Trusting a Warrior (Loving a Warrior #3) - Melanie Hansen Page 0,35

by flying through mountains and canyons that closely resembled Afghan terrain.

“Those guys are badass,” Laz commented, his head tilted back toward the dark sky. “I’ve seen ’em get so close to a cliff face that I swear sparks were shooting from the rotors, but the pilot acted like, ‘No big.’ Cool as a damn cucumber.”

“They love to make us shit our pants,” Geo agreed. “Pucker factor is real high with those guys.”

“You ever ridden with them on a Little Bird?”

Geo shivered as remembered thrill flowed through him. He’d never felt so alive in his life than when perched on the skids of the two-man helos everyone called Little Birds. Used for urban assaults, they were highly maneuverable, and it was like riding a rollercoaster into battle. “Hell, yeah.”

That led to the two of them comparing war stories, and at one point Laz punched Geo hard on the upper arm. “Man, sounds like you’ve done it all.” His voice was full of admiration. “You ever been shot?”

“No.”

“How’d you go ten years in this job without getting shot?” Laz held up his hands to forestall Geo’s reply, saying, “And don’t give me no bullshit about how you’re just that good.”

Chuckling, Geo shrugged. “Lucky, I guess.”

With a shake of his head, Laz said, “You know that luck’s bound to run out sooner or later. Watch your back, my friend.”

The clatter of rotor blades suddenly grew louder, indicating their ride was here. Once on board, Geo sat tethered with his legs dangling out the open door, his hand twined firmly in Bosch’s harness. On the floor behind him, some PJs shouted back and forth to each other as they treated a realistic training mannequin with an amputated leg. The helo dipped and rolled, simulating evasive maneuvers, while the PJs fought to keep their balance and their hands steady.

Twisting around, Geo watched them start IVs and an airway with unbelievable skill.

“You guys are good,” he called to the nearest one, a tall, lanky Latino dude who’d sat back on his heels and was wiping the back of his gloved hand over his forehead.

“Fuckin’ lost him, though,” the PJ said, indicating the mannequin’s flat-line computer readout. “Femoral artery. Never stood a chance.”

Geo winced. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“What was the scenario?”

“Stepped on an IED. What else?” The PJ gestured toward Bosch. “Too bad their imaginary ‘patrol’ didn’t have a K9.” After holding his knuckles out for a bump, he turned back to his teammates.

Sucking in a deep breath, Geo let the familiar smell of dust and exhaust settle in his lungs, his body swaying with the motion of the helo. Bosch sat placidly next to him, his dog-sized goggles and muzzle on. Yeah, the two of them had definitely saved a lot of lives these past couple of years.

Geo closed his eyes. It was a good feeling, knowing they’d made a difference. Because of them, hundreds of families had gotten their loved ones home intact. All the IEDs they’d found, the ambush nests they’d broken up, the structures they’d identified that were rigged to blow with just a touch of the door, meant a few more men and women safe for another day.

Behind him, the PJs sprawled disconsolately about, their dead “patient” between them. With a nicked femoral artery, the odds had been against him from the start, no matter the top-notch trauma care he’d received.

Geo had seen guys bleed out on dusty roads thousands of miles from home, their shattered bodies struggling to hang on. He’d held their hands, and in some cases comforted their dogs. One long, terrible night, he’d sat with a dying K9 while her handler was rushed into surgery with wounds so extensive no one expected him to survive. He had, and when he’d finally woken up, the first words he managed to mumble were, “Where’s my dog?”

When would his luck run out? Maybe it never would. Maybe it’d continue, as Geo grew older and slower, as young guys with shiny new Tridents flooded the ranks, eager to get in the fight. Geo flinched. That’d be a lingering death all its own, for fuck’s sake, being the guy who stuck around past his prime in an environment where thirty-five was considered old.

He stared unseeing at the ground flashing below his boots.

Passing the torch to the next generation of SEALs would be something he’d have to do eventually. Maybe he should think about doing it on his own terms. What that would look like, he had no fucking idea, but for the first time,