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A quick internal investigation that afternoon—while Cobble was in surgery and Missy had hunkered in the waiting room, nervous as hell—uncovered no definitive answers regarding the assault on the UN office. It was quickly decided that a vagabond crew of rebels must have been responsible for the hit; looting for valuables during the chaos of a government in flux. It was written up that the rogue group, when faced with the presence of unexpected, armed soldiers, had, en masse, killed everyone.

The whole incident had been put to bed.

That explanation didn’t fly with Missy.

With the odd disarray she’d seen in that office? No. It seemed to her—at some point prior to papers being purposely strewn about willy-nilly—that a thorough, methodical search had been done of several drawers and files in the place. To her, it appeared that the breachers had been looking for something specific, and had then attempted to cover it up. The question was, what exactly had they been after, and did they get it?

The answer lay in bed with Cobble.

She looked over at him from the uncomfortable chair she’d pulled up near his bed. Tubes, wires, and monitors were dwarfed by his big body, but were hopefully keeping him alive.

The doctors had deemed Cobble’s emergency surgery a success, which was a miracle in itself; the hospital being in as much of a turmoil as the rest of the beleaguered region. But still worrisome for Missy? Cobble wasn’t awake yet, and it was now three hours post-surgery. Was that normal?

What choice, however, did Missy have but to trust the staff here who didn’t seem at all worried? None. Because this was the only hospital currently operating in Abyei that offered surgery. It was also a brand-new facility, considered state of the art for the area. So too, its staff was primarily made up of a fresh-faced docket of Doctors Without Borders, which gave Missy a modicum of comfort.

In the nine hours since bringing Cobble in—pre, and post-surgery—Missy had gotten to know most of the doctors and nurses who were part of Cobble’s “medical team”, and despite all the emergencies they were experiencing with the widespread unrest hereabouts, they were extremely professional. They kept a close eye on Cobble while remaining friendly, upbeat, and candid with Missy.

So here she was. Hunkering in Cobble’s room waiting for him to open his eyes. His gorgeous brown eyes. To see them focused on her again would be…a miracle.

She’d had the presence of mind, amidst her grief, to contact headquarters again after their less-than-satisfactory report, this time to find out who should be notified as Cobble’s next of kin.

She’d been told that the person listed as his emergency liaison was a family member. But that’s all the help they’d given her. Then HQ, being what it was—always inundated with work—had rattled off the number for one Charles Smalley, informing Missy that she, as Cobble’s platoon leader, should be the one to do the notifying.

Missy had pondered over that, and decided she really didn’t want to make that call until Cobble woke up. But as more time went by without him stirring, the doctors had finally informed her that due to his head injury, it might be hours or days before he awoke. Seriously ? There was no grand consensus on the actual timeline? Where did that leave her?

Missy stared at her phone. Should she, or should she not call Mr. Smalley? The seven-hour time difference meant that it was three AM in Boston, Massachusetts, so maybe she should wait? Nobody liked to get the kind of disclosure she’d been tasked to deliver in the middle of the night. And was the man a close enough relative, anyway, that he’d want the news right away so he could rush to South Sudan to grace Cobble’s bedside?

Missy sighed, and tried to see it from Cobble’s point of view. If he eventually woke up, maybe having a loved one on site would make him feel better. And if he…passed away, it might be Mr. Smalley’s last opportunity to say goodbye.

Trying not to overthink the situation any longer, Missy grabbed up her phone and punched in the number.

“Smalley here.” A gruff voice answered on the first ring. It didn’t seem like the man had been asleep.

“Good evening, sir,” she began respectfully. “This is Second Lieutenant Millicent Andriopolos of the Army CST in South Sudan.”

“Sawyer?” The man snapped out the word immediately, clearly grasping the gravity of the call.

Missy was so used to calling her teammate Cobble, hearing his real name was momentarily confusing.

Sawyer , Missy reminded herself. That was Cobble’s civilian tag. Sawyer Blue .

She cleared her throat. “Yes, sir. He’s just come through surgery for a GSW to the chest which resulted in a collapsed lung. But the doctors say his prognosis is good.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Smalley demanded brusquely.

Huh. This guy was astute.

She wouldn’t keep him waiting.

“Sawyer still hasn’t woken up,” she told him without sugar-coating. “It’s been three hours post-op, and that’s longer than anyone anticipated.” She clarified by adding more before the man could ask additional questions. “The doctors say it might be because he also suffered a graze to the temple. A nasty wound, but the bullet passed by without penetrating his skull. And no, there’s no brain swelling, but a concussion is likely. The doctors believe that’s the reason he’s still unresponsive.”

“I’ll be on the next plane out,” Smalley barked. “Which hospital?”

Missy gave him the name and address of the facility, then sought to reassure him. “I won’t be leaving Sawyer’s side until you get here. I still have questions about what happened that only he can answer.”

“You’re his platoon leader?” Smalley asked.

“I am. And I was the one who sent his six-man squad into that building.”

She heard a sigh.

“Any other survivors?” he questioned.

“None,” Missy replied, trying not to give away how deeply she was affected by that. Winch and the rest of the squad had been good men. All, far too young to die in this greed-ridden, hell-hole of a place.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Smalley gruffed. “Our jobs aren’t always simple.”

For a moment, Missy wondered exactly what Charles Smalley did for a living, but quickly dismissed her curiosity. When she met up with him, they could trade stories.

“My men, my call,” she clipped back, then let a few of her worries seep through, which she hadn’t done with the team that headquarters had sent to investigate. “There shouldn’t have been any trouble. This assignment had a low risk assessment. Something…” No. She wouldn’t go there. Just because there was a confidence in Smalley’s voice that indicated he was extremely savvy, didn’t mean she should trust him with her doubts.

He must have intuited her indecision.

“We’ll talk when I get there,” Smalley assured her. She heard computer keys clicking. “I’m online right now, and I can get a flight out in two hours. That puts me at Juba International in just over twenty hours. From there, I’m going to get a puddle-jumper to take me to…” He paused, but Missy filled in the information before he could go down that rabbit hole.

“…Gogrial airport,” she supplied. “Which is a small, dirt strip. But even if you can find a plane to get you there, it’ll then take you three hours to get from that very rural spot to here. That’s if you can arrange ground transportation, which is always difficult,” she told him. He’d have to navigate it all on his own.

“Right. Too long,” he grunted. “I’ll commission a helo from Juba into your city. Do you know if the hospital has a helipad?”

Who was this guy, anyway?

“I’m…not sure. But I can find out,” she offered tentatively.

“Never mind. I’ll manage,” he responded succinctly. “I’ll be there by this time tomorrow.”

He hung up without any additional niceties, and that was fine with Missy. The man was clearly a take-charge type, and she didn’t really feel like answering any more questions. Her brain was too busy going through bits and pieces from the scene of the carnage, earlier.

Maybe if she looked at the pictures on her phone again…

****

Several hours later, with her vision starting to go blurry with fatigue, stirring noises coming from the bed had her on her feet instantly. Her heart leapt as she hovered over Cobble.

His eyes fluttered open.

“Cobble?” She moved closer, speaking his name quietly, and touching his arm.

“Mom?” he asked groggily.

“No,” Missy gently corrected. “It’s Andy.” That’s what everyone in her platoon called her.

“Andy.”

She could see the moment his brain clicked in.

“Where…?” he blinked up at her, unfocused.

“You’re in the hospital. You’ve had surgery, but you’re fine.” Missy hoped she was telling the truth. But what good would it do to tell him otherwise?

“I…can’t remember what happened. Ambush?” he asked, his voice croaking. He had a canula under his nose to keep his oxygen levels up, but it was obviously drying him out.

Andy took a minute to answer, her heart pounding hard. Cobble was actually awake and speaking. The doctor said if he woke up, she could give him water, so she used that as an excuse to get a hold of her emotions, leaning over to grab a cup with a straw from his bedside table, offering it to him.

“Have some of this first.”

He drank a few sips.

“Thanks,” he sighed, his voice clearer.

Andy sucked in a breath and trying not to upset him unduly, began with a vague explanation.

“You were on a routine mission, and…things went sideways,” she told him, not wanting to force his memories to return or implode by giving him devastating news. “We can talk about it all later, when you’re feeling up to it.”

“My…squad? Winch?” he asked.

Cobble and Winch had been good friends.

Missy thought for a moment about lying, but knew it wouldn’t be right in the long run, so she squared her shoulders and laid it out quickly.

“You were the only survivor.”

Cobble’s eyes closed, and a line furrowed between his brows, but that was the only indication he gave of being affected.

Before Missy could say anything more, his breathing had evened out, and he’d dropped back into sleep.

Probably for the best. It would give her time to regroup and get a leash on her unaccustomed agitation.

At this point she needed someone on staff, here, to know that Cobble had woken up, albeit briefly. It would only be a slight distraction from her preoccupation with the horrors she’d seen that morning, but she’d take it.

Missy picked up the call button and depressed it.

“Yes?” A nurse with whom Missy had become familiar, stuck her head in the door a minute later.

“He was just awake,” Missy told her. “Not for long, but he was able to speak, and he took a sip of water before he went back to sleep.”

“That’s good. I will let the doctor know.” The nurse bustled over and took Cobble’s vitals; something they’d been doing every half hour since the operation, and she gave Missy a thumb’s up when she was finished. “Everything looks fine. But please tell us immediately if he wakes again.”

Missy nodded. She knew as well as the nurse that unforeseen complications could arise at any time, and Cobble might not wake up at all. Hopefully, however, he had a strong enough constitution to survive his injuries.

****

The next time Cobble awoke, it barely registered with Missy until he gave a weak cough.

She’d been by his side for just over twenty-four hours now—from the time she’d found him until present—and she’d been trying to catch some sleep off and on all night, sitting upright in the one uncomfortable chair in the room.

Nearly impossible.

She shook off her fatigue and came to her feet.

“You’re awake,” she softly spoke to Cobble.

“Mmm. Sort of,” he answered, but sounded more alert than the first time they’d spoken. “I’m…in the hospital, right?”

“You are. Ameth Bek,” she answered, naming the facility.

“And…everyone in my squad is dead,” he continued without inflection.

“Yes,” she confirmed, sympathy evident in her voice.

He turned his head a scant inch to the left, away from her, and didn’t say another word.

Did he blame her for the loss of his friends? She wouldn’t doubt it, because she certainly charged herself with their deaths. Nothing anyone could say would keep her from feeling that she was at fault. But recriminations would do her no good. She’d have to live with them for the rest of her life. Information, however, would help toward blunting the guilt. Of course, gleaning what she needed depended on how much Cobble was up to being questioned. A go-ahead only his doctors could give.

“You’ll need to get checked out by your surgeon,” Missy told him. “They had to remove a bullet.” That’s all she’d say about what had him in his hospital bed. “They wanted me to let them know the next time you woke up.”

Again, there was no answer, but Cobble’s eyes remained open and averted.

“I’ll just…go out and get somebody.” She gestured uselessly.

Yeah , she could use the call button again, but it seemed like Cobble needed some time alone to process, so she’d step out to find one of his medical team.

She glanced at her watch as she walked out the door. There were still nine-plus hours until Charles Smalley arrived. Hopefully, by that time, Missy would have some information. If Cobble remembered what happened. And if he was of a mind to share. As his superior, she could order him to talk, but that wasn’t the way she did things. In the months they’d been together—their platoon of sixteen—Missy had never treated Cobble or anyone in her squads as underlings. She’d seen them all as her highly capable teammates.

That’s the way she’d deal with Cobble, moving forward.