“No, I’m definitely coming home tomorrow.”
After the call was over, T.J. thanked Travis for waiting. They continued their journey through a set of automatic doors that opened to a reception area. Unlike the hospital in San Diego, this one was completely devoid of female nurses or staff. He chuckled to himself that he was right about the smell too. Straight institutional eau de pee/vomit/bleach, just like juvenile hall, or at least the ones he’d “visited” in Texas and Nevada.
His guide brought them down a wide corridor with rubber bumpers as wainscoting, stopping at the first door on the right with a sign on it that read, Chaplain. Travis unlocked the solid core door with the brass handle, and inside T.J. actually felt like he was experiencing déjà vu. The room was filled with gray file cabinets along one short wall, a well-worn and stained leather couch on the other. The file cabinets had large red inventory stickers, just as he’d envisioned.
“You keep files on your flock?”
Travis chuckled. “No. Those would be death records. I guess they thought no one would want to break into the chaplain’s office, and the chaplain, with a direct line to the man upstairs, wouldn’t mind housing the last written evidence that these souls ever existed.” He walked over to one cabinet with a large dent in the bottom file drawer as if it had been kicked in on purpose. His hand placed on top, he gently tapped with his palm to some imaginary rhythm. “These are my flock, in a way. The ones that flew the coop.” His gold tooth gleamed in the morning sunlight filtering through the missing mini blinds like a spotlight.
He could have been the Grim Reaper himself.
Banks placed a call and informed someone on the other line they were headed down to see one Bobbie Ray Stokes. As he followed the large chaplain down the hallway and into the elevator, T.J. thought that he should have some kind of reaction to the sound of his real name, and found he did not. He was relieved to discover he didn’t fit into Bobbie Ray’s world, even though a tiny part of Stokes was imbedded in T.J.’s DNA.
Travis didn’t say a word as the old elevator machinery groaned and slowly went from the first floor to the second. They could have walked the stairs faster.
As the doors opened, Travis examined the hallway, first right, then left, and then moved out of the way so T.J. could exit the tiny elevator car, much the same as T.J.’d blocked women and children behind him when he was on a rescue mission or was trying to get the injured to safety in a war zone. Well, he guessed sometimes this was a war zone. Despite his hardened heart, he found a little uptick in his right upper lip, the beginnings of a smile, at the vision of his father running down the hallway, or the stairs, or ducking into the elevator with his butt hanging out in all its glory.
The first bone-chilling scream came just as T.J. had turned the corner with Travis, on their way through a set of double swinging doors someone had the poor taste to paint in a blue sky and clouds motif. Only thing worse than that would be if someone had painted black wrought iron gates and labeled the outside Hell. Now that would have been funny. And it would have complemented the scream that came from a scrawny man in the first room to the right just past the doors. An attendant was attempting to calm him down, perhaps medicate him.
Travis was probably immune to it now, having been through these doors more times than T.J. wanted to think about. He kept walking, so T.J. followed quickly, shortening the gap Banks’ long legs created when he wasn’t paying attention. He had to admit, he was relieved the screamer wasn’t his dad. He kept telling himself it would be all right, no matter what he saw, no matter how surprised or caught off guard he might be.
But that was before he entered the room. Travis stepped aside, and T.J. was face to face with his past. The graying man had sunken cheeks, his skin quite orange, and he had a feeding tube down his nose. They’d restrained him to the bed with 3” nylon straps like the TRX units they worked out on when they were deployed. One strap was pulled tight across his chest and under both arms, fastened to the bed frame underneath with special welded hooks probably designed for that purpose. What bothered T.J. most was that both the man’s ankles were cuffed to the metal foot rail. The bottoms of his feet were blackened. Red welts had formed where he’d apparently tried to move. They were doing a good job keeping him in one place, in the same position. Probably the position he’d die in.
But that left his arms free, with one hooked up to an IV. With his unencumbered side, T.J. watched a bony finger rise from the bed and point at him.
Gray-white stubble covered the man’s face, more than a few days’, maybe even a week’s growth. His liver-colored lips were spotted with dark stains that looked like droplets of blood, and there was a dark brown blood stain the size of a silver dollar on his gown, over his heart. The bony finger continued to rise as his lips pulled back into something that would have looked like a smile if he weighed more than eighty pounds. The man was tall, which made him look like death itself.
“That’s him,” he said with difficulty. “That’s my boy. You takin’ me home today, son?” The man’s raspy voice was what T.J. had expected, but it still was uncomfortable to hear.
T.J. looked at Travis, who was focused on the dying man. “Bobbie Ray, he’s come to visit with you. We’ve talked about this. You can go home anytime you’re ready. You speak your peace now. I’ll leave you two alone for a spell.” Travis backed up and motioned for T.J. to sit by the bed in a metal chair that had chipped beige paint.
His father was able to follow along as T.J. sat, adjusting his focus a little slow and late, but winding up having full eye contact when T.J. sat. There were tears in the man’s eyes. T.J. worked hard not to give him the satisfaction of seeing his own, but couldn’t stop them from welling up and spilling over his lower lids. And fuck if his lower lip didn’t start quivering too. He held his mouth shut, feeling the rush of emotion, the years of pain, the years of wonder and how he’d told himself every day of his life how he hated this man.
But he could not call upon that hate to control his tears. So, he just gave up and let them stream down his face.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‡
THE WEDDING PARTY clustered around the closed door of the wedding chapel in the Bellagio, which was decorated with flowers and had all the luxurious details of a much larger setting. Through the windows they could see another wedding in progress, the flowers and padded chairs drenched in the colorful hues of ambient light were worthy of any beautiful cathedral in Europe. The fact that it was small and intimate actually added to the festive mood. It wasn’t like any Las Vegas venue Kyle had ever been to before. And he’d been to a lot of them. It was the favored destination for his Team guys, who often got married and divorced quickly.
That’s just the way they are. He took Christy’s hand and felt the searing heat that struck him every time he touched her. Married now five years, with two children, and if she’d let him, he’d have two more and love them all just like their first, Brandon. She worked like a son of a gun, and if it weren’t for her income, they’d have a whole different lifestyle. And Christy would seriously have to alter her shopping habits.
Fredo and Mia arrived. Mia was stunning in a very low-cut bright white gown that she was practically poured into. With her bronzed skin and long black hair done up and cascading down over her shoulders, she was one of the most beautiful brides he’d ever seen. Several of the Team guys removed their dark glasses and bowed to her, clearing their throats. He’d never seen Mia blush before, but she was clearly moved by the experience.
And Fredo was in a tux. First time he’d ever seen his explosives expert dress up in anything but an ill-fitting borrowed suit. They wore their dress uniforms for funerals. His shimmery brocade vest in white was a perfect complement to his dark slacks and white shirt, but the white tie looked like it was going to garrote him. Or maybe it was just that Fredo looked nervous as hell. His man frowned and nodded to the door of the chapel, as if Kyle was in charge.
“They not letting anyone in?” he
asked, his furry eyebrows tenting. Kyle chuckled to himself remembering the numerous discussions Christy had with him, along with a couple of the other wives, trying to convince Fredo to tweeze or at least thin out his unibrow. As with many things about Fredo, once he set his mind on something, there was no stopping him. Just like the way he pursued Mia, Armando’s bad girl sister and troublemaker, who rejected him for nearly three years. Fredo kept after her until she finally came to her senses.
And that was why he was one of the best go-to guys around. Why he was so deadly with his explosive charges and gadgets in the arena. He was irreverent and careful, a rare combination.
“There’s another wedding finishing up,” Christy whispered to them. “Mia, you are just—” Christy could hardly continue. “You are a complete knockout, sweetheart.”
Mia beamed. “I’m doing this all the way.”
Fredo bent, whispered something to her lips and kissed her. Kyle was happy his man got the girl of his dreams, although he’d always thought he deserved someone with less baggage. But Fredo was a rock-solid warrior hell-bent on saving people, and he was going to be the best husband Mia could have ever chosen. And that’s the role Fredo wanted to play.
Felicia Guzman, Mia and Armando’s mother, held little Ricardo. The charcoal braid woven atop her head was laced with fresh flowers enhancing her handsome, dark features and her bright brown eyes. She and Sergeant Mayfield had gotten married this last spring, and Mayfield doted on his new adopted grandson like he was raising him as his own.
“Mrs. Guzman,” Kyle nodded to Mia’s mother. He shook Mayfield’s hand. “Heard you’re retiring, really retiring now?”
“Yup. Sent in the paperwork.” He started to say something else when the doors to the chapel opened, and the crowd separated for the other bride and groom to exit the church. They were young and without family or friends. Surprise registered on the bride’s face as she made her way through the crowd of SEALs, wives, girlfriends and other family.
An attractive older woman wearing a pink suit ushered them inside to their seats. She took Mia’s hand and led her around to a doorway off the tiny vestibule, where they disappeared. Organ music flowed from a decent sound system.
He looked over his Team Guys. Cooper was there with Libby, holding hands with their son, Will, who was smartly dressed in a little short pants black suit and red bow tie. Jones was with a new girl, as he usually was. Nick and Devon were there, Armando and Gina, Kate and Tyler and Sophia and Mark. Rory and several of the other single SEALs on Team 3 were clustered in one powerful girl-chasing unit and would be engaged in that kind of activity as soon as the wedding was over. He’d already overheard plans to rent a limo and do the town and anyone who came their way who was willing.
But the new crop of SEALs was coming along, and Kyle was proud of the respect they showed their senior man by showing up. These new young additions to SEAL Team 3 hardly drank and stayed away from the ladies, unlike their older mentors. Some of the immoral or lewd behavior allowed among the teams in the past was coming under more scrutiny. They were even asked not to get full sleeve tats any longer, something that had been a time-honored tradition. These new guys had a dedication to country and perfecting their trade unlike what he’d seen before. Kyle knew the recent blowups in the Middle East were driving a whole new breed of fighting men into the arms of the Special Forces.
Several of these new men shook his hand and bowed gently to Christy with the brief, “Ma’am.”
They’d left Brandon and little Camilla with a hired hotel sitter, and Kyle was happy for the alone time with Christy, even though he was surrounded by people. They were his people. It was about as safe as it could be. And he knew most all of them were packing, so heaven help the sorry asshole who might want to challenge them. There wasn’t any need for the firepower, but he felt naked without it and knew everyone else felt the same way.
The music changed and winks and nods continued amongst the attendees. Fredo stood up front by the black-robed minister, and Kyle wished he’d insisted he stand up for him. He actually felt sorry for the man. Coop was in the front row whispering some encouragement, and then probably following it with some kind of verbal joust, as was Coop and Fredo’s pattern. The first swear word he heard of the day came from Fredo’s mouth, which caused the minister to take a step back and cough.
Mia made her way down the aisle to the Wedding March, standing next to Fredo. The short service was over in less than ten minutes. The rings were exchanged, and then Fredo kissed his glowing bride while the crowd whooped and shouted, “Hooya S.O. Chavez!”
Around the corner from the chapel was an Italian restaurant, Izzy’s, where they’d agreed to meet for lunch. Izzy was the father of a Team guy on the East Coast, and it was nearly sacrilegious not to give him a visit when in town.
His heavy New Jersey accent fit right into the ambience that was Las Vegas, and Kyle had often wondered if he had “connections” somewhere. And he was known for sometimes paying for a wedding party out of his own pocket, if there was the need. They were all family, every one of them. Family takes care of family.
Coop raised his glass for a toast. Fredo looked uncomfortable, but Mia kissed him on the cheek which seemed to lighten his mood.
“So when I showed up for Indoc there was this guy they told me about. This little short asshole who thought he could be a SEAL. Everyone was laughing at him.” Coop nodded to the bride and groom, winking at Mia. “We had to settle things, of course. I mean, boys will be boys, and everyone was nervous as hell about trying out for the Teams, knowing there was an eighty to ninety percent chance they’d wash out.”
The nodding and verbal affirmations were lavishly strewn about the room.
“We had a couple of professional footballers trying out, and they definitely thought they had more of a shot than this little Mexican prick sitting over here.”
Fredo gave him the finger, and the crowd loved it.
“So to settle things, someone suggested they wrestle.” Coop stopped to properly apprise Fredo before he continued. “And that stopped just about all talk of whether or not Fredo could make it. Fredo, I don’t think you lost one of those, did you?”
“Still haven’t.”
“And he cheats.”
“Fuck you. I don’t cheat,” Fredo barked.
Those that knew Fredo well knew that he did put his hands inappropriately on the other guy’s junk during wrestling matches. This usually caught them off guard, and Fredo would get the quick take-down. Kyle knew it was part of what made him such a good, innovative SEAL. Fredo had a plan and a strategy for everything.
“Here’s to the guy who counts the number of dryer sheets I use when I used to do laundry at his house, and he calls me cheap.”
The crowd loved it.
“The guy who thinks there is something unholy about tofu and green salads—”
“Not unholy, just not natural,” Fredo quipped back.
“Who thinks that anything green, except green chili salsa is also unhealthy,” Coop continued. Fredo shrugged, guilty as charged.
“To my best friend, and absolutely someone I would stand right next to and take the bullet for, to someone Mia will never have to worry about because he’ll go through hell itself to come back to you every time, and heaven help the guy who tries to mess with you, darlin’, I give you Mr. and Mrs. Alphonso Manuel Esquidido Chavez.” Coop raised his glass. The room shouted, “Hooya Mr. and Mrs. Chavez!”
Gina Guzman, Mia’s new sister-in-law, stood up next to toast for the bride.
“Mia, you were one wild child there, and I was thinkin’ man, I don’t know if I can keep up with her.” Gina was referring to the fact that she had worked an undercover detail and had befriended Mia originally as a means to help take down a local San Diego gang she was hanging with.
“Then I met your brother.” She bent down and gave Armando a kiss. She continued, fanning her face. “Who knows what would have happened if I’d not met him, huh? But I thank my
lucky stars every day that I did, and that you and I became friends. You watched my back. You also gave me some fits, too.”
The crowd laughed.
“But it is so nice to see you so happy, and with the best guy you could have picked. This guy is as solid as they come.”
Armando stood up, and said, “Excuse me—”
Coop pulled him down to allow Gina to continue.
Kyle’s phone went off, and he saw from the display it was from T.J. He whispered to Christy, “Gotta take this.”
He exited the restaurant as Gina was finishing and heard the shouts of acknowledgement from the revelers.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‡
“ARE YOU IN any pain?” T.J. knew he should address this dying man as “Dad” but that was not something he could do. Not that he didn’t feel anything. He felt a lot. He felt too much. He just couldn’t make anything out of it. And that wasn’t what he was used to.
The old man searched his face, back and forth, squinting in a smile of recognition.
“You grew up strong, son. I can tell. It was better that way. Better for you.”
T.J. had to break away at that remark. In your dreams, you old prick. There wasn’t any point to make him suffer even more than he already was, so he kept his mouth shut.
“They treating you good here?”
His father’s laugh lines preceded the grimy grin he got back. T.J. noticed he was missing quite a few teeth. He tried to visualize him young and healthy, and just couldn’t.
“I can’t complain.” His graying blue eyes were still bright, though his body seemed to be rotting away from them. “So I guess you want to know about your family then, T.J., or did your sister get hold of you?”
Well isn’t that something choice. A sister. I have a sister. He was still feeling somewhat numb, but this news began a slow thaw.
“No one from ‘the family’ as you say, has ever contacted me, or if they tried, they gave up.”
SEAL's Promise - Bad Boys of SEAL Team 3, Book 01 Page 17