Page 3 of D-Day

He was interrupted by Judge Kincaid, who thanked him profusely for helping his daughter and said he wanted D-Day to come back for a parade in his honor as a town hero. Then Sara, with tears flowing again, took his hand and begged him to come, telling him how much she appreciated his help. He had stepped in when no one else dared. D-Day’s blue eyes softened alongwith the tense look on his face. When she hugged him, he hugged her back, gently patting her back in comfort.

D-Day took it all in stride, but Zorro knew him like the back of his hand. He would never disrespect these people by refusing. He was too noble for that, so he would stoically endure the honor of accepting the whole thing, which, in moments, he did. There was no way he could turn down that battered woman’s plea.

Zorro knew it wasn’t funny, but he couldn’t help chuckling to himself at the pained look on D-Day’s face as he headed for the door, only to be blocked by the mob of people outside, cheering and hooting. His teammate was often quiet and reserved. He’d never seen him drunk or disorderly in all the time they had been together. But considering D-Day’s weaving walk, the cuts and bruises on his knuckles, and the swelling eye that was going to go some shade of black or blue, he’d been hella drunk and disorderly.

“Oh,shit,” D-Day said. “What the fuck?” He didn’t show much, so it was like looking at a dormant volcano and getting the sense that it wasn’t exactly inactive: magma simmered below the earth, building and building energy that had no place to go but up and out in a magnificent, epic explosion. It was going to happen, and Zorro suspected it would be soon.

“They’re here for you, amigo,” he goaded. “To get you justice.” He couldn’t help needling him. Teammates were there not only to have their combat buddy’s back but to keep them in check when they stepped out of line. SEAL justice could be harsh and exacting, but it was effective. “If you can’t handle the glory—” He paused for emphasis. “—stop saving people’s lives.”

D-Day looked at him. “I’ve already punched one guy in the face today and got away with it.”

Zorro made a derisive snort as he shot D-Day a mocking look. “It’s going to be a long drive home with that attitude.”

D-Day gave him a deadpan stare, a tenacious set to his chin, knowing that Zorro had him pegged and that he’d get nowhere trying to argue his way out of it. SEALs never went down without a fight, and D-Day wasn’t any dormant volcano. “Attitude? What attitude?”

“Yeah, someone might get punched,” Zorro said, just as deadpan.

D-Day exhaled a deep breath, looking suddenly exhausted and weary, as if he didn’t have much more fight in him. As soon as the door opened and he stepped out, there was handshaking and back-slapping. D-Day once again stoically accepted the compliments and well wishes as they steadily made it to Zorro’s car.

Once inside, the people were still calling out to him, and he waved sheepishly to them as Zorro backed out and drove away.

“My car is?—”

“Going to stay exactly where it is. I’m not going to risk a DUI on top of this fiasco.”

“I had no choice.”

“If that hadn’t gone your way, you could be in a hell of a lot of trouble. If Joker finds out….”

Raw frustration and genuine pain etched his expression as he stared at Zorro, his entire body taut as he tried to keep a firm rein on the temper and some other emotion too close to shame, which Zorro guessed was simmering right below the surface. “Are you going to tell him, Z?” D-Day’s voice wavered slightly.

He liked it better when D was angry. That statement broke his heart a little. He didn’t like seeing D-Day this way. Zorro was a healer for fuck’s sake, and without his teammate’s cooperation, his hands were tied. “No, what kind of question is that? After all we’ve been through, it’s insulting to think that I wouldn’t have your back.” He inhaled hard. “But I’m going to cut you some slack here because you’ve had a tough night, you’re drunk, andyour head is fucked up.” D-Day didn’t say anything, just rubbed the dried blood on the back of his hand.

“He doesn’t have to know you went off the ranch…deviated significantly from the expected or normal behavior, engaged in disruptive activity outside of normal bounds, out of control to what is required of a Navy SEAL.” The actual term was off the reservation, but Zorro, who was also a minority on the team, never used that idiom because it could perpetuate stereotypes and be disrespectful, especially to their teammate Dakota “Bear” Locklear—a big, tall Native American Lakota warrior and member of the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. He was their dog handler, responsible for Flint, their pitch-black, crazy good military working dog.

“Thanks for telling me of the consequences of my actions.” He was now rubbing hard at the blood. “I’m not a fucking moron,” he said through gritted teeth.

Anger nipped at his own emotions, and he snapped, “No, but you jeopardized your whole career, not to mention the possibility of putting the team under Command’s microscope. We don’t need that kind of heat, D.”

The frown creasing his brows deepened into a scowl. “Did you want me to walk away and let her get beaten to death?”

“No! Of course not. You could have chosen to drink at home, but you went looking for a fight. Didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer, just scowled, his body tensing as he stared just beyond Zorro’s eyes. His mouth tightened, and his eyes shuttered.

“Goddammit, Drew! I’m trying to help here, and you’re being difficult. So not like you. Why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong?”

D-Day’s scowl deepened as he combed his fingers through his golden hair, then closed his eyes and folded his arms over his chest, effectively shutting Zorro out.

Zorro fumed all the way back to D-Day’s condo.

He said nothing as he got out of the car and slammed the door.

Zorro watched him walk away, deciding that this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Somethingsharp and metallic intruded into the heaviness of his sleep, jerking D-Day fully upright in bed. For a moment, he was blinded by the pain in his head, face, and hands. Having stumbled his way up to his bedroom, stripping down to nothing, and falling into bed, he’d lost all track of time. He was completely wiped out, more tired than he could have possibly been when he’d fallen asleep—or perhaps “passed out” was the more accurate term. It felt like ice picks were jammed in his eyes, and tiny, but just as brutal mini-ice picks stuck in his brain, causing a tight, throbbing ache that wracked inside his skull. His mouth was dry as a bone, and his stomach rolled.

“Rise and shine, slugger.” That was Buck’s voice, and D-Day groaned and collapsed back against the headboard. He could barely see, partly because it was still dark, and the dim light in his room was even too much for his eyes. But his teammates were ringing the bed, all staring down at him. He’d think he was dreaming if it wasn’t for the goddamned pain. Buck was holding a metal pot and spoon. He prayed he wouldn’t start banging on it again.

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