Too Broken to Love (Project VIPER)

Chapter 1

Aradio on Dr. Hudson Langley’s hip crackled as he stalked down the hall of the Navy field hospital near the Kuwaiti border. The whiff of curry chicken from the galley did nothing to undercut the iron-sharp smell of blood in his nostrils.

He ignored the hunger pangs and focused on the person on the other end of the line who could help him decompress after a long, brutal surgery—his grandfather. “What did you say, Pop?”

“There’s someone I want you to meet when you come home.”

“You’re not setting me up again, are you?” The scar on Hudson’s palm wouldn’t let him forget the last time Pop tried that.

“No. I signed you up for a reality show called Dr. Bachelor so we can get the drama on video this time.”

Hudson’s laugh could draw blood. “Make it Dr. Millionaire Bachelor so the contestants can just count zeroes and skip pretending to like me.”

“Just messing with you, boy.” Pop’s voice lost its teasing edge. “I want you to meet my friend, Tessa. She knows how to fish, appreciates good bourbon, and likes to play blackjack.”

“Oh yeah?” Hudson hummed low in approval. “Sounds like she’s stolen your heart.”

“She’ll also steal yours. I’ll tell you all about her when you get home, hopefully for the tournament in two weeks. I’ve got some other things to tell you too.”

Hudson’s radio squawked again. “Hold on.” He muted the call and stopped mid-stride at the voice of his commanding officer.

“Catastrophic casualty outside the wire. Report to the LZ immediately.”

Hudson spun in the direction of the helicopter landing zone. As the senior medical officer, he’d only be called to support an extraction team if the mission had gone to complete shit.

He inhaled deeply and exhaled hard. The adrenaline crash from a failed surgery, followed by a sudden call into hostile territory, played havoc with his heart rate.

But twenty years in Navy medicine, including his first few attached to a SEAL unit, had honed his ability to self-regulate in the seconds it took to unmute his grandfather.

Hudson sandwiched the phone between his head and shoulder as he rounded the corner past triage.

The antiseptic bite in the air rivaled the unyielding guilt pricking his conscience.

He hadn’t been back home to New Jersey in over a year to spend time with the man who raised him after his parents died.

He hoped his leave would come through for the fishing tournament. “Sorry, Pop. I gotta go.”

“I’m proud of you, son. Can’t wait until we can fish on the beach again.”

“Me neither. Love you.”

Hudson geared up and headed to the landing zone.

The hospital’s commanding officer fell into step next to him. “SEAL mission gone sideways from a blast. Three dead. One survivor. An Army platoon secured the area, but we need to move quick.”

“Roger that.” Hudson didn’t ask for more details. He had one job—bring the SEAL back alive. He’d already lost a man today. He wouldn’t lose another.

He’d completed missions like this before, but this might be his last. The Pentagon brass had been dangling a classified program in front of him for weeks.

The opportunity excited the hell out of him.

And if it didn’t deliver, he could stay in the Navy or walk away entirely.

Maybe work as a humanitarian doctor like his parents had. Maybe fish with Pop every day.

Diesel fuel displaced the crisp night air as he approached the landing zone. Climbing into the helicopter, he took his place and tabled thoughts of the future. Through his pants, he touched the lead fishing sinker he always carried in his pocket and settled into the mindset he needed.

Minutes later, the helicopter banked right. As the landing gear skimmed the treetops, a compound of buildings materialized through an orange haze. The controlled intensity inside the cabin shifted into ready-to-roll mode.

The call to serve pumped through his brain as the helicopter dipped. The bird touched down amid the smell of wet earth and smoke. As his boots hit the sand, heat blasted him in the face. He gripped his weapon, the wind shifting. A half-dozen decimated shacks emerged through soot-laced steam.

He sprinted toward their target at the far end, his pack rocking against his shoulders. Swirling embers poured out of the collapsed roof. The stench of burning flesh crept under his face shield, tearing at his focus as flames consumed the side of the shack.

The platoon leader waved him into the tinderbox. “My lieutenant is with the wounded.”

“Copy that.” As he stepped over the threshold, short crackles popped from above. Molten debris rocketed toward him like icicle-shaped meteors. He jumped out of the way and swept his flashlight around the shambles.

A voice cut through the hiss of the flames. “Over here, Doc.”

“Wounded’s status?”

“In shock. We’re losing him.”

Skirting a flare-up, he stepped over a snarl of glowing wood and froze.

Holy fucking mother of God.

Melted bits of the dead SEAL’s face shield fused with his blackened cheeks and hollowed eyes. Hudson jerked away from his mangled features, gagging.

He locked the flashlight beam on his target. “Vitals?”

“Crashing.”

Hudson squashed a jolt of alarm as the lieutenant rattled off treatment.

“Good. Stay with me.” Hudson stepped over another dead SEAL. He didn’t look for the rest of the team. He’d been called to deliver the survivor back to base.

Alive.

Relief hit hard and fast as he locked his attention on the wounded. The survivor didn’t appear charred to a husk like the others.

The floor creaked to Hudson’s right. A pile of rubble erupted in flames.

Dropping fast, he crashed to his side. His ribs snapped.

Breathing through the agony, he rolled. His back smashed into the wounded SEAL.

A jolt of pain speared through his torso.

Jumping to a crouch, he fought dizziness and focused on a piece of cindered wood at his feet.

No, not wood—an arm. Bulky and blackened from the fingertips up to the blood and gore seeping from the vacant shoulder socket.

Vomit erupted up his esophagus. He swallowed it as he whipped his head to the survivor.

No. No.

Hudson dropped to his knees next to his old friend.

Lieutenant Commander Chris Daviani thrashed in tormented unconsciousness. “Help. Don’t leave me.”

“It’s me. Hudson. I’ve got you.” He slung off his backpack and tore open the zipper, the sight of Chris bleeding out thrusting him back to last month.

Over a beer, Chris had detailed the impending collapse of his marriage in an uncharacteristic display of raw vulnerability.

Watching him bleed out drove home how the job didn’t just break bodies, it broke lives.

Gunshots from the east yanked him back to the fight.

Adrenaline kicked through his screaming ribs as he pulled out supplies and barked orders to the lieutenant.

He couldn’t put Chris back together, but he would make damn well sure his buddy lived.

They both would, if the fight didn’t break Hudson first.

Broken men didn’t get to go home. Didn’t get to fish with their grandfathers. Didn’t get to meet women like Tessa who stole men’s hearts.