Page 30 of Mended Hearts

But in the quiet moments, such as this, when the world around me slows down just enough…my mind roams. I can’t seem to shake the feeling seeing her evoked. I’m just as wound up now as I was then: my heart in shambles. I can’t erase the image of Brian walking up behind Echo and placing a kiss on her cheek like she’s his. She is, but in another lifetime, she was mine. Who knows, maybe in an alternate universe she still is.

Being in the war zone has become my way of life for the last thirteen years, and I’m ready to immerse myself back into what I consider my normal. While it hasn’t ridden my mind of all the noise, it helps quiet it, and for that reason alone, I’m ready to embrace the heat, the destruction, and the unknown with welcome arms. Except this time, it’s different. Instead of running to escape, I’ve run into a trap. See, that’s the problem with running. You eventually get caught.

I open my eyes skyward and take in the canvas before me. Darkness splattered with the most beautiful array of bright speckles hovers above. The proximity feels within reach. Maybe if I stretch far enough, I can steal a speck of brightness to illuminate my own darkness. And maybe if I grab enough, I can extinguish my dark altogether. I tightly shut my eyes and shake my head before lifting it back upright. What a ridiculous concept. But which thought is more farfetched? That I’m salvageable or wishing Echo could see the view above me. She would be in awe. And I would be in awe of her.

Fully dressed, with my rucksack in tow, I stand in the formation I’m all too familiar with as we wait to load up on the C-17 that will be flying our unit into enemy territory. Dread—a feeling I’m unfamiliar with—washes over me. I’m heading back to a combat zone and the only thing I’m dreading is being stuck with my new platoon sergeant. My second-in-command. Echo’s husband. My newfound responsibility. The constant reminder of what will never be mine again sleeping in the same room as me.

I stare at the matte gray monstrosity of a plane before me. Its nickname is the Moose, but it should be the Meg. Alone, this plane could easily hold five Blackhawks, with their propellers folded down. But today, it will hold us along the outer walls with pallets of supplies between us, and our Stryker trucks beneath for the next three hours. As I watch the trucks load up, I'm reminded of the nickname I gave Echo so long ago…Striker.

Conversations cease and the sound of shuffling feet fills the void as the two lines of soldiers work their way toward the ramp. I hang back, making sure everything is loaded—especially my men. Once the last man clears the ramp, I follow. Twenty-seven seats line each side wall. All metal and nylon, resembling a bunch of mini trampolines. Stopping at the second to last seat from the ramp, I sit; thankful that, unlike a trampoline, the material beneath me is taut against the metal frame. The spot to my right is vacant, and I pray Sergeant Trae Greyson, to my left, is quiet. I let my head fall back against the inner wall and glance above me. The plane looks like an unfinished contraption of wires and cables fully exposed. It reminds me of the atlas my dad used on family road trips; different colored lines going every which direction. Very confusing and hard to decipher to the untrained eye. I used to wonder if they ran out of money while assembling these beasts, but soon found out it serves a purpose. Not only was this thing built for maximum efficiency for capacity, but it was also built for maximum efficiency for functionality. It wasn’t built to be pretty but effective, and time has a way of getting in the way of effectiveness. With everything exposed as it is, things get fixed in record time. Because when in a war zone, you don’t have time to spare.

The clicking of seat belts steals my attention, and I grab the buckle, securing it across my waist as someone walks down the line in front of us, verifying all the cargo pallets are fully secure. I lean my head back again and let my eyes fall shut. I’m used to the heaviness they carry but hoping for some relief.

“Is this seat taken?” the lively voice asks, causing my heart rate to speed up with recognition. Of course. As if the universe hasn’t screwed my life enough. I open my eyes and see Brian standing in front of me. I glance over at the empty seat and then up at him.

“Seems to be,” I reply.

Then his chipper ass sits down, and I contemplate two things:

Suicide.

And murder.

Chapter Twenty-One

DUSTIN

“Here we go!” a soldier farther down yells with a little too much enthusiasm. The seat belt signal clicks on, warning us of the incoming nosedive. That’s the thing about flying into enemy territory. You get in and out without getting shot down. Meaning you have a ridiculously short window to do both.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this part.” Brian rubs his palms up and down his thighs. “The whole not being able to see our surroundings as we drop out of the sky doesn’t help.” He looks over, giving me a nervous grin.

“At least we wouldn’t know we were going to die. We’d just be dead. And it’d be quick.”

“Tell that to the newbie.”

I follow his gaze over to see a statuesque, paler than normal Greyson to my left, staring off with eyes wide as saucers.

“Breathe, Sergeant Greyson. Or you’ll pass out,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “And clench your butthole. So you don’t shit your pants.”

The plane dips downward and we all follow suit, falling to the side before righting ourselves. Except Greyson. His body hangsover like a limp noodle. I grab his arm, pulling him upright against the side wall as much as I’m able to during the descent.

“I swear to God if you hurl,” I mumble, securing my arm across his chest. He comes to, frantically looking around like a lost kid in a flea market. “Welcome back.” I smack his chest a couple times as the plane straightens itself before coming to an abrupt halt, tossing us into one another like a pendulum. Once the jostling of cargo and bodies stills, the unbuckling of seat belts clanking echoes around us.

Echo.

And without warning, Greyson’s body lurches forward, remnants of his last meal splattering on the floor.

THE SUN SHINES brightly, too brightly, and I wonder why the fireball is likened to happiness. Something that literally burns you shouldn’t boost one’s mood. Yet it does. Well, not here. Here it’s a reminder of where we are—hell on earth. Besides the whole gnashing of teeth, I’m pretty sure the temperature here is set onhelldegrees.

Thankfully, I’m familiar with this operating base and know where to find our company commander. We’re only here until the alternating platoon returns and we move out, but I need to know precisely how long we have to get our Stryker uparmored. I begin making my way through the makeshift village we’ve created out of abandoned buildings and homes made of rock and cement.

“Hey, Adams. Wait up.” The sound of feet padding the ground inches closer, but I don’t wait. “Do you know our orders?” Brian asks, now walking in step with me.

“Heading that way now.”

“Is it cool if I go with you?”

“Listen,” I say. “I hate dumb questions. So instead of asking just do unless I say otherwise.”

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