by Irene Hannon
She sipped in silence. Better to let him take the lead. If he wanted to talk about his military career, fine—but she wasn’t about to bring it up again.
After a few moments, he set his half-eaten cookie on the plate and wrapped his fingers around his mug. A thread of tension snaked toward her, and she braced for whatever was coming.
“I noticed your plaque.” He indicated the shelves behind her.
She blinked.
He wanted to talk about a plaque?
Not what she’d expected, but hey—at least he was talking, not leaving.
“Thanks. My minister gave it to me after my accident. I wasn’t very receptive to his message at first, but in the end I accepted the truth of it. We do have many seasons in our lives—some happier than others. The important thing to remember on winter days is that spring always comes . . . unless we choose to miss it by hibernating in the darkness. Sometimes we have to make the effort to step into the sunshine.”
Some indefinable emotion flared in his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind letting some sunshine back into my life.”
In the silence that followed, the coffeepot sputtered. The automatic ice maker rattled. The heat kicked on with a subtle hum. All everyday, ordinary sounds.
Yet Christy had a feeling his revelation was anything but ordinary or everyday.
Doing her best to maintain a placid expression, she broke off a bite of her cookie. “It sounds like there’s a story there.”
“There is. One I’ve never shared with anyone, except in a formal debrief.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
Was he suggesting he wanted to share it with her?
He locked gazes with her and answered that unspoken question. “Would you like to hear it?”
She searched those intense blue irises, seeking—and finding—his motivation.
The attraction between them wasn’t one way. He liked her too. A lot, if he was planning to trust her with his biggest secret, despite their short acquaintance.
Cold, blustery wind might be whistling around the corners of her condo, but warmth overflowed in her heart. “I’d be honored.”
He pushed his dessert aside and folded his hands on the table. “There’s one other thing you need to know first. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about an incident that happened a year and a half ago, during a mission. I’ve always known I’d have to deal with that unfinished business before I could move on with my life, but the need never felt urgent—until I met you. I’m sure you can guess why that is.”
Whoa.
Lance McGregor’s singular focus and let’s-get-the-facts-on-the-table-and-deal-with-them style must apply to his personal as well as his professional life.
Could she be as honest?
Gripping her napkin in her lap, she took a deep breath. “I’m thinking it might have something to do with electricity.”
One side of his mouth quirked up. “It has everything to do with electricity. The high-voltage kind.” The warmth in his eyes added a few degrees to the heat in the room.
Whew.
With an effort, she restrained the urge to fan herself. “Since we’re being candid . . . you know how I implied to Bob Harris that I’d met a new man? I wasn’t lying. He’s sitting across from me.”
“Nice to know.” Then he leaned back, his demeanor sobering. “However, I don’t mix business and pleasure. It’s not only bad policy, it’s dangerous. But I’d like to start laying some groundwork for when this is all over, beginning with the incident in my past. You need to know about it before either of us gets too carried away.”
A tingle of apprehension vibrated through her fingertips. “That sounds a little ominous.”
“It could be. I’m taking a risk by sharing this . . . but you might as well know about the skeletons in my closet up front and decide now whether they change your feelings about me.”
She played with the edge of her napkin. From everything she’d observed, Lance McGregor was the real deal—smart, intuitive, honorable, dedicated. But a person’s public persona didn’t always match their private face. She’d seen plenty of examples of that in the figure skating world.
Still . . . it was hard to believe there was anything this man could tell her that would be a deal breaker.
“I don’t expect that to happen, but I appreciate your honesty and consideration.” She knitted her fingers together on the table and gave him her full attention.
“I have to warn you, this isn’t pretty.”
“I didn’t think it would be. But I’ve seen my share of ugly.”
“Not like this.”
“I think it’s too late to back out, don’t you?”
He conceded her point with a dip of his head and stared into his mug. “As I told you, most of my military work was classified—including this mission. I can’t give you details on dates or locations, but suffice it to say we did a lot of counterterrorism work all over the world that involved snatching insurgency leaders. This particular situation, like most of our missions, was dicey, but it wasn’t one of our more dangerous assignments. The guy wasn’t all that important and shouldn’t have been heavily guarded. Plus, the person on the inside who’d provided the intel was supposed to be an ally.”
Shouldn’t have been.
Supposed to be.
Those were telling words.
Christy tightened her clasped fingers.
“I was heading up a four-man team. My second-in-command was a buddy from my original training class. Taz. We’d been on a lot of missions together, and over the years we became as close as brothers. I was the best man at his wedding.” Lance stopped, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Our mission that night proceeded according to plan until we got within sight of the walled compound where our target was supposed to be holed up. Then all at once, Taz got cold feet. That had never happened before.”
She leaned forward. “What do you mean, cold feet?”
The parallel crevices imbedded in his brow deepened. “He said he had a bad feeling about the mission. No real specifics, other than the place seemed too quiet. There weren’t even any barking dogs—and there were always barking dogs. I agreed the silence was suspicious . . . but he also had a pregnant wife at home. I suspected he was overreacting, maybe starting to worry about not being there for his kid.”
“That seems like a logical assumption.”
“Yeah. Except I didn’t have a warm and fuzzy feeling about the situation, either. But I wasn’t certain if he’d planted a seed of doubt or if my own instincts were kicking in. Plus, I’d done back-to-back missions and hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. Usually I trusted my gut, but for the first time in my career, I wavered over a command decision.”
“Fatigue can muddle thinking.”
He dismissed her comment with an impatient wave. “I’d pulled off plenty of missions with less sleep. It shouldn’t have made a difference. I did get a read from the two other guys on the team. Neither had any qualms. They just wanted to get in and out ASAP so we’d be back on base for breakfast.”
Christy didn’t know what was coming, but she had a feeling none of them got their breakfast.
“In the end, I was spooked enough to radio our commander. He assured me the inside source was trustworthy, that the guy was solid and had come through for us on other occasions. Armed with that validation, I dismissed Taz’s qualms—and my own—and gave the order to move in.”
The coffeepot hissed in the charged silence, and Christy’s hand jerked.
Lance didn’t seem to notice.
“At first, everything went according to plan. We got into the compound with no resistance—but once we were inside the walls, chaos erupted. Turns out the guy we were after knew all about our plan and had some serious firepower waiting to welcome us. Instead of the guard or two we were expecting, a dozen armed zealots met us. If we hadn’t been so well trained and equipped, none of us would have gotten out alive. As it was, one of my guys took a bullet in the leg in the first few seconds.”<
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“What did you do?” Her question came out in a whisper.
“What we were trained to do.” His jaw hardened. “We returned fire. Fortunately, the injured guy was able to function, but it was touch and go. We were operating in the dark—literally. And NVGs don’t offer much peripheral vision.”
Christy ran the acronym through her brain. Came up blank. “What’s an NVG?”
“Night vision goggles. We were all wearing them. In the chaos, everyone but Taz missed the guy sneaking up on us. Just as the insurgent lifted his AK-47, Taz put himself between me and the gun and started firing. He took the guy out . . . and got sprayed in the process.”
An AK-47 was a machine gun, wasn’t it?
And no one survived a head-on assault from a machine gun. Even someone wearing body armor.
A bead of sweat broke out on Lance’s forehead, and she was tempted to gently wipe it away. Instead she watched her clenched knuckles turn white.
“As you probably figured out, he didn’t make it.” Lance’s words rasped, and he cleared his throat. “Taz died saving the life of the friend who ignored his reservations and gave the order that sent him to his death.”
This time her hand refused to be restrained. It broke free and came to rest on his taut forearm. Yet words failed her. What was there to say in the face of such tragedy?
He turned to her, and the bleakness in his eyes twisted her stomach. “I should have listened to him—and my gut. As the team leader, I had the authority to override command and call off the raid. I chose not to.” A spasm tightened his features, and he stopped.
Christy waited, knowing there was more, giving him a chance to regain his composure.
When he continued, the words were scored with self-recrimination. “Here’s the worst of it—my mission earlier in the day had been a bust. The guy we were after slipped out right under our noses . . . and I didn’t want to come back empty-handed again. I was caught up in that whole macho, elite warrior image. I wanted to redeem myself and return the conquering hero.” He blew out a breath, nostrils flaring. “I swore when I got into The Unit I’d never let my ego get out of control, but it happened. And Taz paid the price with his life while I escaped with six stitches.” He brushed his fingers over the small jagged scar on his temple.
As his confession hung in the air between them, Christy tried to think of some response. But before she could come up with one, Lance continued in a flat, cold voice. “Those bullets were meant for me, and I should have been the one to die, not him. At least I wouldn’t have left behind a pregnant wife and a son who would never know his father.”
As his words echoed in the hushed room, she closed her eyes. Lance was right. The story was ugly—and tragic. She couldn’t begin to imagine what that young wife must have gone through.
But did Lance deserve the full brunt of blame he’d carried all these months? Yes, he’d been the team leader. Yes, he’d made the call to carry out the mission despite his qualms. Yet he’d checked back with his command, expressed concern. Should he have pushed back? Maybe. Was his ego a factor in the tragedy, as he claimed? Possibly. Special forces command would want operators with strong, confident personalities—and that self-assurance and decisive temperament no doubt worked to their advantage in most situations.
That night had been the exception.
That night, it had sent them into a deathtrap.
“Would you like to hear the end of the story?” Lance’s tone was as colorless as his face.
She nodded, afraid to trust her voice.
“We were able to hold them off and radio for help, and once the helos started coming in, the couple of insurgents who were still on their feet made an unsuccessful run for it. My buddy was the only American casualty. The other side didn’t fare as well. Let’s just say we didn’t leave any witnesses behind.”
The hard, take-no-prisoners edge to his voice revealed a new side of Lance. It was the voice of a soldier who accepted tough assignments, who carried out deadly missions, who showed no pity for those who opposed him.
It was the voice of a man who did his duty, no matter the cost—and who took full responsibility for the outcome, good or bad.
With trembling fingers, Christy lifted her mug and took a sip.
The brew had turned tepid.
“I shocked you, didn’t I?” His features were incised with grief . . . apprehension . . . and perhaps a touch of resignation?
“I don’t know if shock is the right word.” She spoke slowly, struggling to digest everything he’d told her. “Blindsided might be more accurate.”
“I wish I could change the ending of that story, Christy. Go back and make a different decision. I would if I could.” His anguished words were laced with regret. “But all operators have a certain sense of invincibility, and despite the bad vibes, I was sure four guys from The Unit could best whoever was in that dilapidated compound. It was a bad call.”
He stopped. Pressed a finger against a stray crumb on the table. When he lifted it, pulverized powder clung to his skin. “The harsh truth is, a good man died in my place because I let my ego override my instincts. I had the authority to call off the raid, and I didn’t. I’ll carry that burden of blame for the rest of my life—and I can’t fault you if hearing my story is a game changer.”
It was a statement, not a question, spoken in a stoic tone. As if he assumed she’d blame him for the death of his friend too.
Did she?
She took another sip of the cooling coffee. There was culpability, certainly, based on his explanation of the events. Yet his remorse was real—and shouldn’t that mitigate guilt?
All at once the man beside her started to rise.
“Wait!” She touched his arm.
He paused and looked at her.
Now what?
She went with the first thought that came to mind. “Did your buddy’s wife blame you?”
“I don’t know.”
She frowned. “You’ve never talked to her?”
“I attended the funeral, but Debbie was too grief-stricken to hold a lucid conversation. I was planning to talk to her before I shipped back out, but on the way home from the burial, she went into premature labor and had to be rushed to the hospital. The emergency didn’t get resolved until after I left. I did start a few letters, but they ended up in the trash. I couldn’t find the words.”
“You found them with me.”
“You didn’t lose the man you loved.”
“No—but you still took a risk sharing the story with me . . . and it paid off.”
Caution warred with hope in his eyes. “That incident isn’t the best character reference, Christy.”
“I don’t think the man sitting here is the same man who led his team into the compound that night. I have a feeling this is a new and improved version.”
“I’d like to think that’s true.”
She leaned toward him. “Besides, I have a feeling the old version wasn’t as bad as you made him out to be. You were sleep deprived that night, and while you might have thought you were impervious to the effects of fatigue, you probably weren’t. I also know you wouldn’t have been put in a leadership position with an elite special forces unit if you hadn’t demonstrated sound judgment under pressure. I’m not saying your ego didn’t get in the way—but how many times in your military career did that same ego, that same confidence, save your life and the lives of others?”
His expression grew pensive. “I suppose that’s a valid point.”
“Also, I can’t begin to imagine the stress of operating in the kind of situations you described. And you did that every day, mission after mission. Who am I to judge the choices you made under such intense pressure? But I’m confident of one thing—you did the best you could under the circumstances that night . . . and that’s all anyone can ask.”
“The Unit is held to higher standards than anyone else.”
“Including God’s? Because all he asks is that we do our best.”
“Are you saying you were reprimanded over the outcome?”
“On the contrary. We were commended for cleaning out a nasty den of insurrection in the face of overwhelming odds, despite being set up. But I suspect Debbie would feel differently if she knew the whole story.”
Ah. The missing piece. He needed his buddy’s wife to absolve him from guilt—or at the very least, forgive him—in order to find closure.
“Maybe it’s time you found out.”
He picked up his half-eaten cookie and broke off a dangling chocolate chip. “As a matter of fact, I’m considering a quick weekend trip east once this case wraps up. But the truth is, it would be easier to face another walled compound than have a heart-to-heart with Debbie.”
“Exposing yourself to physical danger requires a different kind of courage than putting your heart at risk. But if you can do it with me, you can do it with her.”
His smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes and produced an endearing dimple. “You’re very good at pep talks.”
“I should be. I heard a lot of them from coaches during my skating career, and I’ve given myself plenty over the past few months.” She peeked into his mug. “Would you like a warm-up?”
“You’ve already given me that.” He held her gaze for a sizzling, lung-locking moment, then ate the other half of the cookie in one large bite and brushed off his fingers. “I need to go. It’s getting late, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
Not going to happen—but she kept that to herself. There’d been enough soul-baring for one night.
He rose and picked up his plate. “I’ll help with the cleanup first, though.”
She stood, too, and took the plate from his hand. “There isn’t much. Besides, you’ve had a long day and you still have to drive home. Why don’t I take a rain check on that offer?”
“Thanks. And I won’t forget. I pay my debts.”
A man of honor, through and through—even about the little things.