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Hunter recognized the feeling of a bed underneath him. The pain in his right eye worsened, and he remembered what’d happened.
Three American politicians had been taken hostage, and his team had been given the task of going into Syria, extracting the hostages, and making sure they didn’t start World War III. Hunter had been asked to lay down fire from the top of the building, and he had taken out the snipers on the other buildings. When the caravan advance had pulled up and his Bravo One had been hit, he’d broken position and booked it into the building, knowing that if he didn’t get to his Bravo One, everything would go to crap.
Hunter had taken out quite a few insurgents as he’d gone into the building and found Bravo One. He’d slung him over his shoulder, and he’d almost made it back to his team before a shot had cast half of his vision into darkness—he hadn’t even felt the bullet when it entered his eye. He’d collapsed, and Bravo One had fallen on top of him. It had all gone dark.
“Hunter.” He recognized the soft touch of his sister’s hand.
It was only her voice and her touch that made him try to open his left eye again. He must be back in the States. It looked like the George Washington Hospital. The same place he’d been after Trent …
Trent. For a second, he couldn’t breathe as he remembered Trent was dead.
Over the course of the year, Hunter had found grief to be an unpredictable enemy. It attacked at random times and left him breathless, helpless, and utterly confused.
“I’m glad you’re awake. That’s a good sign.” The doctor standing next to Ava was one that Hunter recognized. Ava was here? So that was Kensi, Ava, and probably Trey. Great. It must be bad.
The doctor reached out, and his hand hovered over Hunter’s eye. “Mr. Stone, I’m going to open your eye and check to make sure it’s working properly.”
Hunter found his eyelid opening, and a flashlight pointed at his eye. He winced, and the doctor didn’t probe further.
The doctor cleared his throat. “His vitals are good. I think we could prep him for surgery, get that prosthetic in, and it would be a quicker recovery time.”
“What?” Hunter held his left eye open with his fingers and searched for Trey.
“The good news is that they could make it seem like your eye works.“ Trey spoke to him like this was some fascinating thing he’d learned from some Netflix documentary. “The bad thing is that you won’t be able to see out of it.”
Hunter tried to process everything. So he’d lost his eye. Okay. Worse things could’ve happened. He remembered his last memory of Trent.
The doctor tapped his chart. “Mr. Stone, we would like to thank you for your service, but I also have to inform you that your time serving our country is done now.”
“What?”
Trey sighed. “Hunter, you know you can’t be a SEAL without your eye. They won’t let you.”
He was done? This information shook him to his core. He glanced at Kensi, then Ava, then back to Trey. That must be why there was a tickertape parade here. They didn’t know how he would handle the news.
Kensi squeezed his hand. “It’s going to be okay, Hunter. We are here for you. You can have your eye prosthetic. They say you’ll look normal; you just won’t have vision. We’ll bring you back to South Port with us. Trey already has guys boxing up your house in Virginia Beach. It’s all gonna work out.”
His mind felt like a ping-pong ball. He tried to speak, but there was that dang cotton mouth. He remembered the same feeling from when he’d woken and Trey had told him about Trent.
As if anticipating what he would need, a nurse pushed a drink with a straw toward him. “Here, sir.”
Hunter drank the water, which tasted so good as it slid down his throat. Of course, every SEAL was prepared for a game-ending injury. Sometimes, like with Trent and his dad, it was bye-bye, time to check out. Now, it was … what the heck was it? What would he do with his life?
Ava patted his hand. “It’ll be so nice to have you in South Port. This all can work out.”
Hunter wasn’t stupid. Throughout the past year, he’d acted more like his brother Trent than himself. He’d been reckless, and he had purposefully taken on the hard assignments. Maybe he’d been trying to get himself killed.
He would’ve been angry that Trey hadn’t consulted him about boxing up the house and getting it sold, except he’d had the same idea a million times. He didn’t like being there. He didn’t like wading through all the memories of Trent.
Perhaps the only thing he had liked was a chance to be reckless. He’d liked going out there and doing what he needed to do without worrying that anyone cared about him. The work had saved him.
Of course, he thought of Cheryse. Dang her. They hadn’t spoken since that night.
She’d texted him that she was sorry she’d slapped him.
He’d texted her that he was sorry, too.
So there it was. He had lost Trent, then Cheryse. The last year of his life had been one of Dante’s circles of hell, a montage of recklessness and loneliness.
