continued down the corridor. Despite Ross’s distinguished service record, he’d always be known as the trooper dragged unconscious and near death from a burning Dumvee—desert-modified U.S. Humvee—by a decorated hero.
Given that decorated hero was one of his closest friends, Ross could live with that. What he wouldn’t live with was the possibility that those injuries signaled the end of his operational career.
His gut tightened, as it always did when he thought of Nate. He could forgive him leaving the SAS after the loss of two of their mates. Just. What he found harder to forgive was Nate trading off that valor medal to get a top-paying job as a goddamn bodyguard for some Hollywood star.
Pausing in the corridor, Ross checked his Heuer. Like most demo guys he had a thing for precision timepieces. Still ten minutes early. Because he didn’t want the CO to read nervousness into that he detoured into the History Room. There he tried to distract himself with the displays of past NZSAS operations, from the first in Malaya in 1955 through to Borneo, Vietnam, Bougainville, Kuwait, East Timor and Afghanistan.
He’d been deployed in three of them with Dan, Lee, Steve and Nate.
Grief punched into his solar plexus and momentarily he closed his eyes, forced himself to refocus on the friends who’d survived. Dan was a farmer now and the two men were making scrupulous efforts to avoid taking sides in their younger siblings’ imploded marriage. A few months earlier Ross had helped Dan get his new bride, Jo, to the altar. Hell, if a cynic like Ross could play matchmaker surely he could think of some way to help Nate?
For the hundredth time, he searched for a clue to his mate’s self-destructive behavior but only fragmented memories of that day remained. Pain mostly…crippling, mind-bending pain mixed with the smells of burning metal and flesh.
“I’ve done my duty,” Nate had said in their last phone call. “That medal’s my passport to the easy life.”
“That’s not you talking,” Ross had replied quietly. Nate’s passionate loyalty to the SAS had surpassed even Ross’s.
Nate laughed. “God, I love your idealism, I really do,” he’d mocked. “I guess you’re our Black Knight.” Ross froze in front of the glass display. The Monty Python guy from The Holy Grail, the one who’d had arms and legs lopped off and still insisted he was capable of fighting. Talk about blatant cruelty.
He checked his watch again, then walked through reception. In his life he needed very little. Only to be the best at what he chose to do. And that was being a soldier. As he passed the chunk of lapis lazuli beneath the wall carving depicting the ethos of the NZSAS, he bent to pat it for luck. In the Middle East, the dark blue gemstone shimmering with golden pyrites was thought to have magical powers.
For the benefit of the receptionist he kept his gait sureas he climbed the stairs to the CO’s office on the second floor and tapped on the door.
His superior might be spinning this as a casual chat with a man still officially on sick leave but Ross knew better. Which was precisely why he’d worn the SAS Corps uniform, so the CO knew he meant business. Unfortunately, even with all the weight training and protein shakes the damn thing still hung loose.
He tightened the blue belt then straightened the sand-colored beret. His fingers touched the cool metal of the badge, a flaming sword above the motto Who Dares Wins.
“Enter.” The older man’s level gaze took in his uniform but the CO offered no comment as he gestured Ross to a chair and came out from behind his desk to take another beside it. “Condolences on your recent bereavement, Ross. We could have postponed this chat. I know it’s a difficult time.”
“Thank you, but my stepmother and I weren’t close.”
“I’m sorry to hear that…. Anyway, I’m looking forward to welcoming you back in that uniform permanently next month. Your dedication in regaining your
Given that decorated hero was one of his closest friends, Ross could live with that. What he wouldn’t live with was the possibility that those injuries signaled the end of his operational career.
His gut tightened, as it always did when he thought of Nate. He could forgive him leaving the SAS after the loss of two of their mates. Just. What he found harder to forgive was Nate trading off that valor medal to get a top-paying job as a goddamn bodyguard for some Hollywood star.
Pausing in the corridor, Ross checked his Heuer. Like most demo guys he had a thing for precision timepieces. Still ten minutes early. Because he didn’t want the CO to read nervousness into that he detoured into the History Room. There he tried to distract himself with the displays of past NZSAS operations, from the first in Malaya in 1955 through to Borneo, Vietnam, Bougainville, Kuwait, East Timor and Afghanistan.
He’d been deployed in three of them with Dan, Lee, Steve and Nate.
Grief punched into his solar plexus and momentarily he closed his eyes, forced himself to refocus on the friends who’d survived. Dan was a farmer now and the two men were making scrupulous efforts to avoid taking sides in their younger siblings’ imploded marriage. A few months earlier Ross had helped Dan get his new bride, Jo, to the altar. Hell, if a cynic like Ross could play matchmaker surely he could think of some way to help Nate?
For the hundredth time, he searched for a clue to his mate’s self-destructive behavior but only fragmented memories of that day remained. Pain mostly…crippling, mind-bending pain mixed with the smells of burning metal and flesh.
“I’ve done my duty,” Nate had said in their last phone call. “That medal’s my passport to the easy life.”
“That’s not you talking,” Ross had replied quietly. Nate’s passionate loyalty to the SAS had surpassed even Ross’s.
Nate laughed. “God, I love your idealism, I really do,” he’d mocked. “I guess you’re our Black Knight.” Ross froze in front of the glass display. The Monty Python guy from The Holy Grail, the one who’d had arms and legs lopped off and still insisted he was capable of fighting. Talk about blatant cruelty.
He checked his watch again, then walked through reception. In his life he needed very little. Only to be the best at what he chose to do. And that was being a soldier. As he passed the chunk of lapis lazuli beneath the wall carving depicting the ethos of the NZSAS, he bent to pat it for luck. In the Middle East, the dark blue gemstone shimmering with golden pyrites was thought to have magical powers.
For the benefit of the receptionist he kept his gait sureas he climbed the stairs to the CO’s office on the second floor and tapped on the door.
His superior might be spinning this as a casual chat with a man still officially on sick leave but Ross knew better. Which was precisely why he’d worn the SAS Corps uniform, so the CO knew he meant business. Unfortunately, even with all the weight training and protein shakes the damn thing still hung loose.
He tightened the blue belt then straightened the sand-colored beret. His fingers touched the cool metal of the badge, a flaming sword above the motto Who Dares Wins.
“Enter.” The older man’s level gaze took in his uniform but the CO offered no comment as he gestured Ross to a chair and came out from behind his desk to take another beside it. “Condolences on your recent bereavement, Ross. We could have postponed this chat. I know it’s a difficult time.”
“Thank you, but my stepmother and I weren’t close.”
“I’m sorry to hear that…. Anyway, I’m looking forward to welcoming you back in that uniform permanently next month. Your dedication in regaining your
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