Nobody's Lost (Rescue Me Saga #5)

by Masters, Kallypso

  “Corpsman up!” Ryder called. Once they had set Sergeant’s body down, they returned to check on Orlando.

  Jesus, no. His foot dangled by what looked like some skin and meat alone. Where was Doc? Grant grabbed Orlando’s hand and spoke to him. Ryder had never seen so much carnage in all his years serving in the Marines.

  Ryder moved so Doc could assess the situation and keep Orlando alive.

  “Keep his head down!” Doc ordered, and Ryder moved to his head where he placed one hand on the young private’s forehead and another on his shoulder. Ryder filled Doc in on what had happened, but the mention of Sergeant’s name had him glancing over at the man’s head.

  So much blood.

  The hiss of an RPG made it clear the attack was still under way. Ryder realized he hadn’t done his damned job. He radioed their immediate need for artillery and air support with their preplanned fire coordinates.

  Doc shouted, “Let’s get him off the roof!”

  “Sure thing, Doc!” With Doc’s help, he and Grant lifted an unconscious Orlando onto a litter…

  * * *

  Just after midnight

  Ryder rolled over in bed, drenched in sweat. His heart pounding, he gasped for breath. Fucking nightmares. He laid his arm over his eyes, but the images came back in living color. Vivid, but different than the one the other night.

  Blast.

  Brains.

  Blood.

  Sergeant Miller’s lifeless body. Damián Orlando’s foot blown off. Doc D’Alessio nearly killed.

  Jesus, he’d fucked up that mission. While he was shooting the shit with Grant, all hell broke out for his unit.

  His cell phone buzzed. Not now. He didn’t want to speak to anyone until he had time to regroup. Tossing the sheet aside, he sat up. A beer. That ought to take the edge off.

  Before he could open the door to the fridge, his landline phone rang. Whoever it was could leave a message. He wasn’t talking to anyone tonight. Even if it was Marcia. He’d call her back in an hour or however long it took to regain control of himself.

  The answering machine kicked in, and he waited for his sister’s voice.

  “Wilson. Pick up the phone. Adam Montague here.”

  How the fuck did Top have his phone number? He must have been the one calling on the cell, too.

  Had Orlando mentioned to his former master sergeant that they had run into each other a couple of months ago on a Patriot Guard ride in southern Colorado? He had known it was a bad idea to go, but the man being buried had served with him in Kosovo. To lay low during his funeral would have been disrespectful, and he damn well wouldn’t let any asshole activist protester disrupt his buddy finally being laid to rest.

  Another brave and hurting hero’s fucking suicide.

  Other than the Patriot Guard Riders, Ryder had severed all ties to those who survived the past and had hoped Orlando would respect his request not to say anything to the others. He wanted to put all that behind him.

  The nightmare from the mayhem on the rooftop in Fallujah told him he wasn’t doing a very good job of that, though. He reached for the phone.

  “Yes, Top. Sorry. I was…in the head.”

  “Glad I waited. How’re you doing?”

  “Great. Got myself a nice place in the Jemez Mountains. Nice and quiet.”

  Nobody bothers me, and I sure as hell don’t bother anyone else.

  “Sounds good.” Top paused a moment. “Listen, Wilson, my sister is staying at our brother’s place in Albuquerque. I have no fucking clue what’s wrong, but when I called a little while ago, she said the police were there. Also said she’d call me back when they left, but I haven’t heard a thing. Patrick’s out of the country, and I’m worried about her.”

  “Sorry to bother you this late, but would you mind running over to make sure she’s okay? It would mean a lot to me knowing someone I trust has taken a look around.”

  Go into the city? All those people? Adrenalin kicked in, and Ryder’s heart began pounding.

  A mission. His master sergeant hadn’t given him orders in nearly eight years.

  Someone I trust.

  The desire to live up to those words and help the man who had brought him and nearly every man home from their deployments outweighed Ryder’s penchant for drowning in his own shit.

  “Sure, Top.” He reached for a pen and pad of paper. “What’s the address?” The neighborhood was more familiar than he liked. Ryder also jotted down her name—Megan Gallagher. Must be married since they didn’t have the same last names. Why wasn’t her husband looking in on her?

  But Ryder would help where he could. She was Top’s sister. That’s all that mattered.

  After also taking down a couple of phone numbers where he could reach Top, he said goodbye and tucked the paper inside his jeans pocket before returning to the bedroom to grab a long-sleeved flannel shirt and his leather jacket. It got colder than a witch’s tit when the sun went down here in the high desert. Riding a Harley without a windscreen didn’t help.

  But he preferred to detach it when he rode alone. He couldn’t stand being cooped up in a car or truck either. Needed to be able to breathe—and have an unobstructed view of any potential threat. Usually, his treks were on mountain roads and small highways, limiting the danger.

  Not like tonight. The lights of the Albuquerque valley spread out before him as he headed south on I-25. He couldn’t avoid the city this time.

  Still, he wished he was alone back at Carlos’s house in the mountains. Being around people wore him down quicker than the road.

  Only because you asked, Top.

  A man didn’t turn his back on his Marine family ever—no matter how fucked up he was. He hadn’t been in a real city in nearly two years. If he needed anything he couldn’t acquire for himself, his friend Carlos usually took care of it. But Ryder prided himself on being self-sufficient. He might be totally useless as far as holding a job went, but he didn’t take handouts.

  If he’d truly gone off the grid, Master Sergeant Montague never would have found him. But he kept a phone because of his sister Marcia in Santa Fe. Maybe he’d tracked him through phone records. But didn’t he say he’d just heard from his sister about some trouble? Had he already known Ryder’s number? No answers came as the lights of the valley grew brighter.

  Fucking city. God, he hated being around that many people.

  Just let me keep it together in front of Top’s sister.

  The last thing he wanted was for his unit to find out how badly he was handling the aftermath of his years in service. He’d tried going to the VA, but they were too far away—in miles and philosophy—to be of much help.

  Hell, why was he so screwed up? He’d come home. In one piece, even. Look at Orlando. He’d adjusted well to his amputation, from what Ryder could tell from their brief meeting during the Alamosa PGR procession. If he hadn’t seen the man’s foot blown off by that damned grenade with his own eyes, Ryder would never have guessed Orlando wore a prosthesis.

  Why couldn’t Ryder put the past behind him like everyone else in his unit had done?

  Chapter One

  Megan Gallagher surveyed the makeshift studio she’d set up in her brother’s condo only a couple of weeks ago. She balled her hands into fists. How dare someone break in and steal her property?

  Some welcome to New Mexico.

  Her brother had invited her to stay with him this summer after she graduated from USC in Los Angeles. She wanted to build a strong portfolio before deciding what to do next with her MFA. Well, looked like she’d be going computer shopping tomorrow. She couldn’t postpone it because she needed to finish editing the photos she’d shot this past week for some clients who answered her local ad.

  Two of Albuquerque’s finest had left ten minutes ago after taking her report. As soon as she came home from dinner and saw the garage door open when she’d most definitely left it closed, she’d called 911 and waited for them to check the premises before going inside. They’d asked her to
see what was missing. As far as she could tell, nothing but her computer, but she’d told them her brother would have to take inventory of his possessions after he returned Sunday or Monday.

  Her studio props and lighting equipment stood where she’d left them. No street value on those, she supposed.

  Brother dear needed to improve his security system, although breaking into Fort Knox might be simpler considering all the numbers she had to push to open the garage door.

  Why hadn’t the alarm gone off during the break-in?

  She doubted anyone would be arrested and brought to justice but felt better for reporting the crime. At least Patrick’s fireproof safe was secure. It held her more expensive cameras and the external memory drive where she stored all of her photos not still in her online cloud backup. Patrick’s weapons were in there, too.

  Thankfully, she took her digital SLR wherever she went. The heavier cameras in the safe were used more often for her studio work. She’d just leave them there.

  No sense trying to call Patrick about this. He said he’d only be in Italy briefly before flying to Pakistan with someone he was co-piloting for. The man went to great extremes to build up his flight hours.

  The thought of staying here tonight didn’t hold as much appeal as it once had. Her sense of security had been shattered by the thieves. What if they returned for more? Suddenly afraid, she went to the bedroom and retrieved her own pistol, prepared to take on any intruders.

  In the kitchen again, she opened the garage door from the box on the kitchen wall, but her cell phone buzzed before she could go into the garage. She glanced down at the caller ID.

  Adam again?

  Oh, crap! She’d forgotten all about him.

  She’d met her long-lost half-brother for the first time last Thanksgiving. He’d called her while the police were here, and she’d forgotten to call him back to let him know what had happened. Did Marines come with internal radar or something? Or had he been calling to let her know how his wife Karla was doing?

  He’d worry more if she didn’t answer, so she returned to the kitchen and dead-bolted the interior door before accepting the call.

  “Megan, is everything all right? What happened?” The concern in his voice was palpable.

  She cleared her throat, knowing her silence would only stress him out more. “I’m fine. Some asshats broke into Patrick’s place and stole my computer.”

  “Well, f—.” She smiled hearing him reroute his mouth around the expletive she knew had almost spewed out. “You need to get out of there, but stay put a little longer. I’ve sent someone to check on you.”

  Without even knowing what the problem was? The man didn’t let any moss grow under his boots.

  “Are you armed?”

  She smiled again. “Patrick made sure I knew how to use a weapon before I went to college.”

  “You didn’t get too rusty while on campus?”

  “No. Went to the firing range regularly.”

  “Good for you. I’m going to stay on the phone with you until Wilson shows up.”

  She guessed she ought to be thankful he hadn’t sent in a platoon of Marines. Still, knowing someone was on the way did make her feel a little less scared.

  “How’s Karla doing?”

  “She’s fine. Tired mostly. We just took four days to drive back from a Memorial Day weekend wedding in San Diego County. Remember Damián Orlando?”

  “Yes.” Adam treated him like a son. One of his beloved Marines.

  “Anyway, Karla’s trying to get some shut-eye. It’s not easy these days.”

  “I can imagine. Give her a hug and kiss from me. I hate to take you away from her tonight.”

  “Oh…well, she’ll sleep better if I’m not in the bed with her.” His voice sounded funny, but she smiled as she remembered taking some special photos of Karla a few months ago when the family came together in Denver for a weekend. He was in for one heck of a surprise, but they had turned out beautifully. Still, Megan regretted she would never—

  “How’s mom doing?” Adam interrupted her thoughts, thankfully. He had only just found their shared mother again after spending decades on his own from the age of sixteen.

  “Going as strong as ever. She’s glad the weather’s improving so she won’t be cooped up inside as much.” Being wheelchair-bound kept her mother from traversing Chicago’s snowy streets, but her attendants made sure she had regular outings. Megan had never known her mom to feel sorry for herself. And, having been paralyzed long before Megan had been born, she had never thought anything odd about having her mother confined to a wheelchair.

  While Adam talked about the wedding he’d just attended, Megan looked around to see what else she should pack in her SUV. The safe provided more security for her equipment than she would have inside her SUV or a hotel room. The thieves hadn’t tried to break into the safe either, according to the police. No, she didn’t really see much of anything she needed to take with her. Just the overnight bag.

  But would she really only be away from the condo one night?

  She sighed. “Uh-huh.” She should be listening to the phone conversation, but her mind was too rattled to focus.

  How long would she have to wait around for Adam’s Marine to show up so she could send him on his way? No doubt in her mind that he would come, though. At Adam’s wedding, she’d witnessed how much the men and women who served with him adored the retired master sergeant. Any of them would move heaven and earth to please him.

  With any luck, the Marine would quickly see she could take care of her own problems and leave.

  * * *

  The roar of the hog’s engine lulled him away from giving in to the anxiety nipping at his heels like a rabid dog. He had memorized the woman’s address and merged onto I-40 as he headed toward the Sandias. She lived in one of the older neighborhoods in the foothills there. Couple of miles farther.

  The sound of a long-range rifle split the air. Sniper!

  Ryder ducked and tried to take evasive maneuvers into another lane. No, wait. That wasn’t a rifle. A fucking car must have backfired. Thank God the highway was nearly deserted at this hour. He could have gotten himself or someone else killed.

  Maintain control. You’re okay. No one is gunning for you.

  He repeated those phrases for the duration of the fifteen-minute drive to her exit. The quiet residential streets helped him relax somewhat, but there were too many fucking places for insurgents to hide with all these houses and condos.

  No one is aiming for you. Get a fucking grip.

  Barely two o’clock in the morning. No doubt he’d piss off some of the older residents in this wealthy neighborhood. Easing off the throttle, he slowed and rounded the corner onto the street where he’d once lived. Impossible to keep a hog quiet, so he gave up.

  The houses began to look familiar. Not much had changed since he lived here as a teenager. He passed by the place his mom had owned and tried not to stare. He’d lived there with her and his sister until Mom lost the place. Ryder married Sherry at nineteen, and his mom moved into an apartment about the same time Marcia relocated to Santa Fe. Like him, she preferred the beat of her own drum.

  A few years later, unable to find steady work, he joined the Marine Corps. Maybe he’d just wanted to escape from family problems.

  How’d that work out for you?

  His mom died while he was in the Corps. No chance to reconcile.

  He loved his Marine family, but, man, he’d sure gotten himself fucked up over there. Big-ass wuss. Couldn’t be around people more than a few hours now without shutting down or running away.

  Just keep your focus on Top’s sister—then get your ass home.

  Three blocks later, he pulled into a cul-de-sac and parked in the driveway beside a luxury townhouse. Why was the garage wide open? The BMW motorcycle parked in the corner sure didn’t fit the mental image he had of Adam’s sister. Must be her brother’s.

  Ryder eased his helmet off and retrieved the knife from
his boot. A month in the psych ward at the VA hospital and he’d voluntarily surrendered his sidearm and shotgun to Carlos. Last thing he wanted was to have one of those night terrors lead to him blowing his brains out. So many veterans had lost that battle…

  Not that he couldn’t use other means, but if he was going to do it, he’d make sure he succeeded with one try.

  Even without a sidearm, he could cause a lot of damage to an insurg—no, intruder—with his Bowie. Carlos’s people had taught him well.

  He heard a woman’s voice coming from inside the house. He relaxed a bit. Probably Adam’s sister. Her voice sounded younger than her forty- or fifty-something age.

  “Megan Gallagher? Ryder Wilson out here. Your brother Adam sent me to check on you.”

  She said something he couldn’t hear and then yelled, “Speak loudly. Adam’s on the phone and wants you to confirm you are who you say you are.”

  “No worries.” At least she didn’t let just anyone inside.

  She spoke into the phone and listened before relaying the message to Ryder. “Adam asked me to ask you where the two of you first met.”

  “Kosovo. I was a replacement for one of his recon Marines.”

  Apparently, Adam gave her the go-ahead to let him inside. “Okay. Talk to you later. Love you, too.”

  The still night air was split by the sound of a deadbolt unlocking, and the door opened slowly.

  “Sorry. My brother taught me to be careful.”

  “Megan Gallagher?”

  She nodded and extended her hand in greeting.

  Holy fuck. The woman standing before him was years younger than Ryder had expected. How much younger was she than Top?

  Her dark auburn hair spilled over her shoulders, long and thick. A man’s hands could get lost in those curls. She didn’t look anything like Top, who had dark hair and Lakota blood. She looked more Irish or maybe Scottish.

  He couldn’t make out the color of her eyes in the dim light, but imagined they sparkled with life and humor. A tiny nose sprinkled with freckles and full, red lips adorned the most beautiful face he’d ever seen.