Page 2 of Being Bold (Tactical Operations & Protection (TOP) Security #1)
Maybe he’d ask his team lead, Victor, for a solo op. Something he likely wouldn’t come back from. At least then, his death might mean something. If he died helping someone, maybe it’d make up for the lives he hadn’t saved.
Even though he’d recovered from his physical injuries, part of Bo never healed. Deep in his chest, a gaping pit loomed. When the nightmares came, he stared into the pit’s abyss, guilt threatening to pull him into its depths.
Because he’d lived, but Nugg hadn’t.
His teammate had not only been a friend, he’d been the younger brother Bo never had. He’d respected the hell out of the guy. Nugg had been smart, loyal, and too damn good at his job for it to be over so soon.
If anyone should’ve survived that blast, it should’ve been him.
Bo felt moisture on his cheeks and shoved to his feet, swiping at his face with both hands. “I need a fucking drink.”
Anything to dull the pain he felt over the memories.
The wind whistled outside as he headed for the whiskey in the cabinet over the sink.
He didn’t have far to go. His cabin maxed out at 632 square feet.
It only had three rooms plus a loft, with a bed he rarely slept in.
The loft sat above the kitchen and bathroom, the only room in the home that wasn’t left open to everything else.
Like the cabin’s construction, the kitchen’s cabinets were made from hand-peeled logs.
Their light-blonde color helped bounce the moonlight shining in from the undressed windows.
It’d be full in a few days. Because of that, it provided enough of a glow to light his path as he padded across the braided oval rug separating the living and eating area.
Despite the wool socks covering his feet, a chill shuddered over his sweat-slicked skin.
Bo noticed the cold for the first time since he’d woken up.
It was winter in Montana, which meant nighttime temps in the mountains dropped below zero.
The corner wood-burning fireplace was dark.
The flames from the fire he’d stoked before falling asleep on the couch had long since burned out.
He’d have to relight it. After he had a drink.
With a grunt, he pulled the stopper out of the whiskey bottle and poured a couple of fingers of the amber liquid into a glass.
Knocking it back, he let the burn warm him up.
Without the fire’s crackling, the air within the confines of his cabin remained still as a tomb, but he didn’t mind the quiet. He’d bought this place because of it.
His little cabin sat an hour south of Bozeman. Buffers surrounded the property, contributing to its isolation. He had the Lee Metcalf Wilderness to the west, and to the east, a national forest kept everything but animals away.
Exactly how he liked it.
He kept people at a distance, which was easy to do when his closest relatives were already dead and gone. He’d lost his parents to an avalanche at a young age, and the grandmother who raised him died shortly before he joined the Navy.
Bo poured another shot of whiskey when the phone he’d left charging on the kitchen counter buzzed. Setting his drink down, he picked up the company-issued cell phone. He wouldn’t have one if he didn’t need it for work. He’d disconnected from anything in his old life three years ago.
Nugg and his SEAL team had been his family. Until he’d let them down and couldn’t face them.
Without anyone left to talk to, he’d hardly needed a phone.
As it was, he’d had to install satellite comms out here to keep in touch with TOP.
When he’d found Tactical Operations & Protection, he’d appreciated the opportunity to be part of something that didn’t care about his past. Even if they didn’t see each other outside of work, he trusted his team members to have his back when needed, just as he’d do for them.
Another grunt rumbled his broad chest. It was one a.m., and a string of text messages littered his screen.
A quick scroll showed what he already knew.
The team was giving him shit for missing Crane and Rogue’s marriage celebration.
The couple eloped months ago, but the unconventional wedding in a hospital meant the rest of their group had missed out on the event.
The two newlyweds had agreed to throw a party to make up for it once Crane had fully recovered from the gunshot wound a traitor on their team had given him.
Bo set down his phone without responding and went back for the whiskey in his glass. He was happy his TOP teammates had found love, but he couldn’t handle a party. Not when guilt would eat at him the whole time because Nugg deserved to find that kind of happiness, but couldn’t.
I definitely don’t fucking deserve it.
His mouth went sour, and his hand tightened around the glass. He’d replayed that day so many times. If he could go back and do things differently . . .
The cabin door crashed into the wall, interrupting Bo’s inner turmoil. He jerked at the sound, and his half-empty tumbler flew from his grasp to shatter on the kitchen floor. The cold blew in with a fierce howl, leaving the door hanging wide open.
What the hell?
A woman dressed in black stood on the threshold. Wet snow glistened on the crown of her head. Strands of dark hair gusted around her face with the howling wind, looking like a . . . like a black hijab.
His nightmare had come to life.
He couldn’t speak. Unsure if the vision before him was another hallucination or reality.
“Help me.” Foreign and melodic, her voice flowed to him across the whistling wind like a siren’s song, the words trapping him in a flashback of the Afghan woman.
While he stood frozen to the floorboards, the vision stepped inside, lifted a hand to her head, then collapsed in a dead faint.