by Layla Reyne
Fucking hell.
He rested his weight against the rails, nostalgia and desire cutting him off at the knees. He needed a moment to battle back memories of a past he longed for and dreams of a future that multiplied each Tuesday. A future he could never have, even if his mind wandered there without permission. Frequently. It wasn’t possible on base, him an officer and Holt an enlisted soldier, and he wasn’t even sure Holt would want more than friendship. And while a part of Brax wanted more, another part of him was equally terrified to lose the man who had improbably become his best friend. This present was more than he’d ever had. Holt Madigan had done him a kindness no one else had thought to do in seventeen years.
Holt hadn’t done it alone, though. Their other friends had helped. Brax cleared his throat and shifted his weight, standing again on steadier legs. “Thank you for this,” he said to Luther and Teague.
The cook patted his belly. “No complaints here, Major.”
“And I got to make doughnuts for dessert.” Teague grinned. “That’s a good day!”
Smiling, Brax thanked them again, then carried his tray to the table where Holt, head bent, was dealing a line of cards. The green and red lights strung around the chow hall twinkled and danced in his ginger bristles, and Brax wondered if the short strands would burn like fire under his fingertips.
Movement snapped him out of his daydreams of an impossible future. Holt stood on the other side of the table, fighting a grin as he raised his hand in salute. “Captain.”
Brax returned the gesture. “Private.” Off the mark as their titles were, their original ranks were as much endearments as they were an inside joke between them. “At ease.”
Holt loosed his grin as they sat. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“You did. This is… unexpected.”
“I got it right, yeah? Hawes is the chef in the family. He’s been collecting cookbooks since we were eight. After you mentioned missing latkes last week, I asked him about those and other Jewish holiday dishes. He sent me some recipes, and I gave them to Luther.”
Brax removed the warmer and stuck his nose directly in the path of the wafting steam, inhaling deep and savoring the smells of home. “Only thing missing from my mom’s usual spread is the gefilte fish.”
Holt cringed. “Hawes sent me a picture of that one too. Looked like fish SPAM. Pass.”
Brax laughed out loud. “You made the right call. They’d probably kick me out of here for it.” He wouldn’t be surprised if he lost his friend over it, and he didn’t want that. But the fact that Holt had considered it, had recruited his brother to the effort and Luther and Teague too… Brax blinked fast a few times and cleared his throat. “Seriously, though, thank you for this.”
“They’re all geared up for Christmas”—Holt gestured at the lights overhead and the tree in the far corner—“but it’s not the only holiday this time of year.”
Brax took a bite of brisket and couldn’t contain his moan.
Holt smiled wider. “That’s a good sign?”
“It’s perfect.” He wanted to devour it and the latkes and the chopped liver and especially the doughnuts, which meant he needed Holt to do the talking for a bit. “You celebrate Christmas?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s a big to-do at our house. My grandmother does a huge Christmas Eve spread. Wait, that’s wrong. She hires someone to do it.” He rolled his eyes, and Brax bit back a laugh. “Then we all go to midnight mass at St. Patrick’s. That’s where my grandparents go to church. The rest of us are twice-a-year Catholics, but they still go every Sunday. It’s this big red brick cathedral in downtown San Francisco. Total throwback in the middle of a bunch of skyscrapers, but it’s gorgeous. So, yeah, that was Christmas Eve, and then we’d do brunch and presents in the morning. It was special because it was the one holiday we could count on everyone being home.”
Brisket and one latke down, Brax moved to the chopped liver. “Your family travels a lot?”
Holt suddenly shifted his attention to the cards he’d dealt. “Yeah, for work.”
“What do they do?”
“Cold storage.”
“There’s travel in that?”
“Yeah.”
The transition from verbal vomit to single syllable answers would have been hilarious if the overall shift in Holt’s demeanor wasn’t so concerning. A split second later, Brax made the connection and remembered how tough those first few holidays were without the call from his mom. When his grief was still too fresh to enjoy the nostalgia. “I’m sor—”
“What about your family’s holiday traditions?” Holt asked as he continued to flip cards. “Besides the food.”
Brax picked up the ramekin of chopped liver, mixed in the hard-boiled egg, and considered his words, aiming to tread more carefully. “My mom worked in HR. End of year was when she was busiest, so it was hard for her to get all of Hanukkah off, especially when it fell late in the calendar year. It was easier to get single days off for the High Holy Days, sometimes she could swing Passover too, but she always tried to get at least the first couple days of Hanukkah off and this”—he gestured at the tray—“was what she’d spend most of the time doing. Cooking. She knew these were the foods I liked best.”
“And your dad? You never mention—”
Because he wasn’t worth the breath. “Left when I was ten.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Mom and I got by all right, and with my grandfather’s help too, until he passed my senior year of high school.”
Holt laid down his cards but didn’t look up. “You miss them?”
“All the time, but especially at Hanukkah. I’m not practicing, and it’s not a major Jewish holiday like Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur, but it was my favorite holiday, and they indulged me.” He traded his empty bowl for the plate with the doughnuts, plucked off the top one, and set it beside Holt’s stack of cards. “It gets easier. The nostalgia starts to outweigh the grief. I’m sorry about earlier. I forgot how fresh it can still feel.”
“Thank you. Six years, I would have thought…”
“It takes time.”
Holt nodded. “My grandfather was right. I needed this. I needed a chance to get away and do something on my own. But yeah, I miss home and my parents, especially this time of year.” He scooped up his cards and the doughnut, the latter of which went a long way to cheering him up, judging by the light that crept back into his eyes and the upturned corners of his mouth.
“Fuck, these are good.”
“Aren’t they?” Brax bit into one and startled with surprise. “Caramel?” he mumbled around a second mouthful of heavenly goodness. He’d only ever had jelly or lemon filled before.
“You’re welcome.” Holt’s wink distracted Brax enough the big man was able to steal another off the plate. “Here’s a question… What don’t you miss about home?”
“Oh, that one’s easy. The snow.”
“Not a fan?”
“One good thing about the desert.” Brax snagged the last remaining doughnut and moved his tray aside. “Deal me in.”
Holt wiped his hands on his cargos and dealt the cards into two lines. “I understand the no snow thing. Was never a fan of Tahoe. But it’s so fucking hot here all the time. I miss the fog.”
“I’ve never been to San Francisco.” Brax turned over his first three cards. “Hell, I’ve only been to a few states on the East Coast. I’ve been more places outside the US than inside.”
“When we get out of here, you should come to SF. It’s not hot, it’s not cold, it’s perfect. Maybe we could celebrate Chrismukkah together.”
Brax was so stunned, so pleased, so irrationally hopeful, that an explosion of silver and blue streamers erupted in his belly. “I’d like—” His too eager acceptance was cut short by a commotion on the far side of the DFAC. Two soldiers had rushed in and were scanning the room, looking for someone.
They locked eyes on their table.
Fuck.
The soldiers
made a beeline straight for them, and the happy streamers vanished. Brax’s stomach sank. And sank further into total free fall as the color drained from Holt’s face. Had someone reported them for this minor infraction of friendship? Impending loss settled on Brax’s shoulders, but he couldn’t let that show. Nor could he let his expression show the fear that was lifting the hairs on his arms. That wouldn’t help either of them, especially Holt.
“Whatever it is, it’ll be fine,” Brax whispered low as he stood. Holt followed, and they exchanged salutes with the other officers.
“You’re needed in command, sir.”
“Let’s go, then.” Brax pushed in his chair. “Nice to catch up, Specialist Madigan,” he said, summoning up the polite detachment that had flown out the window the night he’d found Holt Madigan hiding under a bed.
“Sir,” one of the soldiers spoke. “It’s Specialist Madigan that SpecOps requested.”
Holt’s gaze darted from the soldiers to Brax, his brown eyes wide and filled with fear.
Brax’s chest ached, the sight reminding him too much of Holt’s first day in the desert. He shifted slightly, his eyes shielded from the soldiers and softened for Holt’s benefit, the best he could do when he couldn’t inject his voice with the comfort he so desperately wanted to provide. “Report for duty, Pri—” He cleared his throat and corrected. “Specialist. You’re ready.”
If not for the fact he was a light sleeper, Brax might have missed the knock on his door. He wasn’t sure that’s what it was at first, the sound so soft, but when it came a second time, he rolled over in bed and glanced at his clock. He’d managed a meager ninety minutes of shut eye once he’d finally convinced his brain to stop worrying about Holt. He stood, raked a hand over his head, and searched in the dark for the nearest T-shirt and sweatpants, cursing as he stepped on fallen candies. No lights slashed through his windows, no sirens cut through the otherwise quiet night, and those knocks hadn’t been loud or authoritative enough to be an impending summons. He suspected he knew who was outside his door, and his earlier worry returned.
Then ballooned as soon as he opened the door and confirmed his suspicion. A ghostly pale and terrified to the point of shaking Holt Madigan stood in the hallway. His cargo pants were wrinkled, his camo over-shirt unbuttoned, and his hands were fisted in the hem of the Raptors T-shirt he wore underneath. His voice cracked as he whispered, “I can’t do this.”
Brax stuck his head out the door and turned it either direction, checking the hallway. The common area lights were lowered, and all the other doors in the officers’ quarters were closed. No one else in sight, he grabbed Holt by the biceps and dragged him inside his room, shutting the door behind him and flipping on the lights. “How did you get in here?”
“I waited for an opening in the guard rotations and hacked the cameras. No one saw me.”
“Risky as hell, Private.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but I… I… didn’t know where else to go.” Another crack in his voice belied the momentary burst of confidence and revealed the depth of fear that had driven Holt to take such a risk.
Brax gentled his grip and led Holt to the desk. He tossed aside the pile of clothes that were on the desk chair, more candies falling out of various pockets, then guided Holt to sit. “Can’t do what?”
Brax’s ass had barely hit the edge of the bed across from Holt, the only other place in the room to sit, when the other man shot back out of the chair. “I’m not even allowed to tell you.”
“But I can guess.” Brax rested his elbows on his knees. “The soldier that came for you said Special Operations requested you. This for one of their missions?”
Holt nodded as he paced the ten-foot length of the room, his arms dangling at his sides, fingers moving like they would across a keyboard.
Brax continued to draw conclusions. “They need someone from cyber.” As he’d predicted, Holt had been moved from signal support to cyber warfare earlier in the year.
Another nod.
“You’re the best hacker on base. Whatever it is, you can do it.”
Holt halted and turned to face him. “But what they’re asking me to do isn’t on base.” True to form, once on a roll, Holt didn’t shut up. “Fuck it. They need me to go into some Taliban asshole’s compound and hack his system.”
A knot lodged itself in Brax’s gut. Holt had been lucky so far. No assignments or operations off base. And every day that passed that way—with relatively minimal danger—was another day closer to Brax fulfilling the promise he’d made to himself. A promise to put Holt Madigan, alive and well, back on that transport home at the end of his duty. Now, however, Brax’s promise, which had grown even more important to him as his friendship with Holt had grown, was in danger, as was his friend.
“Why can’t you hack it from here?” Brax said. “If the target is on the internet, can’t you tap in or whatever? Or can’t SpecOps conduct the raid and bring the computer to you?”
Holt shook his head and began pacing again, his fingers moving almost as rapidly as his lips, words tumbling out. “It’s not him or what’s on the computer they’re after. They need me to hack in while it’s still connected to the system and inject some spyware. And a kill switch that will erase the spyware if it’s found.”
“You can’t put the spyware and kill switch on a flash drive and let one of the SpecOps guys load it?”
“I could, but whether someone else could hack in…”
“Marshall?”
“Maybe, but…”
“You’re the best shot they’ve got.”
“And it’s a one-shot deal.” The truth finally out, Holt collapsed into the chair, mirroring Brax’s earlier posture, shaking hands running over his buzz cut. “Fuck, Cap, I don’t know if I can do this.”
Panic swirled in his dark eyes, mixed with a heavy dose of doubt. Brax needed to chase those storm clouds away. Holt’s life depended on it. He slipped off the side of the bed and knelt in front of Holt, forcing his gaze. “Listen to me, Private. This was always a possibility. You are trained for this. You are the best hacker here, you were the top marksman in your basic training class, and top three in knives and hand-to-hand combat. Those skills have only improved. You’ve run the urban combat sims. You can do this.”
“But what if I get out there and freeze? Basic training and sims are one thing, and yeah, I can handle myself in one-on-one situations. My family made sure of that. But actual military combat and a whole army team on the line is another. I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me, because I couldn’t do the job. I don’t know anything about running point.”
“Did they say you were running point?”
“No, Marsh is running point on cyber, and Turner and Kwan on the op. But—”
Brax laid a hand on each of Holt’s bouncing knees. “You can do the job. Your job. That’s what you worry about. The team will be there to back you up, and Marshall, Turner, and Kwan will make sure you and the teams get in and out. They’re running point. That’s not on you.”
“I just—”
Brax squeezed his knees. “You can do this, Holt.”
The following ten seconds felt like the longest of Brax’s life, waiting for Holt to accept what he’d said and slump back in the chair, exhaling some of his fear and doubt on a long, slow breath.
Brax gave his knees a final pat then stood. “When’s the op?” he asked on his way to the mini fridge in the corner.
“Christmas morning. Just before dawn. They’re doing more surveillance and will continue to brief us on the specifics of the location.”
“Okay.” Brax grabbed two ginger ales and turned back around to find Holt out of his chair again, except this time he was picking up the pieces of candy on the floor. Brax bit back his smile, thankful he’d gotten through to Holt enough that the other man was momentarily distracted by Brax’s mess and not his own.
And apparently distracted more as Brax crossed the room back to him. “Your tattoo.” Holt eyed his right forear
m, exposed by the T-shirt Brax had shucked on. “I mean, I’ve seen hints of it under your sleeve but…” Brax’s skin tingled under the appraisal. “I like it.”
“My mom used to knit. Blankets, afghans, her own clothes. This”—he held up his forearm—“was one of her favorite patterns, especially the fringe at the bottom. I got it after she passed.” Brax handed him the drink. “You got any?”
“Not yet. Have an idea for a sleeve.” He jiggled his right arm. “I just didn’t have time before I left and wasn’t old enough for the liquid courage.”
Brax chuckled. “Alcohol does help dull the pain, though tattoos can be a sort of relief too. This one was. Helped me process her death and honor her.”
“I’m glad.”
“You’ll have time to get yours, either while in the service or when you get home.”
“If I get home.” Holt sank back into the chair, doubt clouds returning.
“You will.” Brax leaned a hip against the side of the desk and clasped Holt’s shoulder. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. I’ll protect you.”
But the doubt in Holt’s brown eyes lingered. Doubt Brax needed to chase away. Holt needed to feel comfortable and competent on the mission. He had those skills already; he just needed to be reminded of them. “We’ve got time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to go back over the basics of urban combat.”
And time for Brax to finagle his way onto that SpecOps team. He had confidence in Holt; he’d do his job. But Brax wasn’t trusting the other job—of protecting Holt, of making sure he got back on the plane home—to anybody else.
Brax waited as the colonel’s assistant announced him. “Colonel Ayers, Major Kane to see you.”
Through the partially ajar door, Brax saw Ayers and several other COs gathered around a table covered in satellite photos. Among the group were Major Turner and Captain Kwan from Special Ops and Major Marshall, Holt’s CO from Cyber.