Striking Distance Read Online Free PDF Page B

screening was useless anyway. They’d borrowed it from a psych test created for the army. But he wasn’t some green kid back from his first tour of duty, a young soldier fresh out of boot camp who’d seen his first dead body. Javier had been deploying as a special operator for fourteen years now. He knew the realities of combat, knew his limits, knew what he could handle. He didn’t need to talk about his feelings. He sure as hell didn’t need some shrink’s shoulder to cry on.
    Fortunately, Boss had persuaded Naval Special Warfare Command to back Javier, and a compromise had been reached. Javier’s medical leave had been extended for another two months, at which time he’d take the psych screening again. If he passed, he passed. He’d move on to an active-duty workup and be back with the teams by summer. If he didn’t pass . . .
    That won’t happen,
chacho
.
    A voice coming from the flat-screen TV overhead caught his ear.
    “The trial of accused al Qaeda terrorist Abu Nayef Al-Nassar continued this morning when journalist Laura Nilsson took the stand.”
    Javier looked up as the broadcast cut away to footage of Laura being waylaid by media outside the federal court building. Flanked by two officers from the U.S. Marshal Service, she made her way up the steps, then turned and smiled.
    Javier felt a tug in his chest. He knew testifying wouldn’t be easy for her—sitting in a courtroom with Al-Nassar, reliving the horror he’d put her through—but Javier respected the hell out of her for doing it.
    “Today marks for me the final chapter of an ordeal that began three and a half years ago,” she said into the microphones. “I know that justice will be served not only on my behalf, but also on behalf of the hundreds of others around the world who have suffered as a result of Al-Nassar’s terrible actions.”
    Gone was the trembling, terrified woman he’d carried on board the Chinook. In her place stood the Laura he’d met in Dubai—confident, polished, beautiful.
    Nothing he’d done in his career as a special operator had felt more rewarding than getting her out of that hellhole. Sure, he’d pulled his team out of some pretty tight scrapes, played medic to wounded men, taken out a bad guy or two, earned his share of medals. But the night he’d found her was the only time he’d directly saved the life of an American civilian. The fact that it had been Laura, that she’d been
alive
, had only made it sweeter. He’d gone to bed that night feeling like a hero.
    He’d followed the news articles about her as well as he could between back-to-back deployments, and he knew what she’d endured. Repeated rape. Beatings. Daily threats of decapitation. Reading the news stories and watching her interview with Diane Sawyer had made him wish he’d kicked the shit out of Al-Nassar when he’d had the chance, maybe shot the fucker in the balls.
    It had also made Javier want to reach out to her, to help her however he could, to let her know that he was there, that he cared. But he’d been downrange in Afghanistan for most of the past two years, and when he’d been home, he’d spent those few precious weeks with his family and his Mamá Andreína, who was ninety-two and had been in and out of the hospital. He hadn’t been sure Laura would want to see him or whether she even remembered their time in Dubai City.
    Watching her now, he had to give her a world of credit. To go through what she’d gone through and to come out of it in one piece took strength.
    “¡Oye, cabrón!” Hey, motherfucker!
    Javier turned toward the familiar voice to find Nathaniel West striding toward him.
“¿Que pasa, cabrón?” What’s up, motherfucker?
    The last time he’d seen Nate—whose MSOT, or Marine Special Operations Team, had worked alongside Delta Platoon in Afghanistan—the man had been clinging to life in the burn ward at the Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, the right side of his face and body a mess of