Page 40 of Doing Life

He and Radar had been doing their job searching for danger, and the light coming off the sand and the stone and the vehicles had made it so fucking hot his brain had felt as if it was melting in his helmet.

“Hate this shit, Sarge.” Yarrow swallowed hard, the kid’s eyes rolling, showing their whites.

“We just have to get Simpson in to assess the situation. Keep it together and we’ll be out of here in a hot minute.” He glanced over at Lance, who shot him a shit-eating grin. Two more weeks and then they were on leave. They already had their hotel rooms in Japan booked. They were going to the mountains to cool the fuck off and then fuck like bunnies. Two more weeks. “Radar, seek.”

“Yavar!Yavar!”

Sloan saw the woman run out, her brightly colored clothes covered with blood like some sick, wet addition to the embroidery, a screaming infant in her arms. Jesus.

How could a little baby have that much blood in it?

Lance frowned, and Radar barked once, alerting. “Wodariga!”

The land mine had been planted right in front of the school, the fucking thing right there. Right there, and he swore it was glowing, throbbing as if it was a cartoon character, laughing at him.

Warning him that everything was about to change forever if he didn’t move fast enough.

If he didn’t fix it.

“Simpson! No!” Yarrow’s scream had him whipping his head around and he’d be damned if Lance wasn’t heading right for the mine and the civilian.

Lance hit her at a run, trying to push her and the baby to safety.

Radar was barking furiously, warning them all to back off. Lance was running. The mine was laughing at him.

Laughing at him as the world went white and stones rained down.

Stones and bodies and fire, as if God Himself had called them down, and all he could hear was barking as he lost his best friend and his lover.

“Okay, Abby. Find the chair. Find the chair.”

Someone was pulling him, tugging his arm, and all of a sudden he was sitting on a bench, and Lance’s hand was on his chest, solid, grounding him.

He gasped for breath, sweat dripping into his eyes. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, babe. I’m sorry.” His lips felt stiff and hard, the movement not quite right. He gagged, and Abby fucking climbed up on him, her upper body on his legs, weighing him down.

Lance kept touching him, coming around behind the bench to rub his shoulders, digging in to make his muscles relax.

Shit, he was just—losing it.

“Lance.”

“I got you. That was a stupid thing for me to ask. I’m sorry.”

He whooped for breath. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” It was his job to not be freaked out by shit anymore, dammit. Sloan couldn’t be a cop if he couldn’t cope with this.

“It’s not okay. I should never have asked that.” Lance patted his shoulder.

Way to make things awkward, Ferguson.

Lance kept rubbing his shoulders, fingers digging in. “I didn’t think.”

He started petting Abby, rubbing her ears and her forehead. When he got to her chest, though, he found her harness and that brought him fully back out of his nightmare of memories.

Abby was working.

Not only was Abby working, but Lance had managed to get them across the golf course and onto a bench.

While he was freaking out.

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