Page 74 of Fighting for Valor
The entire room is stunned into silence. Who the hell does Trevor think he is talking to the commander of JSOC that way? Yet, the man sinks back down, and Ryker takes his hands off the table.
Pritchard pulls a folder from the bag at his feet and removes two pieces of paper. “Sergeant Richards, this sheet on the left is a list of all your war crimes. All the evidence you sent us while you were trying to rescue Ms. Phillips yesterday. The one on the right contains the commendations you’re owed for being injured in the line of duty, for bravery in combat, and for valor.”
Both sheets are full of typed words that blur in front of me. I’m going to jail. I’ll never see Cara again, never be free.
Rustling paper draws my attention, and Pritchard flicks a lighter, the flame brighter than the sun as he sets the sheet of my crimes ablaze. Once the paper catches, he heads for the sink in the small kitchen, holding on until the fire is nearly at his fingers.
Ash and bits of burnt parchment land in the sink, and the Air Force Commander, one of the most powerful military officers in the country—if not the world—turns on the water and washes every one of my crimes down the drain.
When he’s returned to the table, he pulls a box from his pocket, frowns, and meets my gaze. “Please stand up for this, Sergeant.”
I do, though I keep my hand on Cara’s shoulder to help center me.
“Sergeant Jackson T. Richards, I hereby award you the Distinguished Service Cross for extraordinary heroism in the face of great danger from an enemy of the United States. Your actions at Hell Mountain gave us proof of life, which in turn, led to the joint Special Operations Forces, including Lieutenant Commander West Sampson, Sergeant Inara Ruzgani, and Commander Ryker McCabe, destroying the facility and putting an end to one of the most sadistic of the Taliban’s interrogators.”
He passes me the box and I raise the lid. A golden cross on a blue and red ribbon rests on black velvet. An eagle spreads its wings over the words “For Valor.”
“Your subsequent torture and behavior while a prisoner of Abdul Faruk further justify this award. Despite grave danger, you ensured every action you took under duress was traceable, and with the information you provided us in the past twenty-four hours, JSOC will be able to right many wrongs committed over the last six years. Your actions showed true selflessness and embody the very ideals of the Special Forces, and no one—especially not you—should ever question your valor again.”
I need to say something. Thank you. I don’t deserve this. Anything. But the words won’t come. Pritchard’s still talking, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. I trace the contours of the eagle, the rest of the world fading into the background as those two words ring over and over again in my head.
For Valor.
“Ripper?” Cara whispers in my ear, now standing next to me. “Come back.”
“Sorry,” I say with a shake of my head. “What did you say, Commander?”
The expression on his face—amusement—fades. “That isn’t the award I wanted you to have, Sergeant. If I could, I’d trade that out for the Congressional Medal of Honor. But after talking to Mr. Moana,” he gestures to Trevor, “and doing a little investigation into Commander McCabe and Sergeant Holloway, I thought you might prefer a little less publicity. That is, if you’re going to continue the work you’re so obviously suited for with them and their teams.”
He’s giving me my life back. All of it. But more than that, he’s allowing me to choose the life I want. I swallow hard and salute.
“Thank you, Commander.”
He returns the gesture. “I have to get Parr back to Fort Bragg so he can be processed and sentenced. Ms. Phillips? Should you ever want your job back at JSOC, you only have to ask.” Pritchard passes her a business card, and Cara tucks it in her pocket. “But regardless, I promise you, by the end of today, all records of Caroline Phillips ever working at JSOC will be scrubbed from our databases. Permanently.”
The commander spins on his heel and heads for the door, his footsteps quick and efficient, almost silent. At the last second, he turns, sweeps his gaze over all of us, and nods. “The United States Armed Forces thank all of you for your service and bravery. Good day.” With a final salute, he closes the door.
I’m free.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cara
I turn to Ripper. “Is that it? It’s over?”
He wraps his arms around me—carefully—and shakes as he presses his lips to my neck. Behind us, the man from last night, West, nods. “It’s over. Rip can be Jackson Richards again if he wants to.”
“Wait.” I pull back to stare at him. “What name were you using?”
Dax, sitting next to Ryker, snorts and shakes his head. “Rick Mercury.”
“Like…Freddy Mercury?”
Ripper refuses to meet my gaze, his ruddy cheeks turning a duskier shade. “I liked Queen.”
“I love it.” Cupping his cheek, I force him to look at me and lower my voice. “I don’t care what your name is. I just want a chance to see where this goes.”
“Oh, it’s going somewhere,” Ryker says as he lumbers to his feet and heads for the coffee pot in the kitchen. “Like Snoqualmie. At New Year’s.”
