Page 1 of The Fallen One

PART I

BEFORE…

1

CARTER

ABU DHABI, U.A.E. – NOVEMBER 2011

Maybe I should’ve been a pilot like Rebecca wanted me to be. I stared out the window at the F-22 Raptor on the base’s runway, noticing two Air Force guys chatting with a few of the U.A.E.’s men. The sophisticated warplane would be heading out tonight, same as last, with a wave of F-16 Fighting Falcons piloted by our allies, the Emiratis.

Not that the Pentagon had officially acknowledged Americans were operating alongside them from the Al-Dhafra base. No, as far as the White House was concerned, we weren’t even there.

And for that matter, my team hadn’t been in Somalia the last two months, working to dismantle Al Qaeda’s foreign fighting trafficking network to Yemen.

“I know what you’re thinking.” I turned to face Griffin Andrews as we awaited our flight home with the rest of our teammates.

“Doubt it.” Hell, I don’t even know what’s going on in my head right now. “But I reckon you’re going to tell me.” Fatigue had set in, which had my Texas drawl sliding through. I did my best to abandon my accent whenever I wasn’t Stateside. Better not to let the enemies know anything about you. Clearly, I needed to get home. I also needed to fuck my wife. Relieve some tension.

Rebecca and I had been going through a rough patch ever since I went through Selection. She didn’t want me becoming a Tier One guy, and that was all I’d wanted since I’d watched Rambo, too young to know it was all sound effects and bullshit. So, she’d reluctantly agreed, but her yes had come with a cost—the cold fucking shoulder.

Speaking of inaccurate films . . . I looked across the room where some of our team was gathered around a movie. Instead of Griffin enlightening me with his sudden mind reading skills, the FNG getting hammered by a senior operator captured our attention.

“I’d rather you watch Jerry Springer than this BS. They’ve got SEALs HALO’ing in at night without NODs. What kind of garbage is this?” Dennison, our assistant team leader, remarked, busting Bradley’s balls. “Two things you don’t leave home without—night vision and your rifle. If you can watch this and not bat an eyelash at the inaccuracies, I have serious concerns about what you might do if your rifle jams up in a gunfight. Or hell, maybe you’ll try and exfil on your dirty side. Or . . .”

He kept going, but I stopped listening. Bradley turned off the TV and tossed the remote, doing a hell of a job sucking it up and taking whatever Dennison served him.

Up until six months ago, Griffin and I were the FNGs, the fucking new guys, in the Unit. We’d been happy to relinquish that title, especially given how young we were. Griffin hadn’t even punched over to this side of thirty yet, and I was only thirty-two as of June.

Griffin tipped his head, signaling for us to make a clean exit before we got roped into the conversation. And I had a feeling he was about to go Jerry Springer on me himself and wanted to do it privately. Probably attempt to get me to talk through my feelings. Acknowledge the fact that while my wife was pissed I’d joined the Unit, she wasn’t angry enough to withhold the few dirty photos she’d gifted me here and there to whack off to—thank fuck for that.

We’d almost made it to the door without drawing Dennison’s attention, when he snapped out, “Where are you two headed?”

“Outside for air.” And probably a lecture.

Dennison locked his arms across his chest. The man was on edge even more than normal, and I didn’t like the look in his eyes. The Secretary of State had called in a favor to JSOC—the Joint Special Operations Command—rerouting us here last week for an op instead of home as planned. The man probably needed to get laid, too.

“You’ve got to be the only billionaire in history risking his neck for the military,” Dennison drawled, his Southern slipping through the cracks, too.

Here we go. “I’m not a billionaire.” I rotated my neck a bit, knowing I needed to suck it up, pull a “Bradley,” and shut my mouth. But, against my better judgment, I was about to get in the man’s crosshairs. “My wife inherited the money when her parents died. It’s not mine.”

Rebecca’s parents’ private jet crashed three Christmases ago, and now my wife helped run their business empire, which included everything from chain hotels to manufacturing. That was why she lived in Manhattan instead of with me near Ft. Bragg in North Carolina. Not that I was ever home for it to matter where she rested her head at night.

“Marriage means the money is yours, too, buddy,” Bradley said, deciding to break his silence for me since I still teetered on the border of FNG status. “It’s wild you’re here when you could buy yourself an island and chill. Billions, man. I can’t wrap my head around how much money that is. I mean, what the fuck is wrong with you that you don’t just go off-grid, buy your own helos, and maybe an island or two?”

“And miss all the fun with you guys?” I grabbed my Gatorz from my pocket, prepared to exfil out of there before Dennison or Bradley trapped me into opening my mouth.

“Your house in New York is seventy-five million,” Bradley went on. “That kind of money is?—”

“How do you know how much my wife’s house is?” And it would always be my wife’s house in my mind. It belonged to her parents before they died, and I was more comfortable on a bed at base than taking a shit on a gold toilet—and fucking hell, there really was a gold-plated toilet in the primary bathroom.

“I was bored. Googled it. Curiosity?—”

“Killed the cat,” Dennison cut him off, and thank God for that. He cocked his head, giving me the green light to go before Bradley said anything more relating to my wife or her family.

With how wiped out we all were, I might forget we were teammates and working to become friends. I’d take a bullet for the man, but I didn’t know him well enough to trust him with my secrets.

Once Griffin and I were outside, I turned to face him. “Spit it out. What’re you tiptoeing around?” Sunglasses on, I shoved my hands into my pockets in preparation for what was coming next. Another conversation I didn’t want to have.

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