Stand-In Wife (6 page)

“PE4
IS A CHALKY-COLORED
solid plastic explosive with a more rapid detonation rate than C4. We’re talking 8210 meters per second as opposed to—”

Turning from the electronic whiteboard, Staff Sergeant Ken Worrell caught sight of Ross who’d paused at the open door of one of the SAS Group Headquarters’s meeting rooms. His face split in a welcoming grin. “You wanna answer that one, Sergeant?”

“Eight thousand and forty meters per second.” Ross nodded to the SAS’s newest recruits. En route to an informal interview with the commanding officer, he’d looked in out of curiosity. A month ago, he’d been roped into the DS—directing staff—basically as a checkpoint monitor during the nine-day selection course. He was curious to see how many of the eighty soldiers had come through.

Those who stumbled exhausted across the finish line were rarely the biggest or fastest or toughest soldiers. Success came to the stubborn bastards who could call on will-power when their bodies failed. And the last day endurance test—a sixty-kilometer walk, with pack, to be completed within twenty hours—had been designed to ensure their bodies did fail.

In the SAS, self-motivation was everything.

He saw six trainees and recognized two. So an above average intake then. And they’d probably lose a couple more during the nine-month training cycle these soldiers had to
pass before they graduated. Not for nothing were the SAS called one-percenters.

They returned his nod respectfully. They knew who he was. Just as he’d known everything about
his
superiors when he’d been a raw recruit. And in each man’s eyes he saw the same hope he’d had—to emulate, to attain, to prove themselves worthy of the elite badge. Can I do it? Am I good enough?

“Staff,” they chorused. If they passed cycle they’d call him Ross. There was no distinction made for rank or background among the SAS.

He also saw sympathy in a few gazes. With a farewell nod to Ken, he continued down the corridor. Despite Ross’s distinguished service record, he’d always be known as the trooper dragged unconscious and near death from a burning Dumvee—desert-modified U.S. Humvee—by a decorated hero.

Given that decorated hero was one of his closest friends, Ross could live with that. What he wouldn’t live with was the possibility that those injuries signaled the end of his operational career.

His gut tightened, as it always did when he thought of Nate. He could forgive him leaving the SAS after the loss of two of their mates. Just. What he found harder to forgive was Nate trading off that valor medal to get a top-paying job as a goddamn bodyguard for some Hollywood star.

Pausing in the corridor, Ross checked his Heuer. Like most demo guys he had a thing for precision timepieces. Still ten minutes early. Because he didn’t want the CO to read nervousness into that he detoured into the History Room. There he tried to distract himself with the displays of past NZSAS operations, from the first in Malaya in 1955 through to Borneo, Vietnam, Bougainville, Kuwait, East Timor and Afghanistan.

He’d been deployed in three of them with Dan, Lee, Steve and Nate.

Grief punched into his solar plexus and momentarily he closed his eyes, forced himself to refocus on the friends who’d survived. Dan was a farmer now and the two men were making scrupulous efforts to avoid taking sides in their younger siblings’ imploded marriage. A few months earlier Ross had helped Dan get his new bride, Jo, to the altar. Hell, if a cynic like Ross could play matchmaker surely he could think of some way to help Nate?

For the hundredth time, he searched for a clue to his mate’s self-destructive behavior but only fragmented memories of that day remained. Pain mostly…crippling, mind-bending pain mixed with the smells of burning metal and flesh.

“I’ve done my duty,” Nate had said in their last phone call. “That medal’s my passport to the easy life.”

“That’s not you talking,” Ross had replied quietly. Nate’s passionate loyalty to the SAS had surpassed even Ross’s.

Nate laughed. “God, I love your idealism, I really do,” he’d mocked. “I guess you’re our Black Knight.” Ross froze in front of the glass display. The Monty Python guy from
The Holy Grail,
the one who’d had arms and legs lopped off and still insisted he was capable of fighting. Talk about blatant cruelty.

He checked his watch again, then walked through reception. In his life he needed very little. Only to be the best at what he chose to do. And that was being a soldier. As he passed the chunk of lapis lazuli beneath the wall carving depicting the ethos of the NZSAS, he bent to pat it for luck. In the Middle East, the dark blue gemstone shimmering with golden pyrites was thought to have magical powers.

For the benefit of the receptionist he kept his gait sure
as he climbed the stairs to the CO’s office on the second floor and tapped on the door.

His superior might be spinning this as a casual chat with a man still officially on sick leave but Ross knew better. Which was precisely why he’d worn the SAS Corps uniform, so the CO knew he meant business. Unfortunately, even with all the weight training and protein shakes the damn thing still hung loose.

He tightened the blue belt then straightened the sand-colored beret. His fingers touched the cool metal of the badge, a flaming sword above the motto Who Dares Wins.

“Enter.” The older man’s level gaze took in his uniform but the CO offered no comment as he gestured Ross to a chair and came out from behind his desk to take another beside it. “Condolences on your recent bereavement, Ross. We could have postponed this chat. I know it’s a difficult time.”

“Thank you, but my stepmother and I weren’t close.”

“I’m sorry to hear that…. Anyway, I’m looking forward to welcoming you back in that uniform permanently next month. Your dedication in regaining your fitness hasn’t gone unnoticed, son.”

“I’m glad.” Ross’s voice cracked in relief. Last week he’d taken on some mates in close-quarter battle and managed to win a few. Despite his weak leg he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. The med team had told him to go easy, rest up and let nature take over but Ross had achieved more by doing rehab his way. Who Dares Wins wasn’t some token corporate team-building slogan, it was imprinted on an SAS trooper’s DNA.

“And counseling. How’s your progress there?”

“Working equally as hard in that area.” To appear unemotional, nerveless…The Iceman.

Thoughtfully, the CO scrutinized him and Ross started
to sweat. Finally the sharp gaze shifted to the wall calendar behind his desk. “I’m thinking of scheduling you for a couple more advanced instructors courses early next year. A GPMG—General Purpose Machine Gun—course in January, a Patrol Procedures in February and Counter Terrorism in March.”

That was three courses, not two.

“We’ll be short of good instructors when Frank retires midyear,” the CO continued. “And I’ve liked your style on demolition. You’re an excellent teacher.”

“You know my goal is to be available for operations.” Ross managed to keep his voice even.

“And these courses don’t preclude that, but it’s early days to be talking about deployment. According to your physio you’re not even jogging yet.” His ironic tone suggested he knew differently.

“I’ve been doing some light training runs,” Ross admitted.

“Stop.”

So much for informal. “Sir.”

“You’re a valuable resource…. Conserve, Ross.”

“Sir.”

“You still have some healing to do, son, mind as well as body.”

Ross tightened his jaw. “Did the psych say that?”

“No, you’ve convinced him you’re completely rational.”

It was delivered as a joke so Ross smiled. “Sir.”

But he’d heard the qualifier. Which son of a bitch had put doubt in the CO’s head?

“H
OW MUCH MORE
do I have to lose, Ross?” Charlie had decided beer wasn’t strong enough and moved onto spirits. He’d given up on his mother’s purple couches— “fifteen thousand bucks each and they’re not even
comfortable”—and lay sprawled on the living room carpet, head and shoulders resting against a pile of black and white polka-dot cushions. Reminded Ross of dominoes. Strewn around the shaggy white rug lay pictures of coffins.

It was 9:00 p.m. and the only light in the room came from the backlit nooks and recesses showcasing Linda’s objets d’art. “First Dad dies, then my marriage and now Mum.” Leaning on his elbow, Charlie held out his empty crystal tumbler with an unsteady hand.

Silently Ross refilled it with Linda’s cognac, topped up his own glass then returned the decanter to the polished black coffee table.

“Or maybe there’s a Coltrane curse,” Charlie continued. “It’s not as if you’ve done any better.” He hesitated. “Do you miss Dad?” He was drunk to be asking such things.

Ross wasn’t drunk enough. “No.”

“How about Steve and Lee?” Ross’s troop mates who’d died in the ambush.

“What is this, twenty questions?”

Charlie waited for an answer.

He sipped his cognac, felt the burn. “Every day.”

Satisfied, his brother lifted his drink, pausing as something under the coffee table caught his eye. Reaching under it, he retrieved a chewed orange plastic
Y
Ross had missed in his earlier cleanup. Charlie put down his glass and turned it over in his hands. “Trust Mum to buy a baby who can’t talk, an alphabet set.” His face crumbled, his shoulders heaved in a silent sob, before he wiped his eyes with the back of one clenched fist. “How do you do it, Ross? How do you make peace with death?”

“I don’t. Grief is fuel to get me where I need to be.”

“Which is Afghanistan?”

Ross nodded.

His brother’s gaze dropped to his injured leg, then slid
away. Charlie didn’t think he could reach operational fitness again—few did—but that didn’t faze Ross. It was enough that he kept the faith. No one had expected him to survive his injuries, either, and he’d proved them all wrong.

Returning to Afghanistan drove everything he did from the food he put into his body to the punishing rehab schedule he’d superimposed over the occupational therapist’s. No way in hell would he accept being relegated to behind the scenes.

He had to show the bastards who’d ripped apart his unit, killed his two close friends, that they hadn’t won. That whatever the ambush had changed, it hadn’t been him.

Charlie groped for his glass. “There is something I can take peace from,” he said, and Ross shifted uncomfortably. He hated navel-gazing, hated its potential to weaken him.

“Knowing the two people I trust most were with Mum when she died.” Charlie knuckled his eyes again and sighed. “Though I guess still trusting Meredith is crazy, given what she did to me.”

A prickle of unease ran up Ross’s spine. Now was not the time for Charlie to start questioning his feelings toward his ex. For a moment he considered telling him about Meredith’s conversation with her boyfriend, except in Charlie’s current state that would be cruel. Maybe having to organize funeral stuff with his sister-in-law wasn’t all bad. Ross could be a buffer.

He realized Charlie was still waiting for a response. “I don’t know what you want me to say, mate.”

“Nothing to say.” His brother lay back on the cushions and stared up at the ceiling. “Didn’t you ever meet a woman who got under your skin?”

“What, like a tick?”

Charlie snorted. “You’re such a tool.”

“I prefer finely honed instrument.” The opposite sex
was a pastime to Ross and he dated women with the same attitude. His longest relationship—six months—had been with a female triathlete. They’d enjoyed the training together as much as the sex.

“Do you miss Terri at all?” Charlie’s mind was obviously running the same track.

Ross sighed. “No.”

“I still don’t get why you dumped her.” It had been one of the first things Ross did when he was shipped home to Auckland Hospital. “She was prepared to stand by you.”

“Charlie?”

“Fine.” His brother reached for his tumbler. “I’ll shut up.”

The doorbell chime made them both start. Ross looked at Charlie. “You expecting someone?”

He started to shake his head then stopped. “Hell, I forgot. Susan said she’d stop by to commiserate.”

The girlfriend. Ross stood up. “I’ll make myself scarce.” Though he approved of him moving on, he wasn’t yet comfortable seeing his brother with another woman.

Reluctantly Charlie rolled to his feet and tucked his shirttail into his jeans. “I wish I’d said no.”

“I can tell Susan you’re not up to visitors.” His kid brother had always attracted nurturers, women who responded to the mommy’s boy under Charlie’s misleading Bruce Willis exterior. Personally, Ross couldn’t imagine anything worse than having his emotional temperature constantly monitored, though his little brother seemed to enjoy it.

Ross didn’t let women into his head and the only female allowed in his buddy clubhouse was Dan’s new wife, Jo. He enjoyed annoying her by calling her an honorary guy.

“The thing is,” said Charlie, “it’s not only tonight I don’t
want to see Susan. I think I only started dating her to get back at Meredith.”

“What’s wrong with that?” said Ross, only half joking.

“Susan’s a sweet woman, she deserves better.” Charlie staggered toward the door. “I’m gonna break up with her.”

Ross moved into his path. “You’re drunk and you’re grieving…leave it a couple of days and then see how you feel. There’s no hurry is there?”

“I’m not you, I can’t be with a woman I don’t love.” Charlie’s expression was mulishly stubborn. Just like his mother’s so often was. And his daughter’s.

“I get that,” Ross said patiently, “but Susan’s come over to commiserate. She’s probably bought a casserole. Dumping her now would be plain mean. I’ll send her away.”

As Charlie hesitated, they heard the sound of the front door being opened. He frowned, so did Ross. They both really hated it when people came in uninvited.

“Hello,” Susan called. “Anyone home?”

Charlie eyeballed him, and with a shrug Ross stepped aside and surrendered to the inevitable. “In here.”

H
OLDING
H
ARRY LIKE
a human shield, Viv opened the front door at eight forty-five the next morning and yelled into the house, “Come on, Tilly, we’re running late!”