Page 2 of How Much For a Life of Lies?

He was laying down protective fire in controlled bursts, but what did he think was going to happen when the bullets ran out? With grim determination, he fired his weapon, each shot aimed at the enemy, but stopping my team from getting close. How had he not gotten himself killed yet? I closed the distance between us, moving swiftly and silently. A body lay behind the man with the weapon—a captor in flowing white, blood in a pool under him, his eyes wide and vacant, his throat cut. I jumped over the crumpled heap of man, reached out of the door, exposing myself to bullets, and gripped the gunman by the scruff of his neck. He whirled on me, his knees bent, already pivoting to take me down as we fell backward into the gloom. His eyes widened in recognition as his fist met my eye socket, but he was exhausted and beaten. I shoved him down with a knee to his lower back, holding him away from the line of fire and then dragging him into the relative safety of the darkened interior of the house.

“Stay down,” I ordered. Despite his exhaustion, evidenced by his hollow cheeks, dulled eyes, and blood-covered body, I recognized him from the pre-mission briefing—Kai Henderson, 427 co-pilot. His clothes hung loose on him, evidence of the weight he had lost during the three weeks’ captivity. Dark bruises and scrapes marred his skin, showing the physical toll of imprisonment, but there was a defiant glint in his eyes, and he gripped the stolen AK-47 tight as he rolled to stand.

“Get the fuck back,” I snapped.

He didn’t move a freaking muscle, just tipped his chin.

“My crew, my responsibility,” he summarized and shifted to the other side of the door.

“Bravo three, clear, hostages to the rear,” I said as I stared at the scrap of man who thought he could be a human shield to the people behind us. “Fucking idiot!” I cursed at him, but he didn’t waver. Brave or stupid? I couldn’t tell. Maybe torture had caused him to lose his mind? He glanced at me, focus in his startling blue eyes, and despite the chaos unfolding around us, he didn’t move. It wasn’t until the rest of the SEALs breached the door and flooded into the house that he relaxed, albeit for a millisecond. When they reached us, they began to secure the area, and half the team split for the hostages.

McKenzie, a twenty-year SEAL veteran and our team leader, faced up to Kai and tried to take the weapon. Still, Kai wasn’t letting go, his eyes flashing with defiance as he moved between the SEALs and the hostages, torn between his instincts to protect and the authority of a ranking officer.

“Stand down, airman,” McKenzie said, firm and commanding.

Kai’s grip tightened on the weapon, his jaw clenched, his eyes unfocused, and it was then I noticed blood dripping from his hand. I inclined my head towards the evidence of his injury, and McKenzie nodded. Henderson was losing blood, oblivious to it in his attempts to save his crew and the hostages. For a moment, it appeared he might defy the order—his gaze locked in a silent standoff with our leader. I held my breath, ready to step in, but then, with a resigned sigh, Kai lowered the weapon, his shoulders slumping and adrenalin draining away. McKenzie took Kai’s weapon and then placed a hand on his arm.

“You did good, kid,” he said.

“Not a kid,” Henderson snarled. A myriad of emotions swirled in his blue eyes, just beneath the surface—defiance and a fierce determination to hold his ground. Although his features showed signs of exhaustion, he was all raw energy, prepared to confront any challenges, and pissed at the kid label. “Not. A. Fucking. Kid.”

“Okay,” I said, giving him the respect he deserved.

Somehow he’d survived three weeks of being held—obvious torture in the ligature marks around his neck and dark bruises marking his pale skin—he’d disarmed a guard, killed said guard, and then gone trigger-happy on his captors, all to keep his team and the civilians safe.

Nope.

Kai was certainly not a kid.

He had a warrior’s spirit, and like knew like.

His knees buckled, and being closest, I caught him as he fell. He didn’t weigh enough to drag me down, and with McKenzie assisting, we carried him out of there to exfil. Back on the MH-60 Seahawk, rotors spinning in a sapphire sky, we worked to stop his bleeding, and through it all, he gritted his teeth and never let out a single whimper. Instead, he rambled on about the MH-60, weapons systems, crew, and airspeed, as if the helicopter was the most precious thing in his world. He focused on me, and I grasped his hand as he fought to stay awake, as he stared at me with bloodshot eyes. He closed them, and I nudged him to keep them open.

Stay with me, Henderson.

Stay with me.

“You have such pretty eyes,” he babbled, between gasps of pain, “so green, so pretty.” Oz snickered next to me, and I gave my friend a death stare. If the pilot needed to ramble to handle the pain, then that was okay with me. “Your hair is on fire!” Henderson added and attempted to poke at me, although his hand was slippery with blood, and he couldn’t lift it high enough.

“On fire?” Oz asked and leaned over me to stare at our rescued hero. “Is he talking about your hair, Red?”

I elbowed Oz, and he fell back to his position, still smirking. I didn’t hate my nickname. Jeremiah Osborne had become Oz for his last name, and I’d become Red for the color of my hair. It was a rite of passage, but listening to him messing with me wasn’t funny.

“Hey,” Henderson tried to talk. “Hold my hand? Okay?” I only made out some words, but something about him got inside my head when he gripped my hand and told me I had pretty eyes and hair that was on fire.

The brave, stupid, gorgeous hostage made me feel things: regret we hadn’t met in a smoky club instead of a destroyed building where he’d been a prisoner, and the impulse to go to the hospital with him just to make sure he was okay.

Dangerous.

I never followed up on what happened to the rescued people, but I did check that Henderson made it out of the hospital okay. Allegedly, he’d disobeyed orders to stay with the hostages and put his crew in danger because he refused to leave people behind.

Some said brave, some said stupid.

All I knew was that he was still a 427 helicopter pilot and had survived the ordeal.

That was all any of us could hope for.

TWO

---