“Eight months.” The ball zinged back and forth between them. “But she’s loving this new assignment.”
“Yeah, I get that. She likes helping and she likes working with the people.” What remained unsaid was their understanding her need to serve—they shared the same need. But they also wanted her home, and it was the unspoken thorn upsetting an otherwise great balance they’d found in sharing her.
“She can help people here.” In his bed or Logan’s or their shared bed, however she wanted to work that piece out. Zach didn’t mind sharing with his best friend. Impatience itched between his shoulder blades. He did mind sharing her with the sandbox. He didn’t like saying it out loud, and on the one occasion he’d been drunk enough to mention it, Logan reminded him that she was still a Marine. They didn’t really have the right to demand she be anything else.
Didn’t stop a man from wanting, though.
“She can if she wants—and when she’s ready, she will.” It amazed Zach that Logan remained so easygoing about the situation. Like he didn’t care what she decided as long as they were included in the decision.
“When’s her next leave?” They should really change the subject, but like a dog with a bone, the need to hold on to her intensified. They talked with her nearly every other day, every day when she managed it. Sometimes for five minutes and sometimes an hour, depending on how much time she had.
But with no phone call in forty-eight hours, his gut churned with worry. He tried to keep a lid on it, but it boiled into everything he did.
Jace and Fin turned the curve on lap fifty, and Zach paused from throwing the ball to whistle. “Hit the showers, clean up. Be back here in the morning at oh-eight-hundred sharp.” The practice field emptied out rapidly with Jace and Fin walking and thumping each other on the back in good humor.
Nothing like a little ass busting to make the heart grow fonder.
The tension in his neck wouldn’t go away nor would the nagging sense of worry. He hated being on this side of the waiting game. It would be easier if he were there, in Afghanistan, with her.
Maybe.
His phone buzzed in his back pocket, and he waved Logan over. His shoulder burned from too many throws, and he’d have to ice it later. Tossing his friend the ball, he pulled his phone out. The number in the caller ID flashed familiar, and he thumbed it on to answer.
“Yo, Brody!” Lieutenant Brody Essex, the last member of their unit and one of the Captain’s good friends, still served in the sandbox. A reassignment had sent his unit to Afghanistan two hundred clicks from Jazz. He’d checked in on her now and then to give Zach the news that yes, she was fine. “How goes the south side of hell?”
“Hot and crispy.” The man’s voice was tinny, echoing the distance between the calls. “Look, man, we just got word. The FET unit hit an IED in Bamyan. At least one serious injury. I don’t know if it’s her….”
The late afternoon sun turned icy cold. He froze, the sound of his heart like a ticking time bomb in his head.
“Zach?” Logan braced him with an arm.
“IED, Bamyan. A FET team was hit.” He forced the words past the chokehold on his throat. The Marine inside him stood solid. Details first. Reaction later.
“I don’t have any more details, but the news is going to hit stateside any minute. There were reporters there with one of the Army units. We’re on our way now. Hang in there, buddy.”
Brody’s team was on their way. Brody’s team specialized in recovery, alive or dead.
“Is it her?” Logan asked, the words a low growl.
“He didn’t know. But she’s in the field. She never says where she’s going. Security.” The words popped out, one at a time, like bullets being emptied from a clip. “She didn’t call last night.”
“Don’t lose it.” Logan’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “We don’t know anything yet.”
She didn’t call.
Zach stared at his phone, willing her to call.
It didn’t ring.
Chapter Two
Zach paced a ten-step line back and forth in front of C Terminal’s arrival gate for Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. Logan stood to the side, arms behind his back. He waited in parade rest formation, except instead of a uniform he wore a black T-shirt tucked into well-worn jeans, and black biker boots—part of his physical therapy with the left one creating an almost cast-like effect for his ankle. He didn’t necessarily need the damn things anymore, but he’d gotten used to wearing them.
The blue screens overhead blinked the baggage claim turnstile B for Flight 723 from Germany. But the carousel area sat empty and the international passengers hadn’t exited from customs yet. On his umpteenth pass, Zach hissed a breath through his teeth. A vein throbbed in his forehead.