Page 71 of Sloane

“Nah. Just majored in business.”

I held my hand out for his pen, then scribbled my signature at the bottom where he’d written “Witness” and dated it, then handed it back to him.

“You’re going to get home and make this more official.”

The younger man let out a long breath.

“I hope so.”

I did, too.

~~~~

I laid down to try and get some shuteye, but that proved easier said than done with the sun out and the heat beating on the tent canvas.

One thing was certain, it sure as fuck didn’t feel like Christmas Day.

Although I’d never had a white Christmas, since I grew up in San Diego, the decorations and the music everywhere put some kind of holiday magic in the air that I could feel when I was home.

But not here. Today was just another Wednesday.

And I needed to get some rest before I got up to eat, shower, and shave, then get ready for my next round of patrol.

I reached inside my camo jacket and pulled out the red scarf I’d had tucked in there. Ashley had worn it to her birthday dinner, so it had her perfume on it. I may have borrowed it, without her permission, and stuffed it in my bag before I left her apartment the next morning.

Now, I held it to my nose for comfort.

I’d been worried that it would lose its scent, but so far, so good. Or maybe I was just imagining it now. Either way, it helped soothe me and I was able to doze off.

It was still light out when I woke up, and I decided to clean my gear and wash my t-shirts before I ate dinner. I’d reassembled my gun and was in the process of hanging my wet shirts on a makeshift clothesline when Phil Spencer, one of our gunners burst into my tent.

“Cap’,” he panted, out of breath. “Squad Two’s been hit by an IED.”

“Shit!”

I dropped the pile of wet clothes on my bed, then snatched my jacket and slid it on. As I grabbed my gun, I noticed the piece of red cloth sticking out from under my pillow and reached for it, stuffing the scarf back into the inside pocket.

With my weapon in hand, I ran outside to the waiting Humvee and piled into the front passenger seat. While I secured my helmet, O’Brien loaded into the seat behind me to man the radio. Buckley, our gunner, was already in place, ready to go, and so was Derek Rivers, the Marine with the lowest rank, and thus, our driver.

Spencer, who’d been right behind me as we came out of my tent, hopped into one of the two Joint Light Tactical Vehicles—JLTVs—that were waiting to head out behind us, while the medics were already pulling out.

“What do we know?” I quizzed O’Brien as Rivers hauled ass, the dust from the medics’ vehicle ahead making visibility limited.

“The bomb hit the engine block, so they were able to use the gun and radio for help but they’re taking heavy fire. Callahan’s injured but conscious.”

Fuck!

I had to get to my men—now.

“We need to be the lead car going in,” I barked, and O’Brien echoed my command into the radio. The vehicle ahead pulled to the side, and we drove by; Buckley waving solemnly as we did.

The further we drove from our improvised camp, the more amped up I became. Surveying the desert, I growled, “Keep your eyes peeled.” I had a bad feeling about this.

The JLTV crested a small hill and the damaged vehicle with the men inside taking fire came into view. Buckley started shooting in the direction of the enemy gunfire as we approached, and we took position to cover the recovery team.

I heard, “Go! Go! Go!” over the radio and my gunner began with nonstop machine gun fire. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man in the distance raising something onto his shoulder, but by the time my brain recognized it as an RPG, it was too late.

Chapter Twenty-Three

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