Chapter One
When a horseknocked a man on his ass, he had two choices. He could stay down eating dirt or could come up fighting. Having grown up in Texas and being no stranger to being thrown on his ass, Owen Crawford chose to fight. No way in hell would a suicide bomber get the best of him.
But that didn’t mean the battle would be easy.
One more day in Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, the Army hospital in Germany, and he returned to the States. Without Landon Connell, his best friend. And that was just the first hurdle he faced.
The reality rippled through Owen, spreading a numbing cold outward. No matter what event in his life—heading to kindergarten, going on his first date, high school graduation, attending college, or entering the Army—Landon had been there. The emptiness in Owen expanded, knowing he hadn’t been able to save his friend.
Don’t go there. Focus on the immediate goal. That’s how you honor him.
Pushing himself upright in the hospital bed, Owen stared across the room as Dr. Chapman walked in. The doctor’s rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the industrial tile floor as he strode to Owen’s bed. From the way the physician avoided his gaze, whatever the man controlling his future had to say, Owen wouldn’t like the news.
“I’m referring your case to the Medical Evaluation Board,” the doctor said, his voice as flat as if he’d announced weather.
There it was out in the open, the truth he’d feared.
A boulder settled between Owen’s shoulder blades, knowing where this referral could lead—with him being forced from the Army, the only career he’d ever known. No way in hell. Not if he could do anything about it. “How can I keep the board from discharging me?”
“You can’t. The board’s job is to make an unemotional determination about—”
“Yeah, I know. Their job is to decide whether I meet retention standards.” In other words, they’d decide if he could do his job, or any other one, in the military.
As to the unemotional part, Owen wanted to laugh. How could anyone stay detached while he debated a man’s future? “But what you say goes a long way with the board, right?”
The doctor shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, almost dislodging the stethoscope looped around his neck. “All I do is submit the medical facts concerning your case.”
Cut the crap and admit the truth. When you decided to refer my case to the Medical Evaluation Board, you decided I was no longer fit to serve.
Owen swallowed the accusation because alienating Dr. Chapman wouldn’t help. “How about holding off submitting the paperwork to give me time in physical therapy?”
“If I believe your condition could permanently interfere with your ability to serve on active duty, I have no choice. I know the possibility of discharge coupled with the difficulties you’re experiencing must be hard to accept.”
The doctor didn’t have a clue. The fact he’d uttered the words showed that. How could this doctor understand what he was going through? No one was making him give up the career he’d literally sweat and bled for. And acceptance? Owen wouldn’t get there any time soon. Not if he could fight.
Owen could cope with the balance problems but forgetting simple words and the fact that sometimes his brain just plain didn’t work right ate at his gut. Dr. Chapman claimed Owen’s symptoms—failing to recall simple words, losing his train of thought, being slow to process information—were typical with traumatic brain injuries, but that didn’t make them less frustrating or potentially costly.
“Be honest with me, Doc. What’re my chances of avoiding a—” Owen paused, struggling for the word locked inside his short-circuiting brain. He resisted the urge to massage his throbbing temple. Trying to disguise his difficulty, he said, “I want to keep on serving my country.”
“Considering the demands of any position in the intelligence field, the problems associated with your brain injury would make doing your job impossible. If I were a betting man, I’d say a discharge is the odds-on favorite.”
Owen clamped his teeth together, holding in his thoughts until he’d calmed enough to speak. “Just because I’m not fit for active duty now, doesn’t mean I won’t be with time and physical therapy, right?”
The doctor nodded. “But there’s no guarantee. The best you could hope for is the board decides your case isn’t stable enough to make a determination now. Then, you’d be placed on the Temporary Disability Retirement List, and though you couldn’t serve, you’d have up to five years until a permanent decision has to be made.”
That was what he needed. Up to five years for him to work his ass off to get back to where he’d been before the damn suicide bomber dropped half a building on him. And he would get there. He owed it to Landon to continue fighting the good fight.
Despite his injury, he still pictured his buddies, Landon, Tanner, Luke, and Grayson, that night huddled around a table discussing final plans for the intelligence sweep they’d execute after the SEAL team cleared out the hostages. They discussed potential scenarios and how to handle each one. Then Tanner, as part of their ritual and to ease the tension, pulled out his phone and played “Everything is Awesome” from the firstLego Movie. Prepared and focused, they’d headed out.
Four of the finest men on God’s earth. While none of them had come out unscathed, Landon had paid the highest price.
Memories crashed over Owen, battering him with their intensity. His throat tight and burning, he fought to breathe. Realizing his fists clenched a wad of bedsheets, he concentrated on his breathing, keeping the rhythm slow and even until his heart rate returned to normal.
Focus on the goal—increasing your odds of ending up on the Temporary Disabled Retirement List. Forget everything else.
“How about you put in your report the fact that my condition could improve with physical therapy?” Owen cringed, hating the pleading, an almost desperate tone threaded through his voice.
The doctor tugged on his ear lobe and shoved his hands into the large pockets of his white coat. “There’s no disgrace in receiving a medical discharge.”
