Page 105 of Walking Wounded

“The Marines, you know,” he continues. “They’re not the Army. They don’t sell it to them like it’s a diplomatic adventure. They know it’s a battle; they know their job is to kill.” He smiles, a little. “My father told us he didn’t want us to join the military. ‘Do anything else,’ he said. ‘Make something of yourselves.’ But after listening to his stories, I wanted to be a Marine. I wanted to serve my country. I wanted to protect people. I guess I wanted to make him proud.”

“So you did. And then you went into politics.”

Matt nods. “There are multiple ways to fight for what you believe in, to stand up for the little guy. In a perfect world, that’s what a politician does. So I was on debate team, and Mathletes. Poli sci degree, law degree. The Corps. I rode this self-righteous, punkass wave of thinking I was going to make a difference for so long. And then I started my senate campaign…and I learned Capitol Hill isn’t so different from the battlefield. Some people think you’re saving them. Some people want your head.

“I’m not sure my family gets it, sometimes. Dad told me, a few months ago, that there was no shame in giving up, if there wasn’t a way forward. So I asked him if that’s what the Marines would do – give up.” Matt laughs at the memory. “He said, ‘Fuck no! What do you take us for? The Army?’”

“You’ve had death threats,” Luke says, quietly, because now he gets it. It isn’t just about a threat – it’s about people’s true intentions to kill this man.

“This job, it’s important,” Matt says. “A lot of days I feel like I’m charging up that hill all by my lonesome. But I’m not going to give up. If we can’t affect change in our government, if we have to just sit back and accept that the system is corrupt, and that only those in the inner circle have any say-so…well, then, that’s not America anymore. That’s a Third World dictatorship. This is the good fight, it’s my fight. I can’t go away just because someone wants me dead.”

Luke lets it sink in, all of it. “So you keep fighting, and Maxwell’s off the hook?”

“He did his homework. Found someone with jihadist ties so it looks like another lone wolf bombing. Paid the guy in cash, which I’m guessing there are no prints on. Somehow, extraction went wrong. Davis got spirited away without the money. But in any event, there’s nothing that points back to Maxwell. So.” Matt makes a face likewhat can I do?

“What if,” Luke says, leaning forward and wincing at the way the movement pulls at his ribs. “What if someone stepped forward as a witness, and said Maxwell was low-key threatening you?”

“Luke.” Matt’s expression softens, paternal and sad. “I would never ask you to do that.”

“But would it help?”

“It might. But it might damage your career. It might put a target on your back. I can’t let you take that kind of risk for me.” His eyes flick to the window again – to Hal’s menacing profile stamped against the morning light, coat swirling around his calves.

“You’re worried about what Hal would think?” Luke grumbles. “I make my own decisions, you know.”

“I know.” Matt’s eyes come back, full of a smile. “But what I’ve learned about partnerships is that when it comes to life-altering decisions, you have to talk it out first, no matter what you end up deciding.”

Luke sighs and slumps back against the settee. Shit, he’s tired.

“Also…” Tiny cracks splinter Matt’s voice. “I think you’ve gotten hurt enough on my behalf.”

“Huh.” Luke snorts. “Maybe I’ve developed a hero complex all of a sudden.”

~*~

The packed gravel of the driveway crunches under his shoes, a sound to punctuate the slowness of his stride. It’s cold out, the wind tugging at him, and now he’s glad Sandy caught him heading out the front door and insisted he put on a cedar-smelling coat and hat from the front closet. He shivers and snuggles deeper into the collar. The thermos in his hand feels heavier than it should, and he thinks maybe this was a fool’s errand. He hates illness and injury; ordinary, everyday tasks turn into Olympic events.

Hal hears his approach and turns, surprise, gladness, and dismay all warring for supremacy on his wind-nipped face. He walks forward to meet Luke, arms outstretched. “Baby, what are you doing out here? It’s cold.”

“I’m a little banged up, I’m not dying,” Luke complains, but is grateful for the strong arm that goes around him. “Shit, I hate this.”

“I know you do.”

“God, you sound like someone’s mother.”

Hal laughs, breath pluming white in the cold air. “That’s what a guy wants to hear. But seriously, what are you doing out here? Bored already?”

Luke makes a face. Ugh, this cheerful fool, trying to downplay how fucking dangerous this situation is. “Only you would be this happy in the cold,” he says, and offers the thermos. “Here, I brought you a refill.”

“Thanks, you didn’t have to do that.” Hal looks genuinely thankful, and delighted. About something as simple as coffee. He takes the thermos and leans in for a kiss.

Luke almost wishes he wouldn’t, since he’s all bruised and gross. Almost.

“All’s quiet on the western front?” he asks, trying not to shiver.

Hal scans the yard, the tree line, nodding. “So far.”

“They found the payoff at the bomber’s apartment. Without cash in-hand, I doubt he’ll finish the job.”

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