Cruz
Three years earlier
She was there. I’d waited for her to come for weeks, hoping I’d wake up from the nightmare to her fingers lazily combing through my hair, or her kisses warm on my lips. And finally, she was there.
“Lydia?”
Her long, dark hair tumbled over her shoulders as she reached her hand out to cup my face. Love shone in her eyes—love I hadn’t seen in eight years. I tried to lift my arm to pull her closer, but it wouldn’t cooperate. It lay limply by my side, unmoving.
“It’s okay, Lorenzo. I’m here.”
“I’ve missed you. I’m so sorry. Sorry about your mom. Sorry that I fell in with the wrong people—people who hurt that girl. I let you down.”
“But you didn’t let me down. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Both hands lovingly caressed my cheeks, wiping away the tears that streamed down my face. Warm. She was so warm. And I was so cold.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“You fought a good fight, Lorenzo. You served your country well. Now rest.”
“I’m afraid. If I close my eyes, I may not wake up.”
“I’m here. Sleep, mi vida. Just sleep.”
The heaviness in my chest grew even weightier, my breaths shallow as I tried to pull in the oxygen I desperately needed. Every exhale rattled like a dying car, and every inhale felt like knives piercing my throat.
Suddenly, it was easier. All I could see was Lydia. All I could hear was her sweet voice telling me she loved me. She’d never stopped loving me.
The rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire sounded nearby, but I didn’t take my eyes from Lydia’s.
“Just sleep, Lorenzo. I’m here.”
Rough hands grabbed my shoulders, jerking me away from Lydia’s caramel skin and chocolate-brown eyes.
“No.” My voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper.
“We’re going to get you out of here, man.”
A bright light shone in my eyes, and I recoiled, trying to move away, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. I was frozen—stuck between life and death—heaven and hell.
“Stretcher! Now!”
“Where’s transport? Get them here now!”
“We’ve got company! Go, go, go!”
The sounds of shouts and grunts, gunfire, and explosions filled the air, as I was jostled to and fro. The darkness was still there, but flashes of light exploded around us—mesmerizing, enchanting. Instead of damp earth, rotting flesh, blood, and excrement, I smelled the sharp tang of gun oil, cordite, and smoke. And air. Fresh air.
Lydia’s face appeared above me, floating in the trees.
“I’m here, Lorenzo. Just hang on.”
“I love you.” I wasn’t sure if the words could be heard above the melee around me, but I said them anyway, hoping she knew it. Hoping I could make things right.
She smiled down at me, the tiny laugh lines around her eyes crinkling. So beautiful. How did I forget how beautiful she was? Her face faded in and out of the trees as they passed by above me. Then it was gone.
The whomp-whomp-whomp of a chopper sounded nearby, music to my ears. Maybe that meant I was getting out of there. Maybe it meant there was hope.
I tried to hold on to that hope, tried to capture it before it slid away into darkness. But the thing about darkness is, it always chases out the light.
***
“You’re one lucky SOB.”
A man who closely resembled a ferret with his close-set, beady eyes sat in the chair across the room, his small stature in no way diminishing the air of authority that surrounded him.
“Who the hell are you?” My vocal cords had been damaged from weeks of screaming out in pain. Flashes of the hooded man zipped through my mind, and I closed my eyes to focus on anything but him.
“Washington, Henry Washington. Advisor to the president of the United States.”
My eyes popped open, taking in the man with the shiny bald head, now realizing he did indeed look familiar. What was the president’s advisor doing in my hospital room?
“Why are you here?” The question came out a bit more tersely than I’d intended, but I inwardly shrugged. I wasn’t really in the mood for niceties.
Washington stood and walked closer to the bed where I was lying, bandaged from head to toe. I’d been told I would need surgery to repair the damage done to my face, but there was no hope for the skin that covered my arms and torso. I’d suffered several broken ribs, a broken wrist, multiple broken bones in my face, damaged vocal cords, severe dehydration, and malnutrition. I was twenty pounds lighter and weak as a baby. Sitting up wore me out, but I was alive.
“I have a proposition for you.”
“What kind of proposition?”
Washington smiled at the acid in my voice. Nice to know my frustration was amusing to him.
“The president has created a security team called Shadow Force. We’ve already approached two guys who’ll be running an MMA fighting gym as a cover for their real jobs, which are to take care of things the government can’t.”
“Like mercenaries?” I couldn’t hide the disgust in my voice.
“In some ways, but not really. They’re not guns for hire. Every job is handed down from the top, but it keeps the government’s nose clean.”
“Oh, right. I see. So, we do all the hard work and get none of the credit.”
Washington smirked. “Pretty much.”
“Why would I want to do that? I’m a marine. I’m on the fast track to a lucrative career.”
Washington’s gaze traveled to the floor, before he looked back to meet my eyes. I saw pity there, and my gut churned at the news I knew he was about to deliver.
“Your marine days are over, son. Not just your injuries, but the psychological damage that has been done to you. The marine corps doesn’t have the time or money to put you through the kind of rehabilitation you’re going to need. We do.”
My career was over.
Everything I’d worked so hard for gone. Just like that. I was unable to speak, unable to comprehend what life would be like without my brothers in arms, without my purpose for life.
“You’ll be medically discharged, awarded for your bravery. I’m sure there will also be disability benefits you can apply for.”
“I’m not disabled. None of these injuries are going to keep me down.”
“I know. Which is why I’m offering you another way—but I need to warn you, it comes with consequences.”
“What kind?”
“You’ll be pronounced dead. Your family and friends will be notified. Lorenzo Gallos will be mourned and laid to rest.”
“Won’t it be kind of odd if they were to ever see me walking around alive?”
“That would definitely be the stuff nightmares are made of, but no. That won’t happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re scheduled for multiple surgeries to repair the damage to your face. We’d like to take advantage of those surgeries and change your appearance just slightly. With the damage to your voice and slight adjustments to your face, on top of your death certificate, no one will question that Lorenzo Gallos is dead.”
It sounded like something out of a sci-fi movie, but what other option did I have? Sitting behind a desk for the remainder of my life wasn’t an option. I could consider independent contracting, but there were risks associated with that. I didn’t want to ever question if I was working for the good guys or the bad.
But working for the president of the United States? That held weight. And my interest.
My mind drifted back to Lydia’s face. It was her memory, the desire to get back to her that had kept me alive in that cave in the wilds of Venezuela. Taking this deal would mean never seeing her again.
Would she mourn my death? Would she wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t gone into the military?
She’d been the reason I had enlisted. I wanted to undo my sins, make her proud of me. After that awful night, the night that changed everything, I owed it to her to be the man she’d wanted me to be.
And I’d been so close before we’d been ambushed on that recon mission, and I’d been captured and tortured by the hooded man.
Yet the alternative—going back to her with nothing—that wasn’t an option either. It wouldn’t matter that I’d be given awards, or noted for my valiant efforts. I hadn’t finished the race.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure? There’s no going back.”
I lifted my face to meet his gaze, confidence running through my veins.
“I’m positive.”
Washington nodded, then turned towards the door. With one hand on the knob, he turned to look at me. “Thank you, son. For your service. Lorenzo Gallos will be remembered as a hero.”
A dead hero.