Dad lifted the smaller, left-side door. "She's a beauty, eh, Scott? I used both mahogany and cherry. Look at these inlays."
Mitchell shook his head and sighed. "Dad, I think we should talk about this. I mean, are you all right?"
"I feel great."
"You know what I mean. Jenn told me about all those new appointments. One of my men just lost his father."
It was Dad's turn to sigh. Then a thought took hold, and he grinned and wiggled his brows. "Let's just say I wouldn't trade that secret for all the tea in China."
Mitchell stiffened. "That's an interesting choice of words."
"They had a special on CNN last night about all those Chinese big shots who got whacked."
"Here we go again. You think I had something to do with that?"
He shrugged. "I'm just saying I can keep secrets, too, if I want."
"But if you're sick, we have a right to know."
"It ain't the big C word, if that's what you're thinking. C'mon, you're taking me out to lunch."
Mitchell frowned. "You're a stubborn old bastard."
"And this is news?" He threw his arm over Mitchell's shoulder and led him out of the workshop.
Major Harry Hogan was a former Special Forces operator from Boston, Massachusetts, who had been running the Liberator for over twenty years. The bar's name was inspired by the Special Forces motto: to liberate the oppressed, but by no small coincidence back in 1831 another Bostonian by the name of William Lloyd Garrison founded an abolitionist newspaper aptly titled the Liberator.
With clusters of plasma TVs suspended from the ceiling and sports and military memorabilia adorning the walls, the place was a requisite hangout for those who fought hard and played even harder. Interestingly enough, near the front doors stood two mannequins in full combat gear and armed with rubber rifles. They often startled newcomers.
Consequently, Mitchell watched with a grin as SEAL Chief Tanner stepped anxiously into the bar and raised his brows at the sentries who never got tired, hungry, or thirsty.
"Hey, over here," called Mitchell, rising from one of the benches in the waiting area.
"What's up, Captain?" said Tanner, offering his hand.
They shook firmly. "Thanks for coming."
"You sure I'll survive?" Tanner eyed all the army personnel clustered around the bar.
"Well, we've only had a handful of SEALs drop in over the years, but like I tell the young pups, we all belong to the same brotherhood of stars and stripes. We senior guys get it. Takes them a little longer to learn."
Tanner chuckled. "Roger that."
Mitchell tipped his head over to the circular bar constructed of oak and adorned with sandbags, like a massive machine gunner's nest. His Ghosts stood with beers, and as they drew closer, Mitchell recoiled over a night-marish site: Bo Jenkins stood there, shirtless, wearing a bra whose black straps dug deeply into his shoulders.
"All right, pipe down, he's here!" cried Mitchell, gaining their attention. "But before I make my little speech, Bo, I have to ask…"
Jenkins blushed. "Uh, sir, I've been trying to find something to enhance my full-figured beauty."
With that, the entire group burst out laughing, and money immediately changed hands. Jenkins had obviously lost a bet, and others had bet upon whether he would go through with the prank.
"All right, give it back," hollered Diaz. "And don't get the wrong idea! It's just a loaner."
"Makes you wish you hadn't saved us, huh?" Mitchell said in Tanner's ear.
At the same time, Smith shoved a tall glass of draft beer into the SEAL chief 's hand and another into Mitchell's.
"Okay, quiet down, you dirty apes. I'm making a toast." Mitchell raised his glass, and the group suddenly fell silent.
In fact, a hush fell over the rest of the bar, and one of the waitresses cut off the sound from the TVs.
Mitchell went on, "So we all know the army-navy rivalry will live on in infamy, especially on the gridiron. But that doesn't mean we can't give credit where credit is due. Tonight we raise our glasses to all those SEALs who serve and all who gave their lives to protect our great country, especially SEAL Chief Phillips. And we're honored to say thank you to SEAL Chief Tanner, who's with us today." Mitchell beamed at the man. "Welcome to our bar. It's your party, Chief. Do you have any orders?"
"As a matter of fact I do, Captain," said Tanner, lifting his voice and his glass. "Bottoms up!"
The morning after Tanner's party, Mitchell drove to Rutang's place to find out why his friend hadn't come.
Mandy answered the door, and her face looked more drawn than usual, her long black hair wired with new strands of gray. She gave Mitchell a hug, then said, "He's in the office."
Before Mitchell could move, Mandy grabbed his wrist. "Scott, this is it. You know?" She was shaking, and the tears came quickly. "He was good for a while, but now nothing's working. I have two kids. It's just too hard. I don't know if there's anything we can do. Like I told you, when you guys went to the Philippines, he never came home."
"I know."
She released him, then shuffled off into the kitchen, wiping her eyes.
Mitchell started tentatively into their home office and found Rutang in his chair, checkbook out and paying some bills. "Yo, Tang. What's going on?"
"Hey, Scott." Rutang barely looked up.
"Why didn't you come last night?"
"I don't know."
"You've been sick a lot."
"Yeah."
"I'm worried about you, buddy."
Rutang shrugged. "I'm up and down, Scott. I can't do the medication anymore. Mandy's already talking to a lawyer."
"You can't let her go."
"I don't blame her. I'm just another screwed-up soldier, a freaking medic who can't save himself."
"So you've just given up? Going to sit here and feel sorry for yourself?"
"Scott, what do you want? You pissed off because I didn't come to your little party? Hey, man, it ain't all missions and glory for some people, you know? I don't sleep. I still don't sleep! What part of that do you not understand!"
Mandy appeared in the doorway. "If you're going to start screaming, then get out. Just get out." She stormed off.
"Get up," Mitchell ordered. "We're going outside."
Rutang threw up his hands and rose.
Mitchell led him out onto the driveway, and they leaned against Mitchell's Hummer, basking in the warm morning light. "It's going to be a great day."
Rutang laughed bitterly.
"What happened to us wasn't our fault, right?" asked Mitchell.
"Right."
"But you still feel guilty about it."
"How do you not? I can't tell you how many people have looked me straight in the eye and said, 'Get over it. Get a life, you loser.' But they weren't there. They have no idea. No idea!"
Mitchell nodded. "I used to feel like they died for nothing. I used to think that there wasn't any justice in it, and the guy I wanted to blame just walked away."
"Captain Fang," Rutang said through gritted teeth.
Mitchell crossed around to the passenger's side, opened the door, and lifted the sword cane from the seat. He brought it back to Rutang, whose eyes widened in shock and perhaps even a tinge of horror.
Rutang swallowed. "Where did you get that?"
Mitchell unsheathed the sword, tugged up his shirt, and showed Rutang his scar alongside the blade tip to confirm the match. "It's his, see?"
"Scott…" Rutang's lip quivered.
Mitchell returned the sword to its sheath and handed it to his friend. "I want you to hang on to this. It's ours now. That bastard can't hurt us anymore. But listen to me. Revenge doesn't help. It's having the courage to get past what happened, man. That's what we're doing now. We're making a pact. We're blood brothers. We all need you. All right?"