21 Marine Salute: 21 Always a Marine Tales (28 page)

“And we must be accountable for our actions and hold others accountable for theirs. We must never sully our honor or the honor of others,” Jace finished.

Zach hid a wince at the crack in the teen’s rapidly maturing voice. “Exactly. Did either of you act with honor?”

“He was out. Fair and square—”

“He blocked the base. I touched the sandbag before he touched me with that ball.”

The two glared threateningly at each other but held their positions under their leader’s stare.

“I did not ask you what happened on the play. I asked you if you acted with honor.”

He waited. Feet shuffled and inch by inch, their defiant looks drooped.

Jace cleared his throat. “No, sir.”

Fin concurred. “No, sir.” Despite his pride, his chin ducked down in a conspicuous swallow.

It was hard to be a teenager. Boys in bodies destined to become men. The struggle between comfort and discipline would be ongoing for their parents, their teachers, and their coaches. Going easy on them would do them no favors. Like all their teammates, one or both parents were active or recently retired military. Some, like Fin, saw their fathers intermittently between missions, and others, like Jace, would never see their fathers again. It was hard to serve.

It was harder to be the family of those who served.

“Fifty laps. Both of you. Go.”

The boys grabbed their caps and took off at a jog, side-by-side, to loop the outer field.

Glancing at the rest of the team, Zach whistled. “Catching practice for the defense, twenty minutes. Batters, head to the cages and work on those swings.”

The kids scrambled to comply, but he stayed where he was at third base, his attention equally divided between the assignments.

Logan jogged up at an easy lope, his limp barely noticeable after months of continuous therapy and training. “They’re going to be best friends.”

“Probably.” Zach grunted, resisting the urge to grin at the thought. Right then, when the kids looked at him, they needed to see stern disapproval. How many times had he and Logan pounded the snot out of each other at the same age? He’d relax his facial expression and let the approval show in a few laps.

“You want to grab a beer when they’re done?” Logan bent down to claim Fin’s glove, tossed the ball up and caught it with a twist. The scars on the left side of his mouth pulled down in a grimace. It was obvious his arm still gave him problems, the scar tissue having reduced his flexibility.

“Yup. Rangers are up against Yankees.”

“Sounds good.” The ball continued its up and down motion as Logan tossed with his right hand and caught it behind his back with his left.

“PT is gonna kick your ass if you strain your wrist.” A cool observation, nothing more, but Zach kept a watch on the ticks of strain in Logan’s face.

“Eh, not warmed up enough. I need the practice and Quinton’s idea of PT is observing the hill until the Marines get there to actually take it.”

He didn’t laugh at the comment. Like his teens, Logan needed the same kind of firm restraint, but in the twenty-two months since his injury, he’d defied all expectations on recovery. He may never have the full flexibility he boasted before being trapped in a burning Humvee, with a leg shattered and arm broken while fire burned through the layers of his skin, but he was damn close.

Because he didn’t observe the hill. He took it.

“Yeah, but he’s still your CO where this is concerned. Be careful he doesn’t sic Doc on you.” In addition to being a close friend and a member of their unit, retired PFC James Westwood was Logan’s trauma counselor and despite his recovery, the two still met professionally at least once every other week.

“Yes, mother.” Logan smirked and curved the ball in an easy toss at Zach.

Jace and Fin were on their tenth lap and laughter shook their sullen expressions free. Zach dropped back about ten steps and pitched the ball to Logan. His arm gave a little twinge at the wind up. He hadn’t warmed up either.

“How was the meeting?” He adjusted to keep watch on his players, but they were all working well, faces lined with concentration and actually giving advice to each other. In eight weeks of training, they’d finally begun to forge the bonds of teamwork that would help them when they competed.

“We’re going to be busy. Captain Dexter got the grant. We’ll be expanding the physical therapy wing first, and Doc can bring in more counselors. We’re also now classified a trauma one center for returning vets. Ten new families are en route. Within the year, we’re going to have at least two Army specialists and one Air Force to work with. He also closed the deal on the land across the highway. We’ll be adding off-campus houses for the long-term staff.”

“Holy hell.” Zach caught the ball and held it for a moment. “I guess he wasn’t kidding.”

Mike’s Place was the brainchild of the captain. The facility provided first class physical and emotional therapy for wounded military and support for their families. The goal was not only reintegration into civilian life, but the healing of any injuries incurred during service. The inclusion of families was an important component.

“Nope. He’s a man on a mission, and Rebecca’s got a lot of talent when it comes to helping him put those plans in motion. Throw the damn ball.” Logan glared at him.

Zach flung it back. He’d followed him to Mike’s Place for Logan’s therapy after their discharge from active duty. Initially, his focus was to get him back on his feet, but they’d discovered a calling there. Logan worked with the difficult PT patients and understood them because he was one of them. The scars on the left side of his body were a mottled collection of hard ridges. Pins secured the major joints in his left leg and his elbow.

He’d learned to walk and function again, thanks to Mike’s Place. Now he paid that forward to the men and women who needed similar tough love. The final crown to his recovery, though, happened in Las Vegas and currently served in Afghanistan.

An image of Jazz’s sexy, sensual grin flirted across Zach’s mind, and he clamped down on the heat that flooded through him. The last thing he needed was tented shorts on the field. The right corner of Logan’s mouth quirked upward. Yeah, his best friend didn’t miss much.

“She didn’t call last night, did she?”

They’d both worked late, crunching the last of the numbers for their estimates to complete the Captain’s report. The two shared a three-bedroom apartment in the sprawling campus’ residential section. Zach had left before dawn to pick up the uniforms for the team and then hit the field with them by mid-morning.

“Nope. But she and the FET were heading out for meetings so it may be a couple of days before she’s got a secure line to make a call.”

Of all the women to meet, they’d fallen for a Marine. For one wild night in Vegas, they’d shared her. Zach had signed them up for that one-night stand to help Logan overcome a huge hurdle in his recovery—impotence. It more than worked.

They were both hooked on her. Logan got to see her in Germany over a long weekend while Zach covered his PT shifts. Logan repaid that debt three months earlier, helping out with the kids’ sports teams while Zach jetted to meet her in Italy. Just thinking about those three nights was enough to set his blood on fire.

Jazz was as beautiful as she was tough. She’d recently taken the position with FET. He’d argued with her—she was safer in the green zone, running logistics and keeping track of the hundred or so who reported to her. But she wanted to help the people they were working with and, as a woman, uniquely suited to reach out to those most harmed not only by their oppressors but the war in general.

He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t fault her logic. Fluent in six languages, she had skills. She also knew how to handle herself, a fact she’d proven when she dropped him on his ass and had her way with him in the middle of an argument. Laughter fisted in his throat and he chuckled. The boys were at lap thirty, sweating, and not talking so much as grunting encouragement to each other.

They’d be fast friends again and too damn tired to throw a punch by the next day.

“Stop thinking about her, man. Your face is doing the gooey-eyed thing.” Logan’s reminder was an easy jest, but his own guarded expression revealed similar thoughts. Jazz was not the kind of woman a man forgot—for either of them. “How much longer on her contract?”

“Eight months.” The ball zinged back and forth between them. “But she’s loving this new assignment.”

“Yeah, I get that. She likes helping and she likes working with the people.” What remained unsaid was their understanding her need to serve—they shared the same need. But they also wanted her home, and it was the unspoken thorn upsetting an otherwise great balance they’d found in sharing her.

“She can help people here.” In his bed or Logan’s or their shared bed, however she wanted to work that piece out. Zach didn’t mind sharing with his best friend. Impatience itched between his shoulder blades. He did mind sharing her with the sandbox. He didn’t like saying it out loud, and on the one occasion he’d been drunk enough to mention it, Logan reminded him that she was still a Marine. They didn’t really have the right to demand she be anything else.

Didn’t stop a man from wanting, though.

“She can if she wants—and when she’s ready, she will.” It amazed Zach that Logan remained so easygoing about the situation. Like he didn’t care what she decided as long as they were included in the decision.

“When’s her next leave?” They should really change the subject, but like a dog with a bone, the need to hold on to her intensified. They talked with her nearly every other day, every day when she managed it. Sometimes for five minutes and sometimes an hour, depending on how much time she had.

But with no phone call in forty-eight hours, his gut churned with worry. He tried to keep a lid on it, but it boiled into everything he did.

Jace and Fin turned the curve on lap fifty, and Zach paused from throwing the ball to whistle. “Hit the showers, clean up. Be back here in the morning at oh-eight-hundred sharp.” The practice field emptied out rapidly with Jace and Fin
walking
and thumping each other on the back in good humor.

Nothing like a little ass busting to make the heart grow fonder
.

The tension in his neck wouldn’t go away nor would the nagging sense of worry. He hated being on this side of the waiting game. It would be easier if he were there, in Afghanistan, with her.

Maybe
.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket, and he waved Logan over. His shoulder burned from too many throws, and he’d have to ice it later. Tossing his friend the ball, he pulled his phone out. The number in the caller ID flashed familiar, and he thumbed it on to answer.

“Yo, Brody!” Lieutenant Brody Essex, the last member of their unit and one of the Captain’s good friends, still served in the sandbox. A reassignment had sent his unit to Afghanistan two hundred clicks from Jazz. He’d checked in on her now and then to give Zach the news that yes, she was fine. “How goes the south side of hell?”

“Hot and crispy.” The man’s voice was tinny, echoing the distance between the calls. “Look, man, we just got word. The FET unit hit an IED in Bamyan. At least one serious injury. I don’t know if it’s her….”

The late afternoon sun turned icy cold. He froze, the sound of his heart like a ticking time bomb in his head.

“Zach?” Logan braced him with an arm.

“IED, Bamyan. A FET team was hit.” He forced the words past the chokehold on his throat. The Marine inside him stood solid. Details first. Reaction later.

“I don’t have any more details, but the news is going to hit stateside any minute. There were reporters there with one of the Army units. We’re on our way now. Hang in there, buddy.”

Brody’s team was on their way. Brody’s team specialized in recovery, alive or dead.

“Is it her?” Logan asked, the words a low growl.

“He didn’t know. But she’s in the field. She never says where she’s going. Security.” The words popped out, one at a time, like bullets being emptied from a clip. “She didn’t call last night.”

“Don’t lose it.” Logan’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “We don’t know anything yet.”

She didn’t call.

Zach stared at his phone, willing her to call.

It didn’t ring.

Zach paced a ten-step line back and forth in front of C Terminal’s arrival gate for Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. Logan stood to the side, arms behind his back. He waited in parade rest formation, except instead of a uniform he wore a black T-shirt tucked into well-worn jeans, and black biker boots—part of his physical therapy with the left one creating an almost cast-like effect for his ankle. He didn’t necessarily need the damn things anymore, but he’d gotten used to wearing them.

The blue screens overhead blinked the baggage claim turnstile B for Flight 723 from Germany. But the carousel area sat empty and the international passengers hadn’t exited from customs yet. On his umpteenth pass, Zach hissed a breath through his teeth. A vein throbbed in his forehead.

He is not doing well
. Logan quashed the thought. Since Brody called about the accident, Zach was either planted in front of the television, on the phone with contacts in Washington, or calling the hospitals at Bagram and Ramstein. Jazz’s injuries were severe. She’d lapsed into a coma for three endless days. They’d planned to fly out, but reports on her condition remained sketchy and every time she stabilized, they moved her to a new facility with specialized surgeons.

After thirty-two hours of surgery at Ramstein, she finally woke up. While Zach cajoled, coaxed, and bullied information out of the medical staff—fortunately they knew one of the Navy Corpsmen traveling with her—Logan took a different tactic.

He called her mother.

Mrs. Winters filled him in on Jazz’s emotional state. It wasn’t good. She didn’t want to see them or speak to them. The rejection stung, but Logan understood. He’d been there. He hadn’t wanted to see anyone either. It didn’t keep Zach from annoying the hell out of him. Zach, who currently seemed intent on wearing a path through the hard floors of the airport with his incessant pacing, had stayed by his side through every agonizing hour of his dozen surgeries, skin grafts, and eventual therapy.