He stared at the purple-and-white envelope, but he couldn’t reach for it. He wasn’t ready to go back into that world. Tears rolled down Jamie’s cheeks. He couldn’t bear that, either. He turned and started to jog. Then he ran. Faster and faster until he couldn’t see the cabin or hear her calling his name.
The canyon was less than fifty feet across, but the bottom was nearly a half mile down. Zach crouched in the underbrush and listened to the gunfire. It was closer than it had been just an hour before. The enemy had found the trail. There wasn’t much time for any of them.
He functioned without thought, taking care of business, getting his men across the narrow footbridge. On one side of the bridge, the rope railing had been taken out by a shell blast. Two men were dead, a third injured. Their luck had run out. If they could just make it across, they would be safe.
He sent his second-in-command over next, then turned to scan the jungle behind him. Once everyone was on the other side, they would blow up the bridge. The enemy would be trapped with no way to get to them.
It wasn’t supposed to be a difficult assignment. He’d completed a dozen like it. So why was this one so hard? Why was he hesitating? What had he forgotten?
Jamie.
Jamie! He turned around and peered through the thick underbrush. Something was wrong. He could feel it.
“Zach?”
Her voice. She was alive. He glanced up and saw her on the other side of the canyon. His men were gone; she stood in their place, exactly as he remembered her. Hair in a braid, jeans, sweatshirt. In front of her was a small blond little girl, about the same age as the child they’d seen at the zoo. Chubby pink cheeks, bright blue eyes and a pretty smile. He found himself smiling back.
“Come on,” Jamie said, motioning him toward the bridge.
Zach couldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t cooperate. He couldn’t get control of his breathing. He couldn’t think.
The enemy moved closer. He had to destroy the bridge before they got across. Before they got Jamie. But he couldn’t force himself to act. Something held him in place.
Fear. He could feel its coldness against his skin. He could taste it.
“Daddy, hurry,” the little girl called. “Daddy, we need you.”
“I can’t. Run,” he shouted as loudly as he could. Yet the sound seemed to float away on the wind. He knew they hadn’t heard him.
“I’m not leaving without you,” Jamie said, her voice echoing in the canyon.
“Daddy, please!”
The men were upon him. Dozens and dozens, all dressed in camouflage, heavily armed. They streamed past him, not even noticing him. He reached for his gun, but he was unarmed. He didn’t even have a knife. He jumped in front of one of the warriors, and the man simply pushed him aside.
One by one they crossed the bridge and surrounded Jamie and her daughter.
He woke to the sound of a scream.
Zach sat up in bed. He was covered with sweat and panting.
Adrenaline raced through his body. He could feel the thundering of his heart. His legs twitched; his hands shook.
It was just a dream, he told himself. An ugly, vivid dream he wasn’t going to be able to forget for a long time. But it wasn’t real.
He stood up and walked to the window. He pushed up the glass and let the cold night air pour over his heated body. Dreams were a luxury he didn’t usually allow himself. Everyone dreamed; he knew he did, as well, but he didn’t allow himself to remember the dreams. This time he didn’t get a choice.
The images were imprinted on his brain. When he closed his eyes, he could see the jungle scene, the trust in Jamie’s eyes, the horror on the child’s face when the armed men had approached. Instead of reliving it over and over, he stared up at the star-filled night and tried to think of other things.
Daddy, help!
She’d called to him, and he hadn’t been able to respond. He’d let her down. He’d left her to die.
White-hot pain ripped through his already tattered soul. How could he have abandoned a child?
Daddy!
His child. His.
He clenched his hands into fists and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. He had nothing left with which to fight. He’d been drained of all strength. With a giant shudder, he released the last of the tension from his body and prepared for the onslaught.
His eyes drifted closed. He tried not to think, not to remember, but he didn’t get a choice. The memories came at him, weaving and ducking like ghosts in a low-budget horror film.
Faces of the dead. Men he’d killed, those who had died under his command.
John Alder, age twenty-seven. Killed in a climbing accident near the southern border of the former Soviet Union.
David Weeks, age thirty. Murdered by terrorists in a rebel camp in Central America.
Ronnie Maple, Jeff Harrison, Graham Everett, Albatross. There were dozens of other names, and many more he’d never known. Enemies he’d killed himself, civilians, locals and those with the simple misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The ghosts of the dead surrounded him, mocked him, hurled their insults, and he knew they spoke the truth. His fault. His fault. The smell of death was everywhere. He could feel it on his skin and seeping through his body.
Forgotten moments roared back to life. Decisions he’d made. Times he’d been so sure he was right. How had he known? How had he been so arrogant?
The past was everywhere. He staggered under its weight, moved across the room and fell into the chair. This was what he’d feared. This was why he’d kept a tight cover on his emotions. Feeling anything, even affection or regret, unleashed them all. Sorrow, sadness, anger, rage, fear, horror. They forced him to the brink of madness and threatened to push him off the edge.
Daddy, help!
The voice of a child called him back to sanity. He turned toward the sound, but the blackness of the room smothered him. A child. New life.
A possibility? A second chance? A reward for doing the one right thing in his life-for loving Jamie?
But he’d had to let Jamie go. It had been the right thing. A noble act. A-
He pushed to his feet with such force that the chair shot out behind him and slammed into the wall. Zach stalked to the window and stared out at the heavens.
“No!” he yelled, then hung his head in shame.
She’d been right. He was a coward.
He’d let her go because he was afraid. He’d let her go because he’d feared he would never be enough. That once she knew the truth about him, once she glimpsed the horror and darkness he’d trapped inside, she would be repulsed by him.
He’d let her go because the dream of living a normal life, of loving one person, of trusting in the future, was beyond him. He didn’t have that much left in him. He’d let her go because it was easier to deal with her anger and pain than with her contempt.
He’d let her go because, as the dream had shown so vividly, he would only end up destroying her.
You can be the warrior or you can be the man. You have to choose.
He’d chosen to let her go. Because he was afraid to be a man. He knew how to be a warrior. That part was easy. She’d been right. It didn’t take much courage to risk it all when he had nothing important to lose.
Yet look how much she’d risked. She’d bared her heart, then begged him to accept her love. He’d trampled all over her feelings, yet she’d kept giving, kept offering. Kept loving.
If she knew the truth…
He pounded his fist against the window frame and acknowledged what he’d always suspected. Jamie knew the worst about him. She knew because those same demons lived inside her. She’d experienced the same life, she’d seen death, caused death, had made decisions and had to live with them. She wasn’t afraid of the past or of him. She wasn’t afraid to love. Did he really want to walk away from his last chance ever? Did he want her to go the rest of her life without knowing how much he loved her?