Page 83 of The VIP Package

Folding my arms, I give him my full attention. “What support group?”

He glances at Kora, then back to me. “A support group for former military personnel, Mr. Holyfield.” Logan clears his throat. “Quite a few consorts—both women and men—served in their countries’ armed forces.”

“I’m aware.” I’m never sure why, but all of my Jilted Brides properties have an unusually high number of consorts with military backgrounds. “There’s a support group?”

Kora comes to the rescue. “I approved it, sir. I know how seriously you take the consorts’ mental health.”

Logan is nodding, still looking edgy. “It’s been a tremendous help for so many members of the team. Gives us a place to talk through our issues, you know?”

I had no idea. “What sort of issues?” That was incredibly crass. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to pry.” I turn back to Kora. “See that they get whatever they need for space.”

Logan clears his throat. “It’s fine, sir. I don’t mind talking about it.” He chuckles. “The support group saw to that.”

I turn back to the stoic young man with a scar snaking down his right leg. I’ve noticed before but never thought to ask what happened. The US Marines tattoo on his shoulder suggests the story involves his time in the service.

Another piece of intel to which I am not entitled. I get to my feet, not wanting to make him self-conscious. “You’re under no obligation to stir up bad memories by sharing your personal story with me. I’ll leave you alone to?—”

“Actually, sir.” Logan looks thoughtful as he watches me shove in the chair. “I’ve found that talking about trauma helps.”

“It does?” That seems odd.

“Yep.” His pale hazel eyes track my movements. “Learned that the hard way after keeping things bottled up nearly killed me.”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I stare at this man with biceps the size of watermelons. “What happened?” My voice sounds scratchy and strange. “If you truly don’t mind sharing, that is.”

“Not at all.” He shifts his stance with his feet spread apart and his hands clasped behind him. A perfect model of military parade rest. “My team and I were dispatched to a covert operation off the coast of Somalia. We got intel on a ship smuggling illegal weapons—cruise missiles, warheads, you nameit. They were en route to a terrorist cell in Yemen, and it was our job to intercept them.”

“That sounds incredibly dangerous.” I can’t even fathom that being my job.

He gives a curt nod. “That’s an understatement.” He’s relaxing a little, getting into the story. “Ten of us were commanded to take over the ship at zero-one-hundred hours. Er, one a.m.” He shifts on his feet and continues. “The plan was to seize the vessel and weapons and turn any terrorists over to authorities for prosecution.”

I can tell by his haunted expression that the mission was not a success. “Something went wrong?”

“Very.” He draws in a long, shaky breath. “It was pitch black and the water was choppy as hell. We were using a tactical ladder chucked over the other ship’s railing. Eight men made it safely on board. I made my attempt and—” He falters, breath hitching. “To this day, I’m not certain what happened. I lost my grip and went into the water. Ripped a gash in my leg on the way down, so now there’s a shark risk on top of everything else.”

“Jesus.” I’ve never set foot in the Gulf of Aden, but I don’t imagine it’s bathwater warm. “Were you wearing a life vest of some sort?”

“I deployed my floatation device when the weight of my gear started to drag me down. But something malfunctioned and—” He squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “The teammate behind me dove in to help.”

Oh, God. “He drowned?”

“No.” His throat makes a click as he swallows. “Both of us survived.”

I blink. “He survived?” This must be a close-call story. Still terrifying, nonetheless.

Reading my confusion, Logan continues. “By then, the target vessel was out of reach, so my teammate and I returned to ourship.” Another deep breath keeps him going. “We’d just climbed on board when the terrorist vessel exploded.”

“My God.” I didn’t see that coming. “Was it booby trapped?”

“That’s the assumption.” Pain fills his eyes as he speaks. “The incident report suggested the tangos knew we were coming. That they blew up their own vessel in some anti-American military revenge scheme.”

I’m almost afraid to ask this next question. “What happened to the men who’d made it on board?”

Logan looks into my eyes as he answers. “All eight men died in the explosion.”

“Oh, Jesus.” I don’t have a clue what to say. “Survivor’s guilt isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy.”

“It’s not just that.” Logan closes his eyes, drawing the strength to continue. “I was the team’s demolition expert. My job was to scan for explosives. To defuse any booby traps and ensure the safety of the rest of the team. But my careless misstep cost those eight men their lives.”

---