Probably why the man wouldn’t stop hounding Orion about leaving the woods and joining the living.
No, thank you. Mostly because Orion had nothing left to give, the rescuer inside him all tapped out.
Truth was, he just wanted to mind his own business.
Not with Ham around. The former SEAL took four steps and didn’t break stride as he slammed into Knicks. At six foot three, Ham could be imposing when he wanted to, and part of the PR for his small empire of GoSports gyms meant a regular workout.
Knicks hadn’t a prayer.
In a second, Ham had his arm around Knicks’s neck, pressing into his carotid artery and jugular vein, cutting off the air.
G’night, pal.
Knicks clawed at Ham’s arm, stumbled back, and Ham brought him down gently, letting him go when the man slumped into unconsciousness.
For a second, no one moved.
Then, clapping erupted through the car, even as Ham stood up and put a foot on the man’s chest. “Stay down,” he said, not raising his voice as the kid rose to consciousness.
The train started to slow.
Orion glanced at Hoodie. He’d moved toward the door, his head down. The only one, it seemed, not watching the debacle at the front of the train.
Aw, shoot.
Because Orion really didn’t come here to make trouble, find trouble, or even insert himself into the middle of trouble.
And yet . . .
He couldn’t live with himself. No way Hoodie was getting away.
Orion stepped up in front of him, blocking the door as the train pulled into the station.
Hoodie looked up. Dark eyes, a hint of dark whiskers, and his eyes narrowed.
“Give it up,” Orion said and held out his hand.
Hoodie frowned.
“The wallet.” He didn’t take his eyes off the man. “You’re not getting off without returning it.”
“Get out of my way,” Hoodie said as the car rolled to a stop.
The doors opened.
Sure, Orion could have moved. Could have given in to the life mantra that he’d embraced with two hands, clutching it to his chest after the tragedy in Afghanistan—it wasn’t his problem.
But he was tired of evil winning, or at least winning the battle, and maybe God had put him right here to save one hardworking woman from having to spend the day fighting identity theft.
Not that he actually believed God intervened anymore, but apparently Ham still did, so— “I don’t think so, buddy.”
Hoodie tried to move around him, but Orion grabbed his shirt and slammed him back against the pole. Glanced at the woman from whom Hoodie had lifted the wallet. “Check your bag, ma’am.”
She stared at Orion in horror, then searched her bag.
Hoodie grabbed his wrist, but Orion jerked his hand, turning it, and in a second, he had the thief turned around in a submission hold.
“It’s gone.”
Yep. He knew it. “Give it up and I’ll let you go,” Orion said to Hoodie.
“Ry, what’s happening?” Ham came over, dragging Knicks by the shirt.
“Meet the dynamic duo,” Orion said. “The old sleight-of-hand trick.”
Hoodie was struggling, swearing, kicking out at Orion.
Sheesh, he didn’t have time for this. With everything inside him, he just wanted to put the guy on the floor, put his knee in his back.
Okay, and maybe school the jerk about old-fashioned right and wrong.
But he was trying not to be that guy, despite the stir of anger in his chest, so Orion reached around him and grabbed the wallet from the pouch in his sweatshirt.
He released his hold just enough for Hoodie to turn.
The kid slammed his foot into Orion’s knee.
Pain spiked up his leg as his leg buckled.
Just like that, Orion landed on the deck, his hand gripping the wallet. Hoodie took off running.
Orion bit back a word.
Knicks shouted, and Ham must have let him go because he nearly stepped on Orion in his scramble away from the car.
“Are you okay?” The woman knelt next to him. He felt like a fool, trying to gulp back a whimper.
But, holy cannoli, he wanted to let out a scream. “Yeah,” he said, his voice strangled. He handed her the wallet.
“You’re a hero,” she said. “Thank you.”
He wanted to respond, to shrug her words away, but it was all he could do to catch his breath.
Ham was helping him up, and heaven help him, Orion let him do it, trying desperately to fix a smile on his face.
“No problem,” he finally managed. His voice sounded like a fist had closed around his lungs, and it felt like it, too, as he limped out, the doors closing behind him.
He leaned against the wall.
Ham stood behind him. “Well, that was fun.”
“I need that coffee,” Orion said. He ground his teeth, pushing up, finding his balance.
Ham hesitated. “Or, maybe you need one more second?”
Orion sucked in a breath. “I thought you said we were late.” He limped out, trying not to wince and failing.
They took the escalator up to freedom—not a hint of Knicks and Hoodie. He did see their victim, NYU, however. The kid’s pack hung over his shoulder, his head down as he all but fled the station.
Poor kid. It never felt good to have to be rescued. Humiliating, really.
Orion worked out the pain in his knee as he climbed the stairs to Centre Street into the heart of New York’s court district. Protesters stood on the steps of the New York State Supreme Court building. The scent of hot dogs and gyros seasoned the air, and his gut growled. “I’m stopping in the Starbucks,” he said to Ham. “I’ll meet you at the rally.”
Orion glanced over to the plaza crammed with spectators. From a distance he could see White standing on a platform, half hidden by campaign signs. Orion knew the man by reputation only—apparently, Ham had served with him during his early days as a SEAL. Conservative, not easily ruffled, the man was rising quickly out of the stew of political contenders.
He didn’t care what stump speech Senator White delivered—if he got on to the presidential ballot, Orion would vote for him.
“Text me. I’ll find you,” Ham said and headed toward the crowd.
Orion crossed the street and entered the Starbucks, painfully aware that his knee burned deep with every step. As he stood in line, he eased the weight off it. It had started to swell.
Next time he had the bright idea to get on a plane, he needed a good bang over the head. A reminder of the fact that his family had set down roots and stayed in Alaska for a reason. He didn’t know why the need to find Royal ground a hole through him, but he couldn’t pry it out of his mind. Answers—that’s all he needed, maybe. Answers to the question of how he and his other Pararescue Jumpers—PJs—had been ambushed on that mountain, in the back hills of Afghanistan. And not just the cosmic, survivor’s-guilt kind of questions, but the specific one—namely who in the CIA had pulled the trigger, armed with lousy intel that had sent two SEALS and two PJs to their graves.
Left two to be captured and tortured by the Taliban.
That question burned him awake in the long nights of the Alaskan winter, fueled an anger that he couldn’t seem to douse.
Maybe if he could find Royal, bring him home . . .
Orion ordered a venti Americano and by the time he stepped back out into the brisk air, he felt almost human, the caffeine sloughing off the adrenaline, along with the dark edge of frustration. Across the street at the rally, a band played—a country music group that roused something home-grown and patriotic inside him. And from deep in the well of his memory stirred a voice, soft, light. “How do I live without you? I want to know . . .”