Page 3 of Corey
Muskrat didn’t comment, just hobbled onward.
When Cassidy began coughing, Corey pressed her face against his vest. “Keep your head down. Try not to breathe the smoke in.”
He tried to be careful and not jostle her ankle too much, but time was of the essence.
“This way,” Corey said, leading them through the debris.
When they finally reached the exit, they halted and checked the situation outside. The majority of the fighting was happening on the other side of the building, giving a false sense of safety where they now stood. Blood pounded in his ears as Corey shifted Cassidy in his arms.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered.
“You’re not going to,” Corey stated. “I promised you, remember?”
She looked up at him, her blue eyes so haunted it sent a chill through his body. Almost as if she knew.
Because, unfortunately, saving Cassidy was a promise he couldn’t keep.
“Let’s go,” Corey said, pushing the door open. The sunshine temporarily blinded him, but he didn’t let it slow him down. His boots kicked up dust as he jogged forward, and the sound of a helo’s rotors cut through the air. It was their ride out of this hellhole, no doubt flown by a Night Stalker. The elite Army pilots were the best of the best, and Corey was always grateful to know they were in the air supporting the special operations forces.
Corey led the way, Cassidy cradled against his chest, and Muskrat leaned on Murph. Blood oozed from his thigh, but he’d push through. They all would. Because it’s what they were trained to do.
But something felt off. Corey’s gut had been warning him since they’d stepped foot inside the hospital. And now it was suddenly screaming and clenching with dread.
Out of nowhere, a crack split through the air. Thrown off his feet, Corey landed hard on his back. His rifle slammed against his spine and his chest burned. Dazed, he stared up at the blue sky.
Fuck. He’d been shot. Stars swam at the edges of his vision, and when he glanced down at Cassidy, searching out those blue eyes…
They were gone.
She was gone. And in her place was blood. So much blood.
Chapter One
With a tortured howl, Corey jerked upright in his bed in Cielo Springs, Montana. Breathing hard, sweating profusely, his heart thundered from the night terror. Slapping at his bare chest, trying to wipe the blood away, he abruptly stopped.
No blood. Just another fucking nightmare.
He forced himself to pull in a few deep breaths. That final image of Cassidy—her head caved in like a smashed, week-old jack-o’-lantern, her blood and brains sprayed all over him—had forever lodged itself in his mind. Fucked him up badly.
A soft whine dragged him back to the present and Storm laid his head on the bed. Corey reached over and dragged his shaking hand over the wolf’s head. His constant companion and soulmate, they had an indescribable bond. It’s almost as if Storm knew Corey needed him.
He met the wolf’s intelligent, yellow eyes and felt another jagged piece of himself shatter a little more. Although how there was anything left to break after all these years, he didn’t know. The truth was it sometimes felt like yesterday. The details of that last failed op were still so damn vivid. His job had been to get them all out safely, and he’d failed.
With a shuddering sigh, Corey dragged himself out of the sweat-soaked sheets and moved like a zombie into the connecting bathroom. His bare feet padded onto the coolbathroom tiles, and he stripped his worn flannel bottoms off, kicking them aside. Turning on the shower, he stepped beneath the cool spray and slicked his dark hair back. It was too long and threaded with more salt than pepper. Same with the thick beard that covered his face. He chalked it up to the stressful job he’d had and how he couldn’t escape the nightmares.
The log cabin where he lived in the middle of nowhere sat on a large parcel of land surrounded by the rugged Montana wilderness. He’d hoped the self-imposed solitude would help him find peace. More often than not, he found himself stuck in the quicksand of PTSD, unable to escape the nightmares.
Grabbing a washcloth, he began cleaning away the sour sweat, remembering how he’d had to scrub Cassidy’s dried blood off his face and hands. It had been stuck beneath his fingernails for a fucking week.
After scouring until his skin hurt, he tilted his head back and let the water wash over his face and chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, futilely wishing it would absolve him from his sins and vanquish his demons. Sometimes the guilt became so heavy and suffocating, it felt like he was breathing in sand. The same cursed sand he’d spent years trudging through overseas.
His knees bent, cracking as he plopped down on his ass. Yeah, he wasn’t getting any younger, that was for sure. As the water pounded down, he bowed his head and struggled to pull in a breath. Struggled to find the peace that always remained out of his grasp. Struggled to erase the details of that final mission that haunted his every waking and sleeping hour.
“We’ll get you out. I promise.”
But he hadn’t been able to do it. After Lone Star went down, Corey’s job as second-in-command had been to protect Cassidyand his teammates—to get them out safely. And he’d failed. Epically. They’d lost Lone Star and Bean, and then a sniper’s bullet took out the hostage and nearly killed Corey. If he hadn’t been wearing his tactical vest, he would’ve died, too.
Most days, he wished he had.
