Page 38 of Luck Be Mine (The Defenders #3)

? Command Waits for No Man ?

Hunt stepped into the Operations building, his jeans and gray Navy shirt out of sync in a workspace full of uniforms. But he was on leave, non-operational, and about to enter the grocery store when the call came from Commander Gregg.

The directive was now, not go home and change into uniform first. Whether it was his solemn face or the fucked-up situation, no one stopped him to talk.

He didn’t want to linger, didn’t chat, didn’t even want to know. He entered the Unit Command office and came to a halt.

Salt-and-pepper gray hair, erect posture, polished uniform, Commander James Gregg stood with his admin talking. He was tough personified, and Hunt felt the heavy weight of the last two weeks become pressure to get them back to fighting strength when they were still wrecked. Or he was.

“Hunt, come on in.”

He followed to the side office and took the chair the Commander indicated, staying silent.

“Coffee?”

“No, sir. Thank you.”

The commander refilled his from the carafe on the side table and shut the door. A courtesy or a warning?

The windows let in the afternoon sun, spilling across the carpet with the shadows of the blinds. Gregg’s desk was clear of paperwork, the picture of his wife and son had no dust, and his tablet was off. He settled into his chair and took a sip of coffee. “Informal here, Hunt. How are you?”

Informal meant different things to different commanders, but for his purposes, Hunt’s answer sufficed for either.

“Struggling, trying to get my mind straight.” There was no point in sugar coating it. Once he did his psych eval, the results would point to problems.

“About?”

“I was standing next to Baxter. Me out the door first, and I’m the one dead. I’m taking a mental hit from those moments and haven’t sorted it out yet. The team is working through it as well.”

“Brennan, Thompson, and Hernandez are the only three as of this morning who have completed their evaluations. No one else has an appointment.”

“I’ll get on them, sir.”

“You, too. Get it done. It’s time. Command is only going to let you stay non-operational for so long without psychological evaluation to back it.”

“Understood. Is that all?”

“No, your two empty slots need to be filled, sooner not later. Files on new team members have been sent to Hernandez and Brennan. They are also in your inbox. Review, interview, but figure it out or command will.”

“Copy.” He wasn’t ready. He never would be ready to put somebody in Baxter’s slot. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d lost a team member and was so reluctant.

Bitching.

“Dismissed, Lieutenant Commander. Make your appointment on the way out.”

“Yes, sir.”

As directed, he booked an appointment for tomorrow then sat in his truck, fighting his frame of mind. Non-operational status had the entire team idling with nowhere to go, no mission, and difficult thoughts. For men used to constant demands on their time with little space to think, this was…

“Crap,” he muttered, starting the vehicle. The only way out was through. Time to run, swim, fire a weapon. Get the purpose back again or get out.

The thought left him squirming, an answer of “no” shouting at him.

Back home, the house was quiet. Carter remained cocooned in a sleep coma on the red sofa. Brennan and Doogie were gone. He surveyed the mess of his workroom and spent fifteen minutes making the bed, shoving clothes in the wash, and putting other items away.

This house, blanketed in calm now, was chaos central. He needed to clear his head. Swim. With no trunks in his workroom, he went to the master and found the bed pristine.

Cait was not the person who made the bed. He was. Was she not sleeping either?

“Yeah, moron. If you slept with her, you’d know.” He grabbed the suit and left the room, more disturbed than he cared to admit over a fucking bed.

But her art studio door was open. He stood in the entry.

The room was a mess. No bed in here, but the cream and gray room did have a large sleep chair. The checkered gray chair had drawings cluttered on the floor around it. Her drawing pad was jammed into the side of the cushion. The pencil box, tightly closed, stayed balanced on the arm.

They had separate places and kept retreating to them, too often for his comfort. He more than she because Cait had the kitchen and the gardens. Why was he acting like a guest in his own home?

He never entered her space when she was gone like she didn’t cross into his.

Not once during all those nights he’d shut the door.

Jammed inside and unable to ask for help, he’d locked himself away.

Discomfort, guilt, and grief slammed him.

Hunt swore, loudly and long, slapping the back of the sleep chair until his hands stung.

Appalled at the outburst, he stepped around drawings on the floor and went to the side wall to study the pictures.

Hanging next to the chair, she’d placed a portrait of Rusty Dent. She’d also had the original rough drawing of their house, the one she’d painted for the living room wall. The depiction was more of an idea, and reality and vision were beginning to match.

On the floor at his feet, she’d drawn Baxter in multiple poses – laughing, talking, crouched in gear. Gone.

A quick hard inhale and he turned away.

Only to confront her art table.

Two taped drawings were on her adjustable board, the top tilted.

One of him from the funeral, standing behind the coffin, trident in hand and one in dress uniform with tears in his eyes.

Had he cried? He didn’t recall. Shouldn’t he remember?

Ugly memories surged. Gunfire sounded in his head in a quick staccato. Baxter’s empty eyes stared at him. He backed out of the room, carefully shutting the door.

Breath choppy and hands shaking, he escaped.

The demons chased him all the way to the beach.

§§§§§§§§§§

? The Search and the Fury ?

Medical evaluation process finished, Cait walked to her car.

Night shift, hospital. Early morning hours, QM.

The mid-day sun had begun to heat up the air.

She unlocked her car with her fob, struggled into her seat, and slammed her door.

The Hawaiian Sunset scent in her car washed over her. Tired mind, tired body, tired life.

Her phone rang.

Why did she have so many telephone conversations sitting in her car?

She answered. “Bets, please don’t tell me you need me.”

“No, I got a contract from QM. Hand delivered by the delightful Remy.”

The tall, dark, and quirky operative was easy on the eyes. “Don’t fall for his charms. He loses at poker regularly.”

Bets chuckled. “I’ll remember that. I wasn’t expecting such a high salary for part-time.”

“They take care of their people.”

“Is that who I’m about to become? Their people?”

“Yes, you won’t be sorry.”

“If I get to keep working with you, it’ll be all roses.”

“Aw, thanks, friend. I’m out. Done. Finished at both jobs. I’m going home.”

“You deserve a rest. See you next shift for more crazy.” Bets hung up laughing.

The nurse’s humor eased her mood. “Crazy at work and bonkers at home.”

The drive home was fraught with traffic, detours, and impatience. Safe Harbor welcomed her, and she turned into the driveway with a flourish.

Green and neat lawn. Lawn service had been here.

Flowerbeds beautiful. Brennan. The weed pile still needed put in the trash, though.

Porch swept. Brennan.

Was the driveway wet? Who had scrubbed their driveway?

Was Carter still in the family room?

What else had these musketeers found to do?

Doogie’s truck here. Brennan’s truck here. Carter’s car here.

Hunt’s truck wasn’t.

She checked the street. Nope.

Where was he?

She scrolled her phone. No text messages. When he was non-operational or off ops cycle, he texted and called her regularly. Frowning, she sent one to him.

While her car idled, she collected the mail. Hunt had been getting it.

No answer. Had he gone to the base? She would know these things if he would talk to her, sleep with her, give her any sign.

She abandoned the text messages and stabbed at his contact. It rang and rang. Uneasiness rolled through her empty stomach. She tapped the call closed and called Doogie.

“Yo, Doc. Why are you sitting in the driveway?”

“Have you seen Hunt today?”

“Late morning. He got summoned by the CO. I left after he did. What’s wrong?”

“He’s shut down, and I’m getting worried.”

“He does this when missions don’t go right.”

“Baxter died. That’s the utter definition of wrong. He’s not sleeping. Or if he is, it’s not beside me. Not where I can reach him. Never mind, I’ll find him.”

“Cait…”

She disconnected. Doogie might be the BFF, but she was the wife .

She never tracked Hunt because of his job. They were independent individuals and needed to function separately, but this didn’t feel right.

Frank was home. He hadn’t seen him.

Clark’s Diner was full of cars. No Hunt’s truck.

Marnie hadn’t talked to him.

QM hadn’t seen him either.

Same for Senior Chief.

Driving aimlessly didn’t seem efficient.

The only other place she could think to check was the beach spot they frequently went to for walks.

He didn’t usually go there without her. That she knew of.

God help her, she didn’t know his haunts professionally or personally.

She could be missing a black hole worth of places.

She checked the phone again. Three more text messages netted no answer. Two more phone calls. No answer.

By high noon, anxiety shredded her nerves leaving a harsh and edgy mood.

The beach would be empty because it was a workday. She wove through traffic and took the exit. No reason he couldn’t be there. She went there to draw sometimes.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled into a side parking lot.

There was Hunt’s truck. Silver, empty, and locked.

Relief left her shaking.

Anger followed in its wake.

Going to the path, her eyes traced the curve of the trail. She couldn’t see the beach from the top, so she had no choice but to hike down. She kept focused with effort, ignoring the cool ocean breeze and the gulls squawking.

She passed the spot where she usually sat to draw and kept going to the bottom. Salt clung to the air. The surf pounded in a dull, steady roar. The shoreline should have soothed with its stark blues from sky to sea. It didn’t.

The beach was empty.

A gray Navy shirt lay on a large, tan rock. On the pocket, an LC marking confirmed it was Hunt’s. The sand was undisturbed except for footprints from his shirt to the shore’s edge.

Staring out across the water, the rhythm of the waves held no hint of him anywhere. Few swam this beach. Leave it to a SEAL to be one of those few.

Her eyes swept the ebbing water, searching for any sign.

“I hate swimming,” she ground out.

She kicked off her shoes. The wet sand sucked at her toes. Her scrubs would be soaked, but the concern gnawing at her stomach made the choice.

She waded into the water.

§§§§§§§§§§

? The Last Meal ?

Doogie’s phone rang. Sighing, he shut off the mixer, wiped his hands, and answered. “Hey, Senior Chief.”

“Had a call from Doc. What’s up with Hunter?”

Doogie shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Not sure. He’s currently in a non-communicative phase.” That he’d pulled words from Hunt’s evaluations in BUD/S made him frown.

“He needs pried out of that.” The tough words hit the way the man intended.

Doogie straightened. “We all do.”

“Have you had your session with McIvers?” Hernandez’s tone settled from sharp to firm. The shrink had been with their team for five years. Mandatory sessions after a death churned dread and avoidance.

“No. You?”

“Yesterday. Wife made me. Get it done. You, me, Hunt, and Brennan need to set the example. Get Carter off the red sofa, too.”

“Copy, Senior Chief.”

“I’m vetting some new people. I’ll send you files. I can’t step into this non-communicative territory with LC, but you can. As a SEAL and a husband, I recognize the sound in Doc’s voice. When she finds him, he’s about to get his ass kicked.”

“Well, he deserves it. We all do.”

Doogie disconnected and walked to the table where he sat for meals, for coffee, for talk, for home. They made room for him whenever he needed it. Cait let him abuse her pantry and cook here. The smell of the Cajun rice and shrimp skillet he made last night still lingered.

He gazed out the window at the green, thick grass. His lawn never looked this good. His entire life needed reorganization. After putting his mama on a plane for New Orleans, grief slammed him with the force of an ocean storm. He barely made it to his truck before he cried like a baby.

Doogie had been doing this too long not to know the signs.

The edge didn’t dull, but the space between missions felt heavier.

Promotions brought new rank, not time. He made CW3, might hit CW4 if he stuck it out, but there was a tradeoff.

More missions, more loss, and less of himself left for people he cared about.

Coming home left him desolate. His house? Empty. His heart? Emptier. Cooking only went so far, and he didn’t want to talk either. Was it any wonder Hunter didn’t want to?

It was time to admit it.

He stayed at Safe Harbor because there was life here.

There was love here.

There wasn’t any at his house, and he couldn’t stand it.

He stayed for days, dwelling in brotherhood, silence, and service. He cooked to honor a friend.

Time to go home, and ask the Navy if he was going to train men to break things or keep breaking them himself.

His personal life needed attention. He couldn’t wait for a magic someone to appear.

Time was too short. Especially in his profession.

He had to build the life he wanted for himself, and live it.

If he only knew what that was.