Page 40 of Protected from Reprisal
But I remember him. Oh, do I remember him.
It was the first week after I’d been captured, and I watched from my holding cell as Davis was dragged in, beaten and bleeding. I’m not sure how he was captured, or where, but obviously his mission had failed just as badly as mine.
In the month he was there before being taken to another facility, we didn’t speak much. All we really exchanged were names and ranks. Malik had still been alive back then, so he and I were focused on keeping each other’s spirits up.
I never knew what happened to Davis after they took him away. And I’m not proud to admit it, but I tried not to think about it.
It wasn’t that I didn’t care. But all my efforts had to go into surviving. Into keeping the secrets I’d sworn my life to uphold. Into shoving down the gut-wrenching memories that could have easily driven me crazy.
In the three months I was held captive, I tried my best to remember all the reasons there were to hang on. Annaliese. Kai, Ford, and Saint. I spent hundreds of hours thinking about the prosthetics I’d make if I ever escaped, and the people I could help if I did.
But I couldn’t let myself think about the men who’d died.
I couldn’t let myself think about the terrible fate awaiting those who hadn’t.
The memories still revisit me in my nightmares, of course. The screaming. The sobs. The pleas from broken men, begging for their parents. The bloodstains on dirty floors and the cruel laughter from the captors who spilled it.
And the guilt. That most of all.
In the three years since, I’ve tried my best to move on. With the help of my counselor, my new and predictable job, and my projects, I’ve reached a sort of stability, if nothing else. But now my past is standing right on my doorstep, waiting for me.
I should be happy to find out Davis survived. Iam. But that doesn’t mean I want to talk to him. Because I know he’s not here for a pleasant visit. He wants to talk about what happened in Iran. And selfishly, I don’t want to.
But I never used to be a coward, and I’m not going to be now. So I switch back over to the security app and tap the microphone button again, saying, “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll be right there.”
On my way to the living room, my phone still clutched in my hand, I have a moment’s thought of texting Ace to let him know. Not that he could do anything about it, but his reassurances would make me feel better. They might even settle the flutters of nerves in my belly and loosen the bands of tension wrapped tight around my chest.
Right before I reach the front door, I decide against it. If I text Ace, he’ll end up worrying the entire way here. And anyway, it’ll be fine. I’ll talk to Davis, find out the reason he’s here, and do my very best to move past it by the time Ace arrives.
As I unlock the door, I run through a round of box breathing to calm myself down. Then I take a deep breath and let it out slowly before opening the door.
On the other side of it, Davis gives me a tight smile. “Sergeant Alves.” He lifts his chin. “I’m not sure if you remember me. Davis Kellogg. From… well. It’s good to see you.”
I force my lips to curve. “I remember. And it’s just Yara. It’s good to see you, too.”
He stares at me, an indecipherable expression in his eyes. “Sorry to stop by unannounced like this. But whenever I thought about calling… it didn’t feel right.”
“That’s okay.” Not really. Some warning would have been nice. But I don’t say that. Instead, I ask politely, “Would you like to come in?”
In the moment before he responds, I allow myself to hope he’ll decline. That he’ll say he just wanted to say hello, for closure or some such, and he’ll be on his way.
“Thanks,” Davis replies. “That would be nice.”
My stomach flips over. “Okay.” Stepping back from the door, I gesture for him to come inside. Angling my chin at the couch, I ask, “Would you like to sit?”
This isn’t me; this quiet, overly polite person. But seeing Davis, a part of my life I’d rather forget, makes me feel nauseous and prickly and anything but friendly.
Davis takes a seat at one end of the couch, sitting stiffly. He doesn’t make a move to take off his coat, but he pulls off his hat and sets it on the coffee table. “I’m sure I’m the last person you’re expecting to see,” he says. “But I’ve been having a tough time since I got home. And I guess… I just wanted to talk to someone who went through what I did.”
My stomach lurches. This doesn’t sound like a quick conversation. Resigned, I take a seat at the opposite end of the couch. “How long have you been back?”
Davis grimaces. “About six months. Not nearly as long as you. It’s been what, three years now?”
“Yeah.” Clasping my hands together, I run my thumb across the scabbed-over cut on my palm. “Just about.”
“And how are you doing?” He glances around the living room, his gaze lingering on the photos above my fireplace—candid shots of me and Annaliese beside a collection of pictures of my old team. “Nice area you live in. Close to the beach.”
“I’m doing pretty well,” I reply. “Just working a regular job now.”
