Kennedy said from the front seat, “Where would you like to go?”

“The hotel.” Rachel looked out the window as the CLUs faded into a blur of indistinct desert tan. “I’m done here.”

*

Max braced her back against the shuddering side of the C-130’s cavernous belly, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep. The white noise from the droning engine ought to have been enough to drown out her thoughts, but her mind wouldn’t settle. She hadn’t had time to think about anything since she’d gotten back to the CLU and CC had handed her the departure orders, the last thing she’d expected after Carmody’s questions. But her training was ingrained and orders were orders. She didn’t think, she acted, and now here she was rattling around in the dark confines of a cargo plane headed for home. The word didn’t mean much, only a destination, and she didn’t give it much thought. Everything that mattered was behind her and growing more distant by the second.

Her brain struggled to make sense of things. Getting out of Carmody’s sights was a bonus, but she couldn’t quite figure out the how and why of it. A guy like Carmody didn’t quit, and since he hadn’t gotten anything out of her, he couldn’t be done. Her blood chilled. If he was still looking for a scapegoat, that left Grif. No, not Grif. Grif had been unconscious—that was verified and unarguable. That left Rachel.

And she was leaving Rachel behind. Rachel and everything else that had been her life for over a year. Like stepping into a time machine and being instantly transported from one world to another, because that’s what it amounted to. The next time she woke up in her own bed, she wouldn’t be facing the possibility of death at every turn. She wouldn’t be trusting her life to a handful of people—friends—when she set out to do her job. She’d be alone again.

For an instant she wondered if another tour might be the answer. She knew plenty of Joes who re-upped almost as soon as they were stateside. And not just for the reasons the newspapers liked to highlight—the lack of jobs, the strained relationships, the PTSD. Back in the desert, you knew your worth. And when you faced death and won, you were worth plenty.

Heading back to the Iraqi desert or the mountains of Afghanistan wouldn’t get her what she really wanted. Rachel didn’t need her to fight for her. She recalled the way Rachel had looked that morning—comfortable, in control, self-assured. Rachel had already slipped back into her world, her real world. In the jungle, Rachel had been transformed—changed into a different person by the necessity to survive. But they weren’t in the jungle now, and the Rachel Max had known didn’t exist in the world she was headed toward.

*

Somehow, Rachel fell asleep on the bumpy ride back to Djibouti. When the Humvee pulled in beneath the canopy shading the hotel’s large front doors, the change in the engine sound alerted her, and she opened her eyes. Kennedy jumped out and opened her door before she could. Smith joined them and they walked through the lobby together in silence. Smith punched the elevator button and Rachel entered the car automatically. Strange, how everything around her had become monochrome, a world filled with grays. Maybe she was still asleep—sleepwalking, more like it. She leaned against the back wall of the elevator and watched the numbers on the elevator panel flash. She frowned as they sped upward. “I’m on six.”

The elevator was not stopping at any of the other floors. They rode straight to the top and the doors opened. “Where are we going?”

Kennedy stepped out, looked right and left, and said, “Right this way, Ms. Winslow.”

Rachel debated jumping back in the elevator and realized Smith had used a key. She hadn’t really taken note of it at the time. She wouldn’t be able to send the elevator down without it. Lovely.

Kennedy and Smith waited for her to join them. She walked between them down the wide carpeted hall to a door at the end. A Smith clone stood by the door, an earpiece curling behind his left ear. He murmured something into a wrist mic, nodded to Smith, and the door opened from the inside. Kennedy gestured her in.

Half expecting Carmody, Rachel steeled herself and entered a huge suite with French doors opening onto a balcony overlooking the city. She glanced around and her breath caught when she saw the man sitting on a love seat in the lounge area, a table for two laid out in front of him. “Dad?”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Stateside

Max had been back on US soil for ten days, back in New York City half that time, and back to work for close to twenty-four hours. She could have put off returning to the hospital for a few weeks, but why would she? What would she do with herself if she wasn’t working? Her studio apartment in the Village had a reasonable-sized galley kitchen, a bathroom with decent water pressure, and a small living room-sleeping area combined. Perfectly suited to her needs, but not a place where she wanted to spend a lot of time. She slept there, when she slept. When she returned there after a shift, she showered, reheated whatever takeout she’d had for the last meal, slept if she could or went for a run if she couldn’t, and headed back to work. Her real home was the emergency room. She was more at ease in those halls than any place she’d called home except the dirt streets of CLUville. The people were closer to her than any family except her fellow troops. Sure, she wasn’t really close with any of the doctors and nurses and techs she saw every day, but she knew them and they knew her enough to say hello and pass the time in casual conversation. She had human contact. She had a community. She had something to take her mind off what she didn’t have. So she’d called to arrange to return to work even before she’d completed her separation procedures at Lejeune.

Now, at the end of her first shift, part of her at least felt she’d come home. The night had been busy. They usually were with trauma and the emergencies people put off until darkness fell and brought with it the pain and fear that light and activity held at bay. She’d been occupied, body and mind, for long stretches when she didn’t have time to think of anything else. On the off times, when she stopped for coffee or to wait for the next patient to be readied for her, she thought about those she’d left behind. Grif and Amina. And Rachel. And the dark crept into her soul too and brought pain with it.

Pushing aside thoughts of what she couldn’t change, she signed off on the facial laceration she’d just repaired and dropped the chart into the to-be-filed box. She checked the whiteboard for other surgically related cases and saw they’d brought in a gunshot wound while she’d been in the treatment room suturing. The wound must be superficial if they’d triaged the patient to the ER and not directly to trauma. She noted the room number and headed that way. The curtain was partially open and she glanced inside. A young Hispanic male, eighteen according to his chart, lay on the white sheets with his left arm elevated and a bloody bandage wrapped around his hand. No one else was in the room.

“Mr. Diaz,” she said, closing the curtain behind her as she entered. “I’m Dr. de Milles. What happened?”

“Nothing,” he said, eyeing her suspiciously.

She raised an eyebrow and gestured with a tilt of her head to his hand. “I’m guessing something did.”

“Bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“I know how that is,” she murmured. “Is that the only place you’re hit?”

“Yeah. Ain’t that enough?”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“You the one is gonna fix it?”

“Maybe. Depends on how bad it is.”

He blew out air. “Sure. Why not.”

She pulled gloves from a cardboard box on the counter next to the sink, put them on, and unwrapped his dressing. As she got closer to the ball of loose gauze in the palm of his hand, she said, “This’ll probably hurt a little bit. You ready?”

“Sure,” he said in an almost bored voice, but his body tensed beneath the sheets.

She gently eased the gauze away and inspected the wound. A neat round hole was centered in his palm, blood caked around the edges. His thumb and fingers were posed in a natural position as if he were holding a bottle. That was good. If the tendons or nerves had been severed, the fingers would be lax, as if the strings of a marionette had been cut, making the limbs hang flaccidly. She lifted his wrist and turned his hand over. The exit wound on top was considerably larger, almost twice as big as a quarter, and the edges ragged. With a clean gauze she teased away some of the clot. White tendons like thin rubber bands were visible in the depth of the wound.

“Can you straighten your fingers?”

“Hurts like a mother.” His fingers didn’t move.

“I’m not surprised. But if those tendons aren’t cut, we can clean it out down here and get you out of here. If you’ve got nerve or tendon damage, you need a trip to the OR. And then you’ll be here a while.”

“Fuck that,” he muttered and slowly straightened his fingers.

“Good. Can you close them? Just go slow.”

Once again, he slowly flexed his fingers toward his palm.

“That’s good enough.” She tested sensation in his fingertips and thought as she did about luck. His injury had all the markings of a defensive wound, as if he’d put his hand up to stop the bullet. And perhaps he had. But the bullet did not go through his hand and into his head or his chest or some other vital part of his body. It appeared to have passed through his hand without striking him anywhere else at all. Not only that, none of the critical structures in the incredibly complex anatomy of his hand had been damaged. The wound was no more dangerous than a deep laceration—painful, but neither life-threatening nor debilitating in the long term. He’d been lucky. She’d been sitting next to men who had suddenly fallen over dead from a bullet that skirted beneath their helmets and exploded their heads. She’d seen troops blown into a bloody mist with one misstep on a supposedly safe road that had been cleared by bomb dogs and sweepers. Just bad luck. She’d flown into fire, jumped into hot zones, been feet away from vehicles pulverized by IEDs and here she was, as if she’d never gone away. Unharmed, but changed nonetheless.