Page 48 of The Art of Dying

Mack kissed my cheek before making her way to the tin in Sloan’s hands.

“I’ll take that,” Mack said.

Sloan resisted. “No, ma’am. It’s heavy, a whole lotta ribs in there.”

“Enough to feed an army, I hope?” Mack said, gesturing to the place on the counter she wanted Sloan to place the tin.

“More than that. We’re feeding Marines,” he said.

“Oorah!” I called.

“OORAH!” several men called from the door.

Our former neighbor, Kepner, ducked under the door frame and walked in with a smile. He didn’t score high enough for special teams, but he kept an eye on the wives when we were outside the wire, and we watched his house and his cat, Dorito, while he was deployed. Once in a while, though, we’d end up downrange together.

Right behind him was Scott Trexler, our young but effective captain, and Othello Martinez, our team’s SARC, a Navy Corpsman and the only non-Marine in the bunch. They strolled into the parlor and then joined us in the kitchen, casserole dishes in hand.

Everyone was all smiles. They all looked forward to the cookouts Mack hosted every Sunday afternoon when we were home and attended faithfully.

I looked at my watch. “Where’s Matt and Naomi? And didn’t we invite Hawk’s guys?” I asked, looking toward the door.

“Don’t you hear that damn Chevy of his?” Martinez asked. “They just pulled up.”

“What the hell are they doing out there?” I asked, walking over to the window.

Matt Abrams and his brand-new wife Naomi were standing outside with Hawk’s team, all of them holding tins full of food. Matt was standing behind Naomi with a big grin on his face, proud of whatever story she was telling large, seasoned Marines, who were listening intently to the petite brunette standing before them, all clearly amused.

Naomi’s punchline had them all breaking the semi-circle around her, shaking with laughter.

Matt balanced the dish in his hand while he held the door open for his wife, and she stepped inside, followed by the last of our guests.

“I found ’em,” Matt said. “They asked Naomi to tell Gibby about the time she and her dad sent eighteen cartel members running for their lives.”

I raised my brows and nodded. “When she was eleven? And her flipping them the bird? It’s one of my favorites.”

Matt leaned over to kiss her forehead, beaming with pride. Matt towered over her, but she still looked like she could take him. They couldn’t be more opposite: he was the strong silent type and had just recently let his hair grow out from the customary high-and-tight from our active-duty days. She’d recently cut her hair to just past chin length with bangs. He was always polite, but outside his core group, he only spoke without being prompted when he had something important to say. Naomi always seemed to unload a quip at the perfect moment. She was more outgoing, smiled twice as much, and she regarded a stranger the same way she did a friend. It wasn’t that Naomi was naïve, the militias were just trained differently. Military assessed a situation and planned for variables and deviations. Militia was all about engage and adjust. Matt was the rock; Naomi was the heart.

“I was just asking about you, partner,” I said, grabbing his hand and pulling him in for a side hug and a back slap.

“You keepin’ this one in line, Nomes?” I asked, bringing her in for a hug.

“You expect the impossible, Kitsch,” she teased. She handed me a small stack of envelopes. “Must have had a substitute postal worker. Your mail came to our house two days in a row.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking them and placing them on the counter.

“Gibby!” I said, patting his shoulder. He was the newest and youngest operator of Hawk’s MSOT, and he’d already been on two ops.

Hawk, Jackson, Ganesh, Lenny, and Farber followed him in, still chuckling over Naomi’s famous militia tales. Naomi was a bad ass. No doubt about it.

“Hey, guys!” Mack said, hugging each of them. “Come on in. You can set everything on the table.”

“What’s it like?” Martinez asked. “Now that you’re not constantly writing papers and studying?”

Naomi grinned. “Let’s just say I’d much rather be a college graduate than a college student. I can read for fun again.”

“Well, I’m proud of you,” Martinez said.

Naomi high-fived him.

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