No Greater Love (Code Blue Hearts #2)

Chapter 1 Nate

one

nate

The bullet struck Lance Corporal Alvarez high in the chest, spinning him backward into the exposed street.

"CORPSMAN UP! CORPSMAN UPPP!"

The cry ripped through our radio nets as Alvarez collapsed into the open, dust billowing around him. From my position behind the Amtrak, I could see the dark bloom spreading across his desert camo. Pneumothorax, probably. Exsanguination risk. He had minutes, if that.

I was moving before the call ended, trauma bag already in hand, muscle memory from endless drills taking over. Three bounds to the corner, then a straight shot to Alvarez. Fifteen seconds, max.

"Doc, NO!"

Hands seized my plate carrier, yanking me backward with such force that my helmet slammed against the Amtrak's armored side. Staff Sergeant Miller's face was inches from mine, his features contorted with fury and fear.

"You stay put, Doc!" Miller's eyes were wild, spittle flying as he shoved me against the vehicle. "D’you understand me?"

"He's bleeding out, Staff Sergeant!" I struggled against his grip, my eyes locked on Alvarez's increasingly still form. The precious seconds ticking away. "I can reach him!"

"No, you fuckin’ can't!" Miller roared. "That's exactly what those bastards want! They take out our corpsman, we're all fucked!"

"I can!" I screamed back, "HE NEEDS ME, STAFF SERGEANT! I CAN GET TO HI-"

"CORPORAL JONES! PRIVATE MACKEY! You grab Mr. Crawford here and make sure he doesn’t move!" Two Marines materialized, physically blocking my path.

Over Miller's shoulder, I saw Hernandez—just another kid, barely nineteen—making a decision. Our eyes met for a split second.

"I got him, Doc," Hernandez called, already moving.

"Hernandez, don't—" Miller turned, but too late.

Hernandez sprinted from cover, a blur of desert camo against the dust-colored road. Three steps. Four. He was going to make it.

The insurgent machine gun opened up from somewhere in the abandoned apartment block; the familiar duntduntduntduntdunt death rattle of an RPK, 7.62mm rounds tearing through the air.

Hernandez jerked as the first rounds hit him, his body absorbing the impacts like hammer blows. But he kept moving, three more stumbling steps toward Alvarez before a final burst caught him squarely in the torso. He dropped to his knees, then fell forward beside the man he'd tried to save.

"Suppressing fire! Get some fire on that building! Where’s our goddamn air support?" Miller screamed into his radio. Marines opened up, pouring rounds toward the suspected shooter position, but the damage was done.

I strained against the hands holding me back, my medical training screaming that I could still save them, while tactical awareness coldly calculated the survival odds at near zero in that kill zone.

"We need to move! Now!" Miller ordered, his voice cracking with strain. "Two men down. We need immediate QRF support and suppressive fire to recover!"

Minutes stretched into eternity. Through my scope, I could see Hernandez's fingers twitching. Still alive. Still suffering. Just yards away, yet completely unreachable. Alvarez hadn't moved since falling.

Bullets pinged off the Amtrak, the metallic sounds a grotesque counterpoint to Hernandez's diminishing movements.

I memorized each detail with clinical precision: the angle of Hernandez's sprawled legs, the exact pattern of blood spreading beneath him, the way his hand still clutched his weapon.

The sun beating down, baking the blood into the dust.

"Doc." Miller's voice had softened, his hand now resting heavily on my shoulder. "There's nothing you can do right now."

He knew. He understood exactly what this was doing to me.

The QRF finally arrived with a Bradley, providing enough cover fire for a recovery team to dash out. I waited, medical kit ready, praying against probability.

"They're gone, Doc." The recovery team leader shook his head as they dragged the bodies behind cover. "Both of 'em."

I went through the motions anyway, checking for pulses I knew weren't there, performing assessments that couldn't change the outcome. Alvarez had bled out from his initial wound. Hernandez had taken seven rounds to the chest and abdomen.

I closed Hernandez's eyes with gloved fingers already stiff with his dried blood. Nineteen years old. He'd told me just yesterday about his plans to become a firefighter after his tour. He'd died because I was too valuable to risk.

"You did what you could," Miller said, his voice distant, mechanical. "You couldn't have saved them."

But I could have. I could have at least tried. I should have been the one to go. I knew trauma medicine. I might have stemmed the bleeding, bought precious minutes...

Instead, I had survived.

* * *

I jerked awake with a gasp, my hands clutching at sheets soaked with sweat. The bedroom was dark except for the soft glow of the digital clock: 0417. The nightmare had come earlier than usual tonight.

My hand trembled as I reached for the water glass by the bed, muscle memory from twenty years ago still sending signals to reach for a weapon that wasn't there. I drained the glass in three gulps, then swung my legs over the side of the bed, letting the cool floor ground me in the present.

Breathe in. Four count. Hold. Four count. Release. Four count.

The trembling subsided gradually. Twenty years since Fallujah, and still my body remembered. Still my hands wouldn't stay steady after these dreams.

Sleep was done for the night. I moved through the darkness of the house with practiced efficiency, pausing only to crack open Paige's door.

The soft glow of her astronomy nightlight illuminated her sleeping form, one arm flung dramatically across the pillow, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest a silent reassurance.

Safe. My daughter was safe.

In the kitchen, I started the coffee maker—prepped the night before, always—and checked my watch. Too early for a run, but plenty of time to review Paige's science homework and prep lunches.

By 0545, the house was filled with the smell of coffee and toasting bread. Paige's lunch was packed, her backpack double-checked, the day's weather forecast consulted and appropriate outerwear laid out.

"Dad?" Paige appeared in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, squinting against the kitchen light. "Why are you always up so early?"

I smiled, folding down the top of her lunch bag with precision. "Early bird gets the worm, kiddo."

She yawned dramatically. "I guess that’s okay if you like eating worms." At eleven, Paige had developed a wit that constantly surprised me. "Can I have cinnamon toast?"

"Already in the toaster." I slid a glass of orange juice toward her. "Calcium supplement?"

"Dad." The eye roll was impressive. "I'm not a baby. I’m eleven."

"Calcium for growing bones isn't just for babies." I held out the small tablet, our morning ritual unfolding exactly as it had for the past three years.

With another eye roll—she'd perfected the technique—Paige took the tablet. "Mrs. Swanson said she's bringing banana bread this morning."

"Did she now?" I poured a second cup of coffee, this one into the thermal mug Mrs. Swanson preferred. "That's the third time this month. We should get her something to say thank you."

"I did!" Paige said with a sly smile, crunching into her toast. "I made her a card in art class. And..." She hesitated, looking up at me through her lashes. "I maybe told her you'd fix her garbage disposal this weekend."

I raised an eyebrow. "Voluntelling me for home repairs now?"

She grinned, braces glinting. "You said we should always help people who help us."

"I did say that," I admitted, unable to hide my smile. "I'll bring my tools over on Saturday."

The soft knock at exactly 0615 announced Mrs. Swanson's arrival. I opened the door to find her holding a foil-wrapped package that was indeed emitting the heavenly scent of banana bread.

"Marion, you're spoiling us," I said, accepting the package while handing her the travel mug.

Mrs. Swanson waved away my thanks, her silver bob perfectly coiffed despite the early hour.

"Nonsense. I had bananas going brown. Besides," she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "I've got a freezer full. My Austin and Mason loooove Nana’s banana bread, but Harold will eat himself into diabetes if I leave it all at home before they come visit again. "

At fifty eight, Marion Swanson was the closest thing to family Paige and I had. A retired middle school English teacher, she'd moved in next door five years ago and had almost immediately become our emergency contact, occasional babysitter, and de facto grandmother figure.

"Paige tells me you've got a garbage disposal with my name on it," I said, checking my watch. 0617. Right on schedule.

"That girl," Mrs. Swanson chuckled. "I mentioned it was making a funny noise, and the next thing I know, she's promising your mechanical expertise. But only if you have time, Nathan."

"For you? Always." I gathered my keys and badge. "Mrs. Swanson will make sure you don't miss the bus." I dropped a kiss on the top of Paige's head. "Homework's in the green folder."

"I know, Dad." Another eye roll, but she hugged me quickly. "Don't get puked on today."

"I'll do my best." I nodded to Mrs. Swanson. "Thank you, as always."

"Go save lives," she replied with a warm smile. "We'll be just fine."

As I backed out of the driveway, I could see them through the kitchen window—Paige animatedly talking, Mrs. Swanson listening intently. The familiar comfort of knowing Paige was in safe hands settled over me.

My hand had stopped trembling completely by the time I pulled into the hospital parking lot at 0638. The nightmares might still come, but the daylight hours were firmly under control.

This was the life I'd built for us—predictable, safe, carefully structured. No room for variables, no space for surprises.

No room for failure.