Page 7 of D-Day

Buck’s eyes narrowed. “You know which sister.”

Playing it off like he wasn’t dying inside, he said way more nonchalantly than he felt, “Why would this have anything to do with her?”

The silence was so strained, so brittle, that D-Day felt it right down to his bones. His expression hardened, a glint of steel in his eyes, Buck finally scoffed. “Suit yourself.” The muscles of his jaw taut, his expression compressed into hard lines. He dragged his gaze away, releasing a heavy sigh. “Let’s go. We wouldn’t want to miss a troop movement.”

Too numb to respond with so many painful emotions churning around in him, he followed Buck out.

At the plane, he settled into one of the webbed seats, and closed his eyes, closed out all the noise, the stares, the speculation. He could only be glad to be deploying. If he was going to manage all this shit he was dealing with, he needed something physical to do, something where he could put histraining, his aggression, and his body in gear and his thoughts into neutral.

That hollow feeling returned, and he was that nowhere man again, just shards, jumbled up, adrift, alone.

When D-Day woke up,his head and mood hadn’t changed much. He opened his eyes to the bare-bones interior of the C-130. His face and ribs were sore but manageable, at least compared to other injuries he’d experienced in his time as a defender of the downtrodden, and a SEAL.

His thoughts switched to the mission at hand, aware that he had no clue where they were or why, as he’d missed the initial brief. Overhead, the pounding sound of a downpour beat against the ceiling of the plane, sounding like a metallic roar, telling him that they were in for a miserable offload. He leaned over and said, “Where exactly are we?”

Zorro grinned. “Right, you were absent. Caracas.”

“Venezuela?”

“Yep. Tropical paradise, failed petrostate.”

“Why?”

“We’re getting involved in a transfer of diamonds for some powerful stolen military weapons. The ATF stumbled across the transaction, and we’re going to?—”

“Let’s move,” Joker said, grabbing his backpack. D-Day rose along with his teammates and gathered up their personal gear—the tactical gear and weapons were handled by an enlisted sailor—and started to make way to the huge offramp suddenly grinding open. Beyond the ramp, sheets of rain poured down out of the swollen clouds and splattered against the glossy black pavement of the tarmac. Thunder rumbled, lightning flashed,rain sweeping in, lifting his too-long hair, the smell of wet asphalt and dirt strong.

A memory stabbed at him. It had been raining in the field where they’d left him, bloody, aching inside and out, humiliated as the storm blew across the wet, slippery field, his shivering uncontrollable and pathetic. He’d tried to get loose, but the bonds on his hands and feet were punishingly strong. He had let down his guard, stupidly, and he’d been crushed by his own emotions, wanting something he couldn’t have, something that was out of his reach…something that scared him down to the bone…like Helen, something he wasn’t sure he could trust in again…himself.

He started to move toward the ramp, but Joker’s hand came out and pressed against his chest, stopping him.

“What the fuck happened to your face?” he asked in a cutting tone, scowling blackly, his gaze dipping down to D-Day’s knuckles.

“Boxing,” Zorro said quickly. “We went at it and things got out of hand.”

D-Day’s gut clenched at Zorro’s lie, once again cutting Joker out of the loop because he was their commanding officer, but D-Day knew it was because he didn’t want to deal with the fallout of his near-miss incarceration and the whole fight coming to light. There was a lot of regret and anxiety over how Joker would perceive it, even though he’d been protecting that young girl. That part he couldn’t regret.

“Do I look like a mushroom?” Joker asked.

“No, sir,” Zorro said.

“Then why are you feeding me shit?”

Neither of them said anything, then Zorro started. “Sir?—”

“Get off the plane, Zorro.” His buddy sent D-Day an apologetic glance, then obeyed. When Joker was in that kindof mood, he was unpredictable, and it didn’t bode well for his subordinates to get on that kind of bad side.

As soon as they were alone, Joker stepped closer. “I know something is going on with you. You look like shit, you’ve been drinking, something I know you don’t do, and there’s something behind your eyes I don’t like.”

“LT, I’m fine.” He had to remain numb; focusing on the job was going to get him through this rough patch.

“Like hell you are. You’re too hard on yourself, often pushing yourself even beyond a SEAL’s limits. You’re either going to talk to me, one of your teammates, or the team shrink. After this mission, you make the decision.”

D-Day felt locked up and uncomfortable with keeping secrets from his CO and teammates, especially regretting the doubt that crept up when it came to trusting his team. But he had trusted once like that, and it came back to bite him in the end. It felt like running with shackles on, and he hated making Joker feel all over again that he was the odd man out when it came to openness in the team dynamic.

“And, get a damn haircut,” Joker growled before turning on his heel and leading the way out.

D-Day sent his hands through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, and rubbing the stubble on his face. Well, at least he would fit right in with cutthroats, blood diamond thieves, and gun runners.

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