Oh Good God!
This is taking much longer than I thought...ugh!
I'm trying...I'll get there...I'm-a-going...

"You ever hear Clay talk about Barry Watkins?"
"No."
"He ever talk about his time with his unit, their tours in Afghanistan?"
"No. What's this about Blackburn?" Jason felt his stomach thud. This couldn't be good. "What'd you dig up?"
"Clay's unit came under attack in Korengal Valley." Eric continued. "Three dead, two injured, one taken hostage. It was his last mission before he left for training."
"Anything on it?" Jason winced, a place notoriously known for danger and violence – extreme, sadistic torture.
"Classified.…"
"Even to you?" Jason cut in.
"I'm working on it." Eric snapped, sighed. "Got it cleared, just waiting for the call."
Jason cursed. "Gotta be more to it. Whatever they want, they can't…"
"I'm not calling for your permission for Clay to go. I'm calling to tell you, he's gone."
"That's bullshit." Jason growled. "He's not even medically cleared." But he was by Navy doctors. It was Trent and Bravo's doctor who were timid and hesitant. "Hell, we just landed and…"
"It's out of my hands."
"Then get him back."
"I'm working on it." Eric repeated testily.
"Not good enough!"
"Jason…"
"You and I both know, this is some kind of 'produce him or else' mission. The Navy doesn't pay ransom, respond to blackmail or negotiate, so why?"
"Soon as I know…"
"I'm on my way to base…"
"Stand down." Blackburn ordered with all the authority he could muster. At best, it was weak. He was tired, worn out and it must have reflected in his voice, because Jason didn't argue. "That's an order, Jason."
"Where is he?"
Silence
"He flew out." Jason spat flatly. "Where's Trent?"
"I have him remanded to the airport, Trent's on his way home. But Jason, once he was told, he wanted to go."
"Of course he did!" Jason growled. "To do what? What do they want him for?"
"Trying to find out. Until then, stay put."

Jason held his phone against his chin, the now disconnected call with Blackburn still ringing in his ears. He carefully set the phone down, went to take a hot shower. He had a hot date - with a bottle of whiskey.

Eric tossed his phone onto his dresser, sat down in his wife's recliner, held his head in his hands. He loved his country, his job, his career, but keeping Jason Hayes in line, under control and Bravo within the bounds of authority had given him a need for hair-color, an addiction to Pepto-Bismol, a reputation, a yearning for retirement at an age he'd never thought he'd consider it.

This team...boy-oh-boy...they would bicker and argue, snark and verbally jab one another until punches were thrown; give one another the silent treatment, go days without speaking to each other over some stupid slight, but try and separate them and damn, they'd come after you with teeth bared and guns blazing.

Chaos and trouble constantly bubbled and brewed, never stopped, there was no end in sight, never would be.

It shouldn't have been on him to inform Bravo's Master Chief his youngest member and team sniper – of whom Bravo was fiercely protective – had been dispatched under the command of another unit to one of the most dangerous and violent cities in the world.

Again.

He'd had command of Bravo for...well, a good amount of years now. Jason had already been the Master Chief when he'd taken on the job, duty, role, sentence...and if anyone knew how Jason operated it was Eric. No one wanted to deal with Hayes' shit and when Eric was around, it fell on him to do it.

And let him just say this...this current line-up of Bravo was the hardest to command. Had been ever since Bravo's second-in-command Ray Perry had convinced the 'boss' to select Clay Spenser in the draft.

Was it anyone wonder no one envied him his job? He often discussed with his wife, things he shouldn't, but it's what kept him sane and able to do his job. He had to talk to someone and no one on this blessed earth knew him better than she did. He speculated and she agreed, that if he were to request a transfer or retire or step down, Bravo would cease to be the best assault team the Navy had ever had. No one else would put up with Jason's shit or let him get away with what Eric did.

And yes, while that made him preen with pride, puff his chest out like a peacock flaring its tail, it took a toll. He didn't know why Jason tolerated him as much as and as well as he did, Eric had never asked and didn't ever intend to. His truce and tentative friendship with Bravo One was too valued to risk over something that didn't matter anyway.

Others had tried to command Jason Hayes. It hadn't gone well. Even those of a higher rank or with more authority had tried to reign in Hayes and his men and had accomplished nothing. An issue, a mission, a job, something always came up that required Hayes. It was just all-too-easy to call him in, lay the mess at his feet and stand back while he came up with a plan, a way, to figure it out.

The fact his men followed him blindly without complaint wasn't missed or ignored by the brass. Oh, they bitched about it, publicly argued against allowing the team to remain together but no one, absolutely, no one ever did anything to attempt to break up the team.

For a while, Eric had thought that once Jason retired, was out of the Navy, Bravo wouldn't be first on everyone's list to send on impossible missions. He and his wife had toasted to it, saved for it, planned on it. But no. Oh no. No. Because along had come mini Hayes Junior: Clay Spenser.

There. Were. Two. Of. Them.

He blew his breath out. Spenser was young, arrogant, conceited, cocky, mouthy. Stubborn as hell. Always had something to say, constantly argued and disagreed and stood his ground - with everyone. Always had to have the last word, talked down to people, bucked authority, disobeyed orders, blatantly disregarded the rules. And when his boss allowed such behavior, no one else stood a chance in hell of reining him in.

At first, in the beginning, Bravo and Clay hadn't meshed. The kid had butted heads with Ray, gone nose to nose with Sonny, challenged Jason, ignored Brock and disagreed with Trent. Sonny had been outright hostile, Clay hadn't backed down and Ray, playing peacemaker, had ruffled Clay's ego by telling him, he had to earn the title of 'Bravo sniper', it wasn't just handed out.

Jason had let them battle.

Whatever teams Clay had been on previously, he hadn't made many friends but with those he had, a strong link remained. A lot of negativity could be said about Clay Spenser, but loyalty to friends, his team, would never be on that list. He'd lost his best friend in a freak training accident during Green Team, where he had no close friends, but there were a couple from his previous unit, the phone call came, he'd dropped everything and go – 'cause that's who Clay Spenser was.

And Blackburn was afraid this was one of those calls.

And oh, but he resisted being contained, hated being questioned. He wasn't used to his team wanting to know where he was, what he was doing, where he'd been, who he was seeing, when he got that bruise, why he was limping. He didn't like rules tied to Bravo, such as; curfew, telling his boss where he was going or if he'd be away from home or quarters overnight, getting vacation approved. And that was cause to butt heads with Jason who didn't like being lied to. He didn't tolerate lying. Clay might not reveal everything, might omit an event or two, but when asked outright, he never lied.

Eric had cautioned Jason to give it time, let Clay find his own way, his spot on the team. Reminded him with a laugh that Jason had just met himself and yeah, he was hard to like.

Eri sighed, pushed to his feet to scrounge up some aspirin from the night stand, swallowed three with the last of his chamomile tea, stared at his reflection in the mirror, pushed at his unruly hair. Time for his wife to 'comb that grey right out of his beard'. He tilted his head, ducked his chin…and maybe his hair.

"Want some toast?" Betty's voice floated up from downstairs. "Picked up some of your favorite strawberry rhubarb jam from the farmers market."

He replied it sounded good, moved off to the bathroom to wash his face for bed. He normally brushed his teeth, but he was going to eat toast and the taste of toothpaste messed with the flavor of the jam.

Would any of this ever get easier?

Brock had been the first to include the kid in conversation, run with him, invite him to breakfast. Eric believed it was because Clay hadn't kicked Cerberus off his bunk one night, had just moved his feet and slid closer to the wall so the dog had room to be comfortable.

Then Clay had a headache that just wouldn't go away and Brock had told him to ask Trent what to try. He had and he'd accepted the medics suggestion to eat something cold without mockery or derision, hadn't blown him off over suggestions or advice regarding illness or injury, no matter how odd or old-fashioned.

Soon after that, while on a hike during a mission, Sonny had been annoyed with Clay – again – for some reason or another, gave him a playful shove, the dog, off leash, had gotten between them and Jason had blown up. The next thing anyone knew, Clay was gone.

He'd been pushed right off the path, which had no other side. It'd been a 50 foot drop down rock and gravel with limited ability to stop his descent. Brock had roped off and repelled down, finding Clay conscious but dazed, the extent of his injuries, if any, unknown.

Trent had taken charge, joined Brock down the incline, neither had spoken to Bravo or responded to Jason and Eric's demands for status. He had ordered Clay to stay still, not move, answer any and all questions he asked honestly. Expecting an attitude and insistence he was fine, didn't need any help, leave him alone – his usual behavior – everyone had been stunned when Clay had obeyed without so much as a roll of the eyes. Whatever teams he'd been on, whatever dislike he'd garnered, he'd obviously obeyed and respected the medic, 'cause he sure as hell won Trent over that day.

From then on, it had become more or less, three against three and Sonny had never again laid hands on the kid.

Dressed for bed, Eric returned to his bedroom, sat back down in the recliner. His wife would soon be in with his toast and more tea. If he crawled into bed, he'd be asleep before she came up, not that it would matter. She'd simply crawl into bed next to him, the antique bed with slats would creak, he'd wake up, she'd feed him toast, curl up beside him and they'd both go to sleep.

"On my way in a sec." She called.

Those. Three.

They were always either causing mischief, playing pranks, pulling stunts or in trouble with Jason or team rules or command or Ray. The team had been in….Eric massaged his temples, crossed his ankles, laid his head back….Romania, maybe, Austria, Turkey, hell, somewhere – he'd look it up if it mattered, it didn't – when he'd gotten a phone call regarding…Those. Three.

He'd bolted from the base with an over-the-shoulder shout at Davis that he'd be back. The call had caused terror to burn in his gut, there'd been no time to waste. Two of his men had been arrested, were in jail, the third had been taken to a local hospital.

He hadn't known where to go first. Brock and Trent were in jail, Clay in the hospital. Trent would have a fit, any foreign doctor treated Clay or any of Bravo, but Eric felt the hospital had been the lesser of the two evils and had high-tailed it to the jail with the six MP's he'd 'borrowed' from the base Bravo was stationed on.

He'd had to argue and threaten and bargain his way past the front desk, force his way down the steps into the cellar where the holding cells were. He'd bordered on hysteria, the thoughts in his mind about what could be happening making him sick to his stomach.

He'd rushed down the stairs, come off the last step, burst through the door, gun in hand, ready to shoot…and found Brock and Trent zig-zagging across the floor, shuffling diagonal; moving side to side, hands on their hips doing a one-footed 180 twist. They clapped three times, moved side to side, shook it out, stuck it, glided; with nine – NINE! – other questionable looking thugs contained in the same cell.

And they were laughing! Fucking laughing, singing and teaching some messed-up version of damn Hannah Montana's Hoedown/Throwdown to the cell's other occupants and Eric had the blood of the prison employees on his boots!

And then, THEN, when'd he called their attention to him, they'd been pissed to see him! They'd assumed he'd have gone after Clay and when they found out no one had, well now, they'd had some pretty choice words to say to the man who could effectively ruin their careers.

Eric hadn't bothered gaining their official release. The MP's easily picked the lock on the cell, escorted them out of the station and they'd sped to the hospital, arriving in time to retrieve Clay – who had been in police custody and handcuffed to the gurney – before any doctor had been able to do more than paint him with mercurochrome and slap band-aids over his cuts and scrapes.

After that night, Eric realized and accepted he was too close to this team; they knew it, he knew it. Damn it all, he'd gone and developed a soft spot for a punked-ass kid with an attitude who, no matter what, always had his team's backs.

Some of his colleagues said he was a pansy, a Bravo patsy, wouldn't stand up to them, wouldn't pull rank, wouldn't command them to respect his authority. And yeah, he supposed in a way that was true, but wasn't it better to operate as a team with a team who would do anything for him?

And he had laid down the law more than once. The entire team had grudgingly, reluctantly and with an attitude, fell into line but he still thought it was better to just let them do what they did best.

"Head still bothering you?" Betty asked, sitting a tray of toast, tea and brownies on the table beside the recliner.

Elizabeth.

Eric, and only Eric, called her Betty and she was okay with that, liked having a name that meant something only to her husband. Once he'd serenaded her with Bog Seger's 'Betty Lou's getting out tonight' while a bit tipsy. She'd fallen more than a little in love with him that night.

"It'll get better when I figure what to do."

"You know what to do," she scolded gently. "So what you mean is; your headache will go away when you gain access to the classified mission Clay was sent on with his old unit." She laid a hand on her husband's shoulder. "And when you get permission to go get him."

Eric sighed, accepted the comfort she so willingly gave. Anyone ever found out how much he told her, he'd lose his job, career, rank, pension – everything.

"I don't care what the mission is, where it is or what it involves."

"You're not asking for that." She pointed out. "You just want to know what kind of danger he's in."

"I'll get it." Eric stated firmly. "One way or another, no matter how many toes I stomp on, how many favors I call in or promise, I will find out."

"You want your man back."

'I sure as hell am not going to sit here and just wait."

"You want to send Bravo after him."

"Send them? Hell Betty, they want to go. It's all I can do to keep them from storming the base."

"You're afraid of losing him."

He took a bite of toast. "He went through a lot of intense training to become a Tier One SEAL."

"Not what I meant. You're not worried his pull to his old unit is great enough, he'll return." She patted his hand, played with his thumb. "Bravo loses him in the bathroom, what if he goes missing now?"

"He operated before Bravo, he'll have to do what he did then…" Eric sighed. "Shit. They'd steal a plane, Chuck would fly them all over there."

"And you." She teased.

"I have him remanded to quarters." Eric clasped his fingers together, cupped the back of his head with his palms. "I haven't given permission for him to leave the base."

"Are you going to?"

"They'll get around me, they want to."

"Given enough time." She agreed. "There is no way Jason's not fighting the bit for his head."

"Just waiting to see who gets their way first."

She patted his shoulder. "My bets are on you."

***000***

Brock and Trent stood on the front porch of a remote cabin, waiting for the door to open, both meeting the eyes of the man without flinching or staring when it did.

"Whatever it is you're after, I want no part of it." The man missing one arm from the elbow said. He had extensive scars on his face, from what remained of his ear to his shoulder blade, same side of his body as his missing arm. His eye was disfigured but remained and was functionable. "Get off my property." A large black dog of undetermined breed growled at his feet.

"Donte Myers?" Brock said calmly, made several soft noises and the dog quieted and sat down. "I'm Brock Reynolds, this is Trent Sawyer. We just want to talk to you about..."

The cabin they'd found Myers in, was indeed remote, but by no means, devoid of comfort. The man sought privacy and distance, but he didn't live alone and he hadn't withdrawn completely from life.

"I don't have anything to say to you or anyone else from the Navy." Donte said bluntly, started to close the door. "Get gone. I don't want to talk to you." Oh, he knew they were military when neither looked away or even blinked at the sight of his injuries. They didn't stare or gawk and neither were uncomfortable. He guessed Navy, because….duh.

"We just want to…"

"There's nothing you can say that will make me let you into my home, talk to you. Now go away."

Responding to his owner's tone, the dog bared his teeth, growled aggressively.

"Clay Spenser." Trent spoke up. "Know him?"

Donte faltered, his eyes went wide, nostrils flared. Brock and Trent could see the internal battle on his face, the side with frozen and melted muscles distorting painfully.

"Someone finally put him in his grave?" He sighed finally, rubbed his forehead, two fingers on his remaining hand melted together. "How'd he buy it? You find a body to bring back?" He petted the dog's head, fondled an ear. "Didn't make 30, did he?" He opened the door a bit wider. "You think I'd want to know, why?"

"Clay's alive." Brock said steadily. "He's fine."

"It's my job to keep him that way." Trent added.

Neither missed the slight shudder, the shaking hand on the dog's head.

"Then you ain't got an easy job." Donte nodded. The silence stretched, both Brock and Trent patient, letting him navigate whatever feelings they were digging up in his own time. "You lose him?"

Donte saw the smile both Trent and Brock fought to hide, the look they exchanged. A smile of affection, fondness. Not only did these two men call Spenser friend, they understood Donte's dry tone, the joke.

"We know where he is."

"How'd you find me?" He stood aside, allowed them entrance into the cabin. "Iced tea or lemonade? Wife don't allow alcohol in the house."

"I can track anyone." Brock said simply, crouching down to greet the dog. After extending a closed fist for smell inspection and being accepted, he scratched the silky ears.

"Lemonade." Trent said, Brock nodded.

"What unit you with?"

"Tier One."

"The kid finally did it, eh? Went through Green? Who was stupid enough to take him on?"

"Jason Hayes."

"Hayes, eh?" Donte nodded. "Not an easy guy, I've heard. Glasses are in that cupboard, some cookies are over there. Sugar or sweetener?"

"Sugar."

"How well do you know Clay?" Brock asked, now petting a furry belly amid doggie sighs and a floor-thumping tail.

"About as well as anyone. He bonded pretty tight with Brian Armstrong, heard about his death. Sucks."

"Clay took it hard."

"Heard about Adam Seaver too." Donte said, rolling his eyes over the antics of his dog. "Don't imagine he took that death any better."

"He didn't."

"So, what do you want?" Donte asked, getting right to the point. He didn't wish to be rude, but he really didn't want these men in his house. "Get to it."

Brock grinned, gave the dog a final pat, pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, sat down. "Information on the mission in Korengal Valley."

Donte waved his maimed hand, touched his scars, didn't speak.

"Is he responsible for your injuries?"

Donte set a sugar bowl on the table, got a spoon as Trent set down glasses and removed a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge. The three men sat uneasily at the kitchen table.

"No." Donte used his teeth to open a pink packet of sweetener. "He was just a kid. Didn't like being told what to do."

"We're still beating that outta him."

Silence. Lemonade was sipped.

"We lost him to a Sheikh who wanted to buy him for his harem once." Brock grinned in an attempt to ease the tension.

"Cause he was pretty to look at." Trent added. "Blackburn got into a pillow fight with a bunch of women trying to get him back."

"Eric Blackburn?" Donte relaxed a bit, the mood successfully lightened. These men knew Spenser alright.

"You know him?"

"Heard of him. He your CO?"

"And bless him for it." Brock said. Donte obviously still had friends or contacts in the Navy.

Silence.

"We were sent to check out a warehouse. He was right behind me. So close, I could touch him. We rounded a corner, I was alone."

"Been there."

"Done that."

"We scrambled, waited for command, intel came in, we took the building."

"He wasn't there?"

"Nope. Never had been."

"Source of the intel?"

"Never found out. If top brass did, I never heard about it." Donte shook his head. "The kid was jumped, woke up, couldn't find us, went back to base on his own to find we weren't there."

"The building blew?"

Donte nodded. "And he was nowhere near it, had never been in it."

"Kid would feel like it was his fault, something happened to his team."

Donte snorted. "That little prick? Full of arrogance, attitude, ego?"

"You questioning his loyalty?" Brock quietly asked, his first hint of disgust.

Donte slapped the table with his palm. "No! NO! Sorry, no." He was quiet. "How long he been with you guys?"

"Long enough, anyone ever tried to hurt him or leave him to find his own way back, they wouldn't have knee caps." Brock sipped his lemonade.

"Or ears." Trent added. "Sonny would detach the cartilage by hand."

Donte was quiet, sighed. "Kid was maybe 20, when he joined us. Not even old enough to legally drink in this country. I was at the end of my career, the other side of 35, I had 18 months before I was gonna hang 'em up."

"He, uh, can wear you out. We left him with Alpha once, Full Metal blew up Jason's phone. Was funny at first."

"Didn't end so funny. Reaction to bee stings landed him in the hospital."

Donte tilted his head, studied Trent. "You're the medic? And you ain't grey yet?"

"Uh, hair dye." Trent teased with a sigh. "Jason expects a lot."

"We have a team doc who usually travels with us. You don't run with Hayes and ignore an injury."

Donte poured more lemonade for everyone, noted the words: run 'with' Hayes, not 'for' Hayes. "His talent with a long gun," he shook his head. "The languages he could speak. And yet…."

"No one wanted to deal with him." Trent stirred more sugar into his glass. "Right? He was hurt or down, no one wanted anything to do with him."

"We took care of him." Donte snapped. "We never left him behind, never left an injury untreated. We lost him, we found him."

"But a job gone wrong, bet the only person who ever tried to talk to him while he sulked, was Armstrong."

Donte was quiet, stared at his hand, scowled. "He was a fucking little prick."

Trent had made his point, moved on. "He's been called back by your Captain. Blackburn's fighting it, but he's already flown in."

"We're either trying to get him back, abort the mission or be allowed to fly over there and join him."

"Jason's having a fit." Trent said. "He doesn't like anyone taking any of his men away from him. We aren't any too happy about having him taken from us either."

"There's more to this."

Donte got up, opened a cupboard, dug within, withdrew a flask. "My wife catches us, you brought this with you." He warned as he unscrewed the cap, added a generous splash to all three glasses, sat back down. "Nothing we ever did was a special ops mission." He took a drink. "We raided a village, burned it to the ground without care for the livestock, way of life, or its residents. Our job was to wipe out any possibility the villagers could sustain a fighting force."

Not special ops? Then why was Blackburn up against a 'classified' brick wall?

"Was there evidence of that?"

"Didn't matter."

"This was before the building blew?"

Donte nodded. "Day before. Look at him sideways, he'd blown your fucking head off. Don't think he ever missed. But that day…"

"You weren't sent to kill innocent villagers?" Brock frowned. That would eat at Clay.

"No, just burn every building and everything they owned, poison the well, take out the power grid, kill the livestock."

"Clay wouldn't slaughter innocent animals." Brock objected, still frowning.

Donte brooded. "He argued with the Cap over that and the well."

As would Jason.

Donte tossed a bit of cookie to the dog. "He shot the latches off the gates, shot into the dirt to scatter the goats. Cap was pissed, next thing we knew, a man's dead in the dirt. He'd been creeping up behind Cap with a knife."

"Clay made the shot."

"A woman was with the guy. She was screaming, begging, carrying on but we couldn't understand a word she was saying."

"But Clay could."

"We thought she was freaking out over dude who no longer had a head."

"But it was the well."

Donte rubbed his forehead. "Clay told us….warned us….to leave it alone. He and Cap got into it, punches were thrown."

"Clay struck a superior?"

"He hit back, didn't throw the first haymaker. Next day, we're casing the warehouse, dunno why, he's gone and we get blown up."

"The well?"

"Clay put a bullet through the container. Dunno what it contained, dunno how spilling it onto the ground was okay, but pouring it into the well, wasn't." Donte downed the lemonade, poured more, added another splash of whiskey. "That kid had no fear, never hesitated. He'd argue for a better plan, a different way. Call him reckless maybe, sometimes, but he isn't stupid."

"No," both Brock and Trent agreed softly.

"He could scare the shit right outta me." Donte smiled into his lemonade. "Think I passed out a time or two, holding my breath over some stupid stunt or another he was attempting to pull off. He could fight through injury like no one I'd ever seen. Always came out right for him though."

"Still has that horseshoe up his ass."

"To this day, I say he was jumped so he wasn't anywhere near the building when it blew. Never proven though. He didn't even know about it until after he found his way back to base." Donte was quiet, mind far away. "He. Was. Removed." He made eye contact, sighed. "By the time Watkins was found, he…." He shook his head. "Our unit…three dead, two critically injured, one captured in that blast. Over a god-damn well."

Silence. Brock ate another cookie.

"And Spenser? Knocked out and woke up couple miles away in an alley with a headache a couple of aspirin did away with."

"Not you."

"Spenser led the rest of our unit on a rescue attempt. They were banged up, Cap told them to wait for the rescue team but they sided with Spenser, went with him."

"This, uh, Captain…."

"Wasn't his rank."

"He's still active?"

"Only as an advisor." Donte sighed. "Injury sidelined him," his bottom lip trembled. "Trap, maybe. They knew someone would come for him."

"Barry Watkins?"

Donte shifted his weight in the chair. "This is all speculation, you get that, right? They were waiting for the rescue team, I just don't think they thought Spenser would be with them." His closed fist hit the table, spoons jangled. "There's video. They were out-numbered, out-gunned, over-powered…Spenser comes out of the smoke, dust and she saw him."

"She?"

"Same bitch from the village." Donte confirmed, added more whiskey. "Spenser didn't let Cap poison the well and she spared his life."

"Explains his reluctance to attack women." Trent said to Brock who was nodding in agreement. "He'll let them kick the shit out of him before he'll try and fight back." He explained to Donte.

"Women have no authority over there."

"Dunno know what Cap would want with Spenser now. Whatever it is, can't be good. He has no good feelings towards Spenser….if he's asking…you can't trust him."

"Why's that?"

"Kid shot him."

"Doesn't sound like something Spenser would do."

"Shot through him to save Watkins." Donte clarified. "Man can live like this," he waved his hand over his face and shoulder. "But deaf, blind, mute? No hands? No feet? Castrated? Ain't no life."

"That what happened to Watkins?"

"Wudda, 'cept for Spenser. He hadn't been on that mission, the well would have been poisoned and..."

"The injury to Cap?"

"Shoulder. Surgery repaired most of the nerve damage, but he has limited motion."

"Was Watkins taken hostage for any known reason?"

"Think they wanted us to come get him, take the rest of us out." Donte shrugged. "Like I said, they didn't expect Spenser to be there. She came out of nowhere once she saw him. Dunno what she said, Spenser refused to tell us. Said he couldn't hear her, stuck to that story in debrief."

"You don't believe that."

"She let him have Watkins and walk out of there. What do you think?"

"And Watkins is alive?"

'He is."

Phones vibrated in unison. One chirped, the other played a Black Sabbath song.

"Gotta go." Trent pushed back from the table. "Thank you. Sorry for bringing all this back up."

"Good to know the kid got on a good team."

Brock had answered his phone. "Uh, an hour?" He looked at Trent. They were in West Virginia. "On our way." He was moving towards the door, phone to his ear, snapped his fingers at Trent. "Wheels up in 90, we're gonna go get him. You drive." He spared a final pat to the dog. "Christ, if they have to wait on us...we're gonna run hills for a year."

"We owe Blackburn a fucking case of that scotch he favors." Trent was on the move. He left a card on the table. "We were never here."

And they were gone.

Donte cleaned up the table, opened a drawer to add the card that bore just a phone number, to an envelope that contained a photo of his unit when everyone was whole and hearty. He touched fingertips to the two men on the right….Brian Armstrong hugging a tousled-haired blonde who was laughing….

"God be with you." He whispered, closed the drawer. "Bring him home."