Prologue
Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, Germany
10 Years ago
Josh
“Just get the fuck out, Tuc.” Josh hadn’t yelled the words, but the energy it took to say them pinged down his left thigh and calf and into his foot with little shocks of electricity. He tried to rearrange his foot, which was impossible because his foot wasn’t fucking there. And that was mind fuck number one-thousand-seven-hundred and fifty, or maybe fifty-one. Who the fuck knew at this point? His right wrist had been shattered and reset; he forgot how many pins were put in. So that was in a big ass cast. His left shoulder had been dislocated, with the ligaments torn from the bone. That was a painful repair: they reattached his ligaments, repaired the torn labrum, and stabilized the humerus. Fucking movies lied. Just snap the shoulder back in place, his ass.
Then, an infection set in on his leg a few days later. His left foot and ankle had been gone, shredded in the explosion. The last operation had taken his leg to about mid-calf. The only thing that didn’t hurt him was his right eyebrow. And even that was twitching. They got all the infection in the leg, they said; he was lucky, they said. He didn’t feel fucking lucky.
He couldn’t remember if he had stepped on an IED or hit a trip wire he had missed in the sweep. He figured a tripwire triggered the IED planted somewhere away from where he searched. He figured he wouldn’t be here if he had stepped on the IED. He wasn’t so sure he was happy about that. But in the end, it didn’t matter. The leg was gone either way. They said he was fortunate he still had his knee. He guessed fortunate was a vague way to tell him to stop being a whiny little pussy and man up. Whatever.
So here he was. One leg was gone. One hand and wrist cast. The other arm was bandaged from his shoulder to his elbow and strapped to his body. And he was in pain. More pain than he ever thought he could endure. And his new best friend was his morphine drip.
“Not leaving you, Josh.” Tuc was saying in that reassuring tone that made him want to punch something.Can’t punch shit with one arm in a cast and one strapped to your body, asshole. Oh, yeah, and you can’t kick shit when the leg you have to kick with is all you have to stand on. Fuck. He was a mess.
And why did Tuc keep talking? All Josh needed was for him to shut the fuck up and leave him to his morphine drip. “We are headed to Bethesda.”
“We?”
“Yeah, Skeet just got the go. You are both being released.”
“Skeet made it?” Josh’s voice was weak and raspy. This was the first time he had spoken in days. Between the surgeries and the morphine, he’d been out of it.
“Yeah. They saved his arm.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“You are both gonna be okay.” Tuc cleared his throat and pulled his baseball cap down to hide his eyes. So, he was feeling it too. Josh let out a snort. Okay? Yeah, that was a relative term.
Because he sure as shit did not feel okay.
He was pretty sure he was never going to be okay again.
“Anyone else make it?” He watched Tuc’s Adam’s apple bob as tears breached the brim of the hat and rolled off his chin. He shook his head once and cleared his throat.
“Just us.”
“Fuck.” Josh turned his head away since it was the only fucking thing he could move. “I told you to let me bleed out.”
“Couldn’t do that.” Tuc gripped the bicep on the arm not strapped down a