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Chapter Three

“My name is Winston Hannigan. I am a chief petty officer first class.” He rattled off his serial number. “I was deployed as a sand sailor under the Individual Augmentee Combat program two years and four months ago. For the past two years I have been living with the enemy.”

They could shoot him dead on the spot, lying there on the ground, hands behind his head. Part of him wished they would. Most of him wished it.

They were US Army. A sergeant and a private, based on the uniform markings. Both heavily armed.

As he’d been before they’d stripped him of his guns and ammo and the blade in his boot. His US-issued boot, with holes in the sole, worn with his pale gray kuchi dress and loose pants.

No one from the United States was going to believe he was still on their side. Most days he questioned it himself.

The string of curse words that followed sounded unbelievably good to him—issued as they were in his native tongue. Even the word traitor attached at the end of it made him want to weep with relief. It had been so long since he’d heard American English.

He wasn’t a traitor. Hadn’t betrayed his country’s secrets. But he’d done what he’d done. There was no undoing it. And no way to live with it, either.

He just wanted it over. Was ready to die, just like his heart and soul had already done. Winston Hannigan, married naval officer with a future at home, had been buried in the Afghan desert ages ago.

Hungry, thirsty, tired, Winston didn’t argue when he was hauled up roughly, his shoulders half coming out of his sockets. Didn’t care at all that the servicemen restrained him and threw him in the back of their off-road vehicle. He’d been on the road for three days with a goal that could go one of two ways: he’d get out of the desert or die in it.

The way he figured, that Jeep, the excruciating jars as it bumped along at top speeds, was helping him reach his goal. Maybe both ways.

* * *

The actual insemination wasn’t painful. In a room with mood-enhancing new age music playing and the lighting low, other than the small bright light positioned for the doctor, and the lavender candle she’d brought burning not too far away, it was all over while she was still mentally preparing for the ordeal. She tried to doze while waiting the appropriate time before she could get up and go home. Thought about what she’d have for dinner—some kind of treat to celebrate.

Couldn’t land on anything.

Wasn’t happy about that.

She did a lot of math in her head. Financial reports, estimating amounts of money needed per year to raise a child, adding in incidentals for vacations and the unforeseen, college account deposits and even possible competition fees if he or she was into sports or dancing.

She counted months. If the insemination took, she’d have a March baby. Counted days, fourteen of them, until she would know if the process was successful. She could take a home pregnancy test earlier than that, but according to Dr. Miller false positives were fairly common any earlier due to low hormonal counts.

Salad ended up being dinner—she didn’t have much of an appetite. And she didn’t call anyone. Her mother, a widow living with Emily’s divorced brother in San Diego, helping him raise his two kids, would insist on driving up. And her friends... Most of them had either moved away or faded off. She didn’t go out anymore, not since Winston went missing. Most of the people she used to spend time with were other couple friends with families of their own now, leaving her the odd one out—and she worked eighty hours a week and didn’t relish spending even more time with the people there.

Another math problem to work through. Getting as much work done in fewer hours. She couldn’t spend eighty hours in the office every week once a baby came. Child care funds had already been calculated. Multiple times. There was a day care in an office building not far from hers. The Bouncing Ball’s LA branch. Mallory Harris, the owner, was a client at the clinic—and expecting a baby of her own around Christmastime. Christine Elliott had introduced them.

If all went well, they’d be pregnant at the same time. Pregnant. She could be. Winston’s baby could already be forming inside her.

Math. Numbers. Focus.

Wednesday, June 12. Insemination day.

Conception Day?

Two years, four months and three days since she’d seen the father.

Hugging Winston’s pillow, Emily cried herself to sleep that night.

* * *

“I did things.”

Sitting on a worn blue couch, elbows on his khaki-covered knees, hands steepled at the fingers, Winston tried to help the naval therapist understand. Though he’d been back in the States for more than a week, in San Diego for three days, he didn’t feel any different than he had bumping around helplessly in the back of a military Jeep in the Afghan desert. He’d murdered his soul there. Nothing was going to change that.

“You’re a hero to your country.” The woman’s soft tones bounced off his eardrums like the buzz of an irritating fly. “What you did saved lives. And what you’ve brought back to us will save even more.”

He didn’t need to be told the facts. He knew them. Was wearing the ribbons he’d earned above his right pocket. He’d put country and his fellow comrades before soul. Had made very clear decisions—for very clear reasons. He’d come up with the plan on his own. Had implemented it without telling anyone, knowing that if he’d spoken up, he’d have been told not to act.

His plan had succeeded. Beyond his expectations. He hadn’t counted on surviving.

“My wife believes I’m dead. I wish to leave it that way.” An unusual request, but not impossible. He was informing on a terrorist cell. He could request a new identity. Keep anyone who knew him by his former identity out of it.

Not that they were really in any danger. No one in the sect he’d joined knew who he really was. And the man they’d thought him to be, another soldier he’d impersonated, was dead.

“She’s going to know you’re alive when the death benefits stop.”

He’d thought of that. Had told his superiors that he didn’t need to see a shrink, and the morning’s meeting was only proving his point.

“I’ll do whatever I have to do, sign whatever I have to sign, so that she continues to receive insurance coverage and monthly checks in the amount she expects.” His salary should be able to cover that, with enough left for him to live on. They’d told him he’d have his pick of duties. After a mandatory six-month leave. And a release from the fly-voiced woman. All due respect to her, meeting with her was a waste of his time. She couldn’t begin to see inside him. And wouldn’t know how to handle it if she could. No amount of learning could prepare you...

“You indicated a desire to stay with the navy.”

“Yes.” It was all he had. He’d chosen his loyalty.

“Naval police,” she said, glancing through the dark reading glasses sitting halfway down her nose at the open file on her desk. He’d considered going civilian...applying to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, but then his checks to Emily would no longer come from the navy.

“Correct.” Sitting back, his ankle across his knee, he reached an arm out along the back of the couch—a pose of relaxation he’d perfected over two years of living as family within an enemy sect. Pretending not to have a care in the world as he lied to them every single day, knowing that if he slipped up, was found out, he’d suffer torture far worse than death.

His free hand came to his chin and for a second, he was startled by the bareness there.

He’d shaved the beard. No longer had it to pull on when he needed to make certain he was still alive. And could feel.

He was Petty Officer First Class Winston Hannigan again. Not Private First Class Danny Garrison—the young man in his command who’d died in his arms, the man whose identity he’d assumed. If he’d died over there, as he’d expected to do, Danny would have been hailed as the hero. His family deserved that.

“You need my sign-off at the end of six months.”

Hers, or another military shrink’s. He looked her straight in the eye. After the past two years, Winston didn’t scare easily. Was way beyond falling prey to intimidation or manipulation.

He’d lived with the enemy for two years and had come out with a body still fully intact. Not many visible scars, even.

“Tell me why you don’t want your wife to know you’re alive.”

He’d already done so, when he’d first taken a seat in her office and she’d asked him to tell her a little about himself.

“I’m not the man she knew. Nor am I a man still interested in a lifetime commitment to another individual.”

“So you said.” The brunette fortysomething in dress whites kind of shrugged as she tried to pin him with her eagle eye. Wasn’t going to happen. The only pins he wore were attached to his ribbons.

“It’s not fair to her,” he added, lest the woman think he’d developed a selfish streak during his time in pseudo-captivity. “I am not the man she married. She wouldn’t love the man I’ve become. Trust me on this. I know her. She’d grieve every day, living with me. It’s much kinder to let her make a new life for herself.”

“She’s not a woman who knows her own mind?”

“Of course she is. Completely. Emily knew when she was fourteen that she was going to be my wife. And she knew we had to have college degrees before we married, too,” he said. “She’s been with the same firm since graduation and has quickly climbed the ranks to senior account executive. Because she knows what she wants and goes after it.”

“But you don’t love her anymore.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Not exactly.”

“Let’s just say...my feelings have changed. Period. Across the board. I don’t love anything in the ways I used to. For God’s sake, I lived in hell for two years. I’m affected by that, okay? But not in any way that will prevent me from being a damned good MA.” Master-at-arms—naval military police. The one thing he knew for certain he’d be good at.

“Of course you’re affected. That’s why you’re here.”

If his hour were up, he’d be leaving. But it wasn’t. So he sat. Appeared relaxed. Thought about pulling on his beard. He knew the drill. Had lived it every day for the past twenty-four months. He was there because he had to be. No less. No more.

Five minutes of silence passed. Six. Then seven. Relaxing became more real than act. Silence was a friend he trusted. Within the silence he could hear.

Think. Prepare. Protect.

Within the silence he could be whoever he wanted to be. Think whatever he wanted to think.

“Here’s what I believe.” Dr. Adamson ruined the moment. “I believe that your six-month sabbatical was ordered to give you time to heal. And since we both know that, physically, you could pass any test today, your superiors must believe you need time to heal mentally. Or emotionally. Or, more likely, both.”

“Could also be that having been in captivity for two years earned me six months of leave.” Not that he was expecting the immediate future to be a vacation. He’d be debriefing with select, hand-chosen individuals. Two years of information collection was filed in his brain. No one asked him to collect it. But since he had, they wanted it. About as much as he wanted them to have it.

“The order isn’t written as vacation leave time,” she said, looking down as though rereading what she’d probably already committed to memory.

Semantics. He said nothing. Didn’t move. Or drop his gaze from hers. Bring it on. Whatever she had to dish out...he could take. And then some.

“Your superiors think you need my help,” Dr. Adamson said, closing his file and leaning her forearms on her desk over it as she looked at him. “In order to survive, you built defenses. Exactly what you’ve been trained to do.”

He gave her a bit of a shrug. Probably of acknowledgment.

“Your task now is to let some of them go. That takes time. You know what you know. I’m not debating that. Or even saying it’s wrong. But if you’re going to be of any further service to the United States, to the navy, you need to figure out which of those defenses no longer serve you and lose them.”

Right. Fine. He probably didn’t have to listen to every conversation in the next room anymore as a way of watching his back. Or sleep a few hours every day in the bunker he’d dug so that he could stay awake during the night when others thought he was asleep. He didn’t need to watch his back quite so much now that there were others around who’d share the burden while he watched theirs. Maybe he didn’t need to control every single thought he had.

He’d already reached these conclusions. Didn’t need her telling him what he already knew. But he needed her signature, releasing him.

If she wanted him to spell things out, he would. But only if it came to that or no signature. His thoughts were the one thing no one had taken from him.

“What you do is your choice, of course. Always. But for me to be able to release you back to active duty, in any capacity, I’m going to need some specific things from you.”

His arm dropped from the back of the couch as he leaned forward. Ready.

“I’m going to need to see you at least twice a month over the next six months.”

He’d been prepared for twice weekly. He hid a smile as he mentally applauded her good judgment. “Done.”

“When you return, two weeks from today, I’d like you to have a more permanent place to live.”

He was fine in the barracks. But...he could easily afford an apartment, too. He nodded.

“And I need you to go see your wife. If you want someone to prepare her ahead of time, let her know that you’re still alive, I can see to that.”

Had she listened to anything he’d said? The muscles in his jaw tensing, Winston clamped his jaws together. Took a long, slow breath. Reminded himself that he was an officer in the United States Navy.

“Whatever arrangements the two of you make are up to you, but you have to make them. With her. Or her lawyer.”

Her lawyer? As in divorce?

He supposed, if he was going to be alive to Emily, divorce would come, but...

“Let me get this straight. Before I can go back to serving my country... I have to hurt my wife? Make her suffer more than she already has?”

“You have to learn how to interact with people in a more normal interpersonal way, Officer. Your wife has a mind of her own. You don’t have the right to take her choices away from her. Or her suffering, if that’s what’s to come her way. It’s also important that you be capable of handling life’s emotional ups and downs rather than running from them, but first and foremost, you can’t go through life, at least not navy life, thinking that you know best for everyone else.”

She was staring straight at him and one clear fact hit so hard he almost physically cringed. The navy had given her a charge. She could only release him back to them if she could confidently assure them that, in her opinion, he could, and would, follow orders.

He was paying for his choice to act of his own accord. His choice to go rogue.

And that, he understood.

Wednesday. June 19. He left Dr. Adamson’s office, after one hour to the minute, having agreed to her demands.

All of them.