Page 13 of Holding the Line

Marsh lifted his head, mouth already twisted.“Thanks for the pep talk.”

Bateman didn’t smile.He set the mug on the closest workbench, leaned a hip against it, and crossed his arms.“Last night felt like the old days.Sitting around the table, cracking jokes.Even your snark had some edge to it again.I want to know if that was real, Marsh.Or if you’re just pretending to claw your way back.”

Marsh let out a breath through his nose.“Wow.Deep question for before coffee.”

Bateman pushed off the bench.“Cut the crap.I’m serious.”

Marsh spun his chair around halfway.“What do you want me to say?That I’m healed?That the universe handed me this shiny life lesson wrapped in trauma and I’m so damn grateful for it?”

“No,” Bateman snapped.“I want you to stop being such a goddamn coward.”

Shock slammed through him.“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”Bateman closed the distance in two strides, grabbed Marsh by the shirt, and yanked him out of his chair.

Marsh grunted, off-balance, his hands catching Bateman’s shoulders automatically.“What the hell, Bate—”

“No,” Bateman growled.“You don’t get to sit in here and rot while the rest of us are trying to keep this place running.Men like Van, like the ones we’ve buried, didn’t get to come home.And you’re here, alive, bitching because you lost a leg?You’re better than that.You always were.”

Pain radiated through his chest, and Marsh’s hands curled into fists on the other man’s shoulders.

Bateman gave him a little shake.“We get knocked down, Marsh.That’s what this job is.Pain.Loss.Grit.You don’t lay there like roadkill and cry about it.You get up.You get up and you fight.Because if you don’t, the bastards who hurt us win.And I am not letting you hand them that victory.”

Marsh’s throat worked, but no words came.

Bateman’s grip loosened, and his voice dropped.“You’re still one of us.But you have to choose it.”

Silence stretched.

Then Marsh exhaled.He pressed his forehead to Bateman’s shoulder and gripped his shirt.“I’ll stop being a prick.Just ...give me a minute.”

Bateman nodded, his arms tightening briefly.“Good.You were overdue for a come-to-Jesus moment.”They pulled back, and Bateman smirked.“Now try not to short-circuit your own gear crying into your keyboard.”

“Get out of my lab, you prick,” Marsh muttered.

“Love you, too, asshole.”

Bateman left, door sliding shut behind him.

Marsh stared at the monitors again.

Then climbed back into his chair and took a deep breath.

He tried to focus.Pulled up the code for his translation comms prototype.Typed a few lines.Erased them.Tried again.

But his mind wasn’t on the coding.

It was on what Bateman had said—he had been an asshole, to everyone.But most recently, Eli.

Then, images from the day before came crashing in.The pool.The scars.The bruises.

And the way the man had moved through the water like it was the only place he could breathe.

Something about that haunted Marsh.

He flipped to the security feed.The cameras were all live.Training fields.Entry gates.Communications compound.

And the pool.