Page 3

To think it would go down like this — betrayed by their own people. Lost on the wrong side of a volatile border. A fate he could alter if he rose to the challenge. Pushed past his limits.
Rain pummeled the bubble, the lone wiper barely keeping up. Not that he could see much with streaks of black cutting across his vision. But he kept that bird pointed north. Kept the machine on the verge of crapping out as he raced across the landscape, the wind and thunder following in his wake. Like Apollo chasing them with his chariot.
Was it getting colder? Darker? Or was Foster simply running out of time.
Chase’s hand closed over his good shoulder, jerking him back from that numbing haze. “If you have to put her down…”
Foster shook his head, pounding the heel of his other hand against his temple in an effort to clear his vision. “Not… an option.”
“Foster. Brother, you’re barely holding on.”
He shook his head again. Or maybe he’d only thought it. He couldn’t tell. Could barely feel his fingers he was so cold. “How…”
Shit. One word. That’s all he managed before his tongue got too heavy to form more.
“Don’t worry about anyone else. That’s my job. You focus on flying and not hitting the ground.”
“Can’t…”
Another one-word reply. And it cost him. Had more than just his good hand shaking. He wet his lips, forcing his eyelids open. Glancing over at Sean whenever he wanted to pack it in. Give up. Because if there was even a glimmer of hope he could still be saved…
Bile crested his throat, his eyes burning as he stared at the raging storm beyond the glass. The lightning hardly making a difference in his visibility, anymore. It was too late. He knew it. Felt it. From the way Chase kept shifting his weight, unable or unwilling to even place his hip on the edge of Sean’s seat, to the utter silence from the other side of the cockpit, Foster knew Sean was dead. But Foster kept going. Clinging to the false hope that if he could stay awake — make it one more minute, one more mile — it wouldn’t be in vain.
That he hadn’t failed his brothers when they’d needed him the most.
That maybe one day, he’d be able to look at his own reflection and not see Sean’s ghost staring back.
“I’m not sure what I was expecting, Foster, but damn. You look like shit. Though, the bandages do kinda go with the long hair.”
Foster twisted toward the door, shaking his head at the man leaning against the frame. Hands shoved in his pockets, looking almost as haggard as Foster felt. Keaton Cole, Foster’s cousin and the only family Foster had left, other than the men gathered in his room. His teammates.
His brothers.
Foster arched a brow, brushing his hair out of his eyes. A leftover from his time in Flight Concepts, when he was encouraged to look like anything but typical military. He gave Keaton a once-over, waving the length of him. “And yet, still a thousand times better than you, buddy.”
“Oh, someone didn’t get their pain meds, today.” Keaton sauntered in, grinning at Chase, Kash and Zain. “You’re obviously taking fashion cues from my cuz, Remington, because you look just as bad, with Sinclair and Everett only slightly better.”
Chase flipped Keaton off as he leaned back in the chair. “At least we have a reason, Cole. What’s your excuse?”
Keaton chuckled. “Civilian life. Who knew it was crazier than the Navy.” He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting until Zain and Kash had wheeled their chairs over to Foster’s bed. “So, rumor has it you four might be considering your options.”
Zain grunted, absently rubbing his knee. Or more accurately, the new hardware hidden beneath the bandages and stitches. Foster wasn’t sure if Zain even realized he was doing it, but the pain and frustration bled through his usual facade. Testament to how much their last mission had cost them.
Foster knew his buddy was in agony. He’d heard the muffled shouts and hushed curses as Zain dragged his ass up and down the hallways several times a day. The price of reclaiming even a hint of his former mobility. Though, Foster knew Zain would push until he was only a slightly broken version of his former self.
Zain shrugged. “It’s come up.”
Keaton nodded, walking over and resting his hip against Foster’s bed. “I feel that. Been where you all are, myself.”
Which was an understatement. Keaton had been through hell. Had suffered a similar loss on his last mission, when their covert op had gone off the rails and one his best friends had been killed. While Foster didn’t know the specific details, he knew Keaton. And based on the hollow look in his eyes — the tremor in his voice that was only now starting to ease — he’d experienced something truly horrific. Not that it had been the first time.
Keaton’s fiancée had died in a plane crash a dozen years ago, shortly after he’d joined the SEALs. Foster had come close to losing the man back then, despite all Foster had done to try and help Keaton cope with the loss. But words and a shoulder were rarely enough compensation for the kind of scars that took more than time to heal.
Though, Keaton had more than paid Foster back when Foster’s parents had been killed in a car accident a month ago. Foster and his team had been running those traitorous CIA assholes all over hell’s backyard on one covert mission after another and he hadn’t been able to extract himself long enough to head home. But Keaton had dropped everything and stepped up.
Foster would never forget that.
Foster shuffled back a bit, giving Keaton a thorough once-over. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Florida looks good on you. You sound better.”