Page 50 of Hunter's Mission

“So, Hunter,” she said. “What have you been up to since you left the hospital?”

“Training military dogs mostly,” I replied tersely, annoyed that she wouldn’t open up, but expected me to.

Her eyes lit up. “Wow, that must be so rewarding.”

“It sure is. I also do work with Team Eagle, helping out on private missions with Booker and Wyatt.”

“What’s Team Eagle?” There she went again, asking questions. But Team Eagle was something I was proud of. Especially the men I worked with. “My former Navy SEAL buddies who were also injured in that aircraft carrier explosion formed an organization that works for Hank and his Brotherhood Protectors. We operate a private airline, flying personnel around to transport weapons and equipment across the country and onto foreign soil.”

“Oh wow, Hunter. I knew I’d called the right person when I rang you. So, is Team Eagle a military organization?”

“No, we take on missions the military can’t or won’t touch. Not quite black ops, but close.”

“Sounds dangerous. Was I your first mission?”

“Nope. Last month we went to Puerto Rico to rescue Callie, a DEA agent.”

“Did they save her?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t all smooth sailing though, but we got her.”

“Just like my mission, huh?”

“Yes to the mission going sideways, but no, we haven’t rescued you yet.”

“You will. I know you will. You really are a hero,” she said softly.

I turned to her, and my damned heart skipped a beat at the admiration shining in her eyes.

“Hardly.” I didn’t like praise. Not when we’d lost men in the aircraft carrier explosion. That shit was fucked up.

Picking up my pace again, I marveled at Layla's resilience. As she matched strides with me, she pointed out animals and plants, even finding a bunch of bananas that were the sweetest I’d ever tasted. The sun rose high in the sky, casting dappled shadows on the jungle floor.

Layla moved gracefully through the dense foliage, her eyes scanning for any signs of danger or sustenance. I admired her toughness and cleverness but couldn't help but question her motives for being here. Something was off, but I couldn't figure out what.

My feelings for her grew stronger by the minute, yet I fought against them by focusing on the scars crisscrossing my body, a constant reminder of the ugliness beneath my sweat-soaked shirt.

“Are you okay?” Concern flickered in Layla’s eyes.

“Fine,” I grunted, unwilling to let her see the pain gnawing at my flesh.

“It’s your scars, isn’t it?” Her voice was tentative like that of a scared child.

Ignoring her question, I pressed forward.

“I can see you’re in pain, Hunter.”

I clamped my jaw, refusing to reveal my vulnerabilities when she wouldn’t share hers.

“Hunter, I’ve seen your burns. I know what you went through.”

“So there’s no need to talk about them, is there?”

“Your pain is one of the reasons I’m out here.”

“Bullshit, Layla.” I spun to her, my patience wearing thin. “Don’t put this on me. There’s a lot more going on in that brilliant mind of yours than the fucking scars on my back.”

She swept her gaze to the river, avoiding eye contact.

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