The battle raged around Merc as he slipped across enemy lines and back into the safety of the Jordanian border, Sampson hot on his heels. Even in the chaos, it was clear the Russian ranks had swelled since his infiltration; a massive contingent of Chinese forces had joined them, heavily tipping the scales. Relief washed over him as he spotted US, Middle Eastern, and other allied troops holding the front line, fighting with a fierce vengeance—the only thing keeping the enemy at bay. Ducking into cover, Merc pulled his standard fatigues over the jumpsuit gifted to him by the Essenes. Dyed pitch-black as a fail-safe in case his cloaking device failed, the suit allowed him to melt seamlessly into the shadow of the new moon while he monitored the enemy's movements.
While scouting enemy territory, he tallied the munitions stockpiled from Damascus southward through rival holdings before slipping back across the front lines. His ground-level view allowed him to spot assets the enemy briefly exposed while pitching their camouflage nets to ready their rockets for deployment.
Blinding light flashed from friendly bombs landing far too close for comfort. Pushing through the firefight, Merc and his hound, Sampson, pressed toward home. Merc's ears throbbed from the relentless percussion—a dull roar that made him worry for his partner's sensitive hearing. But Sampson remained unshakable. The dog took the lead, the hair on his neck bristling whenever he detected Russian troops ahead. Though he was less familiar with the scent of the Chinese patrols they encountered, Sampson still navigated the terrain flawlessly, sneaking them safely through the very heart of the enemy lines.
Tracking east from the Israeli border, Merc traveled parallel to the frontier, pushing nearly ten miles into Jordanian territory in search of the enemy. His instinct that intruders had breached friendly lines proved correct three days into his trek when he stumbled upon an active firefight. A joint force of American and Jordanian soldiers was locked in combat with a band of Russian mercenaries. Though the sides seemed evenly matched, the allies quickly gained the upper hand. The isolated pocket of Russian fighters lacked backing from their Chinese allies; they were simply a rogue faction of hot-headed youth intent on wreaking havoc. Once the dust settled, Merc approached the allied commander to trade intelligence before moving on toward the Jordanian headquarters. During the exchange, he learned that the battle-weary men and women were on their way back from the front lines, urgently needing to be replaced by a fresh company at the front line.
"I heard an American and his dog were scouting enemy assets," the Jordanian leader said, clearly surprised by Sampson's size. The real canine was a far cry from the monstrous hound described in the rumors. He watched, amused, as the "dangerous asset" happily trotted over to greet his platoon. Jumping around happily as everyone stopped to pet him.
"It looks as if the enemy has massed forces just across our borders. China is stepping up to support the Russian war effort," Merc yelled, unfolding a map marked with enemy vantage points. "The Scud missiles will rain down soon. They've prepped launchers as close to the boundary as they dare." He quickly briefed the commander on the American general's plan from his stint at the underground base. Returning to the underground base was the right move—that was where he was needed most to coordinate patrols. But with Jordanian reinforcements dwindling, he had no idea how they would maintain reconnaissance. It would take every able body just to hold the front line.
"Are you heading back to your base?" the Jordanian official asked, snapping a photo of Merc's notes on the map.
"What?" Merc shouted. He locked his eyes on the officer's moving lips, trying to piece the words together. Between the ringing in his ears and the man's thick Jordanian accent, the gruff voice was entirely lost to him. Merc kept his own voice raised, unable to modulate it. "Pardon me if I'm yelling, but a bomb went off right next to me and my hearing is completely fucked. What did you say?"
"Take these soldiers with you!" the Jordanian commander shouted, increasing his volume as Merc strained to hear him. "They're straight off the front line. We ordered them to hunt down the infiltrators who breached our perimeter, but they're completely spent. I have to pull fresh reinforcements from headquarters while they recuperate."
"Sure," Merc nodded, he was still shouting. "Sampson and I are heading to the base hub, we can take them with us." Sampson trotted up when he heard his name and finally began to settle down from the excitement of being among friendlier people. The praise and friendliness of the troops around Sampson was the best medicine for him. There weren't many times that Merc would use his weapons that fired bullets, so it concerned Sampson when he did, and the stress was apparent when he would tense up each time Merc fired off live rounds. Watching him play and yip at the soldiers gave Merc the solace that everything was well with his four-footed companion."
Merc counted out the soldiers for the squad, finalizing the roster one by one. There would be no rations until they reached the Jordanian consulate, and advised the team that they would maintain a brutal pace on foot. Drone swarms blanketed the front lines, obliterating anything that moved—meaning flying vehicles, cloaked or not, were out of the question. They would have to hump it for nine miles. The consulate was their only hope for food and transport. Slipping into the shadows, the troop began their march, with Merc routing their path along the scarce water supplies to preserve their dwindling canteens.
After baking all day in the shadeless heat—forced to march much farther than they were prepared for—the exhausted troop finally stumbled upon a small spring bubbling up from the sand. Merc quickly took charge, demonstrating how to rig a crude filtration system from their standard survival packs. From a side pocket, he pulled a clear bag of chemical testing pills, setting them aside before unzipping the bottom of his pack to reveal a thick, pipe-like tube. He screwed a white disc onto the base of the hollow cylinder. Next, he scooped a jug of water from the spring, dropped in a large white pellet, and swirled it until the liquid dissolved the pill into a milky, opaque white. As he poured the unappetizing mixture into the filter, Merc caught the expressions of absolute disgust around him and smiled.
"Don't worry," Merc chuckled. "The filter usually clears it right up. If it doesn't, we're in trouble—we can't strip out these pollutants." Everyone watched in tense silence as the water trickled into his canteen. A collective sigh of relief echoed through the group when it streamed, crystal clear, into Merc's canteen.
"Those look like the pellets I put in pools when I cleaned them at home," one of the men said when he handed Merc his canteen to fill.
"This is more than just chlorine," Merc said as he put the man's canteen under the pipe and repeated the process with the next jug of water. "It has the ability to process identifiers for poisons."
"Kinda like cat litter that tells you when your cat is sick," said a woman standing in line after the first male, holding her canteen to be the next one filled.
"Kinda," Merc smiled at the analogy. He dipped the jug back into the spring, filling canteen after canteen as the travelers lined up to quench their thirst. No one knew when they would find water again. Thankfully, their trek was nearly over; he would feel much safer once they made it to the Jordanian base.
The men and women traveling with Merc had reached the absolute end of their endurance by the time they reached the joint Israeli and Jordanian checkpoint. Exhausted and hollow-eyed, the weary travelers collapsed to the ground. All except Merc, who remained standing with Sampson at his side to state their needs to the lead officer. While the mobile patrol lacked the immediate supplies to treat them, they quickly loaded the group into their transports. Abandoning the checkpoint, the Jordanians joined the convoy and flew the exhausted group toward safety. Their destination was the Jordanian consulate—which doubled as a hospital—where the group would finally find food, medical aid, and a chance to rest before their transport to the hub base. Meanwhile, the escorting soldiers would be ordered to report back to their commanding officers for debriefing and fresh directives.
"So," one of the medics said to Merc, helping unload the truck of exhausted soldiers and empty containers. "I've informed the staff that your people need food, medical evaluations, and transport to the underground base. Head over to triage assessment and have your team checked out. They'll be fed after that. The officers on duty are waiting to speak with you. They've already gathered food and supplies to accompany you to the base."
"Praise Allah, Michael," a familiar voice from behind Merc drew his attention. He recognized the accent immediately when he spoke again. "You are a superhero now. Yes? You and your hairy sidekick."
"Hey, Mohammed." Merc couldn't help but smile. Before the war tore everything apart, this was the man who had listened to him vent, guiding him through the agonizing choice to walk away from the US military. Nobody knew Merc better than Mohammed. They leaned into a tight, half-body hug, patting each other's backs with a familiar rhythm, then stepped back to look each other over.
"You look good," Merc said.
"You are not the giant among men that rumors have depicted you," Mohammed said as he laughed. "And your dog, the one I saw...he is much smaller than the rumors I've heard."
"I'm sure you'll set the record straight," Merc said with a smile. Mohammed was the king of Jordan's favorite son and a beloved prince among the people. He was a man of sound mind and a generous heart, who never felt his royal status lifted him above anyone he met.
"Come," Mohammed invited, "I want you to meet someone...and who am I to tarnish such a record? You deserve to be a hero."
"I am not above the heroism in the rumors, if they were more realistic," Merc commented, following his friend.
"There is no realism left when it comes to heroes, my friend," the prince said, his voice flat. "They are a necessary link to sanity in what this world has become." He guided Merc down the corridor to a quiet waiting room in the hospital's receiving wing. A young Jordanian woman rose from her chair, her smile instantly brightening the sterile room as they approached.
"This is Rafif," Mohammed introduced the two. "She has the ability to please a man in ways you cannot imagine."
"Uh," Merc said apprehensively. "I'm not sure this is the right time for this. I mean it worked for me when I was going through my ordeal with the military, but now, I'm not sure this is a good idea. Not in the middle of getting people to the underground base. I have to stay sharp."
"That is exactly what I wish to discuss with you. Take her with you," Mohammed said. "You two can sort out what you need later."
"This isn't about trading her charms for her safety?" Merc asked when he thought about it. "If you want me to take her to the base for safety, just say so."
"Please," his friend smiled shamelessly when he stopped teasing Merc. "I know you as a man of honor, but I was willing to share this most important woman to me, should you keep her safe."
"I'm not going to share your women," Merc sighed, a smile crossing his face. "I am fully capable of getting my own women."
"Then you are taking her with you?"
"Of course," answered Merc. "All you have to do is ask. I will make sure she is protected until you come to get her."
"Thank you," Mohammed said with a hint of relief. "She is the one with whom I wish to replace my wife."
"Come again," Merc said with a jolt, he did not understand.
"My wife was killed in Turkey, shortly after I heard word that you were there. We went to find you." Mohammed explained. "She was killed before we could make it out when the invasion of war began there."
"I'm sorry," Merc responded with heartfelt sympathy. He liked the princess, she was braver than most women in the Middle East, or any woman he knew in the United States for that matter.
"It has saddened me," his friend's face clouded in recollection of that day. "I will end this year of mourning for her and then I shall marry Rafif."
"Congratulations?" Merc said, confused about whether to sound cheerful or not. "We're leaving after everyone eats. Are you ready to load her up with us?"
"We will join you shortly," Mohammed said, grinning at his beautiful mate. "We must say good-bye."
"I'll leave you to your privacy then," Merc said as he turned to leave the room and rejoin the troop in the examining rooms. Walking down the hall, he saw another of his friends and stopped for a little small talk.
"Where's the giant dog that I heard kept company with you?" Ahmed asked, looking around.
"He's with the people I'm taking to the underground base," Merc answered. "He's not really very big. He's just a wired-hair terrier. About that big." He held his hands apart to show the length of his companion.
"The way I hear it," Ahmed said with a laugh. "You have found the hellhound, Fenrir, from the ancient tales."
"Naw, he's just a dog. He does have the uncanny ability to sniff out Russians. That's his only skill; that and loving people to death."
"At least he is a good protector?" Ahmed asked.
"Very protective," Merc affirmed. "Let someone point something at me and that damn dog scares the shit out of me, even. Here he is now." Merc said, watching Sampson trot down the hallway toward them, his nails clicking against the floor.
"He is a small one, isn't he?" His friend said as he squatted to greet the canine.
"His name is Sampson." Merc introduced the dog to his friend. "Sampson, this is Ahmed, a friend of mine." Sampson trotted up to sniff the man and then returned to Merc's side to sit. His furry companion was revered by many of the allied personnel; he may not have been the brute that rumor had built him up to be, but that did not diminish how everyone took to him immediately, treating the pooch like any other war hero.
Before the two men could trade any old stories, a medic came down the hall looking for Merc. Spotting the dog, the medic approached to let them know that chow was ready and the transport convoy was being prepped for the base. Ahmed and Merc said their good-byes and headed in opposite directions down the corridor.
After escorting Merc and Sampson back to the examination area, the medic went his own way. Sampson happily trotted over to a plate left on the floor for him. Merc thanked a nearby nurse and took the plate she held out for him. Smiling at his four-legged friend, he watched the dog eat as if he were still starving. Sampson had just eaten when they arrived—why else would he have ever left Merc's side in an unfamiliar place? Once the plates were clean, Merc placed them on the counter and walked to the door. Sampson, completely satisfied, shook himself and bounded out the moment Merc pulled the door open.
Walking into the makeshift dining area where his troop ate in silence while waiting for word that their transport was ready, Merc knew how grateful they would be for the luxury ahead—comfort far beyond anything they had experienced since the start of the war. It was exactly the shot in the arm they needed before returning to the front lines. Just as the group finished eating and cleared their dishes, Mohammed entered the room with Rafif. Greeting them both, he instructed Rafif to ride in his transport; she would stay with him until he could secure her a room at the base. Mohammed thanked him, placing a hand on Merc's shoulder. Merc returned the gesture, their bond of friendship strengthened by the promise to protect this precious cargo.
Once the transports were loaded with the soldiers and the supplies needed for the underground base, the convoy lifted into a hover, one by one each became invisible. The vehicles fell into line, hanging in the air like a strand of beads on the ground, each keeping their sites in line with the shadow of the one ahead. The first airtruck led the vehicle's shadow across the ground as each measured off, pushed into the scorching, arid wilderness. It would be a brutal, uncomfortable trip. They couldn't risk using air conditioning, which would instantly trigger the blimp radar used to detect thermal anomalies in the atmosphere.
Upon returning to base, Merc was met by the American general, immediately briefing him on the latest enemy hot zones where fighting with Russian, Chinese, and other opposing forces spilled onto friendly soil. There were prisoners to collect, and the general offered Merc a spot on the next convoy out. He agreed, tossing his gear from one vehicle into another. Nearby, Jimmy and Griff walked right past him, completely oblivious to his presence as he aided the beautiful Arabic woman from their airtruck on the far side of the transport line.
Merc, loaded down with the woman's belongings, led the dark skinned woman to the guard shack where he discussed the care for their special guest with a security guard. Dropping his burdens at the guard's feet, he gave him charge of the future princess and instructed the soldier to continue to assist Rafif in getting to a private room. After all, she was the bride to be for the Prince of Jordan.
The King and his son proved their worth on the front lines, fighting side by side. The Sheik felt profoundly blessed by Allah for his many sons, knowing their survival ensured the royal lineage even if he fell in battle. For those in the Middle East, this was a war that could not be ignored, igniting a fierce resolve that refused to be quieted.
General Sefira didn't realize Griff and his crew hadn't seen Merc yet. When Sefira briefed the Holy Trio on containing the enemy soldiers captured near the front lines, time was already running out. They needed to move the prisoners to the Jordan prison camp before the missile barrage began. Sefira had sent Merc out immediately, expecting the militia team to follow. Without a word, Griff bolted back into the parking garage—just in time to see the tail end of the convoy disappear up the ramp.
"What's up?" Jimmy asked when Griff returned to the group.
"We just missed Merc," he answered. Quickly, he directed his attention to the general. "Sorry, Sir, I needed to talk to him."
"As I was saying," General Sefira continued curtly, "it may be some time before Kisselberg's company reaches the area and transfers the prisoners to the camp. You'll need to join Merc as soon as possible." Jimmy's ears pricked with interest at the reference to his lover.
"You need us to guard the perimeter until the transport comes to take prisoners away?" Jimmy spoke up quickly when he realized he would be able to see his Avril again. "We're there for you." Jimmy's attitude was much too chipper for the general, but he needed their committed response immediately.
"Please," the commander responded poignantly. "We need to get a Jordan and Israeli military mobile unit to the eastern coast. These enemy infiltrations on our eastern lands must be stopped. I've sent Merc up to help the Jordans literally sniff out every bogey with that damn dog of his. We get the east covered and then we can keep them completely out."
"Unless they are coming in from the western coast too," Griff muttered, taking the file from the general. He glanced over the photos and rendezvous plans. He wouldn't be the least bit surprised if the enemy attacked from both sides. He knew the general felt it, too, even if he didn't say it aloud.
"Either way, I need your team to protect the perimeter until we get the prisoners out of there. The coordinance for your GPS is on the file cover. Get back here as soon as you can. My personnel have better things to do than babysit the Essenes while you're gone."
"We'll get on it immediately," Jimmy said, trying to look serious about the need to be of help and not giddy about getting a chance to see Avril sooner than he had originally thought. He hurried the other two back to their quarters to prepare for the trip.
"We need to get going," Jimmy muttered, shoving gear into his pack. Ammo secure, handguns holstered, rifles cleared. He glared at Lynn and Griff. They moved like molasses, every second of their meticulous firearm checks making his skin crawl. By the time they finished, Jimmy was already at the door. He threw it open, desperate to get to the aircar, while the other two trailed behind with a casual indifference that set his teeth on edge.
"If this didn't involve Avril," Griff said in a low, methodical tone to Lynn as they walked, "I would say that Jimmy is back to his old self. But somehow, I don't think his attitude has anything to do with work." Lynn smiled a large, knowing smile and nodded.
When they reached the garage, Jimmy was already situated in the aircar and honking the horn that was normally used for backing up on the ground.
"Let's go," he called out to his two slow-ass friends. He wanted to be there as soon as possible, just in case Avril's troop beat them there and he would barely get to see her. Starting up the engine and popping it into gear, he backed up and met them in the middle of the parking area. Pressing the buttons to open both passenger side doors, hoping to hurry them along.
"They aren't going anywhere," Lynn said automatically. They threw their gear into the back and climbed in. Jimmy slammed the accelerator to the floor, screeching into a sharp turn toward the underground exit. Lynn fumbled with her seatbelt, clicking the clasp into place just as they hit the incline. By the time they reached the top, the massive iron door had already swung open, and Jimmy launched the vehicle straight into the blinding sunlight.
The two vehicles of guards sitting invisible, watching the entrance, noticed as the jeep sped out, hit the metal guard that sealed the iron door, and sailed into the air, landing hard onto the ground. Both Lynn and Griff continued to hold onto their seats, their faces did not hide their concern over Jimmy's driving. They were grateful when he quickly stopped and opened the rotor blades and left the ground. The guards had sat without saying a word, watching some crazy driver speed past them and then take to the sky, causing them to wonder what was up, and why the aircar had not cloaked immediately. Instead, the invisible shield came on in mid flight, just before they were out of sight of the guards.
The trip took more than an hour. As they neared the destination, flying over company groups of friendly troops, Jimmy scanned the ground for Israeli soldiers. Instead, his eyes caught a few Australians—the red-flame patches on their uniforms stood out like targets. Sudden gunfire clipped a rotor blade and ricocheted off the canopy with a sharp crack. Jimmy didn't hesitate; he brought the vehicle down, knowing their cloaking device couldn't stop a stray bullet and he didn't want to be grounded by friendly fire. They hit the ground and moved close to large boulders to blend in with the shadows. Leaving the vehicle cloaked when they shut it down, all three scrambled out at once as the rotors folded inward, leaving nothing but a faint, distorted shadow on the dirt.
Their first priority was cover. No one had warned them about the pockets of combatants still peppering the area, the micro-battles fizzling out in jagged bursts of gunfire. Griff surveyed the ruins and pointed toward a massive pile of rubble just ahead. Crouching behind it, they checked their GPS route; they would move on foot, staying highly visible only when moving through allied lines. As they navigated the chaotic grid of international troops, scattered units traded vital intel on nearby hot spots. The Aussie soldiers Jimmy had spotted from the sky earlier provided the fresh coordinates needed to locate the prisoners. But just as the Holy Trio advanced into the fray, Merc appeared right in front of them.
"I figured they would have called you in," Merc said assuredly, bumping fists with his team. Sampson barked happily at his side as he jumped around in a circle. "We had to move the prisoners. I volunteered to take them to the rendezvous, but they felt it would be much more successful with a team."
"Jimmy!" a female voice called from a distance. Jimmy turned to see Avril sprinting toward him. He rushed to meet her, and they threw their arms around each other, speaking in rushed whispers. Griff, Lynn, and Merc started to approach when an enemy drone tore into view, peppering the ground with heavy fire. Puffs of dirt erupted around their feet as bullets chewed into the earth, scattering the group as they ran for cover.
They had strayed too close to enemy lines—what the hell were they doing so close to the war? Lynn fired at the drone. Spotting it meant more were likely nearby, a thought that raced through her mind as she dove behind a jagged cement foundation bristling with rusted rebar. Firing had been a mistake; it gave the mechanical nuisance a pinpoint target. Realizing the drone had singled her out, she bolted for another crumbling wall, but the attacker pursued, peppering her position with short bursts of ballistic fire. She squatted, returned fire, and slammed in a fresh magazine before sprinting toward the outskirts of the demolished village to break line of sight with the attacker. From behind the rubble he shared with Merc, Griff watched the drone chase Lynn into the scrub. He lunged toward Merc, dragging him along as he gave chase.
As Lynn ran for her life, bullets flew dangerously close. She dove into a pile of burned wood and trash, rolling onto her back with her weapon primed. When the drone buzzed over her hiding spot, she unleashed a barrage of gunfire, eventually striking a vital component and bringing the machine down.
Rolling to her feet, she realized she had lost sight of Griff and Merc. She headed toward a large patch of charred bushes for cover, deciding to backtrack to where she had last seen them. Running from bush to bush, she crouched low and occasionally straightened up to glimpse the battleground. Where were they? Friendly forces clashed with isolated pockets of the enemy off farther away. The relentless rain of bullets, combined with the distant thud of grenade launchers, created a deafening, high-pitched din. She couldn't call out; the noise would drown out her voice, and she knew better than to expose herself again.
Gradually, the tide turned in favor of the Jordanian, Israeli, and allied armies. Lynn watched as fresh Jordanian troops arrived to reinforce the line. Shortly after, a Jordanian drone commander pulled up in a landrunner—a specialized jeep equipped with sand tires and an extended truck bed. He whipped off the rear tarps, releasing a dozen autonomous drones into the sky to hunt down escaped prisoners and renegade enemy aircraft.
Griff and Merc worried about Lynn being out in the field alone. After syncing their watches for timed reconnaissance, they split up to search their designated areas. Merc found her first. Unseen, he smiled—it was the perfect opportunity to execute a plan he'd been cooking up for weeks. He slipped back through the brush to find Griff, leading him to a safe vantage point overlooking Lynn's position. The sheer relief on Griff's face when he saw she was safe only hardened Merc's resolve to shake up the emotional landscape between his two friends. He pulled a small packet from his vest, a custom mixture he'd kept on hand for exactly this occasion. Pinned against Griff's chest, he burst the seal, drenching the upper half of his friend's clothes in a thick, sticky crimson liquid.
"Are you fucking crazy?" Griff yelled out without thinking.
"Do exactly what I tell you," Merc said in a low voice.
"What?"
"Just do it," Merc huffed. "For once, would you just do something without thinking about it... please?"
Merc kicked the back of Griff's legs, sweeping him to the ground with a heavy thud. The impact knocked the wind straight out of Griff's lungs. He coughed, staring up through glassy eyes, his mind spinning as he fought to draw air.
Merc leaned over him, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Shut your eyes."
Griff obeyed. He swallowed a weak gasp, forcing his racing mind to quiet down. This better be worth it.
"Griff!" Merc shouted, knowing Lynn was well within earshot. He aimed his gun to the side, firing a deafening shot straight into the dirt. "Open your eyes, Griff!" he bellowed, pitching his voice to sound as raw and wretched as possible.
Griff's eyelids fluttered open.
"Keep them closed," Merc hissed under his breath.
Griff immediately shut them again, his face returning to a deathly mask.
Lynn sprinted onto the scene, throwing her rifle aside before dropping to her knees beside Griff. A massive, glistening red stain spread across his chest. He's hit. Panic flared, her mind locking onto a single, desperate prayer: Please don't be his heart. Clawing at his crimson-soaked clothes, she tore at the fabric to find the wound. She had to plug it, and fast.
"Griff," she screamed as the tears stung her eyes. Panicking when she couldn't find the wound by feel. It wasn't long before she could not see through the pools that formed. "God, Griff, speak to me. Please, please, Griff. You can have anything, half ownership of the business...just don't leave me here without you." Where she bent over him, her tears hit his cheek in large drops.
"I can't do this," Griff said as he sat up, his face inches from hers. He turned to Merc who stood leaning on his rifle, watching the entire scene, and satisfied with his idea's success. When Lynn realized what the two were up to, she angrily pushed Griff over and stood. Glaring at him, she then turned to Merc.
"I would have never taken you for a schemer." said Lynn, her voice cracked as she spoke. She stomped off to where a group of Jordan soldiers were moving the prisoners to a troop truck ground unit that pulled up. The sounds of gunfire had faded into the distance.
"See," Merc said as the two watched her march off.
"Why then would she tell you she loved YOU?"
"Ask her," Merc sighed and then gathered their packs. "I quit trying to figure out women a long time ago."
Lynn was the first to make it back to their quarters, the chaos of the field still echoing in her mind. When she had thought Griff was injured, something inside her had snapped, dragging her down into a dark, hollow panic. She clicked the door shut and leaned against it, but her legs couldn't hold her. She slid down the panel, collapsing into a heap on the floor as the tears finally came.
What would she do without him? She had always lied to herself, claiming that having just a small piece of him would be enough. It had to be. Griff was the gravity of her world—the sole reason she wanted to build this empire. Together, they were supposed to conquer everything. In the beginning, she had been fearless. Now, terror clawed at her, a paralyzing dread that she knew would ruin her on the battlefield. Without her focus, she wouldn't survive. He had never touched her, never kissed her, yet he had somehow become the very core of her soul. She couldn't switch the feelings off anymore. She had to face them, or let them destroy her.
Pulling herself up from the floor, she walked to the bathroom. It was time to wash her face and confront the facts.
She needed to sit down with Griff and ask him how insane it was for her to love him like this—with an intensity so fierce that the mere fear of losing him engulfed her feelings entirely.
These emotions were nothing like the ones she'd carried while sitting in that hospital room, watching her husband die. She had cried then, certainly, but the grief hadn't felt this sharp, this dangerous. With her husband, she had felt a heavy sadness mixed with a bitter, simmering anger. He had drank himself to death, abandoning her long before his heart finally stopped. She had followed the grief counselor's roadmap, checked off the boxes, and emerged from the process stronger.
But with Griff it was different. Griff was the rock that gave her a reason to fight, a reason to never back down. Yet that very strength made him her ultimate vulnerability. He was always there, and she never wanted to lose him.
Wasn't it Griff himself who told her that the only way to conquer a weakness was to face it head-on? He believed that transforming a flaw into a strength was the ultimate success.
For the moment, she had no idea how to make that happen, but it was worth the effort of figuring it out. How could she turn this paralyzing fear into strength? And how in the world was she going to start a conversation like this with Griff—the very man she had spent years turning away from?
It was time to just do it. She had to corner Griff, command his full attention, and force the truth into the open. Part of her hesitated, wondering if she should confide in Avril first, but she instantly killed the thought. This belonged to her and Griff alone. Leaning heavily against the sink, she locked eyes with her reflection before reaching up to yank the mirror's curtain shut. Staring at the blank fabric, a heavy realization settled over her. This truly was an Israeli environment—wrapped in war, surrounded by death. It felt like Shiva, where every mirror is covered to keep the living from focusing on vanity in a house of grief. The terrifying thought that she might accidentally be mourning Griff made her blood run cold. She violently ripped the fabric off the cabinet, rattling the contents within. There would be no house of mourning here. Suddenly, voices cut through her panic. She crept to the door, peering through a narrow crack just as Griff and Merc walked into the adjacent room. Slowly, she walked into the room with the men.
"Griff," Lynn said in a small voice, "can we talk?"
"I'll see you two at dinner," Merc said as he excused himself.
"I'm sorry," Griff began. "That was totally uncalled for. Please forgive me. I should have stopped that nonsense as soon as I realized what Merc was doing. I feel ashamed."
"It's not really that," she said, walking closer to him. She grabbed a nearby chair and sat down, pulling another chair close to hers. "This is something else...well, it developed from the idea that you were hurt."
"Listen, I promise to have a living will drawn up when we get back home."
"No, no," Lynn said patiently. "It's not that either. Please sit down—it will be easier for me to talk about this." Griff's face clouded with concern as he sat in the chair, his knees brushing hers. Her doubts pounded in her head. How was she going to start this conversation? She needed his support. Then, without another word, she kissed him. Her lips pressed slowly against his, but when she realized he wasn't kissing her back, she pulled away shyly. "What if we..." she started, her hands resting tenderly against his face.
"No, Lynn," Griff said as he pulled her hands down to block her from connecting with him again. "After all these years?" He slightly shook his head as his breath quickened. Something was going on and what was happening before him did not make any sense. He continued to speak, trying not to stammer.
"What makes you think that I don't think about these past years...years that you kept me at arm's length? What's different? Why now?" The rush of emotions made him feel too vulnerable. He needed to look at the whole situation from a distance. His analytical mind began to kick in and he was finally able to shield himself from the rush of emotion he did not want to deal with at that particular time. He had finally accepted that she would never let him in and here it was, some crazy fantasy coming in out of nowhere. Nowhere had to come from somewhere...this was all wrong. He knew Lynn, she did not jump into anything without overthinking everything - out loud, or shutting down completely if it were too emotionally difficult for her.
She had no filter, and her habit of saying exactly what she was thinking never annoyed him; it just made him wonder how her mind worked. In many ways, she was entirely predictable. So why had there been no precursor to this? Usually, a long, awkward silence signaled that she was shutting down to process a situation, pulling into a protective shell he could never seem to penetrate. But that silence hadn't made its debut today. This wasn't like her at all. Whatever was going on right now had no precedent, leaving him with no idea what she expected from him. And what was the electricity buzzing so intensely in his fingertips? He rubbed his hands together, trying to ward off the tingling sensation, and stood up.
"Griff," Lynn whispered, trying to keep her desperation at bay.
He looked at her, 'this was all wrong' was how he defined the entire scene to himself.
"I've got a meeting," Griff mumbled and headed for the door. He stopped before turning the knob. "Think about what you're saying, Lynn. We're not going to talk about this right now. But we will talk about this."
"Okay," Lynn choked out. She had waited too long. She would not get another chance—not with him, and not after all these years. Her thoughts fractured under the weight of a single, screaming command echoing through her head: Let it go. There was no reason to drag the carcass of her dying heart into the light. They would survive on what they already had: a friendship strong enough to withstand anything. Even this.