Page 22 of Fighting for Valor
“You’re safe, brother. Trust me,” a man whispers, and everything about this situation is so different from Faruk and his men, I believe him. The water surrounds me, blessedly cool, and I relax enough to open my eyes.
Muted colors and dark shapes. Every blink is pure agony. “Let…me…die,” I manage.
“Not an option.” The man standing over me has dark hair, but I can’t make out his features. The room spins, and a soft cloth drags over my face, my neck, my chest.
“Someone did a number on him,” the man says quietly. “Wish we’d have been able to spend more time killing that shitstain.”
“He’s gone. That’s all that matters now.” A giant kneels close by, and thick fingers grasp my shoulder. “I’m so fucking sorry, Rip. But you’re safe now.”
I close my eyes, waiting for the drugs to take hold, for the entire world to turn upside down, inside out, and sideways. But all I find is quiet and peace.
Something cool rests on my forehead. Breathing hurts.
Think. Don’t let Faruk give you anything. Stay focused.
It’s too hard. Nothing makes any sense in this new reality. A tear leaks from my eye, and the mattress depresses. “Ripper?”
Another voice, this one with a hint of a southern drawl. “Rip? Come on back now.”
Ghosts. I’m hearing ghosts.
“Gotta get some calories in him.” This is the man I don’t know. “Joey’s worried about his kidneys.”
The doctor? Is she here? Fuck. I tried to keep her safe. Did I fail…again? Forcing my lids open, I lock onto multi-hued eyes so distinctive, there’s no way they could belong to anyone else. I’m hallucinating. Ryker McCabe has been dead for six years.
“Ripper? Can you hear me?” He leans closer, and I blink hard and study his face. The left half looks like someone took a hot poker to it—repeatedly. One eyelid droops slightly, and a thick scar bisects his brow. His bare, corded forearms sport tattoos I’ve never seen, and one…holy shit. One has my name on it.
“Ry…?” The word sounds more like a croak than anything else, and takes so much out of me, sleep starts to pull me under.
“Stay with us, Rip. You hear me? Open your fucking eyes. Now.”
I’ve never disobeyed one of Ryker’s orders. I can’t start now, even if he is a figment of my imagination or Faruk’s torture. The room comes back into focus, and I take in the six people standing around me. One…I’ve seen before. He helped get the doctor out. “I…know you.”
“Trevor,” he says. “And she’s fine. Back in Boston with Ford—the tall guy with me the last time we saw you. But she won’t stop messaging us to get you to eat something.”
Ryker holds a cup with a metal straw to my lips, and logic goes out the window. “N-no.” That’s how it always starts. A bottle of water. Tea. And then reality fades away. Fighting against the light sheet covering me, I hear Ryker tell me to calm down, but I can’t. The hands pressing against my shoulders pull a hoarse wail from my throat.
“Jackson!” Trevor’s voice—his use of my name—shocks me enough that I stop struggling, but the brief fight stole what little strength I had left, and I can only lie there helplessly, panting. “This is just sugar water.” He takes the glass from Ryker, sucks half of it down through the straw, and passes it back. “Satisfied? Because my teeth hurt now.”
I nod, which is probably a mistake, because my head pounds like it’s being used for a basketball. Ryker slides his arm behind my shoulders, helps me up, and shoves a pillow behind me before he presses the straw to my lips. I take a small sip. Then another.
“That’s enough for now,” a man says from behind Ry. “If that stays down for ten minutes, you can have the rest. Doctor’s orders.”
“Who…the fuck…are you?” That’s not what I want to ask. I want to ask Ryker how he’s alive. How he found me. How he knows this Trevor dude. But I’m not ready for the answers yet.
“West Sampson. SEALs. Retired.”
Of course. He’s got that look. The one all frogmen get after a while. The look that says, “I could kill you without breaking a sweat, then go the bar and order a beer, and no one would ever find the body.”
“My team,” Ryker says, then nods to a woman in the corner of the room dressed all in black with a shock of blond hair peeking out of her cap. “Inara, West, Graham.”
“Team?”
“K&R. In Seattle.”
We’re dancing around an elephant so fucking huge, it doesn’t just take up the room, but the whole damn country. “You’re alive.”
“Well, I’m sure as shit not a ghost. You think I’d choose to look like this if I were?”
