Page 1 of Recovering Ivy (Red Team #4)

Zane Lewis walked into his office and, not for the first time that day, rubbed his aching chest. The ever-present throbbing had only intensified over the hours; burying one of his own was never easy.

But Eric Wheeler was especially hard. He’d recruited him from the CIA, not that it took Zane much to convince Eric to leave the agency after a disastrous mission in Russia nearly three years ago.

But instead of retiring like Eric had planned, Zane convinced him to come work for him.

“Fuck,” Zane muttered to an empty room.

It had been late when Zane had left Eric’s celebration of life at Jaxon and Violet’s house and later still now that he’d driven around for the past hour before stopping at his office; dreading going home to an empty apartment.

Not that he wanted company in his current state of mind.

If he had, there was a steady stream of women that were all too eager to hit his bed for the night.

Zane had come a long way from the single-wide trailer him and his brother Lincoln had grown up in.

His three-thousand-square-foot penthouse was a testament to his success.

But some days he missed the small trailer and the closeness it had provided; he and Linc cramped into a bedroom arguing over who was going to clean up the clutter that inevitably accumulated in the small space.

He bought his penthouse so he’d never be cramped again, never having to worry about clutter.

But now, the space seemed barren and lonely.

Lonely wasn’t something Zane was used to feeling.

He was a man that appreciated the solace of his own company.

Zane grabbed a bottle of his favorite whiskey and moved to the large bank of windows overlooking downtown Annapolis and unscrewed the top off the Knob Creek and took a swig straight from the bottle. The liquid burned his throat, warming his insides as it went down.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he repeated, his carefully controlled temper was starting to slip. Eric’s death was weighing heavy and he’d been unable to lock it in one of the many fucked-up boxes that made up his life. He couldn’t, not yet. Eric deserved to be mourned.

Zane rested his forehead on the cool glass and for the first time since he was a child he felt wetness leak from the corner of his eye.

Before he could dwell any further, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

It had been after midnight when he’d come to the office; in his line of work a call this late never meant good things.

He pulled his phone out and checked the caller ID; the President’s personal number flashed on the screen.

He hoped to God the call was not work-related.

His team needed some downtime after losing Eric.

Or did they? Maybe going back out in the field was exactly what they needed to burn through the pent-up anger and hurt they all felt.

Zane knew he’d feel a whole lot better if he could dispatch a bunch of douchebag fuckwits to hell.

“Tom,” Zane greeted.

“How you holding up?” The President cut straight to the chase.

“Five by five,” he clipped.

“Right. So you’re not at the office drowning your sorrows in a bottle?” Tom returned.

It never ceased to amaze Zane that the President had an uncanny ability to presume others’ actions. It was what had made him a good UDT and now a great President.

“It’s goddamned late, did you need something?”

Zane’s response was met with a chuckle before Tom sobered.

“Tomorrow morning when you wake up from your bender I want you to remember something, son. In our business, there are no guarantees; not that we’ll come home, not that we’ll be in one piece if we do, and for the men that led great men in combat there is the unrelenting responsibility of consequence.

You are not responsible for Eric’s death.

He died because he was a damn hero. You don’t take that away from him and put it on your shoulders.

The honor is his. Another thing for you to remember, and I know you’ve heard this before, we don’t just train them, we mourn them.

You know the risk, every person on your team does.

They follow you into battle because you’re the goddamn best; do not waiver, do not wallow, your team needs you strong and ready.

They’ll be looking to you for strength. When you feel the weight bearing down, you call me.

Not as the President, not as a brother in arms, but as a friend. I’ll help you carry the load.”

“Preciate it,” Zane said past the lump in his throat.

“I know you do. You get tonight to drain the cheap shit you call whiskey. Tomorrow, you stand tall and ready. I’ll be in touch.”

Tom disconnected the call and Zane tossed his phone on the small table that sat next to the couch in his office.

He plopped his ass down on the soft leather and contemplated Tom’s words.

When half the bottle was gone, Zane decided it was time to lock Eric down deep.

A good man was dead, and no amount of tears or whiskey would bring him back.

His eyes scanned the room until they found what he was looking for.

That night with alcohol numbing the pain, Zane fell asleep on the couch in his office staring at a flag he wished he didn’t have.