him, before they parted ways for the night. If Aberlour held him tighter and longer than usual, no one said anything about it.
It felt like spring—but like all springs, there was yet another rainstorm just around the corner, waiting to be weathered.
He should have known it wouldn’t last.
The very next day, hell came calling again. Within 12 hours, the plan was laid out for them. They had to locate and retrieve the mark they’d lost. They’d fucked up and now they needed to make up for it. It was the kind of mission that looked no better on paper than it did in practice. It was ballsy, stupid, and borderline impossible. All three things Aberlour very happily shared with his superiors.
Major General Baron would hear none of it. He stared Aberlour down, only too glad to remind him of his breach of protocol when he refused to leave the hospital and sent Marcus in his stead. He was a large man, with small, beady, dark eyes that reminded Aberlour of a cockroach. He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. He always wore the same stone-cold expression of ironclad control. He was condescending and rude, and when Aberlour pointed out all the flaws in his plan, Major General Baron had said that he had two options: go on the mission or be court-martialed. No one had been surprised by the threat, or the total apathy with which he’d delivered it. But it had taken both Marcus’ steadying hand on his shoulder, and JD’s arm thrown across his chest to keep Aberlour from jumping the bastard.
Instead, he’d squared his jaw and given his most sardonic salute before exiting the briefing room. As far as Aberlour was concerned going to prison was better than being dead, but the others had vehemently disagreed. They’d shut him down. Refused to disobey. There had been words of revenge, probabilities, and discussions regarding their futures. Marcus had reminded them they were too close to getting out of the military to fuck up now. Besides, JD, Ghost, and Marcus had pointed out that they’d rather not raise their children from the inside of a jail cell. It had been on the tip of Aberlour’s tongue to mention it was easier to manage that from jail than it was from six feet under, but he’d refrained. It wouldn’t change anything. Team Specter would go on the fucking mission as ordered. They didn’t have a say in the matter. They’d signed their lives away at the Marine Corps enlistment office, and right now, that meant Major General Baron owned their asses.
And so, here they were, four hours away from take-off, packing enough ammunition to take down a small village. Aberlour whispered to his sniper rifle as he always did. It wasn’t necessary, of course. His aim would be as sure as ever.It was a habit he’d picked up from other snipers. A gesture of reassurance almost.
JD had once said it made him seem more human.
He didn’t think being human would be enough. This mission was too stupid. If he was merely human tomorrow, they wouldn’t make it back.
As they prepared to ship out, his men’s morale was predictably high. They were the kind of nutjobs who got an adrenaline rush out of the idea that they’d get to shoot something. Anything really. As long as they got to shoot. They’d been kept inside too long. They had pent up frustration and worry to unleash, and there was nothing better than revenge to do so. They were also the kind of nutjobs that could pretend the adrenaline would be enough to squash their underlying fear. Aberlour hadn’t missed them sneaking away to call their loved ones. He knew them too well.
An old song was playing on JD’s phone as they packed. It had most guys singing along and soothing the anxiety thrumming in their blood. It was loud enough that Abe didn’t hear the sound of crutches on the linoleum floors until it was too late.
“Darling, my man!” JD shouted, his booming laugh barely loud enough to be heard over the thumping beat of the music.
Aberlour turned like he’d been electrocuted, embarrassed by the rapid flutter of his heartbeat.
Dave, Marcus, and JD were now surrounding Oli, gently prodding and poking at the white bandage peeking out from under his shirt.
