by Zoe Dawson
With a gentle motion, he pulled Blue to the edge of the grungy cot.
“You set, Crow?”
“Affirmative.”
“LT, we’re ready to go.”
“Copy that.”
Blue rose, starting to get warm for the first time since he’d landed here. Scarecrow situated Blue’s arm around his shoulder and helped him to the door. Wicked went around to his other side, and between them they supported his weight. For the first time since that RPG went off, he felt safe.
There was a booming explosion. After the initial loud noise, there was silence, then gunfire erupted. Scarecrow and Wicked hustled Blue down the hall, toward the open part of the basement. “Show time,” Wicked said. They deposited him against the wall, and Wicked covered their flank while Scarecrow assessed the situation.
From behind them, boots pounded on the concrete. Wicked waited and then lowered his weapon as Kid and Dragon came toward them.
“Hot damn,” Kid said, the satisfaction in his tone unmistakable. “You found him.”
“Focus, Kid.” Scarecrow said. “See what you can do to help LT, Hollywood, Tank, and the rest of Dragon’s group.”
While they inched into the room, a blur of canine fur and armor streaked across the room and hit one of the shooters. A flash bang blinded several of the enemy, and the four SEALs, surging away from the stairs, took them out of the equation. This was their stronghold, and there were many more of the enemy than the SEALs, but Blue knew that all he needed was these men.
Then he spotted her. She was standing in the back behind some crates giving orders. Two of her men went down. Bullets were flying everywhere, and he was wearing a dead man’s clothes. She focused on LT and aimed. Without regard to his safety, Blue rose to his full height, his bruised and battered body protesting, but the rush of adrenaline fueled him into action, and before anyone could stop him, he broke into a run.
“Blue!” Scarecrow called.
But he had his tormenter in his sights, and he couldn’t stop as blind rage, humiliation, and protection coursed through him. He hit her like a battering ram and knocked her onto her back. One hand went to her wrist to keep the gun from pointing at him. Boris burst through a back door. Blue raised her wrist, locked in his grip, and with his finger over hers on the trigger, he squeezed off five shots. Boris stopped moving as the slugs hit him full in the chest, and he fell face first onto the concrete. Blue pulled the gun out of her grip and tossed it away. Both hands around her neck, bullets chipping and flying around him, he tightened his grip.
Her dark, dangerous eyes never wavered. It pissed him off that she didn’t seem to fear death. He heard her bones crack, and it felt so good, he gritted his teeth. She gurgled, her hands clawing, but unable to get a purchase on the leather.
He watched as the life went out of her eyes, and he couldn’t stop squeezing.
Scarecrow pulled him off, and Blue just stared at her eyes, as empty in death as they had been in life. He hated her in that moment for what she had done to him. Part of him knew he’d never be the same, and the other part was lost…he squeezed his eyes closed…lost. Everything closed down.
With a sinking, spinning sensation, he collapsed onto his side. The sound of automatic weapons subsided, and he could hear Scarecrow calling to him, but he was as empty as a vessel filled with shadows. Passing into a darkness as deep as his fractured soul, he let himself fall.
* * *
In the aftermath of the Golovkin takedown, Scarecrow sat on one of the crates staring at Boris and Natasha’s bodies. Damn. One-minute Blue had been out of it, the next he’d killed the dangerous duo. What had that bitch done to him? He didn’t need to stretch his imagination too far, and revulsion rose in him. He’d seen so much in his life as a SEAL, but the sight of Blue ravaged with no doubt in his mind that he’d been raped… It was as if his soul had shriveled. They might have gotten here in time to spare Blue’s life, but it was clear to Scarecrow that he had endured hell. The man they knew was irrevocably changed, and everything came down on him like a ten-ton truck, burning up in his anger with nothing left but the rage.
Regret rolling through him, Scarecrow looked at Natasha lying on her back. He licked his lips and looked away. He hadn’t ever done anything like what Blue had done, but there was a…violence…he recognized inside him that understood why Blue had done it.
Kid came back into the basement, his boots hollow on the stairs. His voice unsteady, he said, “There’s only one warhead. The other five are gone, sold.” The gravity of that news only added to the anger in each of them. Scarecrow swore. He could see Kid wasn’t done with his news. “I found Speed.”
The tone of it made everything clench in Scarecrow, and he knew that they had been too late.
“They dumped him in the back with the garbage.”
All of the SEALs in the basement stopped doing what they had been doing. All of them bowed their heads in a moment of silence for one of their fallen brothers.
Blue had been their moral center. There was no doubt his quiet calmness, his Zen gems when they were all feeling stressed, alleviated a lot of the anxiety and pressure of being on the teams. He wasn’t just a man who had taken care of them physically. He had been that guy who made them think with purpose, who had understood something deeper and more meaningful. They might be warriors, but they weren’t barbarians.
Scarecrow rose and walked over to Natasha’s body. He looked down at her with the kind of hatred of the enemy that had been ingrained in him from the moment he’d said his first hooyah. No one had bothered to close her eyes and covering her up was something she didn’t deserve. His thoughts were on Blue and what he was going to have to endure and work on to come back to them…if he ever did. Scarecrow wanted to kick her.
In the end, his innate humanity made him crouch and close those empty eyes. With something akin to pain and a sense of not falling victim to the very same depravity of the enemy, he pulled a sheet over her, then threw one over Boris.
They weren’t animals. They didn’t mutilate and toss the bodies of their dead enemies into trash heaps as if human life was nothing more than refuse. War took enough of a toll on anyone involved. Blue had been their moral compass, and Scarecrow owed it to his teammate who lay so still and quiet on the stretcher as Robin “Hood” Ballentine, Dragon’s team medic tended to him before they could load him onto the chopper, so his healing could begin.
He saw Tank standing by the stretcher, his face contorted with pain. He was openly showing what they were all feeling. Had they failed Blue? The brotherhood code was ingrained in all of them. When one of them was wronged, murdered, injured, there would be retribution. There wasn’t a guy here who wasn’t feeling that energy.
All of them reacted when Blue cried out in agony. They stiffened, and emotion that they often banked and denied came rushing to the fore. As one, they moved toward the stretcher, dropping tasks with nothing on their mind except lending support.
Their LT, Ruckus, went to the head of the gurney and murmured, “Hang in there, Beckett. We’re getting you ready to go to Germany. You’re safe now.”
Blue looked up at him, fighting just as hard as all of them were in this moment not to show what they were feeling and somehow become diminished by it. But Scarecrow felt none of that as he put aside being a man.
One thing was always a given. Being a macho asshole. But today, this minute, he was going to be a brother.
He set his rifle against the wall and walked over to the stretcher. As Blue fought with his pain, his face contorted, his lips tight, his eyes tortured even though the physical act had ceased, Hood injected morphine into his IV. As his face relaxed and his physical agony receded, Scarecrow came to rigid attention. With a strong snap of his flat hand to his temple, he saluted. Every single team member struggling with their own personal feelings did the same.
Blue stared up at them with the kind of gratitude that made Scarecrow’s throat tight.
He looked at Ruckus. “Permission to
go with him, sir.”
The stretcher began to move, and his LT gave him a quick, stoic nod that said everything.
* * *
Six months later Naval Base Coronado San Diego, California
Blue ate, but he barely tasted his food. His sleepless night hadn’t helped him. He was starting to feel the effects of too many of them. Most of the time, he didn’t feel anything, and he told himself repeatedly that he was okay. He’d be all right.
He’d been transported to Germany and his had been lacerations stitched. He’d undergone a heavy debriefing that was completely uncomfortable. Blue had kept his own personal information to himself. He had upheld his honor, even if it was in shreds.
The doctors had told him there wouldn’t be any lasting effects on his ability to enjoy sex again or father children if he chose. There would only be the scars marking him.
He sat alone at the end of the table while most of his team members had gone to get in some PT. He found himself alone a lot. The therapist told him it was normal. What the fuck did she know about it? She spouted her ten-dollar words and tried to get him to open up about what he had endured. He told her that he’d gotten through it. He was fine. Just sign the damn paper so he could go back to the teams and he could…get his life back together.
Therapy was a waste of his time. He didn’t need it. There was nothing the matter with him. So he was a little withdrawn and preferred to be alone now for the most part. Deep inside he knew that was a freaking lie, but he refused to acknowledge it.
A woman sat across from him. She gave him a brief smile, but he didn’t respond. He looked away. The smell of her perfume drifted to him, flowery and sweet.
He jerked, and suddenly he was back in that small room. Natasha with her sharp knife and her concoction of drugs that made him out of his mind with lust. Revulsion coursed through him, and his hands tightened on the end of the table.
His chest heaved, sweat breaking out on his brow and the back of his neck. He gritted his teeth as the sucking vortex of his waking nightmare rolled through him like thunder.
“Could you pass the salt?” she asked, and he looked up into her face. Natasha’s face. He stared at her a moment, remembering that she was dead. He’d choked the life out of her and shot her creep of a husband. He blinked, and the woman’s face was again her own.
Against his will, he got a hard on. No stimulation. Unwanted. His wrists tingled, and he locked his ankles, to feel that sensation of being bound. It was a sick response, but he couldn’t seem to help it.
“Get it yourself,” he said as he rose and stalked away from the table.
In the restroom, he was shaking when he entered the stall. He cupped himself, unable to stop himself from needing to press into something, anything to alleviate the self-loathing and revulsion he felt. He knew that Natasha had gotten gratification from not only his enthusiastic participation, reveled in the fact that it was against his will, but in his terror of castration. Jesus, his breathing increased at the memory of the cold metal cutting him, the anxiety and horror of losing what made him feel male rolling over him as if he was back there experiencing it all over again.
He sucked in air, shuddering with both lust and nausea. He was a better person than this…twisted up fuck.
Except.
He closed his eyes. When he’d been twelve, he’d tried to do the right thing, and everything about what had happened to him made it all worse
His chest expanded, and he tried to overcome it, but it was futile. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped, pushing his BDUs and boxers just below his waist. Grasping his no longer smooth dick, he closed his eyes and got himself off.
He cleaned himself up, his hands shaking even more, but the sexual gratification was unsatisfying. Gritting his teeth, he wanted to feel something, anything, but once he ejaculated, there was just emptiness.
He was supposed to be tough. Weakness had been drilled out of him. He’d proven it so many times. Yet this lack of self-control, this feeling of helplessness as if his personal power had been stolen from him, wouldn’t abate.
Killing her hadn’t helped one bit.
She was manipulating him, even from the grave.
Unable to stand himself and his out-of-control thoughts, he headed toward the gym, expecting that the team would be done. But when he got there, they were standing near the door as he entered.
Kid was entertaining them as usual with some crazy story, and they were laughing. He stood there, his isolation building a wall between him and them. He was the odd man out, looking in and missing the camaraderie of them all.
But Wicked couldn’t seem to look him in the eye. Scarecrow was always trying to tough him out of his mood, and the rest of the team wasn’t sure what was going on. On top of everything he was wrestling with, more guilt surfaced. Had he somehow fractured their brotherhood?
Scarecrow spied him, and he said, “Blue,” motioning him over. Blue needed physical activity to get his mind off what had happened to him. But when he didn’t move, the whole group moved toward him.
Tank said, “Hey, want to get some chow?”
Blue shook his head. “I’ve already eaten.” It was clear that Tank was dealing with his own shit. Every time he looked at Blue, there was this pain in his eyes. For the most part, the big, my-way-or-the-highway SEAL had changed into a more grounded version of himself. He was still gruff, still imposing, still the Tank they knew, just different…more open, besotted. Alyssa St. James, the highly skilled veterinarian he’d been introduced to through his younger brother Jordan, had really made an impact in his life. They were engaged to be married.
His jaw clenched. It made him think of Elena. He hadn’t had the courage to handle her at all. She was this hard ache that hung heavy on his heart. He couldn’t ask about her, go to her grave, or allow himself to remember her.
He’d brought that tough, sweet, resourceful woman into danger by virtue of saving him, taking him into her home, into her open and loving heart. She’d lost everything because of him, and on top of everything else, forgiveness for himself where she was concerned was non-existent.
“Then just hang with us.”
“No, I’m good.”
He went to walk away, and Scarecrow grabbed his arm. The minute Scarecrow touched him, Blue shook him off and spun around as if facing down an immediate threat. His fists clenched.
Scarecrow’s eyes widened. Every face held the same expression, even Kid. It was clear to every member that Blue had changed. He didn’t care. He wanted to be left alone as much as he wanted back into the group. He didn’t know how to do that. He might have once, but it was lost on him now.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.”
Scarecrow’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the problem. You’re not good.”
“Right. And you know what I need?”
“I know what we went through to get you back. This attitude isn’t helping.”
It was hard for him to even face the two men who had seen him…weak, powerless, humiliated. He didn’t know how to express himself and not come off as even weaker. He would handle his own issues. He just needed Scarecrow to stop pushing him to get back into the swing of things when he was barely hanging on here. Without much provocation, Blue started to experience a rush of heat that scored his gut. He was sweating already, his chin high. He continued to flex his fists.
He was primed, driven by anger-fueled dishonor.
3
Wicked grabbed Scarecrow’s arm. “Crow,” he said, his deep voice holding a wealth of meaning. But when Blue looked for some kind of respect or support from the big, quiet SEAL, he looked away.
“I’m lost here,” Hollywood said, and it was as if the words hit him with not only pain but a resounding reverberation that echoed loudly in his head. “Something is going on with you, and the rest of us are mapless.”
His pulse sped up, his heart pounding. Nausea turned his stomach into acid as Kid said, “Ask that Dora girl. She has everything in her backpack.”
Even the absurdity of Kid’s smart mouth didn’t help. Kid faced him, his eyes full of the mischief that was always present. When no one moved, and no one talked, Kid, said, “Tough room.” He cleared his throat. “Alcohol and calculus don’t mix. Never drink and derive.”
“Shut up, Kid,” Scarecrow said. “You’re not helping.”
“Neither are you,” Blue said and turned away again, but Scarecrow apparently hadn’t taken him seriously. He grabbed his arm again.
This time Blue shoved him, hard. Every one of his team members stared, their widened eyes telling him he was acting completely out of character. The knowledge of that settled in his gut like heavy lead, but the embarrassment, the humiliation was too strong as it rolled into blinding rage. “What is wrong with you? I just told you not to touch me.”
“I’m not the problem,” Scarecrow said in a rush, shaking his head.
Blue stiffened at the jab. Hollywood said something, but it was as if he was hearing it from under water.
“Then why did you come after me at all?” Blue’s voice rose in volume with each word. People in the gym turned at the sound. Movement stopped, and a tense hush settled in the air, pregnant with violence.
“You know why.” Scarecrow reached for him and caught him around the wrist. With blind panic driving him, Blue’s right hook slammed into Scarecrow’s jaw and knocked him back. Scarecrow shook his head and with a roar, rushed Blue, sending them both to the gym’s mat. Scarecrow got in two hard punches before he was yanked off Blue.
A redhead came over and offered her hand, but Blue ignored it, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he got up. He tasted blood. It felt good to hurt physically. It made him feel alive. He and Scarecrow glared at each other as he fought against their hold. It hurt to see them on one side and Blue on the other. With the weight of pure, hot rage in his eyes, Scarecrow stumbled away from his teammates and left the gym.