Page 65 of Breaking Free

“On it, Chief,” Foster promptly responded. “But you need to get here asap.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing, “It’s Nolan...”

He didn’t have to say more. Tristan knew from his tone. Dread knotted in his gut. “How bad is it?” he asked, already at a flat-out run.

Receiving no answer, he repeated in a shout, “How bad?”

“It’s a chest wound. Two of the docs are working on him. It doesn’t look good.”

He ran the fastest mile of his life. Ignoring the blood pooling on the hard-packed ground, he dropped to his knees beside Nolan and gripped his hand when he reached for him.

“A straggler...got me...on the way back,” he said between gasps and weak coughs.

“Don’t talk,” Tristan urged. “Save your strength.”

He glanced at the trauma surgeon who was working to stabilize Nolan. Grim-faced, he gave an almost imperceptibleshake of his head. Pain pierced Tristan’s chest as if he’d been shot, too.

“Tell Lydia I love her,” his long-time friend rasped, his breath shallow and ragged, and the crimson stain spreading on his pale lips a grim testament to his fading strength.

“Tell her yourself,” Tristan growled, gripping his hand harder. “You’re not dying in this godforsaken place.”

“Hug AJ for me.” Nolan grimaced in obvious physical pain, but his next words bespoke the emotional anguish as well. “Never got to see my boy.”

Fucking hell, it wasn’t fair.

His eyelids fluttered shut, and Tristan implored, “Stay with me, bud. Don’t give up.”

“Watch out for them. Lydia will need...a strong shoulder.” His voice trailed off, and his eyelids fluttered shut.

“Dammit, soldier. No one dismissed you,” Tristan roared when the hand in his went limp.

“The bullet clipped a major artery,” the surgeon told him quietly. “I’m sorry there wasn’t more we could do.”

With a smothering sense of loss, he knelt beside Nolan’s lifeless body.

Fucking war! They had driven back the insurgents, saving the medical team and aid workers, but lost two good men in the process.

“Chief, you’re bleeding. Were you hit?”

He glanced up at the doctor, who nodded at his left shoulder. He followed his gaze to his blood-soaked sleeve. “It’s nothing.” The only pain he felt was the fire searing through his chest.

“We’ll take care of Nolan,” Foster said, sounding as raspy as he did. “Get your shoulder looked after before you bleed out, too. Speaking for the men, we refuse to lose our captain, master sergeant, and chief on the same fucking day.”

HIS THROAT DRY ANDtight, Tristan put the bottle to his lips. Finding it empty, he slammed it onto the side table. He ran his hands down his face, trying to shake off the flood of memories. Even now, years later, he could still hear the gunfire echoing in his head, see the pain ravaging Nolan’s face, and smell the blood—so very much of it.

He thought he had everything locked down tight. But today, seeing Mitchell out of the blue had triggered the unresolved anger seething within him—and the guilt.

Their losses that day left the ten remaining men completely gutted. They persevered because what other choice did they have? Under the leadership of a new captain, and with a new operations sergeant assigned to their unit, they continued the fight in a war that had stretched on for nearly two decades with no end in sight. But their once-cohesive team had forever changed that day.

One by one, the men moved on with transfers or promotions, many returning to civilian life. Tristan stayed in another two years, finishing his term but not re-upping for another.

There had been an inquiry. The orders he’d given were confirmed as the best course of action. He and his surviving teammates, who’d fought like hell and saved many innocent lives that day, had received commendations. But a medal couldn’t assuage his guilt and anguish, and it sure as hell didn’t help him forget standing at attention at Nolan’s funeral, his eyes burning, his throat constricted, making it almost impossible to swallow.

When the guns had fired, and his friend’s widow wept, he made a vow. To never let himself become so deeply attached to anyone again—it hurt too damn much. He’d kept his promise to Nolan, and sure enough, Lydia and AJ had burrowed under his skin. He would always be there for them, but with a new man in her life, he could and should step back.

That would leave him even more alone.

“But that’s how you want it,” he whispered to his empty apartment—and even emptier life.

Pushing to his feet, he strode to the kitchen and grabbed another beer. He twisted the cap, flipped it into the trash, and sucked the bottle dry. It didn’t numb the pain, ease his guilt, or fill the hollow place in his gut and his heart, but he knew Lydia was right. What happened sucked, as did the perpetual dark clouds hanging over his head.

---