A Dead Man's Pulse

by Samantha A. Cole

  While his parents had told him it was fine for him to stay with them, he knew it was hard having him in the house. They had to walk on eggshells, worrying something they would do or say would trigger a negative response from him—especially when he was asleep. They’d taken to using an old cowbell to announce themselves if they needed to awaken him, since he usually came to swinging. Thankfully, he hadn’t hit either one of them, although, he had attacked a male nurse during his stay in the hospital when he’d stirred from a medicated sleep to see the dark-haired man standing over him. It had taken two orderlies to pull him off the nurse who Logan had almost strangled to death. Thank God, the poor guy had survived, but Logan had ended up being afraid to fall asleep until he’d been released and flown back to the US. Even now, he was worried he’d hurt someone without realizing what he was doing.

  A honking horn startled Logan, and he moved his foot from the brake to the accelerator, sending the vehicle lurching forward before he gained control again. It took him a few moments to realize where he was. Somehow, almost on autopilot, his truck had steered itself to the entrance of Arlington National Cemetery. Passing through the gates, he drove into the visitor’s parking garage. Throngs of tourists, young and old, were heading toward the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier for the dramatic changing of the guards, but Logan didn’t follow the crowd. Instead, he headed in the other direction. The rows of white on a sea of green spread for 624 acres, where over 400,000 individuals were interred or inurned. Each one had either served their country, many dying while doing so, or they’d been married to someone who’d served in the military, dating as far back as the American Revolution all the way through to today. In fact, far up on a hillside to Logan’s right, another hero was being brought home to the hallowed ground while their family mourned.

  Three volleys of seven rifles being fired for a twenty-one-gun salute had his muscle’s tensing and heart rate speeding up, before the somber bugle notes of “Taps” floated through the air. Logan swallowed the lump in his throat, grateful his watery eyes were concealed by his sunglasses as he passed two middle-aged women tending to a young soldier’s grave site. Jesus. The tombstone said the poor guy had only been twenty years old when he’d died five years ago—not even old enough to legally drink, yet old enough to give up the ghost for his country. According to the information under his name and dates of birth and death, he’d been awarded the Purple Heart and the Silver Star, so it was likely he’d been killed in action and the medals given to his family.

  His gut churning, Logan continued his three-quarter-mile hike to the section where his teammates were interred—at least most of them were. Seth Granger, one of the guys killed during the initial ambush, and Kevin Mooney, the first one slaughtered at the insurgents’ camp, had both been buried in other veteran cemeteries closer to their families in Oregon and New Mexico, respectively. The only other teammates from that fateful mission who weren’t buried here were Logan and Joe Moretti. The latter had recovered from the bacterial infection he’d developed in that hell hole, but was suffering from a severe case of PTSD—worse than Logan’s. The two men had only spoken a few times by phone since returning to the US, and Logan was afraid someday he’d receive a call that Stash had committed suicide in his hometown in Maine. The man was seriously fucked up in the head, and half the shit he’d said in their brief conversations hadn’t made a bit of sense. He was on some heavy-duty psychotic meds and had been in and out of the hospital over the past year with PTSD-induced episodes that had scared the shit out of his family.

  As he neared his buddies’ grave sites, Logan slowed and shortened his stride. The last time he’d been here was about two months ago, and instead of getting easier, each visit was harder than the last. The first tombstone he came to was Gunny’s. A few feet to the left were Clutch and Flipper’s. And buried in the row directly behind those three were Kandy and their four other friends who’d been killed in the initial attack. All had been awarded the Purple Heart posthumously.

  Logan squatted in front of Clutch’s grave and stared at the white, inscribed stone, waiting for his grief to overtake him as it did every time he came here. His eyes closed as the painful memories assaulted him. These men had died protecting what this country had been built on. They’d joined the hundreds of thousands of men and women who’d made the ultimate sacrifice for people they’d never met—people who would never know their names or truly understand why they’d died. No sacrifice on earth was greater than laying down your own life so others could live and be free. And in this day and age, so many were too self-absorbed to comprehend that fact. The disrespect some young people showed to veterans, nowadays, was similar to what those who’d served in Vietnam had experienced upon returning to the States. To see your flag trampled, pissed on, or set on fire by the very people who lived under it was disgusting. If they only knew how oppressed and terrifying their lives would be without that flag, the Constitution, and the men and women who defended them with their dying breath, maybe then they’d understand and give the rightfully-earned respect.

  “Is he a hero?”

  Opening his eyes, Logan found the source of the tiny voice. A little boy, about six years old, dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt with the US flag on it, was staring at him with a curious expression. Glancing around, Logan saw a woman, who was probably his mother since she had the same blonde hair and blue eyes, hurrying toward them from a few rows away.

  “Charlie! Don’t run off like that and scare Mommy. Leave the gentleman alone.” She stopped behind her son, placing her hands on his shoulders, and gave Logan an apologetic expression. “I’m so sorry he bothered you. We were just visiting his grandfather’s grave.”

  Still squatting, Logan shook his head. “No need to apologize, ma’am.” He smiled at the boy. “Hi, Charlie. My name’s Logan and, yes, my friend, Danny, was a hero.” Pointing to the stones bearing the names of the rest of his buddies, he added, “They’re all heroes. That’s Phillip, Gavin, Brent, Dwayne, Javier, Stuart, and Brandon. They were my teammates.”

  Little Charlie’s eyes grew wide. “So, does that mean you’re a hero, too?”

  Oh, fuck. How did he explain to a kid so young that the last thing he would call himself was a hero? Yeah, he had a bunch of medals in a box in his apartment, which only came out when he had to wear his dress whites or blues. But many times over the last year, he’d felt like a fake, pinning them to his uniform. He hadn’t died like these men in order to get those medals. He hadn’t made the ultimate sacrifice like they had.

  Logan let out a sigh and removed his sunglasses. “What do you think a hero is, Charlie?”

  He’d expected to hear something like Superman or Spiderman flying through the air, but damn if the kid didn’t surprise him. Charlie gently patted Danny’s white marker. “A hero is someone who fights the bad guys so I can sleep at night, and go to school, and watch TV, and play outside. Heroes keep Mommy and me safe. My grandpa was a hero—he died in-in-in . . .” He glanced up at his mother. “Where did grandpa die, Mommy?”

  “Lebanon, sweetie.” The woman’s gaze met Logan’s, her pain still evident in her pretty, blue eyes. “My dad was a Marine killed during the Beirut bombings in 1983. I was only two at the time, but my mother kept his memory alive for me.”

  Logan knew all about the bombing of the US barracks in Lebanon that had killed 220 Marines, eighteen sailors, and three soldiers. It had been the deadliest day for the US Armed Forces since Vietnam and the deadliest single terrorist attack on American citizens prior to 9/11.

  “He died in Lebanon,” Charlie said, continuing his explanation to Logan. “My daddy’s a hero, too. He’s a police officer. He fights bad people, too.”

  Sometimes it took the words of a child to make things clearer in your mind. This right here . . . this little, six-year-old boy and his mother were exactly why Logan and his teammates had signed their lives over to Uncle Sam, put on those uniforms, and picked up their weapons. They’d sacrificed their own lives, liberties, a
nd pursuits of happiness, so this little kid, and millions like him, felt safe enough to sleep at night and smile and laugh during the day.

  Logan still had demons he’d have to face, but sweet, freckle-faced Charlie had reminded him why he’d enlisted in the first place all those years ago. His buddies were gone, but he had the opportunity to continue the fight in their honor. He imagined they would be telling him to man the fuck up, just as Sawyer had, instead of rolling over and waiting for the day he would take his last breath. Up until now, he’d just been a dead man with a pulse; it was time to change that. There was so much more he could do before he joined his buddies here on this hallowed ground, and it was time to find out if he could be a part of a team again. A team that put the lives and freedoms of others before their own.

  Instead of answering the boy’s earlier question, Logan stood tall and peered down at him. “Do you know how to salute, Charlie?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “I always salute my teammates before I leave. Will you salute them with me?”

  Beaming, Charlie moved to stand beside him, facing Clutch’s grave. He watched and waited for Logan to lift his right arm, then followed suit, his little hand stiff at his temple. His father must have taught him how to do it right. Together, they slowly brought their arms back to their sides, and Logan pivoted to face him. After giving the boy’s mother a smile, which she returned, he said, “It was very nice meeting you and your mom, Charlie. I hope I can live up to your expectations of what a hero is someday, because I’m really going to try.”

  C

  HAPTER 4

  “So, is he going to take the job?”

  As Angie’s lyrical voice drifted through his cell phone, Ian flagged down the waitress for the bill. “Doesn’t look like it. He’s got five more minutes before I walk out of here.”

  If Reese didn’t show, Ian would have to go back to the five other files he had sitting on his desk and make a decision with Devon on who to offer the position to. But he really wished the guy would show up—not only because Ian thought he’d be a perfect fit for the new team, but because the retired Marine needed a reason to get up every morning. Otherwise, he’d just waste away—another dead soul among the living.

  “Will you be in the mood to go to the club tonight, Sir?”

  Despite his disappointment over Reese, a grin spread across Ian’s face. That single word “Sir” out of his submissive’s pretty mouth always got his dick twitching no matter what was going on at the moment. The club she was referring to was Ian and Devon’s other business, which they co-owned with their cousin, Mitch Sawyer. The Covenant was a private, elite BDSM establishment in the Trident Security compound that the Alpha team all belonged to, having been in the lifestyle during their military years.

  When Ian had first met Angie, she hadn’t been in the kink community, but had a healthy curiosity about it. He’d introduced her to his world, and she’d come to love and need it as much as he had.

  “When am I not in the mood to go play, Angel?” The waitress slid a thin, leather folder with his bill in it onto the table, and then stepped away again.

  A feminine snort came over the phone. “Okay, that was a stupid question. But if your answer had been ‘no,’ I was prepared to bring out the big guns.”

  “Which would be?” His woman had definitely caught his attention with her flirtatious tone.

  “Oh, just that I got a delivery today from someone’s favorite lingerie catalog.”

  And, damn, now he was hard as a rock. He had a huge lingerie fetish, loving how a woman looked and felt in silk and lace, and Angie enjoyed indulging him in it. His fiancée rocked sexy undergarments like no other woman he knew—the more see-through the better. When she and Ian had first started dating, Angie had found out she’d been harboring an inner exhibitionist up to that point in her life.

  “The red, fishnet body stocking?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she responded in a husky, sultry tone. “The crotchless one. I think you’ll want me to wear the red stilettos with it too.”

  “Are you trying it on right now, standing in front of the full-length mirror?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Fuck, she was killing him. He winced as his pants tightened in his crotch as he shifted to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket. He was about to tell her to go get her green vibrator—or JGG for jolly-green-giant—for some phone sex, but across the dining room, the front door to the pub swung open, and in walked Reese. His sharp eyes scanned the patrons and when he spotted Ian, he marched over, sheer determination on his face. Without acknowledging or noticing the fact Ian was on the phone, he said, “I’m in.”

  After staring at the man a moment, Ian nodded, and then pointed to the opposite seat in the booth. The phone sex would have to wait until he was on Trident’s private jet later. At least, then, he’d be able to get himself off at the same time she did. “I have to go, Angel. My appointment just showed up.”

  “Oh, good. Love you, Sir. Call me from the plane.”

  “Love you, too, Angel. And I will—have JGG primed and ready to go.” A few months ago, he would’ve been embarrassed saying “I love you” to her over the phone in someone else’s presence, but now, he didn’t care who knew how much he loved his woman. She was the reason he lived each day with a lighter heart than he’d ever known, and now he had the chance to offer someone else a different reason to get up every morning.

  Disconnecting the call, he set the phone on the dark, wooden table as Reese took a seat. Ian flagged the waitress back over, and handed her the bill with his credit card. “Sorry, we’ll be here longer than I thought. Keep the tab open for now, and please bring me another Bud Light. Reese, you want anything?”

  The man glanced at the woman. “I’ll have the same, please.”

  “Sure thing,” she responded, before heading over to the bar.

  Ian studied his potential new employee—it wasn’t a done deal yet. There were several mandatory requirements Reese had to accept. “You got in just under the wire. You sure you want to do this?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “What? Did you finally come to the conclusion hiring me was a bad idea sometime in the past two hours?”

  Shaking his head, Ian pushed his phone to the side and crossed his arms on the table. “Not at all. Just making sure you’re a hundred percent positive before I expend any more energy on you.” He paused. “How was your session with the shrink?”

  “Confidential.”

  Ian snorted at the annoyed tone of voice for that one word. “Not if you’re on my team it isn’t. Rule number one for me hiring you—you’ll continue to see a shrink in Tampa whenever you’re in town. Two or three times a week, depending on what the doc says. I’ve got three of them from the government approved list, who are experienced in veterans with PTSD, for you to choose from. You don’t like any of those, then we’ll look until we find one we both agree on.”

  Reese’s jaw had tightened, but when Ian raised an eyebrow at him, he nodded. “Okay. Rule number one I can live with.” With a little snark, he added, “I assume there’s at least a rule number two.”

  “Smart man, although you know what they say about assuming anything. Rule number two is you’re one hundred percent open and honest with me. I can work around any missions you’re not comfortable with, but you’ve got to open your mouth and tell me. I’m not going to show you the door if you do, but you can be damn sure I’ll kick your ass out if you fucking lie to me or withhold the fact you can’t deal with something.”

  After a brief pause, that demand garnered a slightly better response. “Understood. Anything else?”

  “Those first two are not negotiable and neither is rule number three.” Ian steeled himself for the hissy fit that might follow his next words. “After you get some training time in with your new team, we’re going to sit down and you’re going to tell them what happened in Afghanistan. Everything that’s not classified.”

  This time, the man’s jaw dropped. Fury flared in
his eyes, and Ian waited for the “fuck you, asshole” followed by the table being flipped over . . . or something to that effect. Reese leaned forward, glaring at him but kept his voice low. “Are you fucking kidding me? Who the hell is going to want to work with me after hearing what I’ve been through? Fuck! I can’t even tell the damn shrink what happened.”

  Ian knew he wasn’t referring to the classified shit, which he couldn’t tell anyone—not even a government approved psychologist. He meant he hadn’t told the doctor how he’d listened to his teammates being tortured, one by one, and then had to see their decapitated heads. Ian also knew this was Reese’s third or fourth shrink he’d tried to open up to. “What have you told him so far? Have you told him you have survivor’s guilt? How you breathed a sigh of relief when you weren’t the next one dragged out of the cell? And how guilty you felt seconds after that relief disappeared as you listened to your buddies being tortured? Cowboy, man, all that’s normal. Well, as normal as shit can get after what you’ve been through. And, if none of your shrinks have gotten that out of you after all this time, then you’re seeing the wrong, fucking ones. Hang on a second.”