Page 74 of Vicious Sabotage

All the better for him.

He ran up to the front door and knocked first. When nobody answered, he felt around under the porch mat. More often than not, people kept a spare key in a place it could be easily found.

But maybe not this owner. He ran his fingers along the perimeter of the mat and thought he was going to have to use brute strength to break in, when his fingers brushed metal.

He plucked the key out and surged to his feet. It fit the lock in a smooth glide, and he was in.

The place smelled musty and slightly damp. Daylight streamed through the windows, filling the space with enough light for him to search the place.

After a quick sweep, he checked the small refrigerator and was relieved to find water. He took two bottles out and drank one after another, aware that his parched state had more to do with shock of what had happened to him over the past eight hours than physical need.

With his pulse leveling out, he swept through the simple and sparse kitchen. A gun rack hanging above the door was missing the rifle, and it pointed to this being a hunting camp just like he thought.

In one cupboard he found a couple bags of rations. A stew—just add water.

Any good SEAL knew that they should eat when they got a chance, even MREs. He reached up to pull a pot off a rack hanging above the stove and filled it with water from the tap. When he lit the burner under it, some of the fight went out of him.

His adrenaline level dropped, and his pain level rose. He started searching again. A small bathroom had a first-aid kit under the sink, and he rummaged through it for pain pills. He popped four and swallowed them without a sip of water. Then he grabbed some rolled gauze, wrapping it around his wrists and using his teeth to tear off strips of tape to secure them.

The water still wasn’t boiling, so he went on another sweep of the place, looking for a phone. He had no idea how remote this cabin was, but typically hunting cabins were off the beaten path. He hadn’t seen any phone lines running through the clearing either.

After several more searches, he opened a closet. And there, next to some bed linens on the shelf, was a lantern and a satellite phone.

His heart rocketed into his throat. With an unsteady hand, he snatched it up and dialed a number he memorized the minute he took on the role of bodyguard.

He called Livia.

Heart pounding, he listened to it ring several times before going to voicemail.

“Livia.” His voice grated so roughly that the syllables almost didn’t come out. He tried again. “Livia, it’s me. My god, honey. I hope you’re all right.”

He struggled for a moment and then ended the call.

Replacing the phone on the shelf, he returned to the kitchen. The water was bubbling, and he dumped it into the open pouch of stew mix. Then it all hit him hard.

He braced his hands on the short counter, head bowed.

The struggle inside him wasn’t something he dealt with on a daily basis. He had a certain amount of PTSD, like every other SEAL he knew, but most times, he was able to stuff that shit down.

Maybe it was how close he’d come to losing more people he loved.

Hearing Livia’s voice on that voicemail recording damn near ripped out his heart.

With the pouch of food and a spoon in hand, he sank to the small wooden chair at a round table to eat, feeling like Goldilocks. A stack of old newspapers sat on the table, and he took the one off the top and opened it to read while he ate.

As he brought the food to his lips, he scanned the headline.

“Local Marine Sacrifices Life for his Country.”

Carver’s breath lodged in his throat. He stared at the familiar SEAL’s photo, his young eyes still filled with promise…and he lost it.

Forest Gracey. Oh god.

A rough cry burned up his throat.

He never fucking cried. Not since that day.

Now he couldn’t staunch the flow of tears.

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