four climbed back inside.
One of the guys in camo stood surveying the scene for several long moments, then crouched below the slowly winding rotor blades, making certain there were no survivors.
Before he turned and stepped up into the chopper, Mike got a good look at his face. It was a face he would not soon forget. He made Mike think of a ferret. Eyes deep-set under bushy black brows. Narrow jaw. Thin, sinister lips. Sunken cheeks below prominent cheekbones.
Apparently satisfied with the slaughter, he finally ducked inside the chopper and it lifted off, heading north.
What the fuck?
Cooper moaned, still unconscious, and Mike turned back to see what he could do for him. He checked Cooper’s vitals—not good—and willed a Black Hawk to set down soon. With shaking, smoke-blackened hands, he fished a bag of quick clot from a pocket, dumped it on Cooper’s wound, then wrapped a pressure bandage around his head. Then he got to work immobilizing Taggart’s leg.
Ten minutes later, he breathed a sigh of relief at the unmistakable sound of a Black Hawk scooting in fast from the south.
This time he set off the flare.
Only then did he let himself close his eyes and knuckle under to his own pain.
12
Eva’s heart started racing the moment Mike began to tell his story. It still raced like she’d run a marathon when he stopped. She’d felt his fear. His pain. His despair over his lost team. Eight years after the massacre had taken place, he’d taken her back in time to that tiny village where so many had died.
Including Ramon.
A tear trickled slowly down her cheek. Only when she reached up to brush it away did she realize that she’d covered the hand Brown had fastened in a deathlike grip on the armrest while the words had tumbled out of him, slowly at first, then lightning fast, as though he couldn’t stop the runaway train of memories.
And only as she reluctantly pulled her hand away, feeling the absence of his warm palm against hers, did she realize that somewhere during the telling, he’d turned his hand over and linked his fingers with hers.
As if just now realizing the intimacy they’dshared, he straightened in his aisle seat, rolled his shoulders.
“Well,” he said, attempting to inject a lightness she knew he couldn’t possibly feel, “I’m thinking that right about now you’re sorry you ever asked.”
Not sorry. Horrified. But relieved, too. She knew the truth now. She hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to hear how her husband had died.
Just as she hadn’t realized how badly she’d wanted to believe Mike Brown.
When had a fact-finding mission transitioned into this desperate desire to prove his innocence? Maybe when she’d finally realized that he worked too damn hard to mask his innate decency behind that smart-ass grin. Maybe because he hadn’t been able to conceal a primal, masculine rage that she’d sensed from the moment she’d made contact with him in the cantina. A rage that dated back eight years. The rage of an innocent man.
Reading his pretrial statements from the pages of the OSD files hadn’t prepared her for the reality. Those pages had only told half the story. They hadn’t detailed the fear, the grief, the utter sense of desolation. Those pages hadn’t made her believe.
Brown had.
The trouble with believing, however, was that it opened up an entire new line of questions.
“I don’t understand why your CO didn’t stand up for you. Why he let it get as far as court-martial proceedings.”
Brown stared at the seat back in front of him. “You have to look at it from his angle. The Afghani government was all over the U.S. Joint Command demanding explanations—and justice. There was a village full of dead civilians, dead U.S. military personnel, a downed Black Hawk. Added to that, neither the Afghani or U.S. military radar had any record of an unaccounted-for chopper in the area that night—which left my story full of holes.”
“But you saw it. Why
One of the guys in camo stood surveying the scene for several long moments, then crouched below the slowly winding rotor blades, making certain there were no survivors.
Before he turned and stepped up into the chopper, Mike got a good look at his face. It was a face he would not soon forget. He made Mike think of a ferret. Eyes deep-set under bushy black brows. Narrow jaw. Thin, sinister lips. Sunken cheeks below prominent cheekbones.
Apparently satisfied with the slaughter, he finally ducked inside the chopper and it lifted off, heading north.
What the fuck?
Cooper moaned, still unconscious, and Mike turned back to see what he could do for him. He checked Cooper’s vitals—not good—and willed a Black Hawk to set down soon. With shaking, smoke-blackened hands, he fished a bag of quick clot from a pocket, dumped it on Cooper’s wound, then wrapped a pressure bandage around his head. Then he got to work immobilizing Taggart’s leg.
Ten minutes later, he breathed a sigh of relief at the unmistakable sound of a Black Hawk scooting in fast from the south.
This time he set off the flare.
Only then did he let himself close his eyes and knuckle under to his own pain.
12
Eva’s heart started racing the moment Mike began to tell his story. It still raced like she’d run a marathon when he stopped. She’d felt his fear. His pain. His despair over his lost team. Eight years after the massacre had taken place, he’d taken her back in time to that tiny village where so many had died.
Including Ramon.
A tear trickled slowly down her cheek. Only when she reached up to brush it away did she realize that she’d covered the hand Brown had fastened in a deathlike grip on the armrest while the words had tumbled out of him, slowly at first, then lightning fast, as though he couldn’t stop the runaway train of memories.
And only as she reluctantly pulled her hand away, feeling the absence of his warm palm against hers, did she realize that somewhere during the telling, he’d turned his hand over and linked his fingers with hers.
As if just now realizing the intimacy they’dshared, he straightened in his aisle seat, rolled his shoulders.
“Well,” he said, attempting to inject a lightness she knew he couldn’t possibly feel, “I’m thinking that right about now you’re sorry you ever asked.”
Not sorry. Horrified. But relieved, too. She knew the truth now. She hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to hear how her husband had died.
Just as she hadn’t realized how badly she’d wanted to believe Mike Brown.
When had a fact-finding mission transitioned into this desperate desire to prove his innocence? Maybe when she’d finally realized that he worked too damn hard to mask his innate decency behind that smart-ass grin. Maybe because he hadn’t been able to conceal a primal, masculine rage that she’d sensed from the moment she’d made contact with him in the cantina. A rage that dated back eight years. The rage of an innocent man.
Reading his pretrial statements from the pages of the OSD files hadn’t prepared her for the reality. Those pages had only told half the story. They hadn’t detailed the fear, the grief, the utter sense of desolation. Those pages hadn’t made her believe.
Brown had.
The trouble with believing, however, was that it opened up an entire new line of questions.
“I don’t understand why your CO didn’t stand up for you. Why he let it get as far as court-martial proceedings.”
Brown stared at the seat back in front of him. “You have to look at it from his angle. The Afghani government was all over the U.S. Joint Command demanding explanations—and justice. There was a village full of dead civilians, dead U.S. military personnel, a downed Black Hawk. Added to that, neither the Afghani or U.S. military radar had any record of an unaccounted-for chopper in the area that night—which left my story full of holes.”
“But you saw it. Why
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