Page 128 of Severed Heart
“I will. Take care, brother. Come home when you can... and Tyler?”
“Yeah?”
“I need you to come home,” Tobias whispers roughly. Another pause. “Wealldo.”
She’s there, and maybe she’s listening, but I tamp down the idea his words were in any way specific to her. His order isn’t hers. She made her decision, and I’m living it. Making peace as I pull into the parking lot, I swallow down the fact that even if Tobias’s request included her, it’s not enough.
“Fuck,” he exhales, “all I can see right now is that lanky kid mowing my lawn,” he croaks hoarsely. When I let out a chuckle at that, and he doesn’t, the mutual sting increases over the line.
“Come back to us,” he finally says, “thatisa fucking order.”
“Love you too, brother.”
Neither of us hangs up, holding onto the seconds we have left as they start to tick out.
I told him that if I got the call, I would have to keep my distance from the club indefinitely to ensure my new bosses don’t pick up on my extracurriculars. This means my involvement in the club ceases entirely until I’m sure I’m not being watched outside of it. We never told Sean or Dom that I would be seeking this invitation because of the likelihood it wouldn’t come. But now that it’s here, the surreal reality is that in doing this, living this decision means there will be stints, some of them long, where I lose all ties and ability to protecther, protect them all.
When the line finally goes dead, I exhale a long breath. As of this moment, and for the foreseeable future, I’m completely on my own.
Here we fucking go.
* * *
FALL 2011
Syrian Border
Thirteen Months Later
BLINK.
Scanning the terrain in the pitch dark with night vision, my inkling pays off the second I spot the first few of multiple, heavily armed bodies creeping in our direction. Snapping to as my adrenaline ramps up, I address everyone on the wire. “Eyes! Wake up! We’ve got company.”
Shultz and Ramirez, both from my branch along with Stuart, are the first to respond, their surprise sounding over the line. Just as I thought and voiced, we fucked up by stopping for the night to get a few needed hours of shut-eye. The majority won against my protests to put more distance between ourselves and the aftermath we left hours ago. Outvoted, I positioned us on the defensive, opting to keep watch while feeling ill at ease the entire time. It’s a fine line between trying to stay sharp while sleep-deprived, no matter how well-trained we are. This has been our longest stint so far in the field due to difficulties in initially reaching our target, and our tanks are running dangerously low.
Armstrong, a seasoned Army Ranger, crawls over to me, reaching me in seconds, his goggles lifted as he sounds out his count. “We’ve got twenty, fuck, twenty-threecoming straight for us, two with fucking RPGs in hand. Stuart!” Armstrong summons.
Positioned a half click ahead and to our right with several of our able bodies at his disposal, Stuart clips out his own count. “We’re made. We’re fucking made, my count is the same. Two clicks and closing.”
“Then it’s a fair fight,” I bark over the line, “don’t give me that defeated tone, Stuart, and don’t forget who we fucking are. You’ll just have to get your beauty rest later.”
Armstrong shoots me a blinding white grin that would be visible without night goggles. He’s been my favorite to work with so far out of the teams built in my time with the Global Response Staff. Stuart, whom I met days ago when we landed for this mission, is fast becoming my least. It’s clear that during his short stint here he’s realized he was better off taking security detail and escort jobs for US diplomats rather than participating in field missions. As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead weight. But as team leader, Stuart’s fate is in my hands, as well as the others currently unaccounted for to our left.
“Hey assholes, wake up, or are you too busy bouncing beach balls on your noses?” I bark over the line.
“Fuck you, Jennings, we’ve got the same count on both sides.” McCormick claps back, a highly decorated Navy Seal who came into the mission wheels hot a mere nine hours ago. Company I’m thankful for because he doesn’t fucking miss once he’s got a target in his crosshairs. Ever.
“What’s your position?” I ask.
“Where you put us three hours ago, dick. Two clicks and closing,” he rings out in reminder.
“By my count, that’s six sexy Seals, two romp-ready Rangers, and at leastthreewell-endowed Marines—sorry, Stuart,” Armstrong quips. “And I’m going to have to agree with Jennings. I happen to like our fucking odds,” he says, lifting his rifle to keep his scope on our approaching company.
“Fuck you, Armstrong. Jennings?” Stuart prompts, his panic evident.
“Clear the line,” I snap. “I’m thinking.”
“Mind speeding that up a bit?” Shultz clips before McCormick sounds up.
