Page 11 of Bared

But had he?

Because wasn’t he the one to jab up a hand when old field buddies needed special help with off-the-grid missions? Wasn’t he doing it before the payout was even discussed? Wasn’t the rush of the risk better than a month’s worth of anxiety pills, calming him in ways he couldn’t explain? And wasn’t the shitty aftermath worth it?

Probably best to defer on answering that one.

Because this assignment had come with one hell of an Aftermath. Capital fucking A.

Logically, he could trace the reason why. Hadn’t been the money—a sweeter than sweet deal, thanks to the contract being for renowned billionaire Reece Richards—or even the team setup. He couldn’t have asked for a better squad than his buddies, former feds Sawyer Foley and Dan Colton, as well as badasses Mitch Mori and Kane Alighieri from Richards’ private security team. But despite their thorough prep and expensive gear, the op had cost Mori his life—as Alighieri, his husband, had watched.

So yeah, a reason like that.

Aftermath.

The kind that clung ruthlessly to a guy.

And here was the evidence, on high-def display across his whole mind.

Yay fucking yay.

No fucking way.

He fought back again. Compelled himself back to the mumbled affirmations. “You’re okay. You’re not there. You’re right here. Sunlight. Civilization. Sanity.”

No more darkness or piss or fear.

Most especially, no more stone walls.

As he emerged from the main pyramid into the full sunshine, a deep inhalation helped to drive the thought home. As he sucked in another, he willed the rays to sink in deeper, through his close-cropped skull and tense neck, to the places he needed them most. The drops of his bloodstream that were still a wild river ride. The atriums and ventricles of his heart, still a deafening rock concert.

“Breathe, damn it.”

Finally, finally, it seemed to be working.

A little. Not enough.

He walked across the museum’s main courtyard, heading for one of the wide reflecting pools. Water was his favorite natural relaxer of choice, as he’d learned during extensive therapy sessions with Doc Sally at Joint Base Lewis-McChord. She’d helped him determine that it likely stemmed from growing up in downtown Emerald City and escaping the ugliness of the south side by watching sunsets over the Puget Sound. Images of those waters were what his mind called forth the most during those black, life-changing hours deep beneath Bamiyan. That night, hundreds of hours long, in which he’d finally given up on ever seeing the sun again…

Just like that, the panic returned with a vengeance.

“Fuck.” He battled the urge to just go and sprawl in the reflecting pool. The weather wasn’t blistering, but these attacks always made him feel like he’d humped a hundred-pound ruck across the Registan.

Thanks, Afghanistan.

Enough fun and games. Sally had also taught him when to stop, pause, and admit he needed help. When to recognize a moment just like this one.

“Suck it up, buttercup,” he mumbled, plodding over to one of the cart vendors on the plaza. “Une bouteille d’eau,” he requested, and quickly twisted the cap free from the water. After chugging half the contents, he fished a small pill from his back pocket and swallowed that too.

Goddammit, how he hated taking the pharmaceutical escape hatch from this shit—but again, Sally’s words echoed through his head. Brick is your call sign, mister—not your credo.

He wanted to laugh at her now just as much as he did then. And he would—just as soon as he finished up with shaking like a daisy in a rainstorm.

It’d be a few minutes before the chemicals took hold and brought that miracle, though. He endured the wait by slumping against one of the columns bearing witness to the museum’s origins as a military fortress. The smooth stone was warm against his back. He focused on the heat, mentally mixing it with the rise of his dopamine while scanning the plaza with lazy eyes. Okay, whatever counted as lazy for him these days. After eight days away from the tranquility of his place on Whidbey Island, his middle name had likely been changed to Paranoia.

Still, he didn’t flinch at a movement in the shadows beyond his right shoulder. When the man who’d materialized there took three steps in cowboy boots without a sound, Brick relaxed again. “You plan on coming out anytime soon, Wizard of Oz?” he murmured.

“Cackled the bad witch to the good witch?”

The comeback, in Ozias Demos’s trademark drawl, already had Brick twitching with a smirk. “Hold up. I’m the one who looks better in pink sparkles, remember?”