Chapter 1
Chaos. That was the first thing that registered when Drake “Brick” Vandine opened his eyes. The last thing he remembered was he and his SEAL team had been about to breach a house that was supposed to contain half a dozen HVTs—high-value targets.
Now he was lying under what felt like half a ton of bricks and cinderblocks.
He couldn’t feel his legs, but he could hear Vader and Monster yelling. The ringing in his ears made whatever they were saying indistinguishable.
Brick attempted to free his legs, with no luck. When he didn’t hear the voices of his other teammates—Bones, Rain, and Mad Dog—he struggled harder.
This mission had been fucked from the start.
They’d realized after they were already in the middle of the op that the intel they’d received was faulty.
That the area they’d been searching was not friendly toward Americans.
Either something had changed overnight or whoever was gathering the information had been fucking drunk.
The civilians living in this part of the city were definitely not friendly.
With every second he spent in the area, Brick’s oh-shit meter rose higher and higher.
He’d radioed back to base to request a termination of the mission, but had been denied because they were practically on top of the building where the HVTs were supposed to be located.
Brick had been last in line to enter the house—but he’d never gotten the chance. Mad Dog had taken the lead with Rain. Bones, Vader, and Monster were on their heels, with Brick taking up the rear.
He hadn’t taken a single step inside the house before the entire thing fucking blew up.
Glancing around, Brick realized he’d been blown clear of most of the debris—but not all. Blinking the blood and dust out of his eyes, he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Vader and Monster were trying to dig something out of the rubble…
Mad Dog. He recognized his friend and battle buddy by the picture on his helmet. His wife had painted the snarling and drooling German Shepherd on the Kevlar, and Mad Dog had worn it with pride. As Brick watched, Vader grabbed an arm that was reaching up through the bricks and pulled.
He immediately fell backward with the arm still in his hand…an arm not attached to a body.
Brick closed his eyes as nausea swirled in his gut. Then a sound caught his attention. It was unmistakable.
The whistle of an incoming mortar round.
He opened his mouth to call out a warning, to tell Vader and Monster to get the hell out of there, but nothing came out. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t call out to his teammates to let them know where he was.
One second he was watching his fellow SEALs attempt to rescue their battle buddies, and the next, all he could see were body parts flying through the air, along with more bricks, dirt, and debris. Brick opened his mouth to scream, but once again no sound exited his tight, burning throat.
Everything happened in seconds—from watching his friends get blown to pieces in front of him, to the large chunk of concrete flying through the air and hitting him in the face.
He was knocked unconscious instantly.
Everything hurt.
His face. His head. His legs.
Hell, even his hair hurt.
Brick had experienced his share of combat wounds during his time as a SEAL, but nothing had ever been as painful as what he was experiencing right now.
Even breathing sent shards of pain streaking down to his fingernails. He had no idea where he was or what had happened. The last thing he remembered was Vader pulling Mad Dog out of a pile of…
Shit.
Memory returned with a vengeance, and all Brick wanted to do was call out for his buddies. He tried to open his eyes but only saw blackness. When he attempted to speak, nothing came out. The steady beeping in the room sped up as he panicked.
“Calm down, you’re okay, you’re safe,” a female voice ordered from nearby.
Brick could feel someone touching him but he jerked his arm away, not knowing if the person was a friendly or not.
“He’s panicking,” the woman said. “Knock him out.”
“No!” Brick tried to say, but again, no words. He’d never felt so helpless in his entire life.
He felt the pull of whatever drug someone had given him and he tried one last time to find his teammates, to get away.
He’d never been a prisoner of war and wasn’t planning on becoming one now.
But his body betrayed him. He felt as if he weighed a thousand pounds.
He couldn’t lift his head. Couldn’t move his arms. Couldn’t speak.
He succumbed to the drug he’d been given and in seconds, he was once again unconscious.
The next time Brick crawled out of the darkness in his mind, he lay as still as possible so as not to let anyone nearby know he was conscious.
He listened intently, but all he heard was the beeping of whatever machine he was hooked up to.
After several moments, he opened his eyes a fraction and was met with nothing but darkness. He was blindfolded.
When he tried to move his arms, he realized they were tied down.
Fuck.
He’d gone and gotten himself captured by the enemy. Bones was gonna be pissed as hell. His wife had just had their third kid, and all he’d been talking about was how much he was looking forward to going home and seeing him. And now he was a fucking POW.
Determination rose within Brick. He’d do whatever it took to get Bones and the rest of his teammates home to their families.
He was the only single one, but he knew his mom would be taking his capture hard.
After his dad had died, Brick was his mom’s entire focus.
She did her best to not bore her friends with every little thing he was doing, but it was almost impossible for her not to brag.
Brick heard a door open and tried to calm his breathing, slow his heartbeat. He needed information. Needed to know where he was, who was holding him and his team, and start formulating a plan to get the hell out of there.
“His stats seem good this morning,” a man said—in English.
Brick would have frowned but moving any muscles in his face hurt, and he didn’t want whoever had come in to know he was awake yet.
“He should be waking up soon. We’ve lowered the dose of meds enough for that to happen anytime now.”
That was the same female voice he’d heard before. She spoke without an accent…were they Americans who’d turned? Who were working for the terrorists?
“How’s his breathing?”
“Amazingly good. The plastic surgeon did a remarkable job putting his face back together, but it’ll be some time before those bandages come off and the swelling goes down.”
“And you said he didn’t speak the last time he woke up?”
“No. He opened his mouth like he wanted to, but it’s possible we didn’t give him enough time before he panicked, and we had to put him under again,” the woman said.
“There’s also a possibility he won’t be able to for a long while. He took quite a blow to the throat.”
“Of course. I’m hoping once the swelling goes down even more, he’ll be able to speak.”
“His other injuries?”
Brick finally understood the two people in his room, talking about him as if he wasn’t right there, were doctors. They spoke perfect English with no accents. Confusion swam in his brain. Where was he? Was it possible he wasn’t a POW? Where were his friends?
“Broken ankle and a few fingers, cracked ribs, and pneumonia from all the irritants he inhaled while he was under that pile of rubble.”
“Infection?” the man asked.
“Yes,” the woman said without elaboration.
“Right. Has his family been notified?”
“His mother, yes. But she was told to wait until he was transferred back to the States to visit him.”
Wait—his mom had been notified?
Brick felt himself panicking again. He did his best to relax but it was too late. The infernal machine he was hooked to began to beep faster.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and could tell someone was leaning over him. “Can you hear me? Drake? My name is Doctor Benjamin Green. I’m one of several doctors who’ve been looking after you. You’re safe. Understand? You’re in an Army hospital in Germany.”
Relief filled his entire body. But not for long. Panic once more threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to ask about his teammates, if they were okay, but still no words escaped his lips.
“Don’t try to speak. Your throat was damaged. Your face also took quite a hit. Your eyes should be fine, but everything’s swollen because of the repairs that had to be done. You’re alive, son…that’s what matters.”
Was this man stupid? What mattered were his friends. His teammates. They were the ones with wives and children.
Deep down, Brick knew they were dead.
Memories of lying in that pile of rubble came back to him then. Of body parts. Of chaos. Of the men who’d had his back more times than he could count being blown to pieces.
His mind shut down. He couldn’t process never seeing them again.
Never hearing Rain’s ridiculous laugh. Never seeing Mad Dog’s grin when he spoke about his kids.
Monster’s corny jokes or Vader’s exaggerated stories.
Bones’s ability to get the team out of just about any kind of fucked-up situation they’d found themselves in.
Except this one.
A sob welled up and escaped before Brick could control it. Why was he here when his friends weren’t? He should’ve taken point and entered that house first. It should’ve been him blown to bits.
“It’s okay, son, you’re going to be okay,” the man soothed.
But it wasn’t going to be okay. Nothing was going to be okay ever again.
Brick began to struggle, knowing what would happen when he did.
Just as he thought, as soon as he smacked the man’s hand away, the woman was ordering him to be sedated.
Good. He didn’t want to feel. Didn’t want to think.
This time when he felt the drugs overtaking his mind, he embraced the feeling. He wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again.
Time had no meaning for Brick. He’d wake up confused and hurting, realize where he was and what happened, and do something so the nurses would give him enough painkillers to knock him unconscious once more.
He wanted to tell them not to bother when they gave him a sponge bath. Or when they turned him on the bed.
Brick knew there were discussions going on around him about when to move him back to the States, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to be left alone. He’d failed to save his teammates and nothing could ever assuage the guilt swamping him.
If he was taken back to the US, he’d have to face his mother. Maybe even his friends’ wives. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t look them in the eyes and see the disappointment and possible anger that he’d somehow made it out alive when their loved ones hadn’t.
The bandages on his eyes had been removed, which was a huge relief to Brick.
He could now watch as the doctors and nurses fussed around and over him.
But he still felt dead inside. He could feel the pain of his injuries, but it was as if they didn’t fully register. As if they’d happened to someone else.
A psychologist had come to talk to him one day and told him everything that had happened.
How the terrorists had blown up the house and he’d been buried under debris.
Apparently, he’d lain there for over twenty-four hours before he was found.
A local civilian had notified the American base and he’d been rescued.
His teammates hadn’t been as lucky. They’d all been killed in the explosion or by the ensuing blast from the mortar round.
Brick didn’t need the psychologist to tell him he was suffering from survivor’s guilt.
He wanted to turn to the man and say, “No shit, Sherlock,” but he didn’t.
Had no idea if he even could, since he refused to speak.
His voice had failed him when he’d needed it most, and Brick had no desire to use it now.
It felt as if he’d been lying there drowning in his own sorrow, guilt, and misery for weeks, when Doctor Green walked into his room one afternoon with a smile.
Brick wanted to ask him what the fuck he was so happy about, wanted to rail at him for smiling when five of the best men he’d ever known were dead.
Dead.
But as usual, he didn’t say a word.
“You have a visitor,” the doctor said, his grin even wider.
Brick frowned. A visitor? He didn’t want to see anyone. If one more volunteer came by trying to read to him, he was going to explode.
“Your fiancée is an extremely stubborn woman. She wouldn’t take no for an answer when it came to seeing you. Even though she was told several times she wasn’t allowed to visit, since she isn’t a family member we have on record, she insisted. Very relentlessly.”
Brick stared at the doctor. Fiancée? He wasn’t engaged. Hadn’t had a girlfriend for longer than he could remember. Who the hell would lie to get in to see him?
“We do need your approval for her to be admitted though,” the doctor said.
For a moment, Brick considered saying no.
He had no idea who the hell would be that insistent to see him—in Germany, no less.
He’d been very careful not to get his few hookups over the years pregnant, so it couldn’t be someone who wanted to get on the military gravy train.
No matter how hard he racked his brain, he couldn’t guess who it might be.
Curious enough to want to know, he nodded at the doctor.
“Great!” Doctor Green said with another huge smile.
Brick knew what he was thinking—that having a visitor would probably raise his spirits. Would help him heal faster. Would get him to talk.
The man was delusional. Nothing and no one could help Brick get over what had happened.
“I’ll get her processed and sent up. If you need anything, just press the button. We’ll give you two some space.”
Then the doctor turned and left, leaving Brick to wonder who in the hell was about to enter his room.