Striking Distance

“When does terrorism ever make sense?” Javier watched Laura battle with her emotions while she attempted to make coffee, her mind distracted, her movements wooden. Truth be told, he felt more than a little shaken up, too.

First, whatever had happened when he’d seen that helo, and then . . .

He’d been to more funerals than he cared to count, lost men who were like brothers to him, and yet something about today had hit him hard. The kid had died for nothing, the life he’d been given wasted, his parents’ lives destroyed by his actions.

Now Javier understood why this had been so important to Laura. Somehow she’d realized how terrible his parents must feel about what their son had tried to do. She’d let them see that she held no grudge against them or their religion or culture, bringing them a sense of redemption. She’d enabled them to grieve without guilt.

“You did a good thing tonight. You were right. It

was

important.”

“I didn’t do anything. Their son is gone. They’ll never see him again, hug him again, hear his voice again. It’s not even their fault.” She pushed the brew button on her coffeemaker and turned to face him, fingers pressed to one temple. “They have to live with what he did and what was done to him, but they didn’t teach him to hate.”

“What about the kid’s uncle? I didn’t like the way he looked at you. What did he say to you? He seemed so angry.”

“He was upset because Ali’s body hadn’t yet been returned. He—”

It was then Javier noticed her mistake. He pointed, but it was too late.

“You forgot . . .”

The coffeepot.

Coffee hissed as it poured straight onto the burner, steaming liquid spilling onto the granite countertop and the floor.

“Helvete!”

Laura seemed to freeze for a moment before flying in all directions at once, unplugging the machine and grabbing an entire roll of paper towels.

Javier rounded the counter, picked up the glass coffeepot, and slid it into place on the burner, where it could catch the rest of the coffee.

Laura stared at the mess on the counter and the floor, then dropped to her knees and began to wipe it up. “God, what’s wrong with me?”

He knelt down in front of her, caught her wrists. “You’re upset. Why don’t you go sit by the fire for a minute while I clean this up?”

Her gaze slid to his, her eyes filled with despair that had nothing to do with spilled coffee. “It’s my mess. I made it. I should clean it up.”

“I came here to help you,

bella

. Now let me help. That’s an order.”

She stood and backtracked out of the kitchen, careful not to step in the puddle.

Javier made quick work of it, then washed his hands and started heating milk. If he was going to make the coffee, he’d make it the

Boricua

way.

He carried the steaming mugs to the living room, where he found Laura curled up on the sofa and clutching a small pillow to her chest. He set her mug down on the coffee table and sat near her feet.

“Thank you.” She sat up, picked up the mug, and sipped, closing her eyes and making an “mmm” noise that sent Javier’s thoughts ru

Get your mind out of your pants, Corbray.

When she opened her eyes again, her gaze was fixed on the fire. “They have to find him. They have to find the person behind this. Not just to keep me safe, but for Karima and Yusif’s sake—and Ali’s.”

“They will.” And when they

did

get him, Javier hoped it was with a high-caliber weapon. “Tearing yourself apart over this isn’t going to help anyone.”

He got to his feet, moved to stand behind her. “Lean back.”

She looked over her shoulder at him but did as he asked.

“You’ve got a headache again, don’t you?” He moved the silk of her hair aside, baring the graceful length of her neck. He couldn’t touch her in a sexual way, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t touch her.

“What are you—the Headache Whisperer?”

“Just relax.”

Laura closed her eyes as Javier began to knead the muscles of her shoulders. “Mmm. Don’t tell me this is something they teach you in BUD/S.”

“Nah.” He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “It’s something I learned as a personal trainer. Your upper trapezius and scalene muscles are tight. It makes your headache worse.”

She sank into his touch as he searched out knots and sore spots she didn’t know she had, his fingers working their way along her nape, raising tingles on her skin. And the pain inside her skull began to lessen.

She decided to ask him. “What happened in the backyard tonight?”

His fingers stilled for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I heard you gasp like you’d been hurt, and when I turned to look, you were staring up at that helicopter as if it were about to crash or something.” She’d never seen fear on his face before.

No, not just fear. Terror.

His fingers began to move again. “The sound of it . . . For a second, it reminded me of the day I was wounded.”

A flashback?

She turned her head to look back at him. “You told me you’d been ambushed. Did they attack by helicopter?”

“No.” He withdrew his hands.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. If it’s too hard for you to talk about—”

“It’s not a problem.” He rounded the sofa and sat in a chair across from her, elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded together. “We ran across a shepherd and his sons on our way to infiltrate a village outside Ghazni. I had to decide whether to let them live or to kill them to prevent them from warning anyone. We gave them food, water, a little medical help. We tried to show them we weren’t the enemy. They promised not to give us away. I let them live. They warned the Taliban anyway. Taliban fighters ambushed us. We called for exfil. The medevac helo sent to retrieve the wounded was hit by an RPG and blew up before it could land.”

“Oh, God.” Laura stood and took a few steps toward the fire, the memory of the narrow escape from Al-Nassar’s compound coming back to her. She turned to Javier and asked the question, pretty sure she knew the answer. “What happened to the medics?”

A muscle clenched in his jaw. “Everyone on board was killed.”

“That’s terrible.” She found it appalling that anyone would attack medical perso

Then the truth of what Javier must be dealing with dawned on her. A decision he’d made had resulted in an ambush that had ended in the deaths of some of his men—and the crew of the medevac chopper, too. Did he blame himself?

“It wasn’t your fault—those men’s deaths, the medevac chopper.”

“I know that. I don’t sit around lamenting my choice.” His denial came too quickly, and Laura wasn’t sure she believed him.

She sank into a chair, an image of his scars in her mind. “All of you who were wounded—you had to wait for another chopper, didn’t you?”

He gave a single wooden nod. “Not everyone made it.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her words seemed empty, inadequate. “It must have been horrible to lie there in so much pain and to watch those men get shot out of the sky, knowing it meant some of you would probably die, too.”

He stood, walked over to the window. “We all knew the risks when we signed on, even the medics. Besides, it’s over.”

She rose, followed him, slid her arms around him, rested her cheek against his back, his body tense, rigid. “It’s not over, not if it still affects you like it did today. Are you getting therapy?”

“I passed the post-combat psych screening. I don’t need therapy.” He drew her hands away and stepped out of her embrace. “I’m not some weakling who can’t get his shit together.”