Freddie to her right, Bruce to her left and on her left ring finger a sparkling-new diamond ring she was showing off for the camera.
She’d just completed a SAR, search and rescue drill, and earned some well-deserved shore leave when Bruce had hopped out of that helo in the background and walked straight up to her. Without a word they’d kissed and wound up in a dark corner of a military hangar.
Half dressed.
Her back against the wall. Him inside her.
Afterward he’d produced a ring from out of nowhere. She’d socked him in the arm. A gal didn’t want to be proposed to while zipping up her flight suit after a quickie.
He’d followed her outside. Got down on bended knee, in front of no less than a hundred witnesses.
“It’s about damn time.” Freddie had been the first to congratulate them. He’d handed his camera phone to someone and the three of them posed for that picture. Later she and Bruce headed to Dubai for three days and two nights of R & R to celebrate.
Those were the last happy days of her life.
She couldn’t just Photoshop Bruce out of the picture without also erasing every memory, good and bad, she was ever going to have of her brother. But Freddie had been the glue that held the three of them together.
Without him something was missing.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS A GOOD THING he really didn’t need a haircut. There weren’t that many good old-fashioned barber shops around anymore, unless you knew where to look. The one he remembered was long gone.
Bruce stood on the corner of Broadway and Hampden, trying to reorient himself by reading the marquee above the Army & Navy Surplus Store. The sign boasted of David Spade buying a jean jacket for a recent Saturday Night Live appearance. There was a time when nothing in this town changed except that sign.
Now it all looked different.
Broadway for a few blocks in either direction made up the main drag. One-and two-story turn-of-the-century brick buildings fought for attention among the ongoing revitalization of the area. To the north was Denver and to the south, the tech centers and sprawling suburbs. Both threatened to swallow Englewood whole.
“You Mitzi’s Marine?”
Bruce realized he’d been standing, lost in his thoughts, in the middle of the sidewalk, and he started to move closer to the intersection.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” a wheelchair-bound man insisted, wheeling after him. “You hear me? Or that grenade take out your hearing, too?”
“I heard you,” Bruce answered, not bothering to hide his irritation. He didn’t make eye contact, either. He’d spotted the beggar from across the street.
“Hallelujah—he’s not deaf, just a dumb-ass Marine. Knock on wood.”
Bruce sidestepped the wheelie’s attempt to knock on his prosthetic leg. Which was not made of wood.
“I knew you was a gimp a mile down the road,” the old-timer boasted.
Bruce bristled at the use of the term gimp. He took pride in being able to walk without a limp. Stairs used to give him away. But with the aid of modern technology and practice—months and months of practice—he’d perfected his stride. As an above-the-knee amputee, he’d had to relearn to walk using his hips to propel himself forward, rather than his legs.
“Pride goeth before a fall, spitshine,” the old-timer said. “Least, that’s what they tell me down at the Salvation Army.”
The light on the corner flashed Walk and Bruce hurried across the street, with the wheelie keeping pace. “Spare change for a fellow Marine down on his luck?”
If he’d been wearing a different uniform, Bruce had no doubt the old-timer would have been Army, Navy, Air Force or whatever branch of service suited his purpose.
Marines did not beg on street corners. At least not those with a shred of self-respect.
“You know that homeless-vet act went out with the seventies.”
“Been on these streets since Nam,” the so-called vet insisted.
“I don’t doubt it,” Bruce said, picking up his pace.
“You think you’re better than me, son? You and me, we ain’t so different.”
Bruce stopped in his tracks. “First of all, I’m not your son,” he said, turning on the old man. But that meant he had to look at him, really look at him.
Greasy shoulder-length comb-over. A patch over his right eye. And a weathered face as wrinkled as one of Aunt Dottie’s dried-apple dolls. He smelled like the bottom of a cider barrel. Piss and vinegar. But a strong wind would blow the old fart away, he was so thin.
The vet’s military field jacket was tattered and worn, but offered some protection against the slushy gray November morning. More disturbing was the prosthetic leg sticking foot-up out of the junk packed on the back of the wheelchair.
The old-timer was missing his right leg from above the knee down—a mirror-image injury to Bruce’s own missing left leg. A RAK, right-leg-above-the-knee amputee. And a LAK, left-leg-above-the-knee amputee.
Bruce felt the familiar sinking sensation in his gut as he dug out his wallet. He’d been in prime physical condition before being cut down. He could have gone soft in the hospital, let the pain and the loss drive him to suicide like Stuart, or to bitterness like Hatch.
But he hadn’t. He hadn’t because there was nothing more important than getting back to his unit.
Unit, Corps, God and country.
Every Marine knew the order of things.
It was the one thing that kept him going.
But this guy…this guy was right out of Bruce’s waking nightmare. He had to have been young once. One quirk of fate and thirty years from now Bruce could be an old wheelie on a street corner, trying to live off a substandard disability check and begging for change.
“Here.” He shoved a dollar bill at the guy. Feeling the urge to put as much distance as possible between him and the wheelie, he continued up the block.
“A buck?” The next light turned green as he reached the corner, and the wheelchair-bound vet followed Bruce into another crosswalk. He wasn’t using his hands to operate the chair. He kept pace by scooting along with his single foot, maneuvering from one dip in the curb to the other. “Do you have any idea how much public transportation costs these days? How am I supposed to get to the VA on a buck?”
“How much?” Bruce demanded, coming to an abrupt halt. He didn’t for one minute believe the old-timer was headed to the Veterans Administration.
“Four dollars to get me there and back. Another couple dollars to fill my belly…”
“Here’s a five.” Bruce shoved it at him. Kissing that six bucks goodbye, he started walking again.
“Them damn drivers don’t make change.” The old-timer kept pace with him, grumbling.
“How much to get you to stop following me?” Bruce demanded, losing all patience with the old guy.
“Depends on where you’re headed.”
“Right here. This is where I’m headed,” Bruce said, walking up to the recruiting office door with the Navy and Marine Corps logos and opening it wide.
The two-story brick-and-mortar office had received a recent face-lift. The sign above the two doors read “Armed Forces Recruiting Station.”
“Well, hell, son, that’s where I’m headed, too.” He blew past Bruce. “I asked was you Mitzi’s Marine?”
“I’m not Mitzi’s anything!” Bruce said a little too vehemently.
“MITZI!” the old-timer called out. “You here?”
“Be right out, Henry,” she answered from somewhere beyond the alcove. The bathroom? The storage room? The stairs to the second-story loft, maybe?
The Navy/Marine Corps half of the recruiting station was divided into front offices and back offices, separated by a short hallway. Alcoves built into either side of the hall were fitted with kitchen-style counters and cabinets.
With Bruce hot on his wheels, the old-timer scooted off in search of her. “Hey! You can’t go back there.”
The one-eyed wheelie scowled at him
. “Says who?”
“Says me!” Bruce was about to argue further when Mitzi stepped out from the unisex bathroom in the locker area. Were those tears she was trying to hide? He felt a familiar tightness in his chest. The last time he’d seen her cry she was running from his hospital room.
“Henry Dawson Meyers,” she said, “what is that thing over your eye?”
“Found it in a Dumpster,” Henry said proudly. “Lots of good stuff left over from Halloween.”
“What have I told you about digging through Dumpsters?”
The guy had the decency to blush. Mitzi took the eye patch from him and stepped back into the open bathroom. After washing the patch with soap and water, she wiped it down with a paper towel and handed it back to Henry, who tucked the prop into his jacket pocket.
Bruce stood there shaking his head. “Ol’ Henry here has a bus to catch,” he said. He’d put the guy in a position where he’d have to leave or be caught in a lie.
“Oh? You don’t want a ride today?” Mitzi asked Henry.
“Course I do.” Henry glared at Bruce with two weathered eyes.
“I give Henry a ride to the VA hospital every Wednesday,” Mitzi explained.
“Of course you do.” First he’d been outmaneuvered by Mitzi, aka mini-Marine. Then a one-legged con man with a fake eye patch had tried to take him for a ride. Not today. “I’ll drive,” Bruce insisted.
MITZI BEGAN DIGGING through the glove compartment of his government vehicle. “What are you doing?” Bruce demanded.
“Looking for this,” she said, hanging the handicap permit from the rearview mirror.
Bruce yanked it down and shoved it back into the box. “We’re just dropping him off,” he said, pulling up to the front entrance of the VA hospital.
“You don’t want to stop in and say hi to your mother?” she asked, incredulous. “What about your aunt? You probably haven’t seen her in ages.”
“I saw my mother at breakfast.” His mother and paternal aunt were registered nurses. Both worked at the VA after having served in Vietnam together thirtysome-odd years ago. That’s where Aunt Dottie had introduced his mom to his dad and his uncle John.
True, he hadn’t seen Aunt Dottie in a while. But he’d had enough well-intentioned smothering for his first day home. His mother had fussed over him at breakfast more than when he’d been an inpatient at Balboa.
Hospitals weren’t exactly on his list of favorite places, no matter who worked where and what shift. Not after his extended stay. Been there, done that. Didn’t need the handicap permit to prove it.
Bruce put a hand to his collar to loosen the choke hold his tie had on him. “Even if I was sticking around,” he said, “I wouldn’t need to take up a handicap parking place.”
“I just thought you might want the extra room for Henry’s wheelchair.”
“That’s why there’s a loading zone.”
“Get me out of here,” Henry demanded from the backseat. “I’ve had about all I can stand of the Bickersons. If I’d of known you two was gonna fight the whole way I woulda taken my chances with the bus.”
Bruce and Mitzi exchanged censuring looks.
He managed not to slam anything as he got out of the car, got the wheelchair from the trunk and pulled it alongside Henry’s open door. The old-timer barely had the upper-body strength to transfer himself into the chair. Once he did, Bruce shut the car door and wheeled Henry over to the dip in the curb.
“I can take it from here,” Mitzi insisted.
Bruce eased off the handles. “You’re going in?”
“You can wait in the car in the farthest spot in the parking lot, for all I care. But I have business inside and you’re the one who insisted on driving.”
“How long do you think you’ll be?”
She shrugged. “Half hour maybe.”
“That long?”
“Just go, Calhoun. I’ll find a ride back to the station.” Pushing Henry’s wheelchair toward the sliding double doors, Mitzi left Bruce standing on the curb.
“I like the other fella better,” Henry was saying as the automatic doors slid open.
“Wait!” Bruce stopped her before she could push through to the lobby. “Here,” he said, removing the spare key from his key ring. “Keep the car. I’ll walk back to the station.”
“You can’t walk all the—”
“Then I guess I’ll have to run,” he said, squaring his shoulders.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah, I know what you meant, Chief. I’ll park the car in a handicap spot where you’ll be sure to find it.”
She expected him to fall on his ass.
Maybe he would, but he’d be damned if he was going to fail without trying. He’d never give up the fight, no matter how low she set her expectations.
Eighteen months earlier
Baghdad, Iraq
“HURRY UP, you lazy son of a gun,” Freddie taunted as Bruce and his charge ran behind the truck, trying to catch up to the slow-moving vehicle.
Bruce threw his weapon over the tailgate. Hopping onto the back bumper, he reached behind to help the new kid up and over. Lieutenant Luke Calhoun slid down to make room for them. Bruce declined with a shake of his head.
Stepping over first Luke’s, then Freddie’s outstretched legs, Bruce acknowledged Alpha and Bravo squads with a nod. The six men on the opposite bench were all Navy SEALs. While his side, a combo of Recon Marines and Navy SEALs, grumbled about having to make room for seven, the truck could hold twice as many in a pinch.
“Move your ass over, Freddie,” Bruce said, squeezing himself and the new kid into the middle of the bench seat to the left of Freddie. There was nowhere he’d rather be than right here. This was his home and these guys were his family.
Luke literally. And Freddie soon to be.
“Gum?” Freddie offered.
“Thanks.” Bruce pocketed it for later.
Taking a moment to catch his breath after almost missing his ride, Bruce leaned back against the canvas cover of the supply truck and closed his eyes. Not only was he late getting back, he’d been put in charge of their newest team member, a young hospital corpsman by the name of Manuel Henriquez.
“Jeez, wipe that grin off your face or I will,” Freddie threatened.
“Can’t,” Bruce said, his grin the only thing visible beneath the brim of his helmet.
“You just spent three days in Dubai with my sister. Humor me,” Freddie insisted.
“Never even left the hotel room.”
“Too much information, bro.” Freddie elbowed him in the gut, hard. “You’re not married to her yet.”
“O-kay.” Bruce let out his battered breath. “I deserved that. But I’m still smiling.” He tugged his brim lower so Freddie wouldn’t have to see the satisfied smile on his face.
“Just make sure she’s the one still smiling or I’m going to kick your ass from here to Timbuktu.”
“Where’s Timbuktu?” Henriquez asked.
“West Africa, Mali,” Luke answered, around Freddie. Luke was a college grad, an officer, and as such the lieutenant in charge of the operation.
A really smart guy. Imagine coming halfway around the world to discover that about your own brother. Half brother. They had the same father—not that Bruce held that against Luke.
Bruce peeked out from under his helmet at Freddie. “You think you can kick my ass all the way to West Africa? I’d like to see you try.”
“How far is not the point. The point is I can, and I will,” Freddie boasted. “Mitzi loves you,” he said in all seriousness.
Bruce shoved his helmet back. “I know.”
“This isn’t high school. You don’t get to break her heart again. Not and have me as a friend. Marriage is for real. You hurt her…”
“I’m not going to pretend we have it all figured out. With her there and me here it’s going to be tough.” They were having to shout above the grinding gears of the diesel engine, making this conversation a
little less private and a lot more uncomfortable than Bruce would have wanted. “We love each other. We’ll find a way to make it work.”
“Why now?”
“Why not now?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a war zone. Chances are you’ll make my baby sister a widow before your first anniversary.”
“Thanks for that optimism.”
Freddie’s family had moved next door to Bruce’s when they were both eight. They’d been best friends ever since. Bruce’s relationship with his best friend’s little sister was a lot more complicated.
They’d been on again/off again since high school. Being in two different branches of military service didn’t make it easy to be together. But in high school she’d been his first love. His only love.
And he’d been hers.
She wasn’t the only woman he’d been with since then. Just the only one who mattered. When they were together they were inseparable. And when they were apart?
Well, he used to drive himself crazy thinking about it. Finally he drove himself crazy enough to propose.
Before Kuwait it had been eight months since he’d last seen her. Eight very long months. He’d been reading between the lines of her emails. There was this guy, her crew chief. Nothing serious as far as he could tell. Just the way she dropped his name every now and again left Bruce thinking.
And thinking was dangerous.
“I don’t want to lose her.”
“Fear is not a reason to get married.”
“Reason enough.”
“Couldn’t you have said you knocked her up? I could respect that, at least.”
It was Bruce’s turn to elbow his future brother-in-law in the gut. “Mitzi’s not pregnant.”
“Too bad. I was kind of hoping you’d take her away from all this.” Freddie spread his arms to encompass the thirteen of them sweating it out in the oppressive heat of the truck’s interior.
The thought had crossed his mind. But Mitzi wouldn’t have gone along with that and he was far more afraid of her kicking his ass than of her brother’s threats. “We’ve agreed—”
“Don’t wait too long to make me an uncle.”
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