Page 29 of Heston
“TEAM business. Need to know,” he replied as evenly as he could.
“He offered me a job.”
“I heard.”
“I’d be working for that hardass you told me about. We might get to work together. Might even go on missions together. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Nice? Abso-fuckin’-lutely no!“I guess.”
“Come on. We were friends once. Can’t we be friends again?”
“Is that all we were? Friends? Funny. I thought we were more than that.”
“You know what I meant.”
“Do I, London? Because it sure seems that you’re the one making all the decisions about us. You had enough, you walked out. Hell, you didn’t even walk. You flew across the whole damned country. In the middle of the night! Without telling me where you were going or if you’d be back. Without even saying goodbye. Do you have any idea how unhinged I was the night you left? I looked all over Killeen for you! I called your parents! You decide you can’tdo this” —he gestured at the space between them— “whatever’s going on between us, and boom! You close down, and off you go. It doesn’t matter how hard I chase you, London, you just keep running away. One day you’ll leave and there’ll be no coming back, do you ever consider that? Second chances aren’t guaranteed. You didn’t even call to tell me where you were, that you were safe, or that we were through. I can’t do…THIS” —he whipped his hand through that empty space again— “anymore.”
Because it really was an empty space. There was nothing between them, and he wondered if there ever had been. Heston stopped to suck in a breath before he continued in a more measured tone. “You want to know why I was upset the night we fought, babe? I’ll tell you. I’d just had the mother of all bad days. The worst day of my life up to that point. But all you did the moment I opened my front door was go on and on about—”
“Enough!” Asher roared as he stomped back into the camper and slammed the door again. “Christ, I can hear you yelling over the gawddamned river. Everyone can. Tell her, damn it. You’ve talked to me about it before, now tell London what happened. Tell her everything. About those two soldiers. About the M1162 Growler. How one of them was thrown into a tree that day, forfuck sakes. Talk to her, Heston. In English. Because if you don’t, I will.”
Heston glared at the man who was supposed to have his back, not skewer him like a pork kabob over a blazing grill while he was trying to make a point.
Asher gave him his chin. “Never thought you were chicken shit, Contreras, but please. By all means, keep doing what you’re doing and you’ll prove me right.” With that, he walked out.
“Err, what’s a Growler? Isn’t it something for beer? Were those two guys… drunk” —London’s voice trailed off— “or something?”
Heston looked at her then, really opened his eyes and looked at the woman standing in front of him. The one biting her bottom lip and asking silly questions. The woman who was audacious enough to dye her hair turquoise, smart enough she’d graduated college with honors, and plucky enough to apply, then train with the FBI. The Federal Bureau of Investigation, for hell’s sake.
Tiny crystal tears spiked her long lashes, making her look more like a little girl. Turquoise hair and all.
Did she really not know what an M1162 Growler was? Then again, why would she? She’d never been military, had never served the Defense Department in any capacity. She was his age, but she hadn’t any of his experiences. Hadn’t seen combat or death or—
Shit.He glared at the floor. Pissed at Asher. The snitch. Just as pissed at himself because Asher was right. Heston hadn’t shared a single detail of his ‘bad day at the office’ with London that night. Had just jumped to conclusions, made an ass of himself, and called the woman he adored names. Which, in turn, made her defensive and determined to prove him wrong.
Which… he was.
Which… was why she’d left. Was everything his fault?Sure feels like it.
He stuck his fists deep into his jacket pockets, struggling for a way forward. Yeah, he had an ego, and he hated being wrong. Which was why he seldom was. He was that annoying over-achiever, the guy who, despite his eidetic memory, still studied all night before exams because he couldn’t accept anything less than perfect grades. He was the sergeant who checked, double-checked, and triple-checked his gear, his squads’ gear, their vehicles, the ROEs—ad nauseam. He was the surgeon with a critically ill patient, one of damned few men in the world who couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Because of his extreme over-diligence, no more men had died on Heston’s watch. None. Not in any firefight, on any foray or intel gathering mission.
Only those two privates at Fort Hood.That day.
Shit.
He lifted his gaze to London. Thank God, Asher had left.
Heston inhaled a long, deep breath and began again. One more time. Trying to fix what he’d broken. Trying like hell to be the man she deserved, not the asshat he was. “An M1162 Growler is” — another deep breath “…an Army Light Strike Vehicle, a beefed-up version of a Jeep. Seats one driver, three passengers. Two privates in my team went off-road during an exercise that same day. They shouldn’t have, but they were young and inexperienced, and they were going too fast. Hit a rut hard and lost control. I was in the truck behind them. Watched their front right wheel explode. Saw the rubber disintegrate into ribbons and steel cord. Saw the Growler flip end-over-end…”Like a damned piece of junk metal.“Watched them…”Die.
Heston stopped talking. He couldn’t speak the word. Hated remembering what he’d witnessed. His throat had gone bone-dry, and he wished he could—please—forget those two men dying. Hell, they weren’t even old enough to be called men.Certainly weren’t old enough to drink, but were considered old enough to die for their country. And die they had—for nothing.
He had carried the weight of their deaths his entire Army career, and he would carry it until the day he died. He’d been their leader. He should’ve paired each of them with an experienced soldier. But he hadn’t. Studying the floor, he swallowed hard and tried again. London needed to understand his reasoning that night. It had never been about her shortcomings, nor her dream to work for the FBI—though he’d surely made it sound that way. He ran a hand up the back of his sweaty neck. She deserved all good things in her life, she truly did. He’d been devastated, had simply struck out at the first person he’d encountered after a day that had sucked boulders.
Anyway…
“I… I stayed with Private DeAngeles. He was the passenger, the soldier ejected from the vehicle.” And he’d flown through the air like a damned straw-stuffed scarecrow shot from a cannon, his limbs loose and gangly, no helmet. Damned dumb kid. “He hit a t-tree, the only tree in sight for miles and miles…”
Heston’s voice trailed away. Son of a bitchin’ live oak. DeAngeles might have lived if he hadn’t hit it face first. Not like he could’ve missed it. The oak’s trunk was wider than the one still growing at the Alamo, and that son of a bitch was a damned monster.
