Hero - The Assignment: A Military Romance (3 page)

“Since when are we babysitters?” Donald Owens, Special Forces Engineer Sergeant, asked me under his breath.

“Since they're here and still alive,” I said.

“So far,” he shrugged.

The sun was setting over the jagged foothills, promising our nightly relief from the scorching heat. Normally I welcomed the long shadows and darkness, but tonight I was unsettled.

We'd been embedded for sixteen months, my longest tour since I'd enlisted at eighteen, and so far, it had been the toughest. Nightfall was the best cover for our direct raid assignments. Get in, destroy the munitions, and get out. The twelve-person team I was a part of had completed four successful missions. Always conscious of the odds against us, we were starting to count each hour, each still-breathing soldier, a success.

The enlisted men, a fresh-faced battalion straight from Fort Draper in Utah, had been charged with delivering supplies to the town near our camp. They were a month late and unwelcome even by the desperate locals. There might've been some parts of this country where American soldiers were wanted, but this wasn't one of them.

I turned away from the battalion and made my way back through the narrow canyons, no wider than fissures between the sharp rock walls. The light was almost gone, but the route was ingrained in my steps. In camp, our team leader kicked a soccer ball around as the other men bet he couldn't make a goal in the dark. A crack of light came from the mess tent along with the smell of dinner.

“Remind me to liberate a goat while we're out,” Owens said to me. “Before our ration of meat product kills me.”

We settled onto the nearest bench and caught the trays slipped our way. Talk around the table was the same as always: food we missed, places we'd rather be, and women. Women we'd seen, had, wanted, wished for, and missed.

“Course Haze's got nothing to say.” Keith Handley, our team leader, grinned at me. “What's the name of that corn-fed Kansas girl you left behind?”

Owens slapped me on the back. “No, she had brown hair. He's partial to red.”

“I don't recall telling you what I'm partial to,” I said, trying to keep from snapping at him. I seriously regretted ever having gotten drunk enough to spill to Owens that the reason I didn't fuck around wasn't because of the high school sweetheart from back home like I always claimed, but rather someone else.

“Natural red curls. And what were they? Bright blue eyes?” Owens asked.

The image was a punch in the gut, and I busied myself chewing my rations until my breath came back.

I couldn't stop the images though.

Leighton rocking against me, her flame red curls tangled around my hand, her small creamy breasts so soft against my chest. I could remember every inch of her with less effort than it took to remember what home looked like. Clearest of all, were those eyes.

There had been pain there, hidden behind a hard plastic facade. She'd been every inch the spoiled LA girl from her designer dress to her spiked heels. Her looks had screamed money and privilege, but her eyes had held something more. Not the vacant desires of starlets or heiresses, but something sharp and direct. She'd wanted more than what she had.

Just like I wanted more...of her.

Three and a half years, and I still couldn't get her out of my head. The few times I'd hooked up with some random girl while on leave since then, it'd been Leighton's face and body in my mind.

“Redheads aside,” Handley said, his expression sobering. “We've got work to do.”

Conversation died and nothing more needed to be said. We suited up and were on the trail within minutes. The cluster of farmhouses, no more than huts, was dark when we reached them. The fourth one, its threshold more worn and scraped than the others, hid a cache of weapons that we had orders to destroy.

Our team took up positions, ready to begin.

And then we all froze as a small line of soldiers came over the rise.

They carried crates of grain and pouches of clean drinking water. As we watched, they headed along the narrow path to the farmhouses. It was clear they'd missed the signs that I now saw with painful clarity. The absence of crops or animals. The fortified base of the fourth house. And the footholds up the canyon walls.

The guerrillas opened fire before my team could decide what to do. The soldiers dropped to the ground behind the remnants of a low stone wall. I heard cries of pain and hoped they were from superficial wounds. Then came the sound of returning gunfire, and I knew that at least some of them were healthy enough to handle their weapons.

“Hold your fire, soldiers!” Handley yelled at them. He was giving away his location, but his only other option was to risk friendly fire.

Gunshots kicked up the ground in front of him. He ignored them and signaled to us. He shot off a few rounds to keep the focus on him as we moved. We fanned out, up the steep canyon walls, knives out. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a quick slice of silver and Owens dispatched one of the shooters. The rest of my team had already disappeared into the darkness, and Owens followed.

The shooters weren't my concern though. My job as the Medical Sergeant was to take care of those wounded soldiers.

While my team covered me, I skidded down the hill. When I was close enough, I called out my rank and name so I didn't get shot. When I got a response back, I moved around the wall to where the soldiers were crouched. Their pale faces were clear in the dim light, and I knew I’d have to take charge.

“You'll move out in pairs,” I said. I pointed to a man with a bleeding leg. He looked to be unconscious, but I couldn't see any other injuries. What I could see was that he was their commanding officer. I snapped my fingers at the two soldiers closest to him. “You two take him.”

They grabbed him under the arms and waited for me to roll over and deliver a few shots to keep heads down. Fortunately, my team had been trained to handle situations like this and firing without risking my men was almost second nature.

“Next two,” I said without looking at them.

The men moved out behind me until I had only two soldiers left, one of whom had been shot in the stomach. I could hear his breathing getting more shallow, more labored. I hadn't been able to take a good look at him, but I could see the blood soaking the sand. Even if I'd been able to get him into an operating room right this second, he still wouldn't have had much of a chance.

“Name, soldier?” I asked the young man who was crouched next to the wounded soldier.

“Machus,” he said. His green eyes were bright in the darkness. “Ian Machus.”

“We're going to move, now,” I said. I saw the kid look down, and I followed his gaze.

The soldier's breathing had stopped, and he'd already taken on that stillness that only came with death.

“He's gone,” I said. We'd try to take the body, of course, because his family deserved that, but we had to move now.

Even as I thought it, the guerrilla charged from the fortified farmhouse, an automatic flashing in his hands. His wild shots sprayed the dirt in front of us, skittering up the right side of Ian's body. The young soldier spun against me, and, on automatic pilot by then, I caught him.

Shit.

I fired once at the guerrilla, and the noise stopped. I was sure he was dead, but I didn't know if there was anyone else waiting. I needed to move.

While I hated to leave the soldier's body, Ian was still alive. I knew he was injured, but I still had a chance to save him. I hoisted him up onto my shoulder, and he groaned. He was still breathing, but I could feel hot blood soaking my shirt. I needed to get him out of there. The rest of my team would take care of the initial objective.

I'd only made it two steps when the first explosion knocked me off my feet. Ian fell in front of me, and I didn't stop to think. I heard the second explosion even as I threw myself over the young soldier and prayed that at least he'd make it out alive.

Chapter 2

Leighton

“
It's
the key to my heart,” Ricky said, sweeping the diamond-encrusted necklace around my neck.

“If you had a heart,” I said, almost to myself.

“Maybe that's my problem,” Ricky said, spinning me around. He gave me his patented charming smile. “You stole my heart, and now I don't know what to do with myself.”

“Everything I've seen says you know exactly what to do with yourself.” I glanced at his reflection, but was careful not to meet his eyes.

The necklace was beautiful, but I didn't smile at him. I had an entire jewelry box full of trinkets he’d given me over the years. An engraved jewelry box he gave me after photographs of his trip to Cancun three days after my nineteenth birthday appeared in full color all over social media. Three or more indiscretions were followed by something bigger and engraved, while one night stands cost him flowers and something shiny. At least Ricky was consistent. Though I had a feeling the necklace was less about his recent series of flings and more about what he wanted for the future.

An open relationship where explanations and apologies weren't necessary.

“You're the only one who means anything to me, Leighton,” Ricky said.

He'd always been careful never to mention the other women. He never denied what happened, but he wasn't the kind of guy who bragged to me or made comparisons. He knew better. Our friends did too. I knew they referred to them by identifying features. But no one ever talked about them to my face. Blondie, Short Legs, Booty, Black Braid, Brown Frizz, and Tube Top were the latest.

Never any redheads, I thought, pushing back my own short curls. I looked in the mirror again, this time focusing on everything but the necklace. I wore my new peacock blue wrap dress and sleek, black patent leather sandals. The blue made my naturally red hair even brighter while the sandals matched the black streaks I'd recently put back in my hair. I'd toyed with different colors over the past few years, mostly because it still pissed off my grandfather, but I always ended up coming back to the first color I'd tried. Raven black.

Sort of the same way I kept coming back to Ricky. We'd been a couple on and off for a little more than four years now, and he appeared to be the perfect boyfriend for me: two years older, from a wealthy LA family, charming, and handsome. And he was, despite it all, consistent. I knew that no matter what he did with other women, he'd always be there for me.

Being with Ricky wasn't just about fun, though. It took the pressure off. Being young and beautiful in Hollywood had its advantages, but it also came with disadvantages. While my family name offered protection, having Ricky around was easier because it didn't involve my grandfather. He'd also been there for me through one of the worst times of my life, supporting me in his own way. And he never reminded me of it, never tried to make me think about what had happened four-and-a-half years ago.

He ran his hand through his shaggy sandy hair and his light blue eyes darted toward me. He was bored. I could tell. While we always went through this little dance, this part wasn't exciting; he was always eager to get to the step that he liked.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“It's lovely,” I said, my tone almost bored. “And I think I'd love a drink at that new rooftop
cucina
everyone's been talking about.”

We were standing in the living room of Ricky's Malibu beach house. The sun angled sharply over the ocean, and the view was nearly blinding. The blank white walls glowed orange as I walked across the travertine tile. The beach house had been a gift from Ricky's parents two years ago, but he had yet to allow his mother's decorator to touch up the place. Ricky said he liked the empty space for parties, but I think he also enjoyed the anonymous feel of the bare rooms.

It definitely made bringing random women here much easier. No risk of them thinking the place had a woman's touch.

Four overstuffed pillows the size of twin mattresses were flung around the living room floor with assorted throw pillows on top. In the midst of the white pillows stood one modern leather armchair with a footstool. The light wood base of the wingback chair did not detract from its position as a throne. Only Ricky ever sat in it.

I put the chair between us as Ricky reached for me. We were getting to the part he liked. Hell, I didn't exactly mind it. It was just that a part of me had started getting tired of this song and dance. I wanted to move things along.

“How about we stay in?” he asked. “I have champagne.”

“Nothing cheap, I hope,” I said.

His eyes lit up. He knew as soon as I agreed to stay in, we'd be getting to the next step soon. He strode into the stark kitchen and pulled open the stainless steel wine cooler. The only thing he usually knew how to find in the kitchen were crystal champagne flutes, so I was surprised when he turned and opened the stainless steel double-door refrigerator. His phantom maid kept the spartan shelves stocked with strawberries to compliment the dry champagne, and he pulled out the bowl with a flourish.

I couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been planning to 'apologize' for whatever the newest girl's name was.

“There's chocolate too,” he said. He waggled his eyebrows in what I supposed was supposed to be a sexual gesture. “I also have whipped cream.”

“Paris said the new
cucina
was four-star,” I said.