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“Don’t you remember what it was like to be seventeen?”

Their gazes collided across space and time. At seventeen Bruce had been her whole world. He’d broken her heart then and he’d broken it again later. Both times because he’d chosen the Marine Corps over her.

“No,” he denied, taking the stapler from her. The brush of his hand took Mitzi by surprise. Every scarred knuckle, every callus on his palm was as familiar to her as the memory of his touch.

“Me either,” she lied. Heaven help her, she wasn’t seventeen anymore and it was hard for her to resist.

But resist him she would.

Dear Reader,

Sometimes a story starts with a spark and other times it takes several sparks to set off that explosion, as was the case with Gunnery Sgt. Bruce Calhoun, USMC. June 20, 2003, marked the beginning of a year-long trial in which eighty-one Marines and five Navy hospital corpsman began training to integrate into Navy SEAL teams. Also, the wounded started coming home from war and amputees returning to duty were making headlines. In those cumulating events I discovered my hero.

I chose the city of Englewood in the shadow of Denver, Colorado, for its small-town feel. The VA hospital mentioned in this story is fictional—the real one is in Denver.

That detail isn’t the only blurring of reality and fiction. The Englewood Navy Recruiting Station, where I enlisted and worked as a receptionist before shipping off to boot camp, no longer exists. Including a JROTC program as part of the high school curriculum was a stretch because Junior Reserve Officers Training Corps is offered in Denver schools. I made the compromise because JROTC was an important part of my formative years.

I wanted to give my Marine a nice, cushy desk job in a state with a small Marine contingent so making him a recruiter seemed like a good option. Cushy being tongue-in-cheek as the job of a recruiter is not an easy one.

As for his heroine, Navy recruiter, Chief Petty Officer Mitzi Zahn, I didn’t have to look farther than a margin note in a previous manuscript by my editor, Victoria Curran. She wanted to know more about the high school sweetheart who ran from his hospital room. The idea intrigued and as I wrote, I discovered exactly what these two characters were running from—and toward. I hope you enjoy their journey.

You can contact me via my website www.rogennabrewer.com.

Rogenna Brewer

Mitzi’s Marine
Rogenna Brewer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

When an aptitude test labeled her suited for librarian or clergy, Rogenna attempted to shake that good-girl image by joining the U.S. Navy. Ever the rebel, she landed in the chaplain’s office, where her duties included operating the base library. Far from being bored, our romantic adventurer served Navy, Coast Guard and Marine Corps personnel as a chaplain’s yeoman in such exotic locales as Midway Island and the Pentagon. But even before she shipped off to boot camp, Rogenna worked as a receptionist for the now defunct recruiting station re-created, and somewhat embellished, for this story.

For my recruiter, Petty Officer George Sandoval,

Station manager Master Chief Bill Moore

and

Davis Faunce, ENC (Ret)

Because he kept the engraved pen I gave him as I

was leaving for boot camp, then sent it back to me

all these years later for an autograph.

Thanks, Chief, for your quick quips and

answers to my questions.

A special thanks to Annette and her

Marine recruiter husband, Charles, who probably

doesn’t remember answering my many

questions all those years ago.

Any mistakes I’ve made or liberties I’ve taken

are my own.

To reconnect with shipmates, I look for them

online at

Togetherweserved.com.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHIEF PETTY OFFICER Mitzi Zahn entered the storefront Navy/Marine Corps recruiting station. Navy to the left. Marine Corps to the right. The path up the middle was known as the DMZ, demilitarized zone. Potential recruits stepping onto that worn patch of blue carpet were fair game.

For the past several months Mitzi had had the hunting grounds to herself. Which was why the jarhead standing beside her desk, holding the only framed photo to be found there, made her natural territorial instincts kick in.

Letting the heavy glass door swing shut on the sounds of the midweek morning rush, Mitzi cleared her throat. “You must be the new Marine.”

Leatherneck looked up, unapologetic.

She couldn’t help it—she shivered. Penetrating green eyes, eyes she knew to be hazel when he wasn’t decked out in that belted olive drab uniform, gave her service khaki blouse and pants the once-over.

“Mitzi,” he said in a timbre that penetrated even deeper than those eyes.

“Calhoun.” She caught her breath as she said his name for the first time in over a year—months of devastating loss from which she was just beginning to recover.

“Have I changed that much?” he asked.

She glanced at the photo in his hand and shook her head. “I don’t know, maybe,” she confessed, her answer running the gambit of her emotions.

Somewhere along the way the man she’d fallen in love with had become a lean, battle-hardened Marine. And even though she’d been there for most of the ten-year transformation, it was as if she was seeing him for the first time.

But he wasn’t the only one with battle scars.

“What brings you here, Calhoun?”

The obvious answer was military orders.

He’d left his garrison cap and an official-looking folder on the chair in front of her desk. He was dressed for travel in his service uniform. Sharp military creases in his pants, despite the fact that he’d probably spent hours on an airplane.

“It’s good to see you, too,” he said in that all-too-familiar tone. “Nice new uniform.”

She snatched the picture from him, then set it back down on her desk with deliberate finality. “It’s Chief Petty Officer Zahn now,” she said, stowing her hat and handbag in the bottom right-hand drawer. The move served to put her behind the gunmetal-gray desk and in the power position.

After all, they were on more than just opposite sides of a piece of government furniture. If he was the new Marine recruiter, then he was her competition.

“Chief,” he acknowledged.

Challenge resonated in that single word.

“A chief is the Navy equivalent of a Marine Corps gunnery sergeant,” she reminded him. In case he thought that extra stripe on his sleeve meant he outranked her. “Gunny.”

“For the record, Zahn, I still have date of rank on you.” He’d graduated from high school and enlisted in the Marine Corps two years before she’d joined the Navy.

He’d always been at least one pay grade ahead of her. But she’d exceeded all her recruiting quotas, and one of the perks for superior performance was advancement.

“Okay, then…” Just because they were no longer friends didn’t mean she wanted to make an enemy of him. “Now that that’s settled… Still take your coffee black?”

“Black’s fine.”

“I like cream and sugar. You’ll find the coffee mess and everything you need right over there.” She nodded in the general direction of the alcove that led to the back of the building. “Feel free to help yourself,” she said, in case her message needed a little reinforcement.

Do not expect me to wait on you.

Waiting on him held a whole other meaning for her.

“Like I said, Chief, can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Thank you, yes,” she responded with a saccharine-sweet smile. She’d make it through today the way she’d made it through any other. By faking it. Turning her attention to the papers piled on her desk, Mitzi struggled to keep her composure.

She’d gotten really good at faking it.

“And Gunny…” She looked up as he started to walk away, noticed the hitch in his step and hesitated. He turned. It was nothing short of a miracle to see him walking again. “Please don’t touch anything on my desk,” she said, forcing herself not to get caught up in the drama of their shared past. “We have a no-poaching policy in this office.”

He stared at her as if she’d been the one caught rifling his desk instead of the other way around. “Isn’t it time we called a truce?”

“A truce?”

“We’re going to be working together.” He gestured toward the empty desk on the opposite side of the room. Just as she’d suspected. He wasn’t here for her. Would it have made a difference?

Maybe. Maybe not.

They’d been the best of friends once. More than friends. Now they were…what? Not friends. Not enemies.

He wanted a truce. There was a time when she’d wanted nothing more than to surrender to those hazel-green eyes.

“Bruce Calhoun, Gunnery Sergeant, USMC.” He offered his hand. “Marine Corps recruiter, at your service.”

She heard the self-reproach behind his words.

For Calhoun there’d be nothing worse than riding out his career behind a desk. For her she’d like nothing better. She’d gotten used to the idea of being home again.

The telephone rang.

Taking a deep breath, Mitzi ignored his outstretched hand and picked up the phone. “Navy Recruiting, Englewood Station. Chief Zahn speaking.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Cream and sugar.”

CREAM AND SUGAR. As if he needed the reminder.

Dumping two packets into the paper cup, Bruce studied Mitzi while she talked on the telephone. She might not outrank him, but she’d outmaneuvered him.

All of five foot nothing—if he hadn’t seen her in action it would’ve been hard to believe she rescued guys like him for a living.

California. BUD/S training. A lifetime ago.

Before Iraq.

Before he’d decided he wasn’t worth saving.

If there’d been a spark of something left for him in those columbine-blue eyes, he’d have been here long before now. But there wasn’t anything left. Not that he could blame her. He wasn’t here to compare her eyes to the state flower.

Bruce scowled at the cup in his hand. He’d reached a new low in his ten-year military career, stirring cream and sugar into coffee with a swizzle stick.

His commanding officer had recommended recruiting school as a way to keep his mind active while his injured body went through the rigors of a long rehabilitation at Balboa—the Naval Medical Center in San Diego.

Recommendations, requests…mere suggestions from a superior were the same as an order to a Marine. And orders were meant to be obeyed without question.

When voluntold, he did his job—whether that job involved pushing himself to the limit in some war-torn Middle Eastern country or pushing a pencil in his own hometown.

But this was by far his toughest assignment to date. It was clear she didn’t want him here any more than he wanted to be here. Did she blame him for her brother’s death? As he blamed himself?

The door opened and Bruce looked up to see the United States Army stride in. Tall and fit. Desert cammies and combat boots. The guy looked as if he’d walked off one of those Army recruiting posters next door. He carried a drink tray with two large cups of McDonald’s coffee.

Bruce instantly recognized the enemy for who and what he was and put down the coffee he’d been stirring.

“Cream and sugar,” Army announced, leaning in for a kiss just as Mitzi hung up the phone.

She pulled back with a quick glance in Bruce’s direction. With that less-than-subtle rejection, the other man noticed Bruce tucked into the alcove.

“Didn’t see you standing there,” he apologized. “You must be the new Marine recruiter.” He took two steps in Bruce’s direction and held out his hand. “First Sergeant Daniel Estrada, 10th Mountain Division.”

Just his luck they were all the same enlisted pay grade. Though Bruce doubted Mitzi had given this guy the same speech she’d given him.

“Calhoun,” Bruce said, refusing to meet the other man halfway. “And you must be the new boyfriend.”

Nice Guy Estrada had already bridged the gap and was in the middle of a firm handshake. He stopped short of an over-the-shoulder double take at the photo on Mitzi’s desk and the man he was shaking hands with as realization dawned. His smile became tight. Forced. “Nice to meet you,” Estrada lied smoothly.

“Dan teaches JROTC at the high school.”

Bruce grunted in acknowledgment. His own four years in Junior Reserve Officers Training Corps had earned him a couple extra stripes out of boot camp.

“He also coaches the boys’ basketball team,” she added after an awkward silence. “Bruce is Keith’s brother,” she said to Estrada.

Half brother. But that was neither here nor there.

They were brothers. They had the same mother, but Keith’s father was Bruce’s paternal uncle. Yeah, a real blended—as in blurred—family.

“Calhoun, of course—I should have realized,” Estrada said. “Bright kid. Bright future. Couple of college scouts interested.”

“Bruce played basketball in high school,” Mitzi said. She could stop trying to cement a bond. That was never going to happen.

“Still play?” Estrada asked.

“Not in a long time.” Bored by the subject, Bruce checked his watch. “Excuse me, I was just heading out for a haircut.” He picked up his hat from the chair and nodded to her on his way to the door.

As if her kissing another man had no effect on him whatsoever, he added his blessing. “Carry on.”

“YOU FORGOT TO MENTION the new Marine was your Marine.” Dan picked up the photo Bruce had been holding when she walked in. “He’s not my Marine.” Mitzi took it from him. The picture was of her, her brother and Bruce. “This is the last picture taken of my brother before he was killed.”

“I’m sorry,” Dan apologized. “Jealousy is one of my less attractive traits. I could make you a list of some of my more positive ones.”

She couldn’t help but smile, relieved that with Bruce gone, some of the tension she’d been feeling had dissipated.

“For example,” he said, perching on the corner of her desk. “I always put the cap back on the toothpaste. And I grew up with three sisters, so I learned early on to put the toilet seat down. Have you made up your mind yet, about Vail?”

They weren’t quite at the toothpaste-and-toilet-seat stage of a relationship yet—just a couple casual dates—but she could see herself with him. Dan had asked her to co-chaperone a class ski trip in Vail over the Thanksgiving weekend. He owned a cabin there and took his senior class skiing every year.

“Sure, why not?” The kids would be their chaperones as much as they’d be theirs. She saluted him with the cup in her hand. Taking a sip, Mitzi mulled over the need for honesty in a new relationship. She decided on full disclosure in this case. “He was my Marine,” she confessed. “I mean, we were engaged. But that’s all in the past.”

“Okay…” Dan glanced at the snapshot, then back at her. “Just let me know when you’re ready to Photoshop him out of the picture.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got a class to teach.”

“Danny,” Mitzi called as he reached the door. “See you tonight?”

“Of course.” Without hesitation he stepped back in to give her a quick kiss before heading out again.

Relieved, Mitzi sank to her seat. Wrapping her hands around the warm paper cup, she stared out the glass front at the slushy, snow-covered street and hoped she hadn’t sounded desperate.

Dan had been stopping by on his way to school every morning for weeks. He’d flirted his way to a first date. Then last night she’d taken him to the Broadway Bar & Bowl, where he’d met her father and where she’d laughed for the first time in a long time.

She was ready to date again.

Dan felt safe.

Why did Calhoun have to show up now? And why did she feel this sudden urgency to prove she’d moved on?

Had she moved on?

Just let me know when you’re ready to Photoshop him out of the picture.

It had been taken in Kuwait, on one of those rare occasions when the three of them had been in the same place at the same time.

Her brother, Fred Jr.—Freddie to his friends—had joined the Navy right out of high school. Bruce had been born to be a Marine. After joining the Corps, he’d been one of a select group of eighty-six Marines, including five Navy hospital corpsmen serving with the Marine Corps, to train with and integrate into the Navy SEAL teams.

She’d become a rescue swimmer because she couldn’t follow them into the SEAL program. But her job gave her an all-access pass into their world.

The guys had just flown in from an op. She had an arm around each of them. Laughing.

Freddie to her right, Bruce to her left and on her left ring finger a sparkling-new diamond ring she was showing off for the camera.

She’d just completed a SAR, search and rescue drill, and earned some well-deserved shore leave when Bruce had hopped out of that helo in the background and walked straight up to her. Without a word they’d kissed and wound up in a dark corner of a military hangar.

Half dressed.

Her back against the wall. Him inside her.

Afterward he’d produced a ring from out of nowhere. She’d socked him in the arm. A gal didn’t want to be proposed to while zipping up her flight suit after a quickie.

He’d followed her outside. Got down on bended knee, in front of no less than a hundred witnesses.

“It’s about damn time.” Freddie had been the first to congratulate them. He’d handed his camera phone to someone and the three of them posed for that picture. Later she and Bruce headed to Dubai for three days and two nights of R & R to celebrate.

Those were the last happy days of her life.

She couldn’t just Photoshop Bruce out of the picture without also erasing every memory, good and bad, she was ever going to have of her brother. But Freddie had been the glue that held the three of them together.

Without him something was missing.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS A GOOD THING he really didn’t need a haircut. There weren’t that many good old-fashioned barber shops around anymore, unless you knew where to look. The one he remembered was long gone.

Bruce stood on the corner of Broadway and Hampden, trying to reorient himself by reading the marquee above the Army & Navy Surplus Store. The sign boasted of David Spade buying a jean jacket for a recent Saturday Night Live appearance. There was a time when nothing in this town changed except that sign.

Now it all looked different.

Broadway for a few blocks in either direction made up the main drag. One-and two-story turn-of-the-century brick buildings fought for attention among the ongoing revitalization of the area. To the north was Denver and to the south, the tech centers and sprawling suburbs. Both threatened to swallow Englewood whole.

“You Mitzi’s Marine?”

Bruce realized he’d been standing, lost in his thoughts, in the middle of the sidewalk, and he started to move closer to the intersection.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” a wheelchair-bound man insisted, wheeling after him. “You hear me? Or that grenade take out your hearing, too?”

“I heard you,” Bruce answered, not bothering to hide his irritation. He didn’t make eye contact, either. He’d spotted the beggar from across the street.

“Hallelujah—he’s not deaf, just a dumb-ass Marine. Knock on wood.”

Bruce sidestepped the wheelie’s attempt to knock on his prosthetic leg. Which was not made of wood.

“I knew you was a gimp a mile down the road,” the old-timer boasted.

Bruce bristled at the use of the term gimp. He took pride in being able to walk without a limp. Stairs used to give him away. But with the aid of modern technology and practice—months and months of practice—he’d perfected his stride. As an above-the-knee amputee, he’d had to relearn to walk using his hips to propel himself forward, rather than his legs.

“Pride goeth before a fall, spitshine,” the old-timer said. “Least, that’s what they tell me down at the Salvation Army.”

The light on the corner flashed Walk and Bruce hurried across the street, with the wheelie keeping pace. “Spare change for a fellow Marine down on his luck?”

If he’d been wearing a different uniform, Bruce had no doubt the old-timer would have been Army, Navy, Air Force or whatever branch of service suited his purpose.

Marines did not beg on street corners. At least not those with a shred of self-respect.

“You know that homeless-vet act went out with the seventies.”

“Been on these streets since Nam,” the so-called vet insisted.

“I don’t doubt it,” Bruce said, picking up his pace.

“You think you’re better than me, son? You and me, we ain’t so different.”

Bruce stopped in his tracks. “First of all, I’m not your son,” he said, turning on the old man. But that meant he had to look at him, really look at him.

Greasy shoulder-length comb-over. A patch over his right eye. And a weathered face as wrinkled as one of Aunt Dottie’s dried-apple dolls. He smelled like the bottom of a cider barrel. Piss and vinegar. But a strong wind would blow the old fart away, he was so thin.

The vet’s military field jacket was tattered and worn, but offered some protection against the slushy gray November morning. More disturbing was the prosthetic leg sticking foot-up out of the junk packed on the back of the wheelchair.

The old-timer was missing his right leg from above the knee down—a mirror-image injury to Bruce’s own missing left leg. A RAK, right-leg-above-the-knee amputee. And a LAK, left-leg-above-the-knee amputee.

Bruce felt the familiar sinking sensation in his gut as he dug out his wallet. He’d been in prime physical condition before being cut down. He could have gone soft in the hospital, let the pain and the loss drive him to suicide like Stuart, or to bitterness like Hatch.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t because there was nothing more important than getting back to his unit.

Unit, Corps, God and country.

Every Marine knew the order of things.

It was the one thing that kept him going.

But this guy…this guy was right out of Bruce’s waking nightmare. He had to have been young once. One quirk of fate and thirty years from now Bruce could be an old wheelie on a street corner, trying to live off a substandard disability check and begging for change.

“Here.” He shoved a dollar bill at the guy. Feeling the urge to put as much distance as possible between him and the wheelie, he continued up the block.

“A buck?” The next light turned green as he reached the corner, and the wheelchair-bound vet followed Bruce into another crosswalk. He wasn’t using his hands to operate the chair. He kept pace by scooting along with his single foot, maneuvering from one dip in the curb to the other. “Do you have any idea how much public transportation costs these days? How am I supposed to get to the VA on a buck?”

“How much?” Bruce demanded, coming to an abrupt halt. He didn’t for one minute believe the old-timer was headed to the Veterans Administration.

“Four dollars to get me there and back. Another couple dollars to fill my belly…”

“Here’s a five.” Bruce shoved it at him. Kissing that six bucks goodbye, he started walking again.

“Them damn drivers don’t make change.” The old-timer kept pace with him, grumbling.

“How much to get you to stop following me?” Bruce demanded, losing all patience with the old guy.

“Depends on where you’re headed.”

“Right here. This is where I’m headed,” Bruce said, walking up to the recruiting office door with the Navy and Marine Corps logos and opening it wide.

The two-story brick-and-mortar office had received a recent face-lift. The sign above the two doors read “Armed Forces Recruiting Station.”

“Well, hell, son, that’s where I’m headed, too.” He blew past Bruce. “I asked was you Mitzi’s Marine?”

“I’m not Mitzi’s anything!” Bruce said a little too vehemently.

“MITZI!” the old-timer called out. “You here?”

“Be right out, Henry,” she answered from somewhere beyond the alcove. The bathroom? The storage room? The stairs to the second-story loft, maybe?

The Navy/Marine Corps half of the recruiting station was divided into front offices and back offices, separated by a short hallway. Alcoves built into either side of the hall were fitted with kitchen-style counters and cabinets.

With Bruce hot on his wheels, the old-timer scooted off in search of her. “Hey! You can’t go back there.”

The one-eyed wheelie scowled at him. “Says who?”

“Says me!” Bruce was about to argue further when Mitzi stepped out from the unisex bathroom in the locker area. Were those tears she was trying to hide? He felt a familiar tightness in his chest. The last time he’d seen her cry she was running from his hospital room.

“Henry Dawson Meyers,” she said, “what is that thing over your eye?”

“Found it in a Dumpster,” Henry said proudly. “Lots of good stuff left over from Halloween.”

“What have I told you about digging through Dumpsters?”

The guy had the decency to blush. Mitzi took the eye patch from him and stepped back into the open bathroom. After washing the patch with soap and water, she wiped it down with a paper towel and handed it back to Henry, who tucked the prop into his jacket pocket.

Bruce stood there shaking his head. “Ol’ Henry here has a bus to catch,” he said. He’d put the guy in a position where he’d have to leave or be caught in a lie.

“Oh? You don’t want a ride today?” Mitzi asked Henry.

“Course I do.” Henry glared at Bruce with two weathered eyes.

“I give Henry a ride to the VA hospital every Wednesday,” Mitzi explained.

“Of course you do.” First he’d been outmaneuvered by Mitzi, aka mini-Marine. Then a one-legged con man with a fake eye patch had tried to take him for a ride. Not today. “I’ll drive,” Bruce insisted.

MITZI BEGAN DIGGING through the glove compartment of his government vehicle. “What are you doing?” Bruce demanded.

“Looking for this,” she said, hanging the handicap permit from the rearview mirror.

Bruce yanked it down and shoved it back into the box. “We’re just dropping him off,” he said, pulling up to the front entrance of the VA hospital.

“You don’t want to stop in and say hi to your mother?” she asked, incredulous. “What about your aunt? You probably haven’t seen her in ages.”

“I saw my mother at breakfast.” His mother and paternal aunt were registered nurses. Both worked at the VA after having served in Vietnam together thirtysome-odd years ago. That’s where Aunt Dottie had introduced his mom to his dad and his uncle John.

True, he hadn’t seen Aunt Dottie in a while. But he’d had enough well-intentioned smothering for his first day home. His mother had fussed over him at breakfast more than when he’d been an inpatient at Balboa.

Hospitals weren’t exactly on his list of favorite places, no matter who worked where and what shift. Not after his extended stay. Been there, done that. Didn’t need the handicap permit to prove it.

Bruce put a hand to his collar to loosen the choke hold his tie had on him. “Even if I was sticking around,” he said, “I wouldn’t need to take up a handicap parking place.”

“I just thought you might want the extra room for Henry’s wheelchair.”

“That’s why there’s a loading zone.”

“Get me out of here,” Henry demanded from the backseat. “I’ve had about all I can stand of the Bickersons. If I’d of known you two was gonna fight the whole way I woulda taken my chances with the bus.”

Bruce and Mitzi exchanged censuring looks.

He managed not to slam anything as he got out of the car, got the wheelchair from the trunk and pulled it alongside Henry’s open door. The old-timer barely had the upper-body strength to transfer himself into the chair. Once he did, Bruce shut the car door and wheeled Henry over to the dip in the curb.

“I can take it from here,” Mitzi insisted.

Bruce eased off the handles. “You’re going in?”

“You can wait in the car in the farthest spot in the parking lot, for all I care. But I have business inside and you’re the one who insisted on driving.”

“How long do you think you’ll be?”

She shrugged. “Half hour maybe.”

“That long?”

“Just go, Calhoun. I’ll find a ride back to the station.” Pushing Henry’s wheelchair toward the sliding double doors, Mitzi left Bruce standing on the curb.

“I like the other fella better,” Henry was saying as the automatic doors slid open.

“Wait!” Bruce stopped her before she could push through to the lobby. “Here,” he said, removing the spare key from his key ring. “Keep the car. I’ll walk back to the station.”

“You can’t walk all the—”

“Then I guess I’ll have to run,” he said, squaring his shoulders.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know what you meant, Chief. I’ll park the car in a handicap spot where you’ll be sure to find it.”

She expected him to fall on his ass.

Maybe he would, but he’d be damned if he was going to fail without trying. He’d never give up the fight, no matter how low she set her expectations.

Eighteen months earlier

Baghdad, Iraq

“HURRY UP, you lazy son of a gun,” Freddie taunted as Bruce and his charge ran behind the truck, trying to catch up to the slow-moving vehicle.

Bruce threw his weapon over the tailgate. Hopping onto the back bumper, he reached behind to help the new kid up and over. Lieutenant Luke Calhoun slid down to make room for them. Bruce declined with a shake of his head.

Stepping over first Luke’s, then Freddie’s outstretched legs, Bruce acknowledged Alpha and Bravo squads with a nod. The six men on the opposite bench were all Navy SEALs. While his side, a combo of Recon Marines and Navy SEALs, grumbled about having to make room for seven, the truck could hold twice as many in a pinch.