The character of Hal belongs to Janet Evanovich. This work of fiction is not for profit or personal gain.The people and situations are fictional and not meant to represent anyone living or dead. Please see the author's note at the end of the story for information on the man who inspired this story. Special thanks to aruvqan for explaining the medals to me.Title from Two Steps from Hell's "Men of Honor, Pt. 2".


"I want to say one thing to the veterans and military men out there. I want you to remember one thing: Never think you aren't important. You are very important."

—Jack Gutman, US Navy
Normandy and Okinawa
Veteran and PTSD survivor


A single thin ray of golden sunlight pierced the drawn blinds, the dust in the air sparkling in the lone beam as they danced upon the air currents in the darkened room. Tyler Reeves stared at it, a corner of his mind cataloging the movements of the glittering motes while the rest of his thoughts settled in a heavy, leaden spiral that had more to do with the shadows around him than the thin line of light.

He lifted the half-empty bottle of hard soda to his lips and swallowed mechanically. The tart taste stung his eyes, but he didn't blink. The minutes crawled by like a dying sloth as he watched the angle of the sun change and fade, and the liquor still wouldn't touch the hard knot of pain centered in his chest where his heart used to be.

The sound of a heavy engine slowing broke the silence outside, then it turned off the street and pulled to a stop in the driveway on the other side of the house. A muscle ticked in Tyler's square jaw, but his sharp blue eyes didn't leave the sunbeam and he sat in the old, comfortable chair in the same t-shirt and jeans he always wore, his feet bare and his sandy blonde hair cut in the same close, military style that he'd worn for the past eight years.

Eight years of losing friends and mentors to the bastards they fought in jungles both wild and urban, and wastelands that sometimes included sand and sometimes a population denser than Times Square at New Year's.

The lock on the kitchen door tumbled and he glanced at the simple arched door across the room. A heavy step sounded on the clean linoleum then the metallic jangle as his uncle hung the keys to his SUV on the board by the refrigerator.

A pause, no doubt as he took in the sight of the three empty bottles already gracing the sideboard. Tyler took another drink, knowing the expression that would flit over his uncle's open and usually friendly face as he realized that Tyler was home when he was supposed to be working, and had already made a dent in the household liquor supply.

Uncle Hal filled the doorway, a menacing bulk of muscles in the standard black uniform of his employer, the utility belt still around his waist. "Again, Ty?"

Another swallow, this time draining the rest of the bottle. He held it in his mouth for a moment, then let it slip down his throat while he considered his answer. In the end, it wouldn't matter. Uncle Hal would be furious however he framed it.

"Yeah."

His uncle sighed and unbuckled his utility belt, setting it on the floor as he sank into the sturdy chair across from him. "What was the reason this time?"

"Assholes who piss themselves when they're challenged, then go whining to the boss about unstable vets who threaten them." Tyler set the empty bottle on the floor, mindful that his uncle frowned on rings marring the pristine surface of Grandma Irene's end table.

Another sigh. "That's what assholes do, Ty. The key is figuring out how to shut them down without getting into trouble yourself."

"Don't care." Tyler risked a glance at Uncle Hal, the pain in his chest twisting a little when he saw the defeated expression. "I know you meant well, but I think it's time I get out of your hair. I'll go back home and find an apartment somewhere. I'm not yours to worry about."

Hal surged to his feet, an abrupt and ferocious motion. "You're my sister's son. You're family. And you're not just related by blood. You're my brother in arms."

A snort escaped Tyler before he could stop it. "Right. The brotherhood of arms. That's nothing more than bullshit and you know it. I don't want to be a part of any club that requires good men to die just so I can be a member."

"It's not like that—" Hal stopped himself and ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. "Ty, would you at least consider talking to someone? Keeping it inside of you is going to poison everything you've worked so hard for. It's poisoning you."

Tyler stayed silent as his uncle stopped himself and stared out the window for a long moment. When he spoke again, his words were measured but the tension in the set of his jaw belied the calmness in his voice.

"RangeMan has an outreach program that goes into the schools every year around Memorial Day. Veterans talk to the students and tell them about their service and what they've seen. Some of the guys are—"

"I don't think anyone is interested in what I have to say. All I can give them is blood and dirt and pain." Tyler thought about getting another bottle of the hard soda, then changed his mind. He'd need what was left of his wits to keep Uncle Hal from thinking this was a good idea and he didn't want the conversation to devolve into an argument about his drinking.

"I think that telling someone who has been there about what's eating you inside will help," said Uncle Hal quietly. "It helped me when I first got out, and every time since that I've come back from one of our contracting jobs. I can talk to the coordinator and set something up for you. Or we can go to the event and you can meet some of the men who are in the program."

"I'm not going," Tyler said flatly. "I'm broken, and there is no way to fix it or make the memories go away."

"That's not—" Hal stopped. "This isn't about fixing things, Ty. It's about starting the road back. Just—"

Tyler tuned him out, his mind automatically going to the sounds and the stench of the last firefight, when friends went down in screams and blood, their voices fading as their life ebbed away, only to return every time he shut his eyes to sleep.

And in his dreams, no one stopped screaming. Including him.

"—they've been there before."

He blinked, the heat and the bright desert light fading until he was back in Uncle Hal's front room, with no idea what had been said, and only sure that he wanted nothing to do with his uncle's well-intentioned but misguided attempts to wrestle him back into the land of the normal living.

Only he'd never be normal and he didn't see any good way to stay living. The people in this neighborhood, in this city, didn't understand something that was so far out of their experience. Death on the scale he'd seen wasn't normal and it didn't belong in the same place as a school. Destruction like that needed to be kept far away from those kids so they would never know how brutal and cruel others were capable of being to the innocent. As for the guys who Hal thought could help him—well, their wars were long ago, and they couldn't understand what he was going through.

"I'm not going, Uncle Hal." Tyler made the statement in the flat, intense tone that meant business. "There's nothing for me there."

Before his uncle could protest further, Tyler got up and walked out of the room, heading for the fridge and fully intent on grabbing the rest of the hard soda so he could drink himself into oblivion before darkness fell. Maybe then the demons and the phantoms from the not-distant past would stay away, giving him a few hours of dreamless sleep before he woke in the cold harsh darkness before dawn. Like always, he'd watch the sun come up with the silent phantoms around him, staring at him with hollow empty eyes where their life used to be.

And bit by bit, as they crowded close, they took more of his life with them as they faded in the growing daylight, fading with the night and the shadows.