Hold on Tight (17 page)

Move forward
, his dad always told him and his brothers. But even so, Nick and Jake had both been forced to look back on their own pasts in order to find some semblance of peace. Chris knew he’d be no exception.

Seeing Mark’s body was moving forward. And so he walked over to his teammate’s body, and he nearly flashed back to the night Mark died.

Don’t go there … do not go there
, he told himself over and over, until his mind listened and he was here, in the present, with Saint’s hand on his shoulder and Mark’s body in front of him.

He’d been burned badly—nearly beyond recognition, facially. But somehow, the scars on his leg and the tattoo on his chest were still visible. A miracle in the middle of all the hell.

Chris’s gaze traveled down to Mark’s hands, to stare at the missing fingers and then back up his body.

Saint stepped away, to give him some privacy. And Chris whispered to Mark, “I did what you asked. I did everything you asked me to do,” before he turned away.

He opened his mouth to tell Saint that he needed out, when the door opened and Nick and Jake were both there.

Nick had told Chris an hour earlier that he wasn’t sure about doing this, and Chris could tell that Nick was still uneasy in his decision to accompany Jake here.

Both had seen their share of dead and still neither moved from the door to Mark’s body. Jake’s hand was still on the door frame, as if he was ready to make a quick escape at any minute.

Neither brother’s eyes had left Mark’s body, though. And then finally, Jake moved forward with Nick behind him, and the three of them stood together and said their good-byes to Mark.

The rest of the team would have the opportunity as well, before the public memorial.

“You and Mark were both heroes that day, Chris. No matter what the hell happened out there,” Jake told him quietly. “You just remember that, all right?”

He could only nod, afraid he wouldn’t be able to get any words out. Nick’s hand clamped his shoulder in support.

And when the men exited the building a few minutes later, the four of them stood there for a while, just breathing.

“I need a damn drink,” Jake said finally, and yeah, they all did.

“We’ll meet you there,” Saint told Jake and Nick, who nodded and went to their car while Saint and Chris walked to Saint’s.

But once Jake’s Blazer pulled out of the parking lot, on two wheels at top speed, Saint’s phone rang—he grabbed it and answered with an abrupt, “St. John,” and then he simply listened for a few seconds. “That’s great news. He’s right here. I’ll tell him.”

Chris knew what the news was before Saint clicked his phone closed and said, “You’re clear. The autopsy on Josiah revealed no shots from an M25.”

Chris nodded, leaned against the car door as a partial relief washed through him as Saint continued, “I guess Jamie Michaels meant what she said.”

Chris shook his head. “Jamie took herself off the case—she didn’t want to hurt me.”

He didn’t ask about Mark’s autopsy, wondered if that would still be necessary.

Tell him
. Saint would understand what happened out there. Of course he would, would’ve done what Mark had asked. But to add that burden to Saint’s shoulders was something Chris wasn’t planning to do.

Saint was solidly career military, smart as shit and could easily make admiral.

Chris wanted Saint to do so with a clear conscience.

There was no one for Chris to tell. Hell, he didn’t even want to think about what happened, had refused to let it dwell in his own psyche.

It’ll come out eventually
.

Yes, eventually. But he’d make damned sure it wasn’t tonight.

Still smarting from Kevin telling him that he’d fucked up Jamie’s life enough and to get the hell out, Chris downed a second shot and then pushed the glass away. It wasn’t going to help—it never did.

Loud music, drinking and brawling, the usual way the three brothers processed grief, the way they’d done so after Maggie’s death. Except now they limited their destructiveness, knew how to pull themselves back from the brink.

That didn’t mean, however, that they wouldn’t go as close to the edge as possible.

Because the rest of his team was there too—and Jules, of course. He didn’t see Cam, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hiding out in a corner somewhere.

His mind wandered back to Kevin. The man was built like a bull and had a serious history to back it up. Chris could tell almost immediately that Kevin had grown up tough. For him to accept Chris, one of them would have to roll over and play dead.

Chris wasn’t willing to be the one.

“Come on, man, get your ass up here!” The lead singer of the local band was motioning for Chris to take the stage with them.

He decided
Why not
, ditched his drink—threw himself into the music instead, because he could lose himself there just as easily, maybe more so. People were screaming and yelling and he was performing under the hot lights, and yeah, it was a rush, a fucking great rush, but it would never be a career for him.

Could’ve been, but he’d made the decision to stay away from that life a long time ago. He’d grown up watching hot stars become has-beens—that change happened so fast it could make your head spin. It was a hell of a business and it wasn’t something he’d ever wanted to be a part of.

He’d never been all that sure of what he wanted to do with his life. Medicine was an obvious interest, as was delivering babies—but he didn’t know too many male mid-wives.

So yeah, he wasn’t sure which way to turn. But this, the singing onstage, right now this helped.

Typically, he noticed the women in the audience, yelling, flashing their tits, dancing like hell, but tonight, he was up there for the pure screaming pleasure of sound—the loudest, hardest bass line the band could deliver, the pulse of the drums beating a rhythm into his head until his skin shone with sweat and he couldn’t feel anything anymore but the delightful numbness of performing.

He was still sore, still hurt, but he played hard.
Live
hard, play hard
. The brothers had always carefully ignored the
die well
part of that statement, for so many reasons, the least of which was that none of them had been very sure they’d live to see their eighteenth birthday and saw no reason to tempt fate further.

His eyes barely focused on the crowd, because the woman he wanted wasn’t there—no, she was stuck at home, and the only reason he wasn’t with her was he’d earlier promised the agents at her door he wouldn’t show until midnight, and yeah, he wasn’t in the mood to get the men looking out for Jamie’s life in trouble or distracted.

And he wasn’t sure how long he’d been up there—the band was hot, the crowd more so, and it was definitely a night for losing yourself.

Even Jules was dancing like she didn’t have a care in the world. No one bothered her here—there wasn’t a camera or paparazzo in sight, just a lot of off-duty military men, and people they’d gone to high school with. Many were one and the same.

It felt like weeks had passed since he’d been at the range, but really, it was only hours that filled the spaces. He was exhausted mentally—physically, he was charged enough to run or swim or blow something up for the hell of it.

He got off the stage, still shirtless, and grabbed a water. Nick and Jake were doing shots and Saint was just sitting there, monitoring them. Jules was suddenly by Chris’s side.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Jules. I heard the press has lost track of you.”

She shrugged. “They’ll find me soon enough.”

They walked out back—it was dark enough for semi-privacy—and ended up sitting on the stone wall, the way they had so many times in the past. And suddenly, Chris wanted to break away, shift out of this place and head straight to Jamie’s house.

He checked his watch. Still too early. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted by her. Because, at the very least, she’d think he was crazy—and he
was
crazy, but not because he was trying to keep her safe. So he’d stay here for now, with his brothers and with Jules, and he’d show up at midnight, which was when he’d told the FBI he’d be there.

If Jamie wanted him there now, she’d have called him herself. She’d know by now he’d been cleared of Josiah’s death.

“This is like old times,” Jules mused.

“It’s not old times,” he said, heard his own harsh tone and cursed himself silently.

“I know that, Chris. I really do. But sometimes, it’s just nice to be back with the people who used to know you best.” She hugged her jean-clad legs to her chest and lit a cigarette she’d pulled from behind her ear. After she took a long drag, she offered it to him and he accepted it.

“Used to, huh?”

“Yeah, used to.” She took the cigarette back from him, held it between her long, graceful fingers. Only Jules could make smoking look that good. Part of her charm—something she didn’t even have to try. “This other woman … where is she?”

“She’s … ah … She was actually supposed to be staying away from me as part of her job.” Except that was no longer the case.

“So how’s the relationship supposed to work?”

“Haven’t figured that one out yet,” he admitted, and for a few minutes they sat in comfortable silence. He took the cigarette back from her, pulling a few long drags.

“If it’s that difficult, why try?” Jules asked finally.

“I think I love her.”

Jules was silent for far too long. Chris steeled himself for tears or yelling or something. But he got none of that. Instead, she asked, “Then why don’t you go get her?”

“It’s complicated.”

“You’ve never let that stand in your way before,” she told him. “Why start now?”

He leaned over and he hugged her, hard. Buried his face in her neck, the way he had when she helped him mourn his momma, and he remembered how good of a friend she’d been to him.

In past years, they hadn’t been very good to each other, not the way they should’ve been. Her arms went around him and he lifted his head.

And then Jules tried to kiss him, and shit, he’d fucked this up again.

He pulled back and so did she, hopping off the wall and looking away from him. “Jules, please, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression.”

“Bullshit.” Now she was looking at him, eyes blazing. “You know, I’ve been accused of not wanting you but at the same time not wanting anyone else to have you—I think you’re just as guilty of that.”

Maybe he was. The thought of Jules with someone else—really with someone else—made his gut churn.

He didn’t love her—correction, he wasn’t in love with her. He knew that with a certainty, because he’d left his heart with Jamie and she still hadn’t fucking given it back to him. “Jules, you need to move on. Away from me. Please.”

Jules opened her mouth and then closed it. Turning, she walked away from him, slamming into the bar, and he stood outside for a few more minutes, finishing the cigarette before following her inside.

Jake and Nick were still pounding back drinks, their pace not promising to slow anytime soon. A couple of tables down was a nice group of Marines, sitting close enough to hear Jake make a comment about the Marine Corps, and those in it, despite Saint’s attempts to shut him up.

And then Chris looked up and saw Izzy at the door of the bar. Next to her stood Kaylee. The two women waited, and watched Jake and Nick, a mix of love and concern on their faces.

His brothers would each have someone to take them home, to pull them back from the fire.

Tonight, Chris was responsible for pulling his own self back. He was sweating and strangely content as he slid out the rear door of the bar again, leaving behind the mass confusion and walking the few miles toward home.

It was over.

Coop continued, “As you know, the initial assessment showed the bullet passed through Josiah’s skull—the entrance and exit wounds were consistent with that of an M25.”

She did. The edges matched, but without a bullet, they’d been forced to rely on testimony alone.

“But your instincts were dead-on—with the scan, the coroner found a fragment in his brain. When they compared it to the slugs they found in his chest, they were able to determine it came from the same gun—not an M25. Not a Sig either. Waldron’s damned lucky the coroner found that fragment—without it, we’d have to decide whether or not to proceed with a court-martial.”

“Luck was on Chris’s side, for sure.”

“Yeah, well, the guy’s innocent. There’s no solid evidence that Chris Waldron killed Josiah. Beyond their disagreement, the group worked well together, based on all Josiah’s reports.”

“What reports?” she asked.

“They just came through—the Marines recovered his computer in the wreckage. He never sent them through, obviously, but he kept up with his daily notes,” Cooper explained, and she felt herself sag with relief. “Oh, and the shot between his eyes was done at closer range than the ones to his chest. That’s consistent with Waldron’s story that Josiah was running toward the rebels who had Mark Kendall in their possession. The autopsy on Mark Kendall is also complete. It showed several bullet wounds, including one between the eyes and one directly to the heart. The coroner says it’s tough to tell if it was post- or ante-mortem, because all Kendall’s injuries happened so close together. The shots might’ve killed him, but he was already well on his way to dying.”

“Did either of those shots match Josiah’s weapon?”

“No slugs—passed right through the body. Could’ve been an M25, but more likely it was an M88 … those rifles are common with the rebels in that area of Africa. I’m just not sure why they’d shoot him in the face before they threw him in the fire,” Coop said. “Who the hell knows—maybe the rebels have some humanity after all.”

Jamie sat up straight in her chair, a chill running through her. Because no, the rebel soldiers didn’t have any humanity, but suddenly she knew exactly who did—her pillows still bore his scent of crisp cypress and soap and man.

Whatever happened out there had absolutely nothing to do with Josiah and everything to do with Chris and Mark. “Does Chris know?”

“Yes. I spoke to his lawyer before I called you,” Coop said. “Hey, are you doing okay?”

“Hanging in there. It’s not easy being on this side of things.” She frowned a little as she glanced at her own gun, sitting on the table, next to her water bottle and crackers.

“I’d imagine not,” Coop said. “I’m glad Waldron was cleared. That mission was FUBAR.”

Coop was a former Marine. Like Lou, his loyalties had been tested with this investigation.

“Thanks for letting me know, Coop, and for getting this done so quickly.”

“You did all the legwork,” he said. “All I did was get to make the call.”