Fighting For Valor

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Water dribbles over his cracked lips, and a low, deep sound rumbles in his chest. Almost a protest. “It’s water, Rip. Just water.”

  I get a little down his throat, then pour the rest over his head. Now I have to get him out of this fucking hole.

  As soon as I stand, he falls over again, retching, and loses the little water he swallowed.

  “Dammit.” Tapping my comms unit, I stare up at the top of the ladder. “Bravo Team. My location. Now.” I lift Ripper, and he struggles weakly. “Stay still, Sergeant. That’s a fucking order.”

  My tone must register, or he passes out, because now he’s dead weight over my shoulder. Twenty feet. I can only use one arm on the ladder, and having Ripper’s legs between me and the wall doesn’t help, but I get us both out of that hell hole and onto level ground.

  Ripper doesn’t move, and I pull my Beretta as a metallic clang from the gate draws my focus. Drawing down, I wait, crouched on one knee in front of Ripper. But then Trevor’s head rises up over the top of the gate, and he quickly drops, tucks, and rolls to distribute the impact. Dax follows, doing a pretty damn good impression of a man with the full use of his sight.

  They’re in front me in another ten seconds. “Is he alive?” Dax asks.

  “Yeah. Barely.” When Dax kneels next to me, I guide his hand to Ripper’s shoulder. “Rip…we’re here. Say something, man.”

  Nothing. The look on Dax’s face…I’ve only seen the man this broken up once—when I pulled him out of Hell.

  “Gentlemen, company’s coming,” Inara hisses. “Two vehicles approaching from the east. You have five minutes to get the fuck out of there or this is going to get loud.”

  Shit. “Take him to the truck,” I say to Dax and Trevor. “Do whatever you can to cool him down. And get the engine running.”

  Sprinting for the house, I burst through the front doors, finding blood smeared across the expensive tile. Using it as a guide, I track West and Graham to an office where they stand in front of Amir Abdul Faruk. He’s zip-tied to a chair, duct tape over his mouth, with seven of his men lying dead in a corner of the room.

  Well, that explains the bloody drag marks.

  “The house is clear?” I ask.

  “Another six are locked in a room in the basement,” Graham says. “They didn’t resist.”

  “Exfil. Now.” I level a gaze at West. “Get to the truck. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The former SEAL squares his shoulders, his blue eyes bright with determination. “No. Take care of him and we all go together.”

  “Goddammit. Who’s in charge here?” We don’t have the time to waste arguing, so I just glare at him as I pull Ripper’s knife from its sheath and head for Faruk.

  “Turn around,” West mutters to Graham, but to his credit, the youngest member of our team doesn’t move.

  Standing over Faruk, I turn the knife in the light so he can see the handle where Rip carved his name, and bare my teeth when his eyes widen. “You took our brother. If our truck wasn’t full, I’d bring you with us and spend months making you bleed until you begged for death. And then I’d let you heal up and do it all over again.”

  I lean down so we’re eye-to-eye. “But instead, I’ll grant you this one mercy.” The knife plunges deep into his heart, sliding between his ribs with ease. A half-moan, half-scream is muffled by the duct tape, and I give the handle a twist, watching for the moment the light leaves his eyes.

  The blade drips crimson with his blood, and for good measure, I slit his throat, then wipe the thick filth on the leg of his pants.

  Turning to West and Graham, I nod. “Bravo Team? We’re on our way. Faruk will never hurt another person again.”

  It’s done. And my conscience is clear.

  Chapter Ten

  Ripper

  Something hits my shoulder, but I can’t move. Breathing hurts. I don’t care what they do to me. Anything will be better than this. Waiting to die. I haven’t pissed in days. Nothing left in me. The scorpions—the few I haven’t killed—ignore me now. They can smell death clinging to me.

  Fingers touch my neck, and then I hear a single whispered word. “Ripper?”

  I should know that name.

  “Base, put the doc on.”

  The voice…I’ve heard it before. Another wave of pain addles my thoughts, and by the time it’s faded, the man’s talking again.

  “…heart’s racing…burning up.”

  I try to force my dry eyes open, but I can’t.

  “Roger that.” The world tilts, and the man speaks again. “Rip? You have to drink, brother. We’re getting out of here.”

  Water dribbles over my cracked lips, and a low, mournful sound escapes my parched throat. No. Please. No more…

  Whatever he says next is lost to my panic, but I swallow a bit of the cool liquid, and fuck, it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Metallic, almost. Like the canteens we used to carry. More water drenches my hair, rolling down my cheeks.

  When I’m thrown over a shoulder, I push against what feels like solid granite.

  “Stay still, Sergeant. That’s a fucking order.”

  I know that voice.

  Somewhere, deep down, in a place I don’t want to go, I hear that same voice calling my name. We’re climbing now. Well, he’s climbing. I’m desperately trying to stay conscious. To figure out what the fuck is happening.

  But when the man lays me on the ground, fear takes over, and I can’t breathe. I manage to crack an eyelid, but all I see is darkness and boots—three sets of boots—before a dull roar fills my ears and that place where I know the people around me is suddenly closer than it’s been in years.

  Voices. One of them’s shouting, but there’s so much noise…I can’t make out the words. Everything hurts, but it’s cooler here—wherever I am. We’re…moving. Oh, fuck. Where is Faruk taking me now?

  My stomach pitches, and I taste bile. Rough hands grab me, rip my sleeve, and then…the sting of a needle. “No!” I whisper as I try to pull my arm away.

  “Dammit, Ripper, stop fighting us!” The order registers, the voice is one I know, the one that belongs to a ghost.

  I let myself go limp, and long moments pass where I don’t feel anything at all. They’re broken up by terror, pain, nausea, and stomach cramps so intense, I think maybe…death would be better.

  Time has no meaning as I start to sweat, then shiver, letting the motion lull me into sleep or unconsciousness. When I come to, I’m floating. My fingers, blistered and raw, ache as I grab on to fabric—nylon or…Kevlar?

  “…into the water…”

  Someone rips off my clothes, and I thrash, hitting my head on something hard. I can’t let them hurt me again. I can smell blood. My own filth. The scents are overwhelming here in this place that otherwise smells like…very little.

  “You’re safe, brother. Trust me,” a man whispers, and everything about this situation is so different from Faruk and his men, I believe him. The water surrounds me, blessedly cool, and I relax enough to open my eyes.

  Muted colors and dark shapes. Every blink is pure agony. “Let…me…die,” I manage.

  “Not an option.” The man standing over me has dark hair, but I can’t make out his features. The room spins, and a soft cloth drags over my face, my neck, my chest.

  “Someone did a number on him,” the man says quietly. “Wish we’d have been able to spend more time killing that shitstain.”

  “He’s gone. That’s all that matters now.” A giant kneels close by, and thick fingers grasp my shoulder. “I’m so fucking sorry, Rip. But you’re safe now.”

  I close my eyes, waiting for the drugs to take hold, for the entire world to turn upside down, inside out, and sideways. But all I find is quiet and peace.

  Something cool rests on my forehead. Breathing hurts.

  Think. Don’t let Faruk give you anything. Stay focused.

  It’s too hard. Nothing makes any sense in this new reality. A tear leaks from my eye, and the mattress depr
esses. “Ripper?”

  Another voice, this one with a hint of a southern drawl. “Rip? Come on back now.”

  Ghosts. I’m hearing ghosts.

  “Gotta get some calories in him.” This is the man I don’t know. “Joey’s worried about his kidneys.”

  The doctor? Is she here? Fuck. I tried to keep her safe. Did I fail…again? Forcing my lids open, I lock onto multi-hued eyes so distinctive, there’s no way they could belong to anyone else. I’m hallucinating. Ryker McCabe has been dead for six years.

  “Ripper? Can you hear me?” He leans closer, and I blink hard and study his face. The left half looks like someone took a hot poker to it—repeatedly. One eyelid droops slightly, and a thick scar bisects his brow. His bare, corded forearms sport tattoos I’ve never seen, and one…holy shit. One has my name on it.

  “Ry…?” The word sounds more like a croak than anything else, and takes so much out of me, sleep starts to pull me under.

  “Stay with us, Rip. You hear me? Open your fucking eyes. Now.”

  I’ve never disobeyed one of Ryker’s orders. I can’t start now, even if he is a figment of my imagination or Faruk’s torture. The room comes back into focus, and I take in the six people standing around me. One…I’ve seen before. He helped get the doctor out. “I…know you.”

  “Trevor,” he says. “And she’s fine. Back in Boston with Ford—the tall guy with me the last time we saw you. But she won’t stop messaging us to get you to eat something.”

  Ryker holds a cup with a metal straw to my lips, and logic goes out the window. “N-no.” That’s how it always starts. A bottle of water. Tea. And then reality fades away. Fighting against the light sheet covering me, I hear Ryker tell me to calm down, but I can’t. The hands pressing against my shoulders pull a hoarse wail from my throat.

  “Jackson!” Trevor’s voice—his use of my name—shocks me enough that I stop struggling, but the brief fight stole what little strength I had left, and I can only lie there helplessly, panting. “This is just sugar water.” He takes the glass from Ryker, sucks half of it down through the straw, and passes it back. “Satisfied? Because my teeth hurt now.”

  I nod, which is probably a mistake, because my head pounds like it’s being used for a basketball. Ryker slides his arm behind my shoulders, helps me up, and shoves a pillow behind me before he presses the straw to my lips. I take a small sip. Then another.

  “That’s enough for now,” a man says from behind Ry. “If that stays down for ten minutes, you can have the rest. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Who…the fuck…are you?” That’s not what I want to ask. I want to ask Ryker how he’s alive. How he found me. How he knows this Trevor dude. But I’m not ready for the answers yet.

  “West Sampson. SEALs. Retired.”

  Of course. He’s got that look. The one all frogmen get after a while. The look that says, “I could kill you without breaking a sweat, then go the bar and order a beer, and no one would ever find the body.”

  “My team,” Ryker says, then nods to a woman in the corner of the room dressed all in black with a shock of blond hair peeking out of her cap. “Inara, West, Graham.”

  “Team?”

  “K&R. In Seattle.”

  We’re dancing around an elephant so fucking huge, it doesn’t just take up the room, but the whole damn country. “You’re alive.”

  “Well, I’m sure as shit not a ghost. You think I’d choose to look like this if I were?”

  “Rip?” Dax pats the mattress for a second before he eases himself down on my other side. “We didn’t know. When Ry escaped Hell, one of the guards told him you’d died. Broken your neck when they threw you in the hole.”

  “I…didn’t…” No. I can’t give up any intel. This has to be a trick. But…Dax is wearing tinted glasses. And behind them…scars. His eyes were darker before. A part of me wants to believe so badly, I have to risk one question. “After…Bohemian Rhapsody, what song was next?”

  “Hammer to Fall,” Dax and Ry say in unison.

  Fuck. “I saw…the news reports. You were dead.” Every word feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and I don’t know how much longer I can stay awake, but I have to know.

  Ry glances at the SEAL, then back at me, but it’s Trevor who pipes up. “Faruk show you those news reports?” I don’t confirm or deny, but he nods. “I figured. He made all that shit up. Pretty typical enhanced interrogation and brainwashing technique. Ryker tells me you’re a wizard with tech.”

  The world feels like it’s slowing down, but I fight to stay awake. “Moved money. Investments. So…much…more. Don’t…remember…” The heavy weight of shame presses down on me, and I let my eyes close, let the tears I could never cry before stream down my cheeks.

  “Ripper, cut that shit out. You did what you had to do in order to survive,” Dax says. “Look at me, brother.”

  I do, because the emotion in his voice…the only time I ever heard it is when he used to talk about his wife…when we were in Hell. But I can’t let him just…ignore all the shit I’ve done. “You never should have come for me.”

  The sound Ryker makes…it’s almost a growl, but Dax shoots him a look, and he quiets down. Dax takes off his glasses, and the damage…shit.

  “Six months after you disappeared, we got the chance to escape. But Kahlid had broken my leg a few weeks earlier. I couldn’t walk. After Ry broke out…” Dax swallows hard and gestures to his eyes. “Drain cleaner.”

  “Dax—”

  “It’s okay.” His dry laugh says it’s not, but then the stress lines around his mouth fade, and he looks almost…happy. “I’m here, aren’t I? Managed to get myself over that fucking fence around Faruk’s compound when Ry found you.”

  “Heard…you both. Didn’t…believe…”

  “You’re free now,” Ryker says. “I killed Faruk.” He pulls a large serrated knife from a sheath at his hip and lays it on my thighs. Trevor and West tense, but Ry waves them off. “This is yours, Rip. The one thing I kept from your footlocker when I packed up your shit at Fort Benning. I used it to end that bastard’s life.”

  As I stare down at the handle, I can just make out the jagged lightning bolts I carved around my nickname. There’s still a little dried blood towards the hilt, and I rest my hand on the black metal.

  They came for me. I don’t know how they figured out I wasn’t Isaad, but right now, that doesn’t matter. I’m back with my team.

  Chapter Eleven

  Two Months Later

  Ripper

  My phone vibrates as I step off the bus in front of the nondescript gray building in south Seattle. One glance at the screen—and Ryker’s name—and I jab the button to send the call to voicemail.

  Doc Neery buzzes me in as soon as I close myself in his outer waiting room, and by the time I sit down across from him, I’ve ignored two text messages from Ry as well.

  “Jackson. How are you today?” Neery asks.

  He’s the only person who calls me by my first name—my original first name.

  “Jackson doesn’t exist anymore. You know that, doc.” The bitterness in my tone? I don’t even try to hide it. Not from him. He’d see right through me anyway. The shrink is relentless, and since I go in for appointments twice a week, any resistance I might put up doesn’t last long.

  “Not on paper, no. Jackson ‘Ripper’ Richards died six years ago in Afghanistan. But I don’t care what your driver’s license says. Or how you got it. Jackson’s the man I’m treating.” Neery leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “So? Going to answer my question?”

  “Same shit, different day.” I run a hand through my hair. It’s short now, and I haven’t let my beard grow longer than a dark stubble since the day after Ryker and his team rescued me. Ry gave me a razor and told me to “fix my face.”

  “Not an answer. Where’d you sleep last night?”

  Lie. Just get the fuck out of here.

  But I can’t. My training won’t let me. “In the doorway of the Presbyter
ian Church on 15th. It’s quiet there after midnight.”

  The shrink scribbles something in his notebook, then leans back with a sigh. “When was the last time you went to your apartment?”

  “Showered there this morning. Changed clothes. Grabbed a granola bar and got the hell out. We do this every session, doc. Nothing’s changed. There some point to this?” I don’t want to talk about my feelings. About the fear of locking myself inside my apartment, of the four walls penning me in. Of finding myself somewhere dark and small, unable to get out. But without these appointments, I can’t get the anti-depressants that keep me from wanting to throw myself off the Ship Canal bridge, and I’m too scared to face life without them. I don’t want to die. I just don’t know how to live…free.

  “One day, you’re going to trust me,” he says simply. “Until then, it’s my job to make sure you’re safe and not a danger to yourself or anyone else.”

  My shoulders stiffen, and I sit up a little straighter. I’m a danger to everyone. Hell, the last time someone tried to grab my arm to tell me my backpack was open, I almost laid them out with a single punch. “I’m controlling it,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Care to try that again without cracking a molar?”

  “No.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I arch a brow, daring him to push me. But he doesn’t. Instead, he switches gears completely.

  “Any news on the job front? How was your interview with the animal shelter?”

  This, I can handle. “I start volunteering tomorrow. Cleaning the kennels, walking the dogs. Six hours a week, after the shelter closes for the day. If it goes well, they’ll start paying me in a month.”

  “So, a job where you won’t have to see or talk to anyone.” Neery hides his frustration well most of the time, but when you’ve been trained to read micro-expressions, it’s pretty damn easy to spot when your shrink is disappointed with you.