anything anyway. He took the proffered mug and sat in one of the chairs in front of the minister’s desk.
“You got a place to go, son?”
“Yeah.” That’s why he was staying in this shithole.
“You serve overseas?”
“Yeah.”
“Come back recently?”
Rocco sighed and leaned forward, scrubbing a hand over his face. The inquisition made him nervous. All he needed was for the helpful minister to put a call in to Walter Reed. They’d send a couple of muscles out with a straitjacket for him. Hell, they could come right over from F. E. Warren. He set the mug on the desk and stood.
“Thanks, Reverend, for the coffee, the place to crash.” Rocco slung his duffel over his shoulder and made his way outside. It was a few hours to morning. The chilly spring air cooled his fiery skin. Shoving a hand in his pocket, he dug out the key to the old Ford truck he’d picked up. He tossed his duffel in the truck bed and climbed inside. The vinyl seat was cold, the steering wheel like ice. He leaned his forehead on the hard, cracked surface.
Pressure had been building in his head since he woke, expanding his skull, throbbing against his eyes. He grew still, pretending his brain hadn’t become an IED about to detonate.
Maybe it didn’t matter. None of it. Maybe a person could will himself to die. Just stop breathing.
Just. Stop.
But if he died, who would save his son?
He dragged a breath into his lungs. And another. And then they came in rapid, ragged gasps.
God, he was fucked.
Chapter 2
The cell phone’s shrill ring was loud in the morning’s still air. Rocco let it go unanswered. He tucked his hands deeper under his arms then rolled to his back, his legs still folded uncomfortably in the short length of his truck’s bench seat.
The phone rang again. How the hell was he even getting reception out here in the empty prairie outside Cheyenne? When he left the shelter, he’d driven to the ranch where he’d lived as a kid, only to find it was a ghost of its former self. No cattle dotted the wide range. The main house was abandoned and badly in need of maintenance. The outbuildings were gray and buckling from years of Wyoming’s savage weather.
He’d managed to track down the aging foreman, who’d retired to a nearby trailer park. They’d had a beer and laughed about the old days. The old guy had kept Rocco’s shotgun all these years. It laid against him now, its cold barrel biting into his side.
He was parked in a turnoff on a dirt road near the highway, out of sight of all but the occasional train. This was as far as he’d gotten two days ago. He’d have to move along soon. Somewhere. He sat up and clicked to accept the call. He’d only texted his new phone number to two people and now regretted even that.
“Yeah,” he said into the cold little panel.
“Rocco? Where the hell are you?” came a familiar voice on the other end. Kit Bolanger. One of his two handlers. He and Ty Bladen were the only Americans he’d had contact with in the seven years he’d been deep undercover in Afghanistan. All three of them had joined the service from Wyoming-Kit and Blade from the same small town. It was because of them he’d survived his secret Red Team assignment.
Jesus, he wished Kit would leave him alone. “Somewhere in Wyoming, I guess.”
“You guess? I’ve been trying to get you for days. You check your messages?”
“Sure. Like, hourly.”
“Hell. You been sleeping in that truck?”
Rocco looked at the barren, sunlit hills of short grass. “No.” He couldn’t sleep much of anywhere. “You calling to see if I’ve been brushing my teeth?”
“You were supposed to check in.”
“I did. I gave you my number.”
“And then haven’t taken a single, goddamned call.”
Rocco closed his eyes. “I’m not Red Teaming anymore. I don’t need a handler.”
“I’ll tell you when you don’t need a handler.”
“Blow me.”
Kit ignored that directive. “Blade’s coming home.”
Rocco sat up. “What?”
“Sniper got lucky. Blade took a round in his thigh.”
“When?”
“While you were at Walter Reed.”
Rocco felt gut-punched. For a minute, he couldn’t draw enough air to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were dealing with enough crap. Not like you could do anything.”
“Except fucking talk to him.”
“He wasn’t taking calls. He was apeshit there for a while, almost as bad as you.”
“How long will he be home?”
Rocco could hear the breath Kit pulled. “He’s done. He’s out.”
“No. No, he’s just done.”
Rocco sighed and leaned his head back against the seat’s headrest. He felt sick for Blade, worried for Kit fighting the fight without one of them. They had been tight for so long. He felt as if the Earth had shifted and now he didn’t know where to stand, didn’t know where his feet would hit solid ground.
He shoved his truck door open and got out, then tossed his hat on the bench seat. The wind was cool, but the sun instantly heated his back.
A train chose that moment to travel through. The conductor blew the horn a few times. The raspy, long whistle bounced around in the emptiness that ached inside Rocco. The tracks rumbled and rattled as the cars passed by. He bent his arm over the truck door and leaned his forehead on it as the train went on and on.
When the noise grew distant, he held the phone to his ear and listened to Kit breathe.
“You okay, man?” Kit asked.
“Yeah.”
“Look, I need a favor.”
“What?”
“I need you to go up to Wolf Creek Bend. Mandy has a parcel of land up there. Inherited it from her grandparents. She’s starting an equestrian center and has an opening for a ranch hand. She can’t seem to keep that job filled.”
Rocco sighed. “I don’t need a pity job. Jesus, Kit. Leave me the fuck alone.”
“Right. ‘cause you and that truck, you’re tight, man. S’all you need.”
“Kit-”
“Look, her land backs to Blade’s. I’m going to bring him home in a couple of weeks, but I’m not sure how long I can stay. If you’re there, you could check in on him now and then after I leave. And Mandy seriously needs the help. Something funky’s going on up there. I don’t think she’s safe.”
Rocco rubbed his eyes. Mandy was Kit’s half sister. She’d been in junior high school and Kit had been a senior in high school before they ever knew they were related. Before both of their lives had gone to hell. Somehow, through letters and occasional visits, they’d become close over the years. If Kit said she needed help, then she did.
“What do you mean ‘funky’?”
“Just weird shit. She can’t keep staff. There’ve been some unexplained accidents on the construction site. The cops don’t think it’s anything unusual, but it don’t sit right with me.”
“You looked into the construction company?”
“They checked out.” There was a pause filled with unsaid things. “I can’t leave for a while yet. I’m getting out,
