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“Damn right,” Gus said.
Cliff strode to the door and glanced back. “I hope you feel better soon,” he said.
“Love you, too, sweetcakes.” Gus’s chuckles followed Cliff out the door.
He started to turn toward the elevator, caught sight of a nurse wheeling a patient, bed and all into the elevator and opted for the stairs.
He could use the exercise. They’d driven from San Diego to Bozeman in two days. If Gus hadn’t had the gallstones, he would already be processed into the Brighter Days Rehab Ranch, and Cliff would be in West Yellowstone with Stone Jacobs and his team of Brotherhood Protectors. Cliff wasn’t disappointed at the delay. He’d taken Stone’s offer because it was the only one he felt even remotely qualified for.
Since leaving high school, the only job Cliff had was the Navy. Being a Navy SEAL, making it through BUD/S training and then performing dangerous missions all over the world had been his life.
Then why the hell had he left?
He’d asked himself that a hundred times and came back to the same answer.
Because he’d lost too much. His friends, brothers in arms, people he’d give his life to save if he could. He’d lost pieces of himself when a particular battle ended in collateral damage, a bullshit way of saying civilian casualties, like women and children. And he’d lost his conviction that he was fighting for his country.
Then there was the PTSD thing. For so long, he’d thought Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was a copout. People just needed to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and get on with life.
Yeah, he’d had nightmares and flashbacks after certain battles that hadn’t gone quite according to the plan. For the most part, he’d pushed past them, and they’d faded. Until Syria.
Until the village filled with regular people only trying to get by in a war-torn country. Old men, women and children going about their lives.
Then the explosion.
One minute the sun had been shining. A small child carrying a rag doll had stepped on what appeared to be a small mound in the dirt.
Cliff’s heart raced, beating so fast it hurt. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he trembled from head to toe.
Damn. Not now.
Before the panic attack rendered him catatonic, Cliff pushed through the stairwell door and dove through, slamming into someone on the other side.
The other person flew backward and hit the wall. Unable to slow his momentum, Cliff crushed the unsuspecting person.
Together, they slid down the wall to the concrete landing.
The shock of plowing into someone else arrested the panic attack and cleared his mind of the images of that day in Syria. He struggled to untangle himself from the other person’s arms and legs and rolled to the side, nearly tipping over the edge of the landing onto the stairs leading downward.
When he turned to the person he’d bowled over, he realized it was a woman. She sat with her back to the wall, her eyes wide and a hand pressed to her chest.
“I’m so sorry.” Cliff knelt on the floor beside her. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head and mouthed the words, Can’t breathe.
“Jesus.” He leaped to his feet. “I’ll get help.”
As he turned, he heard her gasp.
“Oh, thank God,” she said.
He turned back. “Are you going to be okay while I get someone to help?”
She shook her head. “No time.” Her hand reached up. “Help me up.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Though he wasn’t certain she should be getting up after being hit harder than a linebacker going after the quarterback, he gripped her hand.
“Wasting time.” She took his hand and pulled herself to her feet. “He’s getting away.” As she stood, she swayed and nearly fell.
