He huffs a laugh.“All right, spitfire.”
My mouth tugs up despite the seriousness of this conversation.“You came up to this cabin to keep the world safe from you. Igetit. I do. I sat with my brother through enough of this to recognize it the day I met you. But listen to me carefully,Sullivan‘Six’Mercer—I amawoman who has spent twenty-fouryears being told to be smaller, and yesterday,whena man put his hand on me, you put yourself between us.Youtold him to take his hand off me, and you let him go when I asked. Do you hear whatI’msaying?”
He looks up.
“I’mnotafraid ofyou,Sullivan.”My voice catches.“You’rethe firstpersonin my entire life who has stood in front of me on purpose, asked permission to stay there, and stepped back when Iasked. And I refuse to let you tell meyou’rebad luck. I refuse, Sullivan. I refuse it in my brother’s name.”
He looks at me as if I’ve just untied a knot he couldn’t reach. “Tess, I don’t know how to receive this. I don’t know what to do with it.”
“You don’t have to do anything with it.”
A tear slips down his cheek.“I’m not going to be a quick study.”
I dash at the wetness on my cheeks.“I know.”
Sullivan stands and retrieves something from one of the kitchen drawers before returning to the table. He looks at the photograph in his hand for a long moment, then passes it to me.
I look at the three men in fatigues with an unidentifiable horizon behind them. One of the three men is Sullivan, ten years younger and twenty pounds lighter, and the other two?—
“The one on the left is Davis.Bones, we called him. He was themedic. Loved the original Star Trek.”Sullivan’s mouth twitcheswitha sad smile.“He could put a man back together in the dark.”
“And the other one?”
“That’sHooper. Comms specialist.His call sign was Wire.That man could fix anything with a circuit board and a piece of gum.The picture was taken about a year before.”
I don’t need to askbefore what?
“Wirewastwenty-six.He used to readout loudto us in the bunkhouse. Cheap paperback thrillers with the covers torn off. Hecouldn’tsing for shit, but he tried every damn night. He was the brightest of us. He was the reason the team had a heart.”
“Bones was thirty-two.Married for a year toCarrie, a kindergarten teacher in San Antonio. He carried her picture in the lining of his helmet. Quieterthan the rest of us. Smarter than me by amarginhe was kind enough to hide. He was the onewho’dsit up with you when youcouldn’tsleep. He knew the names of all the wives and girlfriends. He kept track of birthdays. He was a reader too, but he likedthe slowstuff. Thickbooks, like doorstops.You’dask him aquestion,andyou’dget an answer eight hours later, and the answer was always right.”
Idon’tmove, barely breathing as he talks.
“And I was Six. I watchedeverybody’sback. That was my job. I had eyes everywhere. I made the calls.”
“What happened?” I whisper.
“There was a village,”hesays, his voice flat,“in a countryI’mnot going to name. We had intel that a high-value targetwould bemovingthrough it. The intel came from a sourceI’dused before andtrusted withmy life.Bonesonpoint.Wireonoverwatch. I was in the middle. Soft approach. Eyes only. No contact unless contact came to us.”
He swallows. “The intel was wrong. Itwasn’ta soft target. It was a setup. Somebodysold usout. We were a hundred yards into enemy territorybefore I knew, and by then, we were—”He stopsto breathe.“Bones took the first round. Right throughthethroat. He went down without a sound. Wire took the second round in the leg, the femoralartery, and I had thirty seconds to choose between getting him to a vehicle and trying to get toBones, and I—”His voice cracks.“I madethecall. We leftBones. We carried Wire. We made it out.”
I swallow back a sob.“Oh, Sullivan.”
“I’llnever know if Bones was alive when we left him. I told myself for three years that hewasn’t.I’vestopped lying to myselfinthe fouryears since. He wasprobably aliveand bleeding out and watching us go.”
He scrubs a hand over his face.“Wiremade it home. He spent six months in a hospital. Kept the leg.”
I exhale slowly.“Okay. Good.”
“He hasn’t spoken to me since the second month.”He says it evenly, like a man reading from a ledger.“The first month he tried.”
I wait.
“I wouldn’t takethecall.” A beat.“I wouldn’t return a letter.”
“Sullivan—”
He shakes his head—not dismissing me, just not stopping.“He’sa good man, Tess. A much better man than I am,and the reason wedon’ttalk now is that I made it impossible to.”Something in his jaw sets.“That’s on me.”
