Intimate Honor Read online

  “I heard you, Sir.” Chris swallowed and grunted as he tried to shift. Agony speared along his leg, sending his nerves on another roller coaster of excruciating pain. He winced, feeling like a two-bump chump stuck in this bed, wrapped in the thin material of Ramstein’s military hospital and recovery gown. The base’s hospital name was printed in big, black letters across the bottom, a subtle reminder that it was government property—that he was government property—and to not remove either from the premises without permission.

  “Where is he?” Chris asked. Seeing as the topic was on Delta Alpha, he didn’t think he needed to be much clearer on who he asked for. His partner, his closest companion, his wonderful idiot of a dog.

  Colonel Barber shifted and glanced out the window, his brows drawn with displeasure. Everyone took Dumb Ass getting hit hard, some worse than others. Then there was Chris, and his reaction moved to a whole other level.

  They trained military working dogs—MWD—to handle all kinds of combat and friendly situations. Some acted in law enforcement roles, some in recovery, many in drugs and explosives. Then you had the elite of the group, the ones who trained harder to fight faster, respond quicker, and were worth more than many a soldier on the field. MWD policy had changed drastically from Vietnam when they were abandoned on the field and left to fend for themselves in a strange country far from home. Now, they served as one of the US of A’s strongest resources in fighting the war against drugs, crime, terrorism, you name it.

  And his damn multi-million-dollar MWD had jumped between him and several bullets, then took the brunt of a LAW rocket impact only a few feet away. Chris’s jaw tightened.

  “He’s across base at a facility for the MWDs. They are wondering what you want to do. It’s up to you, Sergeant.”

  Chris blanched and stared at Barber. His jaw worked, but no sounds came out. Up to him? His wonderful idiot of a dog, his partner who had saved his life. And now they were giving him the choice to either put him down or medically retire him and take him as his own. Was this guy serious?

  “Sir?” he croaked. “Is there really a question?”

  Barber turned back to Chris and pinned him with a stare that no doubt sent many boots quivering for cover. As the commander for their unit, he had to be the baddest of bad in order to lead the best and toughest.

  “Taking on a military working dog is no easy task, Gonzalez. Taking one on with the injuries Delta Alpha has, even with the suspected emotional trauma, and if things go downhill? They don’t let anyone adopt these animals. Only individuals such as yourself who are trained to deal with them are given the opportunity. But something to keep in mind … what’s going to happen when you pick up a new canine? Who’s going to care for Delta Alpha while you are off on another mission? These are all questions you need to ask yourself, son. I know you’ve been with your partner for a while and we all love that dog, but you need to make sure you’re thinking this situation through, not just acting on emotion.”

  A tendon in Chris’s jaw snapped. “So, Delta Alpha won’t be able to come back? That decision is already made?”

  Barber shook his head. “I’m sorry. No. He’s been diagnosed with PTSD. There’s no way we can be sure how he will act in another combat situation, or worse yet, if he’d turn on his handler.”

  Chris wanted to argue, the urge so strong his chest heaved. He knew his damn dog, understood he’d never turn on him. But guaranteeing they’d stay together wasn’t something he could promise. And putting Dumb Ass in that situation with another handler wasn’t something he could risk.

  He looked out across the darkening blue and pink sky. He’d decided seconds after Barber walked in. The darkening colors hinted at that lost memory again, but he couldn’t grasp a hold of the thought before it skittered away. “I’ll adopt him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Chris nodded and swallowed again. “He put his life above mine. He’s been my partner for two years. I’d be a fool to thank him by putting him down.”

  “Some may say,” Barber said, his voice low and soft, “that it’d be an act of kindness.”

  “No,” he snapped and winced as the sound echoed back with a sharp pain to his temple. He turned to Barber. “I’m sorry, but no. I’ll take him home, get him better, and depending on when I’m cleared to come back, I’ll let you know my plan.”

  Barber’s eyes widened slightly as if surprised. Chris blinked. The guy hardly ever showed anything on his face. If he hadn’t witnessed it, he wouldn’t have believed the guy had the capability to show anything else other than control.

  “Your plan?” his commander asked, his words slow, as if chosen with care.

  Chris blew out a slow and steady breath. This probably wouldn’t go over too well. He would have rather waited until he was healed and able to stand on his own two feet than laid out in a hospital bed in a gown that gave everyone a show each time he tried to stand. “Yes, on whether or not I’ll be returning to duty.”

  Barber’s eyes narrowed and Chris rushed on. “My time in service is coming up in just over two months.”

  “And?” Barber asked, shifted slightly, stood taller, and took on that badass don’t-you-shit-me expression.

  Fuck. “I’m not real sure if I’ll be coming back, Sir.”

  Barber stabbed his fingers through his short black and white hair, a move so unlike his steely commander, and so unneeded, seeing as his hair was so short there wasn’t anything to run through. “What … what the hell is happening here?”

  Chris blinked again at the rise in tenor. “Sir,” he started, cleared his throat, and winced as he shifted on the bed. Not the time nor the place he wanted to have this talk, but hell, he needed to be upfront. “My time in service is coming up. I haven’t made my decision to re-up.”

  “You’re coming up on sixteen years. Four more and it’s a guaranteed pension. What do you mean you’re thinking about it?”

  Chris shook his head. He searched for the right words. He didn’t know what he wanted, didn’t know what to say. He’d built his life in the military, had become a man in it as well. He dedicated his existence to serving his country, and that enthusiasm was founded on not seeing what happened in the City again. He didn’t know what decision he would make. But he knew one thing, he needed time to think. He told Barber as much.

  Barber let out a heavy breath and searched the room as if he’d find the answer somewhere within the bland, white walls. “All right, son. You go home, take care of Delta Alpha, and get yourself better. We’ll talk. Don’t call anyone else. You call me, you hear? You decide to jump ship, you can damn well tell me first.”

  Chris nodded and Barber walked out of the room. The weight of the decision rode heavy on his shoulders—too heavy for the impact it’d have on his life. The military was all he knew, all he’d been for so damn long. He didn’t identify with anything else, but he didn’t think he could see himself continuing with everything that had occurred.

  The mission scratched like glass shards in his brain. It had gone wrong, so wrong. He couldn’t figure out why either. Their communication was locked tight. The only other members who would have known something was within a dotted black line up to the President, and he didn’t want to think, couldn’t believe it’d be one of them. If so, then the whole system was flawed.

  He shifted again and a screaming pain lanced up his leg. Clenching his teeth, he breathed through it. In, out. In, out. The world around him spun, a drab ride for a merry-go-round, not nearly as fun as he remembered back home when he’d been a boy and his life was full with his brothers. Laughing, joking, their lives inexplicably changed forever … and in the best way possible.

  Whipping the thin sheet from the bottom half of his body, he stared at his bandaged thigh. He’d taken a high-velocity round in the thick muscle. A few centimeters to the left and it would have clipped his femur. The doc said he’d been lucky. Luck had nothing to do with it. His partner was proof of that. And his dog had taken triple the number of bullets in
a body a third of his own size. At six-foot-one, two hundred pounds, he had the frame that should have taken those hits.

  He clenched the sheets, worried about his partner all over again, wanting to be able to get out of the damn bed and go to him, let him know he wasn’t alone. Chris didn’t know the vets taking care of Dumb Ass, wasn’t familiar with this base’s facility. Instead, he felt like a worthless fool stuck in this bed. And now he had to find someone back home to help him with DA. He hoped the vets here would have an idea, but that plan would most likely result in him having to travel hours to their nearest contracted vet facility. It would be better to have DA close, in his home town, around people who would grow to be familiar to him.

  “You know,” a low voice drawled, “the nurses here would give you something to take care of that.”

  Chris snapped his head up at the unfamiliar voice. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. That never happened. Being in Special Forces, you had to be aware of your surroundings. When you weren’t, you ended up in the hospital, or worse.

  He frowned at that thought, the four white walls around him screaming about pot and kettle meeting black.

  Chris glanced at the guy’s sleeve, identified his rank, and then read the name across his right breast.

  “A hazy mind is a soldier’s weakness, Sergeant Fusko.”

  Fusko raised a brow and crossed his arms over his chest, widened his stance, and stared at him as if he had all damn day. Well, dammit, he did, but that wasn’t the point.

  “But you’re not a soldier, Sergeant Gonzalez.”

  The pulse in Chris’s throat pounded and his face heated. “Your point?”

  “You’re an Airman.”

  Like he needed it spelled out. Who the hell was this guy? “I don’t give a shit which branch of the armed forces you’re in, every single one of us are soldiers. Now,” he rushed on, uncaring about his language or attitude at this point, “you’ll have to excuse my manners, and my mouth, but I’m not having the best damn day. I’ve asked the nurses to stop feeding me those damn meds, so do you mind telling me what you want?”

  Fusko nodded. “I’m here about Delta Alpha two-niner.”

  The air rushed from Chris’s lungs and the pulse beating furiously in his neck seized. He studied the sergeant for a few moments, stalling to get his voice back. The guy looked calm, no tension in his gaze, his body relaxed, but shadows danced beneath his eyes as if he hadn’t slept for days. He could understand. Been there. Lived that. Got the medal to prove it.

  “What is it?” he asked once he recovered enough to draw air.

  Fusko looked out the window.

  And didn’t that just get his heart pounding again? He clenched his hand into the sheets and tried to rein in his temper. It wouldn’t do any good biting this guy’s head off. He wanted to, wanted to demand answers, something.

  Instead of saying anything, though, Fusko grabbed a black chair sitting against the wall, whipped it around, and straddled it by his bedside. Only once he settled did he bring his attention back to Chris. “How much do you know?”

  “He took three rounds. Just got notified that I have two options: adopt, or he’s put to sleep.”

  Fusko nodded, his lips tight. “It’d be for the best, Gonzalez.”

  “Chris. Just call me Chris. You’re taking care of my damn dog, right?”

  The sergeant nodded. “In that case, call me Mike. I’ve been with him for the past week. It was close when they brought him in, but seeing as we’re the closest major military hospital to the action, we’ve got state-of-the-art equipment. He’s being taken care of by the best.”

  Chris rubbed a hand across his face, wondering when he’d wake up. This had to be a dream. No, a nightmare. Never in his thirty-three years did he think this shit would happen. Sure, he knew it was a possibility, especially doing what he did. But getting shot happened to other unfortunate souls, not him. Not Dumb Ass.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d give it to me straight, Mike. I’d like to know how Dumb Ass is doing.” Chris winced. “Sorry, that’s a team nickname for Delta Alpha.”

  Fusko chuckled, the action allowing crinkles to pop up next to his eyes. Laugh lines, he realized. Such a rare thing to see in his line of work.

  “Do I want to know the story behind that one?”

  Chris rubbed his hand across the top of his crew cut and gave a small laugh, the first in weeks since he’d been hurt. How could he explain that his partner, being as smart as he was, could also make some of the silliest decisions, and often did them with the team there to witness?

  “Well,” he started and cleared his throat. “Dumb Ass is known for getting wedged in places. Despite his training, he seems to always find himself stuck in barrels, holes, behind couches, you name it. It’s nothing that happens when we’re on a mission, but more when it’s just the team hanging out. It’s almost like he wants to make everyone laugh and does something stupid.” He shrugged. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but hey, when we’re together as much as we are, it’s hard not to notice even the slightest shift in behavior.”

  Fusko grinned. “It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all. Who knows if that’s really what he is doing? These dogs are smarter than we give them credit for, and we give them a shit-load of credit. And hey, if you get some laughs out of it, can it be all that bad?”

  Chris shook his head at the same time Fusko did.

  “Right,” Mike answered. “So, back to your question.” His lips tightened. “He’s doing okay considering everything he’s been through. You know he took three bullets to his body, but miracles upon miracles, none of them hit any vital organs.”

  “That’s good. But if they didn’t hit any organs, and are strictly muscle wounds, then why am I hearing he can’t return to duty?”

  Fusko sighed, and the sound tugged at something in Chris’s stomach. That something bubbled with unease and spread as the silent seconds ticked by.

  “Well, it’s not something formally recognized in the world of veterinary medicine, but he’s been diagnosed with PTSD.”

  Chris scrunched his face in thought. “I just heard the same thing from my commander, but I don’t think it really penetrated then. I thought soldiers only got PTSD, but you’re telling me my dog has it now?”

  Fusko lifted his arms from the back of the chair and held out his palms. “I know, it sounds weird. It is. And it’s something getting a lot of attention. To be honest with you, Delta Alpha isn’t the first, and I’m sure with the ongoing war and campaigns, he won’t be the last. I’ve got some questions that should help us settle the matter. But I won’t lie, even if you give me different answers, the ones you think I want to hear, and I get it, Chris, you want your partner back. But they won’t likely change the decision made. It’s a done deal, and it’s all from what we’ve witnessed and compared against his medical file. Okay?”

  He swallowed hard. How could this be happening? Dumb Ass trained to deal with stress. They all did. But even as the thoughts went through his head, he knew the possibility. This was happening. His dog was affected by post-traumatic stress disorder. Hell, even the hardest of soldiers suffered from it.

  “All right, what questions?” he asked.

  “Before we begin, I want you to know your answers will help his recovery, should you choose to adopt, okay?” Fusko paused. “You are adopting, right?”

  “Fuck yes,” he answered without missing a beat.

  Fusko chuckled and asked, “Has Delta Alpha ever been anxious before? During missions, in training, at the range?”

  Chris shook his head. “No. Never. He’s one of the calmest dogs I’ve worked with.”

  “How many is that?”

  He thought back on his sixteen years in the military. He’d crossed-trained into K-9, becoming an Air Force military cop two years after he’d signed on. Another two years after that he’d gone over to the “dark side” of Special Ops. He’d held a dog every two to three years before being moved to a new unit. “Six.”

 
Fusko nodded. “Has he ever reacted to bullets, explosions, flashing lights?”

  Again, Chris shook his head. “No, never. He’s always stayed right by my side. This was the only time he didn’t follow a command.”

  Mike lifted his brows. “Are you talking about when he ran off the plane before the explosion?”

  He clenched his jaw and breathed through the memory. “Yeah.”

  “All right, did he ever wake disoriented, like he’d been in the middle of a nightmare?”

  God. Chris closed his eyes and the enormity of the situation hit. Fusko was asking him questions about Dumb Ass’s past, but instead, what he really did was tell him everything his dog was going through. The thought of his goofy, strong, and intelligent partner going through this absolutely killed him. “No.” He sucked in a breath. “Are you telling me that’s what’s happening?”

  “I’m sorry, but yes, it is. Look, he needs time to heal, not just his body but also his mind. He will have to be retired. There’s help for him out there. First thing will be getting him back to where you plan to be for a while and securing him that help. The vet should be able to assist in smoothing things over for him and making his life comfortable. Being here, especially on a base where the aircraft are constantly going in and out, where he jumps at every sound, it isn’t helping him.”

  “Shit.” Chris pulled his gaze away and fought against the rise of emotions inside his chest. It felt tight, tighter than when Dumb Ass landed on him. So much responsibility, yet so much debt. He had to help him. He owed him.

  “How soon can he get out of here?”

  “He’s cleared to travel now. It’s just a matter of getting your doc to give you your travel pass. You’ll be flying back on military charters, and it’d be a good idea to sedate him before he flies. Are you okay with that?”