Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

“Yes,” he said before he slipped a hand around the back of my head, tangled his fingers in my hair, and brought me in for a kiss.

I had no idea he’d do that in front of people, in front of men he fought with, their wives, and any strangers who might pass by. I was amazed for a moment before I forgot everything else and kissed him back, wrapping my arms around his waist and bringing our bodies flush together.

Already it was the best homecoming ever.

Chapter 5

IAN INTRODUCED me to all the members of his unit from the guy in charge on down. I shook all their hands, and it seemed to me they were all genuinely pleased to meet me. I could have been wrong, it could have been an elaborate act, but it was doubtful, as tired and wrung out as they all looked. Obviously, whatever they’d all been through had been an ordeal.

Thinking about how long they’d been gone was not a good idea, because instead of being happy Ian was home, I started thinking about how long he’d been gone, and that only led to resentment. So it wasn’t a surprise when the question popped out, even inadvertently, and neither was Ian’s standard reply.

“I dunno when I’ll have to go back,” he said, looking out the window of my Toyota Tacoma at the rain-washed streets. What started out as a drizzle was now looking like the fifth day of Noah’s journey. “They could call us back up tomorrow, you know that.”

I concentrated on the road, even though the drive was easy. The Lincoln Expressway was not going underwater anytime soon.

“So you’re gonna be pissed now?” he snapped after a few minutes of silence.

“No,” I assured him, trying to keep my voice calm and steady, without any bite. “I shouldn’t have asked. I just—like you here, is all.”

“You don’t think I wanna be home?”

I cleared my throat. “I do and I don’t want to fight with you. That was not my intention.”

“Then what’d you bring it up for?”

“It just came out, I’m sorry.”

He was quiet, I was quiet, so we could both hear the tires on the wet pavement and the rain on the roof of the car.

“You don’t get it because you’ve never served.”

“I know,” I acceded quickly, careful not to get tripped up there.

“And I can’t tell you where I was or what I did.”

I knew that too. The few times I’d asked, all he said was, “We were in the woods.” Sometimes I’d see things on the news about a firefight in some village halfway around the world and wonder if Ian was there. It had become—much like the marriage issue—a question of what Ian would do. What could he do and still be him.

We’d answered the question of us getting married with an absolute, rock solid… someday. It was on the table for sure, but the when was the issue. Yes, he loved me; yes, he wanted to be married—or could see it now instead of not at all—but there was still no definitive plan. What loomed even bigger lately was the military service.

As an Army reservist officer, Ian served at the pleasure of the president, which meant anytime they needed him, he went. I was proud of him for his service as a Green Beret, but I also felt like he’d done enough, given enough of his time, and watching it erode his mind and body got more and more painful to witness.

His dreams made him cry out in his sleep, the injuries he came home with were a horror, and the fact that he had as of late started sleeping with his spare gun, his SIG Sauer P228, under the bed was cause for concern. We didn’t say PTSD because Ian said he knew guys who had it “for real” and a few nightmares were not that big a deal. But I knew better. It was eating him up, things he did, things he saw, and at some point he was going to have to deal with all that, just as I had to deal with being kidnapped by a psychopath a year ago. The difference was that my horror was over except for the fallout, and Ian’s was a constant in his life.

“So,” I said, clearing my throat, “what time is the funeral tomorrow?”

“Eleven.”

“I’m really sorry about your friend.”

“We weren’t friends,” he corrected me, finally turning from the window. “But he was in my old unit, so I gotta go.”

“Of course.”

“Is this gonna be a thing?”

“What?”

“Me going?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

I had to think. “Not—it’s both, right?”

“Explain.”

I shrugged. “It’s your service, and I get that it’s what you feel you need to do, but I think, why are you still doing this? When will it be enough?”

He exhaled sharply. “You don’t understand.”

“Because I’ve never been in the military, I know. You say that all the time. But seriously, why do you have to go? Why does it have to be you?”