Dakota helped settle Ricco into the back seat of Montana's Jeep and took the seat next to him. "Exactly where are we going?"
"Someplace safe," Montana said.
"That's so comforting." Dakota buckled Ricco's seat belt. The boy opened his eyes, but was groggy and more than a little out of it. "I don't suppose you would care to be more specific?"
Montana turned to face him. "From time to time, it's necessary to keep a client out of sight for a day or two. Ito has a friend who helps me out. It's an unregistered address, a place where they can't find us. At least not right away."
"He'll be safe there?"
Montana and Ito exchanged glances. "Yeah, for a little while, but the kid's got to talk to me, Dakota. I can't help him if I don't know what the hell is going on. Right now, all I know for sure is some heavy-weight paramilitary group has been holding him against his will, and they want him back, or they want him dead. Neither of those options works for me." He waited for that to sink in before continuing. "When he wakes up, he'll tell me everything. I may not be gentle about getting the answers, and I need you to be okay with that."
Dakota knew his brother's gift for understatement, and a sudden image of when they were kids slammed into his head. Their mother was at work, which gave nine-year-old Dakota and ten-year-old Montana plenty of time to get into trouble.
Montana had convinced him that the gently sloping roof of their single level adobe house wasn't that far off the ground, and if he took his skateboard down at just the right angle it should be a cool ride. Dakota was doubtful, but didn't want to receive the look from his brother. Twenty minutes later he found himself climbing out his bedroom window and up the slope to the peak of the roof. It sure as hell looked plenty high to him.
When the fall broke his leg, Montana refused to accept any blame, saying it was all Dakota's fault for not landing right.
"What exactly is 'not gentle'? I won't let you hurt him. I can't."
In Montana's world, anything was possible and not gentle could range from a slap in the face to some serious blood-letting.
"Not my style. I won't touch him. He might not like what I'm asking him, but he's going to tell me what he knows. Do you understand?" Ito made a sharp turn, and Ricco moaned as his injured shoulder pressed against the door.
Montana eyed him, and then turned away from Dakota without waiting for an answer.
Dakota spent the rest of the hour-long car ride lost in his thoughts and wondering exactly what Montana meant.
He understood his brother better than anyone. At least, he used to. Montana had tried to run away from who he was for most of his life, trying to exorcise the demons of his past, only to find that the demons were an inescapable part of what made him who he was. Their father had never been a part of their lives and their mother had never seen fit to tell them about the man, even when Montana demanded the answers from her. Lilly Thomas was the one person who could stand up to Montana's anger.
Montana had reacted in typical fashion, for Montana. He cut their mother out of his life and searched for a father he never knew. What he found was that some truths are better left unknown, and some secrets and best never revealed.
Dakota had watched Montana suffer for a truth that never existed, and he'd watched him make peace with that reality. It had not been an easy time in either of their lives. But it was that unspoken bond between them that gave Dakota the courage to trust his brother now, when every fiber of his being told him this was wrong.
He turned his attention to his patient and couldn't help but wonder what twisted turn of fate had brought Michael Ricco into their lives. He looked so peaceful and innocent, with his head slumped on his chest and his eyes closed. His blond hair was cropped high and tight, and there was a dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose.
The innocence he conveyed in sleep was in stark contrast to the fear Dakota saw in his eyes last night in the ER. He looked like a farm boy. That's how Dakota thought of him. A farm boy in one hell of a lot trouble. He didn't think Ricco knew just how fortunate he was that Montana had decided to own him.
The Jeep turned onto a single-lane dirt road. Dakota had tried to keep track of where they were going, but the last few turns lost him completely. The rear view was nothing but a cloud of dust, and all he saw through the front windshield was empty desert. He was about to ask if they knew where they were going, when Ito drove the Jeep off a slight rise in the rock-strewn excuse for a road and a house came into view. It sat in a shallow ravine, hidden from sight by the natural rock formations that surrounded it.
Dakota could not imagine what would possess someone to build a house this far away from anything. The headlights revealed faded, peeling paint that clung stubbornly to the exterior and gave evidence that no one had lived there in a long time. Yucca and sagebrush had taken over the path that led to the front porch, which had a noticeable lean to one side. He had serious doubts about whether it was sturdy enough to withstand their weight. He groaned under his breath. "Great, the five-star accommodations."
Ito drove up to the front of the house and turned off the engine, but left the headlights on. With the sudden stop, Ricco opened his eyes and blinked. He wiped his good hand over his face and squinted as if the dome light hurt his eyes.
Montana turned. "Welcome home, Private Ricco." He got out and circled the Jeep to open Ricco's door.
Ricco looked at Montana and blinked like an owl in the sunlight.
Ito stood just behind Montana, while Dakota helped Ricco out. For one moment, just before Montana touched him, Ricco turned his head to look at Dakota. Ricco's face paled, his eyes widened. It was the same look Dakota had seen on his face as he hid behind a storage bin in the ER, clutching scissors as a weapon.
"Hey, Michael—" Dakota was about to tell Ricco that it was all right, that he was safe, but he never got the chance.
Ricco lunged for the gun holstered at Montana's shoulder and pulled the weapon free.
Dakota witnessed an amazing thing—Montana taken by surprise.
Ricco stood barefoot in the dirt on wobbly legs, with his hospital gown flapping in the gentle evening breeze. His gaze shifted from one face to another. His hands shook as he stepped back, training the weapon first on Montana, then Ito and finally settling it on the closest target—Dakota.
"You won't take me back!" His eyes were wide, unfocused, and blinking rapidly. He brought one hand up to wipe them.
That was all the distraction Montana needed. He threw himself at the boy.
Ricco grunted and the gun fell from his grip as Montana slammed into his injured shoulder. Montana wrapped one arm around his neck and drove him to the ground.
Ricco probably would have screamed in pain if the breath hadn't been knocked from his lungs when he hit the dirt.
Ito quickly drew his weapon and stood over them with it aimed at Ricco's head. He sidestepped and kicked Montana's gun out of Ricco's reach. "You good?"
Montana eased up when he saw Ricco's face pinched with pain and streaked with tears, but he growled, "Yeah, I'm good." He pushed Ricco off and stood up. "Where's my gun?"
Dakota had learned long ago to avoid his brother when he had that look on his face. When Montana got pissed, people usually ended up getting hurt.
Ito pointed under the Jeep.
Dakota knelt down next to Ricco. In the moonlight, he could see blood seeping through the thin hospital gown. "Shit." He pulled the gown's shoulder down and lifted the bandage. "son of a bitch." The stitches had ripped apart. He twisted around and glared at Montana. "Hey, so much for not touching him."
Montana was on his stomach in the dirt, stretching his arm under the Jeep to reach his gun. He grunted as he retrieved the weapon, and then pushed himself to his knees. "Next time I'll just let him shoot you."
Ito holstered his weapon and knelt next to Dakota. "It's the drugs, Doc. Kid woke up confused."
Dakota raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "Gee, you think?" He sat in the dirt next to Ricco, put his head in his hands, and quickly scrubbed his fingers through his hair in frustration. Keeping Ricco safe was one thing; he had no problem with that. But guns being pointed in his direction, isolated houses in the middle of the desert, and mysterious bad guys who, for reasons he couldn't comprehend, wanted him dead, was way more than he signed on for. "If this is what you guys do for a living, I would love to tag along on a fun night with you."
Montana ignored the sarcasm and knelt next to Ricco. He had yet to holster his weapon, and held it against one thigh.
"So, what are you going to do now? Shoot him?"
"Shut up." Montana leaned over and gently slapped Ricco's face. "Private Ricco."
Ricco opened his eyes. He appeared lost and confused as he stared back and forth at the three men. "Where am I?"
Montana's entire demeanor changed as his tone softened. "You're somewhere safe, Michael."
Maybe it was hearing his name again, but Ricco focused on Montana. "I'm sorry, Major. For a minute...I thought you were—"
Montana took Ricco by his good arm and helped him to his feet. "If I thought you meant it, you wouldn't be breathing right now."
Ricco swayed and fell into Montana. "I'm sorry," he said again, and then his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness. Montana caught him before he hit the ground and scooped him up. He carried the boy up the rickety porch steps and waited for Ito to unlock the door.
"You're kidding." Dakota snorted. "Someone actually bothered to lock the door?"
Montana sighed. "I don't miss you as much anymore."
Dakota wisely kept his thoughts to himself as he followed Montana inside. He was expecting dust and spider webs, but when Ito flicked on the lights, he stood speechless in the doorway. The building's interior was completely at odds with the dilapidated exterior. Red oak floors and cedar wall planking gave the room a warm, inviting feeling. The furniture was plush and comfortable looking. Navajo throw rugs were scattered about, and he recognized Montana's original artwork on the walls. The kitchen, seen beyond the open room, was fitted with modern brushed nickel appliances. Montana's touch was everywhere he looked.
Dakota turned in a small circle taking everything in. He found his voice at last and followed Montana into the room. "Damn."
Montana laid Ricco on the sofa and covered him with a neatly folded blanket from the end of the couch. "Just because we have to hide away from the rest of the world, doesn't mean we should be inconvenienced."
"Apparently." Dakota shook off his amazement and went to Ricco's side. He sighed as he peeled back the bloody hospital gown. "For not touching him, you sure did one hell of a job." He removed the blood-soaked dressing, and then felt Ricco's sweaty face with the back of his hand. "All his sutures have split open, and he feels like he's running a fever, too."
"You're a doctor. Fix him."
Ito handed Dakota the bag of supplies, but his attention was on Montana as he started a walk-through of the house. Then he focused back on Dakota. "What do you need, Doc?"
"Some iodine, a pack of 4x4s, and 5.0 silk with a curved needle."
Ito surprised Dakota by handing him exactly what he asked for. In response to Dakota's obvious surprise, he said, "I was a medic in the Army."
"Well, that's convenient. Then you can give me a hand. Did Ivey pack any fluids?"
Ito pulled out a liter bag of normal saline.
"Great. Hook him up and run it in wide open. You can use that floor lamp as an IV pole. Meanwhile, I'm going to try and put him back together again. We got any Lidocaine?"
"That we do."
They worked in silence for the next few minutes. Dakota injected the numbing agent, while Ito primed the bag of saline and connected it to the locked line in Ricco's arm. Dakota cleaned the wound in Ricco's shoulder. It looked a hell of a lot better than it should have, this soon after the injury. There was very little bruising, that alone was enough to make him raise his eyebrows. The wound itself, while still needing sutured, was days ahead in healing than in should be.
Dakota filed Ricco's amazing healing abilities under one more odd thing about the kid. As he pulled the first stitch through, he realized his brother had yet to return. "What's Montana doing, Ito?"
Ito adjusted the flow of fluid from the IV. "Not to worry, Doc. He's just securing the house."
Ricco occasionally moaned and moved restlessly as they worked on him, but he remained unconscious the whole time. When he'd finished with the stitches and had fresh dressings in place, Dakota stripped off the soiled hospital gown and left Ricco naked under the soft blanket. "I don't suppose you have any clothes here that would fit him?"
"Not a problem, my good doctor. I'm sure we have something here that would suit the private's tastes." Ito sank into the over-stuffed chair opposite the couch and stretched his legs out.
Dakota sat on the floor with his back against the couch. He crooked his arms around his knees and studied Ito. "So, where do you fit into all this?"
Ito eyed him for a moment, and seemed to be weighing his response. "I fit...wherever Montana wants me to fit."
Dakota gave an understanding nod. "You were part of his team, one of his Rangers, weren't you?"
Ito returned the nod, but offered no more explanation. He laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.
Dakota knew better than to push. He had learned long ago that the brotherhood of Rangers was a sacred one—no outsiders allowed. Having exhausted that avenue of questioning, he said, "Tell me something." He waited for Ito's attention before continuing. "Back at the hospital, how did you know that guy wasn't a doctor?"
Ito grinned. "The shoes."
"His shoes?"
"Doctors spend a lot of time on their feet. Most of them wear sneakers." He pointed at Dakota's Nikes. "The ones that don't are clinic doctors. They wear fancy dress shoes. You might see those in a hospital every once in a while, but I never saw a civilian doctor wearing combat boots."
Dakota raised his eyebrows. "Damn." He couldn't have told Ito what color the guy's hair was, let alone what kind of shoes he had been wearing. He took a moment to consider Ito. "Mind if I ask you a personal question?"
Ito shrugged and made a noncommittal sound that Dakota took as an affirmative.
"What kind of a name is Ito, anyway? You don't exactly look Japanese."
Ito laughed. "No, but my mama did. I take after my father." He glanced over Dakota's shoulder. "Kid gonna be okay?"
Dakota yawned and stretched his feet out in front of him. "Depends on what you mean by okay, but yeah, physically he'll be fine. In fact, I'm amazed he's doing as well as he is. Did you notice how little bruising there was around the wound? I mean, look at it. He should be black, purple, and all kinds of colors. I get more of a bruise walking into a door. By now his shoulder should be swollen and just plain ugly. This kid looks like he's three weeks post-injury instead of twenty-four hours."
Ito gave a small nod. "He's a strange one." He had abandoned the ever-present sunglasses, and without them, his eyes were like huge pools of liquid chocolate. They were the only soft thing about the man, and they gave him the appearance of a huge teddy bear.
Dakota thought he understood why Ito wore the glasses.
"Let me ask you a question, Doc, since we're getting all chummy."
"Sure."
"All the time I have spent with Montana, there is one question I've never asked him. Why Montana, and why Dakota? Your mama have some special affinity to those fine States?"
Dakota chuckled quietly. It wasn't the first time he'd been asked the question. "Our mother was, among other things, a unique individual. The short version is, we were named for the states she conceived us in."
Ito's laughter was a small rumble in the quiet. "Uh-huh. And the long version?"
"The long version—" Dakota stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. "—would take considerably more time, and would require Montana's permission in the telling."
Ito nodded in understanding as Montana walked back into the room.
"All clear," he told Ito, and then turned to Dakota. "Is the kid out?"
"Just sleeping. He's wiped."
"Then I can wake him?"
Dakota creased his brow at him. "Well, yeah, you could, but why would you want to?"
"He has answers. I have questions."
Dakota sighed. Montana had warned him in the car. He put a hand on Ricco's uninjured arm, and gently shook him. "Michael?" When there was no response, he repeated the name a little louder. "Michael?"
Ricco's eyes fluttered open.
Montana pulled a chair from the kitchen and came to the side of the couch to be on eye level with him. "We need to talk, Private Ricco."
Ricco blinked once more, and Dakota watched as his eyes came into focus. He tried to pull himself up to a sitting position, but couldn't quite make it. Montana put an arm under his shoulder and helped him up. Ricco nodded his thanks before wiping sweat from his upper lip with the back of one hand.
"You with me, Ricco?"
Another blink and a nod. "Yes sir."
"Good, because we are running out of time here, Private. Someone tried to kill you a little over two hours ago in your hospital room. Are you aware of that?"
Ricco swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. "No, sir."
"Someone, pretending to be a doctor, walked into your hospital room and tried to finish what they started in the desert. This time it wasn't a deputy or two good Samaritans who almost got caught in the crossfire, it was my brother. The same guy who saved your life, by the way."
Ricco closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the couch as if what he was hearing was too much for him.
Montana gave him no sympathy. "You will look at me when I speak to you, Private Ricco."
Ricco's eyes snapped open, and he licked dry lips. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir"
"Then you start talking, boy and don't stop until I have some answers. The son of a bitch who tried to off you killed himself before I could get jack from him. I still have no clue as to who wants you dead or why. That leaves just you Private, as my only source of information. You are the key to all of this, Ricco, and I am not a happy man about that. I am supposed to be on vacation. Instead I am in the middle of the freaking desert with nothing remotely female around, and I am blaming this all on you, Private."
Montana leaned forward, putting his face in Ricco's. "Who the hell are you?"
Ricco flinched at Montana's tone. "Ricco, Michael J., Private, U.S Marines." An automatic response. His voice rose loudly in direct proportion to his nervousness.
"Bullshit. Michael Ricco died almost ninety years ago, so stop screwing with me and start talking."
Ricco automatically reached for the dog tags that were no longer around his neck.
Before he could panic, Dakota withdrew the tags from his back pocket and gave them to him. Ricco grabbed the tags, his fingers wrapping around them, his thumb absently rubbing the raised characters.
Montana gave him no time to think. "Who are you running from Private? Who wants you dead so badly they are willing to kill other people, even themselves, to get to you?"
Ricco's eyes focused somewhere far away. "I can't say exactly, sir. They're mostly military, but no specific branch. I've seen all types of insignia."
"Why?" Montana said. "Why were you running?"
"I wanted to go home."
"So you're AWOL."
That got a reaction, but not the one Dakota expected.
"No!" Ricco turned angry eyes to Montana. "Hell, no!" It was the first time he had failed to address Montana as "sir." He gripped the dog tags until his knuckles whitened. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but filled with the pain of things Dakota thought he would just as soon forget. "I just wanted to go home. All I ever wanted was to go home."
The words didn't seem to be addressed to anyone in particular, rather just a thought that had found voice. He seemed to catch himself, and his face flushed as he hung his head. "Sorry, sir. I didn't mean no disrespect." His sigh was filled with sadness, or maybe shame. "I'm no coward, sir, but if I tell you the truth, you aren't going to believe me."
Montana leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "Try me."
Ricco cast a furtive glance towards Dakota. "I don't know where to start."
Dakota gave him an encouraging smile. "The beginning usually works for me." He glanced at Montana for a go-ahead. "So, where is home, Michael?" He hoped to get Ricco more relaxed and away from the hard stuff.
Ricco's face softened and a small smile formed on his lips. "Corbin County, Virginia, sir."
Dakota nodded in satisfaction. "I thought I heard a southern accent."
The smile grew. "Yes, sir. My daddy had a dairy farm and grew some taters and corn. One hundred and ten acres of the prettiest farm land you'd ever hope to see." His blue eyes sparkled with a faraway look. "My brother Mattie, and my little sister Sarah, they used to help bring the cows in at night."
"Dakota..." Montana's voice betrayed his impatience.
Dakota held up a hand, asking for a little indulgence. "It must have been hard for you to leave your family and your farm."
Ricco shook his head. "No, sir. I wanted to serve my country."
"How old were you when you joined the Marines?"
"Eighteen. I would've joined sooner, but daddy wouldn't sign the papers." The smile grew warmer. "Mamma wouldn't let him." Then, like a switch had been flipped, the smile and all the warmth it had brought to his face vanished.
He turned back to Montana. "I remember it was July, sir. We were in France, outside of Calais, but I wasn't even in battle." He shook his head. "That's the one thing I can't get over. We were on leave when it happened."
That got Montana's attention, and he sat up straight. "What happened, Private?"
Ricco's face screwed up in concentration as he tried to recall. "It was the girl, sir. It had to be."
"What girl? What are you talking about?"
"It's all pretty hazy, sir, but there was this girl. My buddies kept kidding me cause I wouldn't...well...you know... I have a girl back home, Emma. But this girl, she wouldn't take no for an answer, so I said I would give her one dance." Ricco shrugged. "We went for a walk and she gave me something to drink. The next thing I remember is the General."
"The General?"
"Yeah..." Michael's face clouded over. "The General. I won't never forget—"
Montana held a hand out to stop him. "Hold it. Back up for a minute." He gestured to the dog tags Ricco still clutched. "How long ago are we talking about here, Private? You sure as hell don't look like you're a hundred and sixteen years old."
"That surprised me a bit too, sir." He ran his good hand through his short hair. "The last date I remember clearly is July 10th, 1917. I had just turned nineteen that spring." Ricco looked at Montana as if daring him—maybe begging him—to tell him he was mistaken. "I knew they had me a long time, sir. I just didn't know how long."
"But, Jesus... Since 1917?" Montana slid to the edge of his chair and rested his arms on his knees, his eyes intent on Ricco. "You'd better not be bullshitting me, Private, because I swear to you—"
"It's not bullshit, sir. I'm telling the truth. You wanted to know why I was running? I woke up in a cell with no explanation of why I was there other than I was serving my country. When I complained that this was not my division, they beat me. I watched them kill other guys like me, and was told it was done in the name of science." Ricco stopped. He turned to Dakota as if in frustration. "I knew you wouldn't believe me."
Dakota had no idea whether to believe him or not, but he worried about his patient's condition. The questioning had begun to take its toll. Ricco's face was shiny with sweat, his breathing ragged and uneven. His obvious emotional turmoil playing hell with his physical condition.
"Yeah, yeah, all right." Montana sat back. "Let's just forget that for now. Tell me who had you. Who exactly are 'they'?"
Ricco took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He wiped his face with his forearm, frustration and fatigue evident in his sagging features. "Like I said before, sir, I don't know for sure who they are. The guy who leads it changes from time to time, but he always goes by the same name—The General. This last one has been in charge for, I don't know, maybe the last twenty years or so." He laid his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. He must have remembered Montana's displeasure the last time he relaxed, because he snapped backed to attention. It clearly taxed him to do so.
Dakota checked Ricco's pulse, and then felt his forehead. "Can't this wait until morning? The kid's exhausted, and his fever's getting worse."
"No, it can't. Private Ricco?"
Ricco swiped at his eyes, struggling to focus. "Yes, sir."
"Even if I believe what you say, what I don't get is, why? You've been held a prisoner for nearly a hundred years. For what? What were they doing to you all that time?"
Ricco slowly shook his head. "They never would tell me what they were doing, sir. Some sort of medical experiments is all I know. They would inject me with all kinds of stuff. Watch what it did to me. Take notes. Later on, maybe the last thirty years or so, they would wire me up to fancy machines that somehow kept track of my reactions."
"Why you? What makes you so special?"
"I'm not really sure about that either, sir. But this last General, he told me that in the beginning, when they first took me, they somehow managed to turn off the gene that causes aging, whatever that is. I don't think they knew what they did either, because they kept trying to repeat the results on other guys. But they always died. I'm the only survivor."
"Holy hell." Montana sat back and looked up at Ito, who just shook his head. It was obvious that Ricco's words had affected him as well.
"Michael?" Dakota pointed to the tags still clutched in his hand. "Is your birth date really April 24th, 1898?"
Ricco locked innocent blue-green eyes on Dakota and gave him a single nod. "Yes, sir, it is." He paused before asking, "Is it really the year 2014?"
Dakota couldn't comprehend what all this must feel like to Ricco, what it must have taken for him to even ask the question. He glanced at Montana, and then to Ito, before turning back to answer the boy. "Yeah, Michael. It really is."
"My family..." Ricco faced Montana. "They're all gone, aren't they?"
Montana leaned close and placed a hand on Ricco's arm. There were no words to soften the information. "Most likely they are, yeah."
Ricco obviously tried to hold it together and gave a quick nod. "I figured as much."
"I'm sorry," Montana said.
Ricco closed his eyes, pain clearly evident on his face.
Dakota broke the silence. "Okay, this might sound obvious, but I'm confused. This General, he had you all this time, and did medical experiments on you and others like you, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
Ricco opened his eyes. He seemed almost grateful to have something else to think about other than his family, but it was clear Dakota's question confused him. "Why?"
"Well, warped as it might have been, there had to be a reason, right?"
Ricco considered for a moment. "Sometimes, after they did things to me, The General would come and sit with me in my cell. He would tell me how proud he was of me and the others. He would tell me about all the lives we were saving with the research they were doing."
Ricco shrugged. "I didn't care. All I knew was it hurt. It always hurt."
He turned his right arm over to reveal an old scar running the length of his forearm. "They broke it on purpose, while I was awake. Compound fracture... You know, with the bones sticking out of the skin? They broke it, and then they put me back in my cell and just watched me. I never felt pain like that before. They would come and take notes and wait for me to die from the infection."
An odd look crept across his features as the memories invaded. "But I just kept right on breathing. Finally, after I decided they weren't going to doing anything to help me, I pushed the bones back in myself. I should have died, but I didn't." He showed them the slight unnatural bend to his arm. "It never healed completely right. They broke it twice more like that. They told me I'm a quick healer." He gave Dakota a horrifying grin. "Lucky me."
Dakota and Montana exchanged appalled glances. Ito's only reaction was to shift his weight to the other foot.
"How did you get out, Michael?" Montana's use of Ricco's first name was the only indication to Dakota of how the boy's story had affected him.
Ricco shook his head. "Just dumb luck. They usually sedated me before taking me to the medical facility. The times they didn't, I knew it's going to be bad."
"Why's that?"
Ricco met his eyes. "That was when they want to study my pain responses. They didn't sedate me that last time. I had stopped fighting them long ago, so they weren't very careful." He sighed. "They hadn't restrained me yet when the power went out."
"And you ran," Montana concluded.
"Hell yeah, I ran...sir. Honestly, I was hoping they would kill me. I sure never expected to get out of there alive. I never expected to get free."
"But you did."
Ricco closed his eyes in exhaustion or pain, Dakota wasn't sure which one. He opened then again before he spoke, and this time grief was evident in his voice. "And innocent people have died because of me."
"Don't put that on yourself. It wasn't your fault."
"They wouldn't be dead if I hadn't escaped. Don't know whose fault it would be but mine."
"Try the ones who pulled the trigger."
It was clear from the look on his face that Ricco wasn't buying it.
Montana put a hand on his arm and looked him square in the eye. "Michael, you aren't alone anymore, and you aren't going back. That's the first thing you have to understand."
Ricco looked back at the three of them and his expression showed he wanted to trust them. But he clearly wasn't sure he remembered how. "And what's the second, sir?"
"The second, Private Ricco, is that if you ever draw a weapon on me again, there will be no second chances, understand?"
Ricco lowered his eyes, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a small, embarrassed smile. "Yes, sir. I understand."