No Regrets, No Surrender(7)

He is not doing well. Logan quashed the thought. Since Brody called about the accident, Zach was either planted in front of the television, on the phone with contacts in Washington, or calling the hospitals at Bagram and Ramstein. Jazz’s injuries were severe. She’d lapsed into a coma for three endless days. They’d planned to fly out, but reports on her condition remained sketchy and every time she stabilized, they moved her to a new facility with specialized surgeons.

After thirty-two hours of surgery at Ramstein, she finally woke up. While Zach cajoled, coaxed, and bullied information out of the medical staff—fortunately they knew one of the Navy Corpsmen traveling with her—Logan took a different tactic.

He called her mother.

Mrs. Winters filled him in on Jazz’s emotional state. It wasn’t good. She didn’t want to see them or speak to them. The rejection stung, but Logan understood. He’d been there. He hadn’t wanted to see anyone either. It didn’t keep Zach from annoying the hell out of him. Zach, who currently seemed intent on wearing a path through the hard floors of the airport with his incessant pacing, had stayed by his side through every agonizing hour of his dozen surgeries, skin grafts, and eventual therapy.

Not once, during that nightmare did his friend lose it, but he’d been there, seen the damage. He’d taken Logan’s sour moods and anger without blinking. He’d be better when they saw Jazz.

Traumatic brain injury.

Those three little words would haunt Logan for the rest of his days. A remote detonated IED had burned and shredded the flesh on her arms and legs. The flash burns were the least of the doctors concerns. According to her mother, shrapnel from the IED cracked part of Jazz’s skull, lacerated brain tissue and lead to swelling.

They removed a portion of skull cap until the swelling went down. She was in a war with seizures brought on by bleeding inside her brain. The doctors called them microseizures with partial physical paralysis. As soon as the doctors declared her fit for transport, they planned to send her back to the States for rehabilitation and recovery. When Mrs. Winters said those words, Logan told her about Mike’s Place. He’d gotten the Doc and the Captain involved. Mrs. Winters agreed.

Fourteen days, ten hours and twenty-two minutes after Brody’s phone call, he and Zach waited to pick her up and transport her back to the Allen, Texas campus. Two Navy Corpsmen medics traveled with her and would remain with her until she was admitted to the newly finished medical wing and turned over to the Mike’s Place physicians.

God, he wanted to hold her hand.

Zach’s soft shoe swish ground to a halt, and Logan’s spine jerked taut. The wheelchair rolled steadily toward them, carrying the most fragile woman he’d ever seen. Their Jazz was a physically vibrant, tough lady with an athletic build, warm tan, and sexy-as-fuck smile.

The woman in the wheelchair was ten shades of pale, despite the dress blues she wore. Of course she flew in her uniform. Logan wore his, even strapped to a back board and unable to stand. He’d insisted.

Pride fisted in his chest. Her silky black cap of pixie hair was completely obscured by the thick white bandages wrapped around her head. The closer she came, the louder Logan’s heart pounded. Blue-black bruises smudged under her eyes. A single cut, mostly healed with fresh pink showing around the edges marred her cheek.

The uniform and the chair hid the rest of the damage. Logan would inspect every injury, every scar. He would know exactly what happened to her. Zach edged forward, practically vibrating with the need to push through the gates and greet her. An urge Logan shared, but the guarded look that washed over her tired face held him rooted to the spot.

He hated the hovering. He hated the pushy need of others who gave him sympathy, even when he’d needed it. In the two weeks since her injury, Zach seemed torn between a walking basket case and cold military precision. He had a platoon’s worth of hovering in him. Logan steeled his soul. He’d let Zach hover for both of them.

Logan would treat her like the Marine she was. No matter how much he wanted to just pick her up and hold her until certain she really was alive.

The other passengers followed the wheelchair with its Navy escort. Surprisingly—or maybe not—they didn’t crowd, push past, or try to go around. Normally those disembarking after a long flight were a chattering swarm. Not this crowd. It was quiet, respectful, and almost solemn.

He recognized the moment she saw them. Her slumped shoulders straightened, and she attempted to sit up in the chair. His heart ached at the slow, painful movements. It took enormous effort to keep his expression neutral. The wheelchair rolled through the gate, and Zach stepped up to meet her, blocking Logan’s view. Her guardians stopped the wheelchair rather than run Zach over, and the man dropped down to his knees and collected her hands in his.