Born on the 4th of July

by Rhonda Nelson; Karen Foley Jill Shalvis

  Even now, Matt couldn’t believe how completely they’d been duped. The local military, with whom they had spent countless days and weeks training, had provided them with the intel about the insurgents. While they had been focusing their attention on that village, the real enemy had been planning their attack along this lonely stretch of road. Matt didn’t know if the false intel had been deliberate or not, but it didn’t matter. They’d screwed up, and now American troops were getting killed.

  The local military had likely been infiltrated. This didn’t come as a surprise, but Matt couldn’t help but wonder which of the men was responsible. He’d come to know many of them personally, and the realization that one of them had betrayed the American soldiers—betrayed him—made him feel both sick and angry. More than that, he felt hopeless. Were they making a difference? Was he making a difference? For every step forward they took, it seemed they took three steps backward.

  “Christ, what a mess,” muttered the man who crouched next to Matt, peering through a large spotter’s scope. “If we’d intercepted the convoy just ten minutes sooner, that could have been our Humvee in the lead.”

  “Yeah, well, timing is everything,” Matt replied. “Just remember to keep your head low. We’ve only got four days left in this sand trap, and then we’re outta here. Try not to screw it up by getting your head blown off, okay?”

  Just four more days and then he’d be on his way home, far away from this blistering hellhole where he’d delivered death to the enemy more times than he cared to recall. With fifty-seven confirmed kills over the course of three separate tours, he was well on his way to becoming a legend within the marine scout/sniper community.

  But he didn’t want to be a legend; he just wanted to go home and pick up the pieces of his life. After twelve years of service to his country, he was ready to put his weapon away. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t want to be a soldier, and he’d enlisted in the military right out of high school. He’d excelled at pretty much everything the U.S. Marine Corps threw at him, but found his real niche lay in his ability to shoot. The military had honed that skill to perfection, but Matt knew that sniping had as much to do with observing and reporting as it had with shooting at a target. He didn’t just randomly shoot people; he carefully selected his targets before firing upon them.

  He’d never had a problem executing the mission, and he’d never lost any sleep over what he did for a living. He firmly believed that he was saving innocent lives by taking out the enemy before they had an opportunity to do harm. He’d known guys who couldn’t kill a target because they’d become too emotionally attached to the subject. Sometimes, after days of observing a person—of watching them eat, breathe and laugh—a sniper might feel an emotional connection to the target and be unable to kill them when the call came.

  Matt didn’t worry about that happening to him. Just the opposite, in fact. Lately, he’d felt so little emotion about what he did as a sniper that he knew it was time to get out or risk becoming someone he no longer recognized.

  He wanted a regular job that didn’t require having to put a bullet through someone. He wanted to sleep late on the weekends. He wanted to take his bike for a cruise along the coast and feel the cool Atlantic breeze on his face. He wanted to cook steak tips on the grill and drink a cold beer whenever he liked.

  Most of all, he wanted finally to meet the lovely Megan O’Connell. The pretty schoolteacher had been sending him care packages for nearly six months as part of an adopt-a-soldier program at the same school where his mother worked. He’d never even met Megan, but her sweetly poignant letters and photos made him miss home in a way that he never had before. Her detailed descriptions of even the most mundane tasks read like something from a Robert Frost poem, evoking images of life in New England and the small coastal town where he’d grown up.

  But it was the personal stuff she shared with him that made him long to get back and meet her. She’d only recently moved to Massachusetts from down east Maine, and despite the upbeat tenor of her letters, her homesickness was a palpable thing. He found himself impatient to get home to ease her loneliness. He wanted to be with Megan more than he’d wanted anything else in a long time. He wanted to spend time with her and show her all the places and things that were special to him. Oh, yeah, he’d been packing some serious heat for Megan O’Connell since she’d first written to him.

  Her letters had started out innocently enough. She’d thanked him for his service, and informed him that she and her classroom of fifth graders had adopted him, and was there anything he particularly wanted or needed? He’d thumbed through the handmade cards and notes until he’d found a picture of her standing with the children in her classroom. All he could think was that his own elementary school teachers had never looked like her. And a good thing, too, or he might never have made it beyond sixth grade.

  In the six months that they’d been corresponding, he’d called her a half-dozen times. During that first phone call, they’d immediately clicked, and ten minutes had never gone by so fast. There hadn’t been any awkward silences, only a sense of frustration that they couldn’t talk longer. Through all their letters and conversations, her one consistent message had been to take care of himself, to come home safely. She worried about him, a guy she’d never even met. How would she feel if something did happen to him? Would she grieve for him? Lately, she’d been finishing her letters with “P.S. I can’t wait for you to come home!” Maybe he’d spent too much time in the sun, or maybe he was going soft, but he couldn’t prevent his imagination from conjuring sappy images of just how she might greet him. She gave him a whole new reason to come home in one piece.

  Three weeks ago, in anticipation of his return to the States, he’d taken a huge chance and asked Megan to meet him at a hotel in California for a weekend. He hoped she hadn’t heard the desperation in his voice when he’d made the proposition during a brief phone call; he’d tried to sound nonchalant about it. No pressure, and she could say no and he’d be fine with it.

  Which had been a complete lie.

  Once he returned to the States, he’d be required to spend at least a couple of weeks with his unit at Camp Pendleton in California, but he knew he couldn’t wait that long to finally see her.

  To be with her.

  To his immense relief, she’d actually agreed to meet him at the luxurious Serafino Hotel in Oceanside, California. The room rate had been astronomical, but Matt didn’t give a damn. What else did he have to spend his money on? He wanted to make Megan feel special. Hell, she was special, and he was looking forward to getting to know her better. He’d even sleep at the marine base if she didn’t want him staying with her. He just knew he couldn’t wait until he returned to the east coast to finally meet her. There was a part of him that suspected he shouldn’t have such strong feelings for a woman he’d never even met, but he didn’t care. He knew they were real.

  Now he fixed his eye to the telescopic sight of his rifle and carefully scanned the shadowed orchard on the far side of the convoy. “There,” he muttered in satisfaction, spotting movement amongst the trees. “Target,” he called quietly.

  “Target,” replied Ginger, named for his red hair and abundance of freckles. He peered through the large spotter scope he carried. “Sector C from TRP 1, right 50, add 50.”

  “Roger,” Matt replied and repeated the coordinates back to his partner as he adjusted the scope on his sniper rifle. The sporadic spit-spit-spit of machine-gun fire from the deadly battle didn’t distract him. Nothing short of a direct hit would break his concentration. All that mattered was the target. Eventually, the insurgent would make an attempt to fire his weapon and when he did, Matt would be waiting. Even the brutally punishing sun that beat down on his back didn’t faze him.

  “Lone soldier behind the tree, carrying AK-47 in right hand,” Ginger said in low voice.

  Matt peered through the scope at the man who had emerged from behind a tree to fix his weapon on a marine who was attempting to drag
a wounded comrade to safety.

  “Roger. Target identified,” Matt confirmed, lining him up in his crosshairs. “He’s drawing down on one of our guys.”

  “Dial 400 on the gun,” Ginger directed.

  “Roger, 400 on the gun. Gun up!”

  “Send it.”

  With steady hands, Matt deliberately squeezed the trigger at the same instant the target fired his own weapon at the hapless soldier struggling to drag the body of a fellow soldier to safety.

  Bam!

  Immediately and without looking away from the sighting, Matt chambered another round. Through the telescopic sight, he saw the fine spray of red mist where the target had been, and then there was nothing.

  “Center hit,” Ginger called, as he followed the bullet’s vapor trail. “Stand by.”

  The high, pitiful wail of a crying child reached him, and Matt blew out a hard breath of annoyance as his fingers flexed around the bolt handle of the rifle. He rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. “Roger, center hit, stand by.”

  “Confirmed hit. Target destroyed.”

  “Roger that.” Matt swept his scope back to the soldier who had been attempting to rescue his comrade and swore as he saw both soldiers lying motionless on the ground. He closed his eyes briefly in regret, but when he opened them again, he saw the second soldier slowly raise his head and it seemed to Matt that he looked directly at him. He recoiled in surprise.

  “Damn. That’s a chick!” Even as he watched, the female soldier glanced down at the front of her uniform and when she pressed a hand against her shoulder, Matt saw blood seep through her fingers. “The bastard hit her.”

  Matt swept his scope across the immediate area, prepared to cover her if she came under attack again. Despite her injury, she managed to grab the other soldier’s flak jacket and doggedly drag him to safety. Only when she had reached the relative shelter of the trucks did Matt pull his gaze away from his scope. He rolled onto his side, swiping a hand across his eyes to ease the strain. The pitiful wailing of the child continued.

  “Christ, where the hell is that kid?” he snarled, because as much as he wished otherwise, the persistent crying did distract him.

  “Ah, damn,” Ginger muttered as he inched his head around the edge of the wall to survey the destruction below. “There’s a freaking kid in the road, right in the middle of the fucking firefight.”

  Matt craned his head over the low wall to peek at the dusty road. A swift glance told him that this was no kid; this was a baby, sitting in the dirt about a hundred yards away. Matt used his rifle scope to survey the surrounding area. No freaking way the insurgents would use a child to lure the marines into the open. Would they?

  Matt had seen a lot of twisted things during his three tours in Iraq, but something that sick would definitely take the cake. He swept his scope over the tiny village that lay beyond the battle. A woman stood in the doorway of a small house, her face contorted in fear and grief. Two local men physically restrained her from running to the child.

  “Shit.” He pushed himself away from the ruined wall and bent low. “Cover me,” he called.

  “Talbot!” shouted Ginger, and made a grab for Matt, but missed. “We got four days left!”

  “It’s not my time,” Matt flung back. Bent over, he sprinted along the low ridge that paralleled the road, keeping an eye on the crudely dug trench where a dozen or more insurgents still fired at the convoy. They didn’t see him until he was almost level with them. One man stood up to take aim at him, but was immediately felled by a single bullet, courtesy of Ginger.

  Matt veered sharply as two more insurgents stood up. He’d left the M40 sniper rifle by the wall as it wasn’t any good for close combat, so he jerked his M14 from his shoulder and swept the area with a spray of bullets, not waiting to see if he’d hit his targets.

  He reached the nearest truck and flung himself behind it, peering through the dust and smoke as he regained his bearings. Two marines lay on their bellies in the dirt beneath the truck, firing toward the orchard, while a third provided cover. When Matt pointed toward the child, the third soldier gave him a thumbs-up and shifted his position to provide additional cover.

  Matt made his way along the line of trucks until, finally, nothing stood between himself and the child except forty yards of open, unprotected road. Sitting in the dirt, wearing only a grimy white tunic, was a tiny little girl. Matt guessed her to be no more than two years old.

  Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he made a beeline for the kid. A bullet hit the ground near his feet, sending a spray of dirt and rock upward. He flung up an arm to cover his face, but he didn’t stop. Bending low, he scooped the squalling toddler into his arms and then continued his sprint toward the mud hut where the child’s mother watched with a mixture of hope and horror on her face.

  Reaching the house, he thrust the child into the outstretched arms of the woman, just as something hit the back of his head with enough force to propel him through the open door of the hut. He did a sliding face-plant along the dirt floor, his body curiously boneless. He was only dimly aware that his helmet had come off and had landed beside him. He watched, detached, as it spun crazily on the hard-packed floor until it came to a stop just inches from his face.

  Matt struggled to focus.

  Attached to the inside of the helmet with clear packing tape was a photograph of a young woman. She had the kind of clean, blond good looks associated with prep schools and summer sailing lessons. Her skimpy white tank top clung to her curves and outlined an impressive rack. The smile on her face suggested she was well aware of how her nipples thrust against the thin fabric, and that she enjoyed the reaction it caused. Of all the photos that Megan had sent to him, Matt liked this one the best.

  He blinked as something warm and wet trickled into his eyes, and his mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood. Darkness fluttered at the edge of his vision.

  He frowned. There was something not quite right about the photo. What was wrong with it? His vision blurred and he squinted hard. Then he saw it; the photo was splattered with blood. His blood. Ah, damn.

  His last thought was that now he’d never get to meet pretty Megan O’Connell. He’d never have the opportunity to see where their relationship might have gone. Then darkness descended and he knew nothing more.

  2

  THIS HAD TO BE the craziest, most impulsive thing she’d ever done in her entire life. Not just crazy, but off-the-charts nutso. What kind of woman would fly clear across the country to spend a weekend with a guy she’d never even met?

  The desperate kind.

  The lonely kind.

  At least, that’s what her friends would say. Which was why she hadn’t told them—hadn’t told anyone, in fact—about her hare-brained adventure.

  Megan O’Connell blew out a hard breath. She knew she was neither desperate nor lonely, but there was something about this particular guy that got her heart rate going and her stomach curling in anticipation just thinking about him.

  About being with him.

  From the first instant she’d seen the picture of Staff Sergeant Matt Talbot on her boss’s computer screen, she’d been hooked. More than hooked; she’d been utterly fascinated.

  Megan still recalled the day she had walked into the principal’s empty office to leave some paperwork on her desk and had been entranced by the other woman’s screen saver. She’d leaned forward to study the image more closely. The guy who smiled back at her could’ve been the cover model for a military beefcake calendar.

  Deeply tanned and mouthwateringly muscled, with biceps that looked as if he hefted Humvees for a living, he’d exuded pure, male sex appeal. He wore nothing but a pair of desert camo pants and boots, and the hint of a tattoo peeked out from under his waistband, riding low on his hipbone. She found herself wanting to see the entire design. He’d cradled a military rifle in his hands with the ease and confidence of a seasoned soldier.

  But it was more than just his physical appearance t
hat had captivated her. She’d had relationships with good-looking guys before and knew enough to realize that appearances could sometimes be deceiving. With this guy, it was the expression on his face that had mesmerized Megan. He grinned carelessly into the camera, but Megan sensed that behind the devil-may-care manner was a deadly serious man.

  A dangerous man.

  “That’s my son, Matt, in Iraq.”

  Megan had jerked upright, face flaming at having been caught ogling the image. She had turned to the principal with a breezy smile and quipped, “Well, if he needs any care packages sent to him, just let me know. With a little bubble wrap and tape, I could be there in a week.”

  Later, when she’d returned to her classroom of fifth graders, she’d wondered what on earth had made her say something so completely stupid. She’d meant it as a joke, of course. But later that week, the principal had stopped by her classroom after school.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I think sending care packages to Matt and his platoon is a wonderful idea. You could get your students involved and it would be a great outreach program,” she’d said, smiling. “I’m sure Matt would love to hear from you.”

  And so Megan had enthusiastically started an adopt-a-soldier program. The first box of goodies had been ready to ship just two days later, and tucked in amongst the beef jerky, lip balm, magazines and protein bars had been a single letter addressed to Matt. In it, Megan had told him a little bit about herself. She’d only begun working at the elementary school the year before, having relocated from Maine. She’d been excited about the move, but the truth was that she was still adjusting to living on her own, away from her parents and her three sisters. While she’d developed casual friendships with the other teachers, she didn’t have any close friends or confidantes. The prospect of having someone to write to—a stranger who was also far from family and friends—appealed to her.