by Tracy Brody
Even at eleven hundred hours, the heat and humidity of a cloudless North Carolina morning made sweat trickle from the rim of his dress uniform hat, down his neck, and under the crisp collar of his shirt. His cotton-gloved hand firmly gripped the casket handle as he and the other pallbearers took short, precise steps. Steps toward the void in AJ’s life already left by Hal’s passing.
Had he done enough to show his appreciation while Hal was alive? There’d be no more weekend trips to Hal’s fishing cabin. No more wrangling over who caught the biggest trout. God, he hoped Hal had no doubt of AJ’s respect and the father-son-like bond that went beyond Hal’s mentoring.
The forty or so seated mourners were other lives Hal had touched. Members of the Army’s Special Forces community. Former teammates. Members of the Selection cadre. Other men he’d mentored. All turned out in uniform to pay their respects.
However, there were no grieving widows at this funeral. Chief Lundgren contacted at least two of Hal’s ex-wives, but the few women among the group were wives attending with their husbands. No true family to hand the flag to.
A flash of movement to his left drew AJ’s gaze to a lone woman dressed in running shorts and a T-shirt. Her long, lithe limbs churned, and her dark red ponytail swung as she ran along the asphalt drive bordered with tall pines. Right toward them.
Protesters at military funerals usually had signs and didn’t typically come solo. Was she curious? Her questionable choice of locations aside, with acres of white tombstones standing like rows of dominoes, why intrude on the one ceremony taking place?
Geez, lady. Have some respect. His teeth clenched. This wasn’t some show. Hal served his country and deserved better than gawkers.
The honor detail set the flag-covered casket onto the lowering stand beside the grave and the runner disappeared behind a small mausoleum. AJ focused on his duties.
“Order arms!”
The detail of pallbearers moved to stand in formation for the service.
In the shade of the mausoleum, Cassidy labored to draw a breath. She slipped the ropes of the gym bag down her arms and pulled it off her back. The stitch in her side from the run kept her bent over while she dumped the bag’s contents on the ground.
She shook out the dress before she grabbed the bottle of water. After she downed half the tepid liquid, she pulled herself upright, and drew in another gulp of warm air to deliver oxygen to her trembling muscles.
She’d made it. Despite her mother’s lack of urgency in relaying the news. Despite having to drive all night to get here. Despite the blown tire two miles from the cemetery. She had made it.
A scan of the cemetery turned up no one but the mourners already gathered for the service. She yanked off her sweaty T-shirt, used some of the remaining water to rinse off as much of the perspiration as she could, then hastily dried herself with the workout towel.
She’d still stink, but there was nothing she could do about it. Waiting for AAA would have taken longer than fifteen minutes just for them to arrive. She hadn’t driven the whole damn night to miss Hal’s funeral. She had the rest of the day to worry about the car and getting back home.
Okay, not exactly home, but the only home she had until Flores went to trial.
She took another quick check of her surroundings, then stripped off her shorts and tugged the black knit dress over her head and sticky limbs. After she shoved her other clothes in the bag, she traded her running shoes for black pumps, swept her ponytail up and secured her hair with a clip.
Ready.
Almost.
She inhaled, closed her eyes, and slowly exhaled. Her racing heart calmed and still beat—despite the hammering of grief it’d taken.
She stepped out from behind the shelter of the mausoleum. Not as many as people had turned out as she’d hoped for her to go unnoticed in the crowd. Most of Hal’s old teammates had retired, probably moved on. Just as well. It lessened the chance she’d be recognized. Though even if someone did recognize her, Hal hadn’t told anyone her story. Being recognized here wouldn’t put her in jeopardy.
Crossing the grassy expanse, her insides quivered. She took the vacant seat at the end of the last row of chairs set up for the service. It’ll be okay.
Except her gaze settled on the flag draped-coffin—the coffin holding Hal Boswell’s spiritless body.
Cassidy’s heart revved again, not quite as hard as from the run, but from how close she’d come to missing this. Her mother had passed along the news almost as an afterthought at the tail end of their bi-weekly call. Oh, I got a call that Hal died.
Dead?
Hal always seemed invincible. The shock of his death had slammed her like a tsunami.
Did I make enough time for him? College. Moving to Chicago for work. Two years ago, he’d insisted she come visit. When he balked at her mention of bringing her boyfriend, Parks, she’d postponed the trip. Then an EMT wheeled Reynaldo Flores into her Emergency Department and screwed up her life six ways to Sunday and Monday and Tuesday.
She’d lost two years of her life she’d never get back and now she’d lost Hal.
While her mother hadn’t bothered to note the details of the service, with a simple internet search, Cassidy found the online obituary. It’d taken her less than ten minutes to pack a bag and hit the road because she had to be here.
This wasn’t how I wanted to say goodbye. But at least I’m here. Would it give her closure?
Tears once again welled. Her hands shook, not from the caffeine still flowing through her veins, but from the loss of the one man, the only man, who’d invested his time in her. He’d made her feel she mattered enough to stick around.
Even after her mother and Hal divorced, he’d been there—continued to help with her college tuition, enabling her to get her nursing degree. Called on her birthday. Been there when she had important decisions to make. She trusted his clarity of breaking things into a “this is right; this is wrong” analysis—even when the outcome had cost her.
A snuffle escaped. Several heads turned to take a peek in her direction since no one else was crying. She sniffed hard but surrendered to scrounging in the gym bag at her feet for the pack of tissues.
With a fresh tissue in hand, she closed her eyes against the bright sun and listened to the chaplain continue the eulogy that captured the essence of Hal. A decorated soldier. Not a perfect man. One who gave of himself far beyond the service required. She drew comfort from the accurate description of the man who sought no glory for his actions.
With her heart rate and breathing almost normal, she relaxed a bit on the folding chair. Though it had been years since she’d lived in Hal’s home here in Fayetteville, North Carolina, she searched for familiar faces around her.
She recognized a blonde woman seated in the front row, but the woman likely wouldn’t remember her. Then she picked out the woman’s bear of a husband standing at parade rest with the honor guard detail. He met her eyes and gave her a slight nod. She returned a wavering smile, trying to recall their names.
Another pallbearer, a younger man with a strong jaw and well-defined cheekbones, stared at her. His narrowed eyes and stern set of his mouth made her shift her gaze back to the chaplain and sit straighter to keep from squirming in her seat.
Even with her hair pulled up, AJ recognized the runner. She’d changed into a black dress—Where?—and now sat in the back row, a seat apart from everyone else. What the …?
Another thing about this day that made no sense to him. The chaplain’s voice carried through the still air. AJ’s gaze shifted to the tissue wadded up in the young woman’s hand. He tamped down the rankling in his gut, determined not to let her arrival distract him further.
When the chaplain concluded, Chief Lundgren assumed his position at the head of the grave. AJ and the other pallbearers came to attention. The funeral director asked the mourners to stand for the rendering of honors.
Even though AJ had attended over a dozen military funerals since enlisting, too many th
anks to Iraq and Afghanistan, the protocol still moved him.
“Pre-sent arms!”
Seven rifle bolts slid into place with one metallic click.
“Ready! Aim! Fire!”
The expected crack of rifle fire still made his body jerk. The sliding of the bolt to chamber the next round preceded the second “Aim. Fire.” and simultaneous volley of shots. By the third round, the instinctive jerk became a mere twitch.
The bugler began playing Taps. Sunlight glinted off the gleaming brass instrument. How could anyone here not feel the honor that accompanied the solemn ceremony?
No matter what anyone said, AJ was damned proud of his service. What he did. Sure, it meant doing ugly things sometimes to prevent others from perpetrating cruelties and injustices, but, as Hal pointed out, where would the world be without men like them to ensure balance and justice? He and his team were part of that equalizing force. Raining down bad karma on those who deserved it.
He stood even straighter—if that was possible—his eyes fixed on the coffin.
The last strains of Taps faded away. AJ and the detail took their positions alongside the casket. They took hold of the corners of the flag, gently lifted it from the coffin and pulled it taut. They folded it in half lengthwise, then again before continuing to fold it at a 45-degree angle into a triangle. The fold man tucked in the end and inspected it to ensure no red showed.
As the casket team leader, AJ ran his hands over the edges to “bless off” on the corners, and squeezed the flag tight to his chest before bringing it down to hand back to the fold man—another Special Forces member Hal had mentored.
The men passed the flag down the line of pallbearers to Chief Lundgren, the presentation man. After the three-second salute, Lundgren turned the flag, preparing it for presentation.
AJ tried to swallow the hard lump in his throat. It stuck like a wad of chewing gum. Normally, the flag would be handed to family. A spouse. A child. Parents. A sibling. Hal had none of those. He had family forged by blood, sweat, and gunfire.
I want that flag. It means more to me than anyone else.
Lundgren had been silent on the subject of disposition of the flag. He turned on his heel and walked toward the seated mourners. AJ ground his teeth. Lundgren strode past those seated in the front row to the end, then turned and proceeded down the outside of the row. AJ squinted into the sunshine. At the end of the row, Lundgren dropped to one knee—next to the redhead.
What. The. Hell?
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Acknowledgments
Thanks once again to MSG Dale Simpson (US Army Ret.) for responding to my calls, texts, and messages asking for your military and Special Ops information. Any errors or artistic liberties are my own. If any Special Ops guys want to help me get things right, invite me to spend the day training with you, and I’ll bring my freakin’ awesome brownies for everyone.
Thank you to my critique partners and beta readers, Paula, Kathryn Barnsley, Carol Thorton, Karen Long, Becky Eien, and Judy Eien.
To my friend LTC Kathryn Barnsley (USAF Retired) for those initial copy edits when I entered this manuscript in the Golden Heart® contest, where it became a finalist and won!
The validation of being a finalist, and even winning RWA® chapter contests, kept me motivated to continue learning and writing. But it was this story becoming a Golden Heart finalist in 2015, that was a life and career changer. The friendships that came from being a part of the Dragonfly group was, and still is, a huge blessing. I love you ladies and wish you all happily-ever-afters. I went on to become a member of the Mermaid, Rebelle, Persister, and Omega Golden Heart groups. Each unique group and writer added to my circle of friends, and I always love to see writers who encourage and help and lift up other women and show how love can change things.
Thank you to my developmental editor, Holly Ingraham, for pointing out what I needed to add to make my story better and my characters richer. I hope you enjoy the addition that you suggested the story needed. I had fun writing it!
Christy Hovland, you did another fabulous job on the cover and gave Tony the perfect tattoo and scar. Sorry that we didn’t get to show his abs and chest.
To JJ Kirkmon, I am so thankful I invited you to write with our group. My productivity is up since I wake up earlier to work alongside you (well, pre-Covid-19). You make my manuscripts flawless (or nearly so, since I tinker), and I love that we are so in-sync in how we think and get along.
Most of all, THANK YOU to my family. My awesome husband has always supported my increasing number of writing retreats, often telling me to attend conferences, especially when I was a Golden Heart finalist. My daughter, Kristen, is my biggest cheerleader. My son is my tech expert, and now I have a daughter-in-love. We’re all so glad you found each other, Brandon and Lauren. Also, my sister, Kathy, who watched and cheered when this book won the Golden Heart and always tells her friends about her sister, the author.
Thank you, Lord, for opening my heart and mind to accept You and for the gift of this overactive imagination.
About the Author
Tracy Brody has written a series of single-title romances featuring the Bad Karma Special Ops team whose love lives are as dangerous as their missions. A SHOT WORTH TAKING and IN THE WRONG SIGHTS won the Golden Heart® for romantic suspense in 2015 and 2016. DEADLY AIM was a four-time finalist in the Golden Heart.
She has a background in banking, retired to become a domestic engineer, and aims to supplement her husband’s retirement using her overactive imagination. Tracy began writing spec movie and TV scripts, however, when two friends gave her the same feedback on a script, saying that they’d love to see it as a book, she didn’t need to be hit over the head with a literal 2” x 4” to get the message. She joined RWA® and developed her craft and is still working on using commas correctly
Tracy and her husband live in North Carolina. She’s the proud mother of a daughter and son and now a mother-in-law. She invokes her sense of humor while volunteering at the USO. You may spot her dancing in the grocery story aisles or talking to herself as she plots books and scenes while walking in her neighborhood, the park, or at the beach on retreats with friends.
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Also by Tracy Brody
Desperate Choices
Deadly Aim