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Prologue

One step at a time. Just one step at a time.

How often had I been saying that to myself? Months?

Fuck, I’d been saying something close to that since I was ten years old and Dad told me to sink or swim. Literally.

I pulled my half-filled duffel off the baggage carousel and grimaced. How absolutely shitty was this? I knew down to the pound how much it weighed. Scratch that. I knew down to the ounce. Fourteen pounds and ten ounces. My backpack weighed ten pounds and six ounces. Mike, my physical therapist, had weighed them both since I was only cleared to lift twenty-five pounds. I knew he was just making a point, but he was really close to getting a throat punch. Except for the fact he was bigger, faster and in much better shape, and I’d be on my ass in less than a second.

Then the bastard had the nerve to tell me not to buy a book or anything when I was at the airport, or I’d go over my weight limit.

What an asshole.

I hated this shit.

Meanwhile, Clay Alvers down at Fort Liberty in North Carolina was also being a major pain in my ass. We were recruited for Delta Force at the same time and eventually roomed together. He took care of everything when they didn’t know if I was going to live or die.

When they eventually figured out I was going to live and sent my ass to Walter Reed to be operated on, he managed all my finances and basically held my life together. But when I realized I’d never be able to go back to the teams, I told him to either give my shit away or throw it away, since I wasn’t going back to North Carolina.

But no.

Instead, the asshole ships me a key to a storage unit and a copy of a check that he’d made out to himself from my account. He’d put in the memo line of the check, management of large and disgruntled mammals.

That was one of the first things that’d made me smile since I’d realized just how fucked-up my back was. On the last mission I was on in a war-torn city in Eastern Europe, multiple bullet fragments had punctured my upper spine. The doctors kept telling me that with physical therapy and working with a doctor who specialized in pain management, I could lead a normal life. There would be discomfort and I wouldn’t have the same mobility as I used to, but it would be a normal life.

Great, that meant I could become a drugged-out insurance salesman.

Oh joy.

I accessed my airline app on my phone, hoping that I had gotten the earlier flight to Nashville, so I didn’t have a six-hour layover here in Atlanta, but no such luck.

I was stuck.

I went out onto the concourse to see if I could find one of those neck pillows that the guy in the seat beside me had been using on my last flight. He snored all the way from Dulles, so maybe it worked. It didn’t look like it weighed too much, so Mike wouldn’t have an aneurism if I bought one.

When I left the shop, I had four magazines, a bottle of water, a Butterfinger candy bar and one of those neck pillows. They only had pink, but at this point, I didn’t care. All that mattered was that maybe I wouldn’t have to take another one of those fucking pain pills.

I looked around to see if there was a restaurant or someplace I could sit down and grab a bite to eat when I got a text.

Demon from Hell: You better not have bought a book.

I looked down at my four magazines. Forbes, Bon Appétit, Popular Science and The Economist weighed far more than a paperback.

Me: Nope, no book.

Demon from Hell: No beer.

Me: So, you think I’ve lost brain cells now, huh? You think I’m going to mix alcohol and narcotics. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mike.

Demon from Hell: Toughen up. I’m texting cause I want you to meet a friend of mine.

I rolled my eyes.

Me: I don’t need one more person checking up on me.

Demon from Hell: The world doesn’t revolve around you, Kai. I’m serious. Head for the USO and check in on Blessing. She’s one of the best people you’re ever going to meet. Just make sure she’s doing okay.

Me: Blessing? What kind of name is that?