Never Forget: A Novella in the Echo Platoon Series (2 page)

“Hey, Mom,” Curtis said, managing to acknowledge her.

Maya counted to ten. Then, drawing herself to her fullest height, she marched in front of the huge computer monitor Curtis had moved from the family room to his bedroom, reached down, and pushed the power button.

“What the hell?” one of Curtis’s friends, larger than any fourteen-year-old should be, exclaimed loudly.

She sent the boy a look that had made many a guilty serviceman confess to his crimes, yet he scarcely blinked. “I’m sorry,” she announced, then wished she hadn’t started with an apology. “You’re all going to have to leave right now.”

“What?” Curtis lowered his controller. “Mom, you can’t be serious!”

“Oh, I’m perfectly serious.” She glanced toward the three boys whom she only vaguely recognized. The big one with the smart mouth lounged on Curtis’s beanbag chair like he had no intention of going anywhere.

She took a step in his direction. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” She glanced pointedly at Curtis.

“That’s Santana,” he mumbled.

The boy must have been taught some manners a long time ago because he came to his feet, albeit with a look of annoyance. He towered over her, looking about sixteen years old, and did not extend his hand.

“Santana,” she repeated. Her gaze slid from the resentful curl on his upper lip, to the stained T-shirt, to the baggy jeans hanging on his narrow hips. She offered hers first. “Hi, I’m Curtis’s mom, Mrs. Schultz.” He supplied a limp handshake.

“Unfortunately,” she said, repulsed by the feel of his sticky fingers, “Curtis does not have permission to have friends over while I’m at work.” She sent Santana a tight smile.
So you can leave now,
she silently conveyed.

His derisive gaze drifted over her, taking in her smart, cream-colored suit, bare calves, and three-inch heels. “You’re here now, ain’t you?” he pointed out.

His insolence stripped the air from her lungs but only for a second. “Yes, I am here,” she said, in a voice underlined by steel. “But Curtis is now grounded so, not only can’t you play here, but you won’t be able to come back anytime soon.”

“Oh, come on, Mom.” Curtis’s protest faded at the withering look she sent him. “All right, guys. You gotta go.” Rolling to his feet, he shepherded his friends out of his bedroom and down the stairs.

Maya followed at a distance, rehearsing the words she was going to say while searching for the level-headedness she was famous for at work. But her blood kept boiling, forcing her to acknowledge that she was furious—not so much at Curtis as at fate.

Why couldn’t Ian have survived that fateful firefight on Gilman’s Ridge? Why couldn’t he have retired today like Master Chief Kuzinsky had that afternoon? And why couldn’t she get that economy-sized power-pack of a SEAL out of her head?

That instant she’d laid eyes on him, a feeling akin to joy had blossomed in her before she’d squashed it. She hadn’t felt that way about a man since . . . since Ian. And even though Ian had been dead for more than a decade, finding Kuzinsky attractive was just plain wrong.

He and his platoon had been sent up Gilman’s Ridge to rescue the Marines. Yet within forty-eight hours, every jarhead and frogman alike had ended up dead—every man but Rusty, who seemed to have a near-miraculous talent for survival.

It wasn’t fair to say he was responsible for Ian’s death but—yes—it was easier to blame him than to admit that some part of her that had lain dormant since Ian came home in a casket fluttered like a butterfly in Rusty’s uber-masculine presence.

Besides that, she admired his disciplined and self-restrained mannerisms, his intelligence, and his loyalty to his subordinates. The fact that his underlings held him in such high esteem said something for him, too. However, his mentioning Ian at his retirement ceremony had stung like salt in an old wound. It had left her feeling guilty for finding the SEAL so compelling.

The front door gave a slam, wresting Maya from her tortuous thoughts. Curtis stormed into the kitchen and glared at her, his arms akimbo.

“Thanks a lot,” he growled, flicking the overlong blond bangs out his eyes. “Now they’re probably not going to play games here anymore because they think my mom is a bitch.”

She noted the obscenity with rising fury. “I don’t care what they think of me. You know the rules and you flouted them. Now you have to face the consequences. You’re grounded for a week, and I never want to find out that your so-called friends have been in my house while I’m away.”

He sneered at her warning. “You don’t know anything about my friends.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know what their names are, who their parents are, or whether they’re a good influence or not. And until I do, they’re not to come here. I can tell you right now that Santana is trouble, and you need to stay away from him.”

“You can’t tell me who my friends should be.”

“That’s my job, actually.”

“Well, I don’t think so. Stop treating me like I’m some stupid military person who broke the rules and has to go to jail.”

“I’m not. I’m treating you like a fourteen-year-old who’s getting too big for his britches. Now clean up this kitchen and then you can start on your bedroom while I cook our supper.”

As he drew a shuddering breath, his expanding chest took on the burly dimensions he would eventually grow into, inherited from his father. A frisson of alarm shot to the ends of Maya’s fingertips. What if he grew too large and rebellious for her to handle?

If only Ian were still here.

“Fine,” he snarled, relieving her for the time being. But then he wheeled toward the wall closest to him and punched it—hard.

Maya gaped, not believing that her son had just plowed his fist into the wall. But there was no mistaking the impression of Curtis’s knuckles as he snatched his hand back and wheeled away, rubbing his bruised flesh and hissing with discomfort.

“Well that’s one more thing that will need fixing,” she pointed out before turning away and stalking to her bedroom to change her clothing. “You can put away the groceries I bought while you’re cleaning up,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Closing and locking her door, she threw herself across her bed, hugged a pillow to her chest, and stared sightlessly at the painting hanging next to her bed—a watercolor of a smiling Ian she’d commissioned after his death. She’d been determined to keep him in her thoughts, a part of her life no matter what.

Funny, but when she stared at his face while lying horizontal, he looked a bit like Rusty Kuzinsky who also kept his hair cut short—except Rusty’s hair was auburn where Ian’s had been chestnut. Both men had brown eyes, though Rusty’s were darker, like twin ponds at night. They seemed to hold the most profound thoughts.

Bronco had told her that, following retirement, Rusty was starting up a retreat where active duty SEALs could recuperate following especially tough assignments. He wanted to help them exorcise their demons, to heal and adjust to peacetime before returning to their families.

Ian could have used a place like that. He’d always been so jumpy and irritable his first few weeks back from an overseas tour.

Rusty’s charity only added to all the appealing traits she’d noted about him. It made her feel shallow for holding a grudge against him all these years. How could she resent a man who considered the welfare of others to such an extent that he shaped his life’s purpose around it?

But if she forgave him completely, then this shroud in which she’d lain dormant might become something like a cocoon, transforming her into something altogether new. Change was frightening. It was safer to stay the way she was, clinging to bitterness, and raising her rebellious son as best she could.

Chapter Two

‡

M
OVING FROM ROOM
to room in the eight-bedroom farmhouse he’d restored, Rusty jotted down the items still requiring his attention.

In just five days, his first lodgers would arrive—members of SEAL Team 3, home-based in Coronado. They would stay at Never Forget Retreat for two weeks before returning home. This place would be their halfway house—a place to shed the mantle of war, to calm an overly responsive nervous system, and to begin feeling human again.

Taking in all that he’d done, Rusty basked in self-satisfaction. The bedrooms, painted in manly blues, greens, and grays, invited occupants to take their rest on the brand-new mattresses all donated by companies around Virginia Beach.

Most of the furniture was second hand, but he had an eye for what styles and eras went with what—traditional with contemporary, antique with retro-chic. All those nights of lowering the blinds so he could watch the Home and Garden channel in secret had apparently paid off. From the pillows tossed on inviting armchairs to the bedding and artwork, each room felt like a place to find rest.

With his small checklist started, Rusty headed down the front staircase, pleased when the treads didn’t give even the tiniest squeak. On the lower level, he’d removed many of the original walls to create an open-concept floor plan.

A large parlor with a piano original to the house funneled guests from the foyer toward the living area and then to the farm-style kitchen that occupied the addition at the rear of the house. French doors on the right side of the living area led to an expansive sunporch with wicker furniture and potted plants.

Sweeping stairs bisected the house, leaving room at the front for an enclosed library with built-in bookcases overflowing with books on every subject. To the rear, the formal dining room with its Italian-style table and high-backed chairs offered seating for up to twenty. Rusty had contracted with two different cooks to whip up meals daily—though, truth be told, he wished he could do the cooking himself.

Of course, he would be too busy arranging activities for the men to have time to cook. SEALs were used to having a constant objective. Lounging around doing nothing wouldn’t cut it. Thus, Rusty stored an arsenal full of paintball guns and a fleet of used all-terrain vehicles in the barn beside the house—all donated by patriotic store owners who’d responded to his appeals.

He had diving equipment for anyone wanting to swim up the creek to the sound, cornhole equipment, a permanent volleyball net out back, and plans to build an obstacle course.

His neighbors, the Digges family, owned a stable full of horses and offered trail rides at discounted prices should Rusty’s guests show any interest. The trails in the woods offered long walks and fresh air and a place to play war games. And the creek offered ample opportunity to catch catfish or go crabbing.

In addition to the cooks who would come in daily, Rusty had partnered with local artists, musicians, writers, counselors, and wellness experts—scheduling them to visit the men, illustrating various ways of coping with the horrors branded in their minds, either from their most recent tour or from an accumulation of their military experience.

I’m almost ready
, he assured himself. All he needed were the few crowning touches that he had jotted onto his note pad.

Crossing to the piano, he trilled the recently-tuned keys while surveying the lower level with a critical eye. Ah, yes. The door to the powder room reminded him. He still needed a trash bin in there—off-white metal with a raised design to match the framed prints hanging on the beige walls.

The sound of a vehicle barreling up his dirt driveway had him spinning toward the window in anticipation of a hostile force. Of course, there was no enemy. But beyond the front porch with its assortment of colorful rockers, a black, government issued SUV kicked up dust in its haste to reach his house.

Behind a tinted windshield, he made out a youthful and unfamiliar face. The SUV braked, and the driver, dressed in fatigues, leaped out from behind the steering wheel, slamming his door shut. With a harried glance at the back of his SUV, he hurried toward Rusty’s front door.

What the hell is this about?

With a thought for the Gerber blade hidden under his pant leg, Rusty went to answer the man’s sturdy knock. Years of service in faraway, dangerous places made him cautious when opening a door, but the young man’s earnest gaze banished his concerns right away.

“Master Chief Kuzinsky?”

Given the desperation oozing out of the young man, Rusty knew an impulse to deny his identity. “Retired,” he said, glancing at the patches on the man’s BDU jacket. Apparently, he was a marine sergeant with the last name of Mata.

Rusty’s retirement was clearly news to the jarhead. “Oh, congratulations,” he said.

“How can I help you?” Rusty asked.

Sergeant Mata gestured toward his vehicle and that’s when Rusty heard it—the unmistakable bark of a Belgian Malinois—grating, persistent, like an intermittent alarm going off. “I’ve brought you the service dog you asked for.”

Rusty’s brain short-circuited for the second time in two days.

“I never asked for a service dog.” He stepped back tempted to close the door in the man’s face.

Sergeant Mata frowned down at his paperwork. “But you did,” he insisted. “Back in 2012, you left a request at Lackland asking to get Draco when he was retired from service.”

“Draco?” With a feeling like he’d been kicked in the gut, Rusty looked back at the black SUV. “That’s Draco in there?”

“Yes, Master Chief—I mean, sir. He’s nine now, too old for another tour. My orders say you signed up to adopt him if anything happened to his handler.”

“Nichols,” Rusty breathed, naming Draco’s handler. “What happened?”

Mata shook his head. “He was killed two weeks ago. Explosives were buried deep under the road, and Draco didn’t catch the scent.”

Nichols’ youthful face and ready smile panned through Rusty’s mind, memories snagging on his heart and tearing through it.

“It wasn’t the dog’s fault,” the soldier defended the military war dog. “He should’ve been retired years ago. He was just so good at what he did.”

Rusty had to clear his throat to find his voice. “What about Draco. Was he hurt?”

“He was caught at the edge of the blast. It concussed him but he’s okay now, as you can hear.”