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Chapter One
Torture would have been kinder than
this. Seven surgeries in five months had
led him here...the dead end.
“Having
you closer to home will help all of us, Michael,” his mother rattled on until
he tuned her out.
He
gritted his teeth as she wheeled him inside the New Horizons Institute, the
world-renowned physical therapy center intended to transition him back into his
life. His life. He snorted. Paralyzed on his left side from
the waist down with minimum feeling in his right leg, he failed to see the
reasons for trying to change either his condition or his attitude about it by
coming to this place. Transitional
facility. Just another word for hell as
far as he was concerned. He squeezed the
arm on the wheelchair. The fact that he,
a decorated officer in the US Marine Corps, needed to learn “basic life skills”
as they called it, fueled his anger.
“Hi,
I’m Becky Shane-McGill, your new physical therapist. Welcome, Colonel.” Black hair spiked from her
head at odd spurts as if she had recently had a breakdown of some sort and
emerald eyes snapped with too much cheer for his current attitude.
Her
name rattled his nerves, reminded him of a redheaded journalist who had saved
his life and stolen his heart in a desert a world away. Hope Shane. His heart jumped as if waking
from a deep sleep as he wondered if this woman with the crazy hair could be her
sister.
God,
he hoped not. That would be the last straw.
An
image flickered in his mind of a woman covered with sand and streaked with
blood, flame-colored hair stuffed beneath the ugliest hat he’d ever seen and a
smile wicked enough to make him forget the bombs exploding around them.
“Shane-McGill?”
His voice sounded strange even to himself.
Strained. Devoid of emotion.
“Hope Shane’s sister?”
“Yes.” Becky cringed before shooting him a
half-smile. “It’s true. After the story
she did on you, how could I not request to work with you myself?”
“The
story...right.” He squeezed his eyes closed and clenched his fists. So that’s all her sister knew of their
connection, a bit in a magazine about fallen heroes. His heart twisted at the confirmation that
he’d been left behind after all.
“She
wrote of you like you were the biggest hero she’d ever met.”
“I’m
not a hero, far from it,” he said, unable to meet her gaze. “I’m not supposed
to be here.”
“Timing
worked in our favor.” His dad slapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon, Mike, the sooner we get you settled,
the sooner you’ll be able to come home.”
Home. He had no idea what that meant anymore. He clenched the box in his hands, thumbs
stroking the worn wood at the edges. He
hated this entire situation. None of
this had been in his life plan and he simply didn’t know what to do.
Coming
to the New Horizons Institute in Denver, Colorado, had been his family’s idea
and he’d opposed it from the beginning.
Close to his parents and son in Colorado Springs, yes, but the
connection to Hope Shane concerned him. He knew her well enough to suspect she
had more to do with this transition than anyone would admit. Damn her.
She was like a pit bull wearing lipstick when it came to her
determination to interfere with his life.
Maybe she hadn’t returned to her
hometown. He’d seen her on NBC several
times while he recovered in a hospital bed.
Perhaps she was still putting herself in danger’s way or—worse
yet—dancing with another man in an exotic location, making love with him,
laughing with him, and holding him.
Good.
Fine. He didn’t want her anyway. Good-bye
once and for all.
He
clenched the box like a football and watched Becky lead the way down the
hall. He had left too many loose ends
and worried that the great unraveling would take place any minute.
When
his mother steered him into his suite, he glanced at the extra-wide door, low
countertops, yellow walls and denim-covered sofa. End tables were covered with family photos
and Dalton’s drawings. Homey, he
believed his mother called it. Sweet hell would be more accurate.
Dalton
shifted from foot to foot, his six-year-old self looking uncomfortable in this
adult situation. Shaggy brown hair fell
over his eyes when he glanced over his shoulder at him. “Do you like it, dad?”
He
nodded even though he wanted to scream.
“Let’s
go check out the bedroom,” his father grabbed Dalton’s hand and led him away,
but Dalton kept his eyes on him as if challenging him to say more, do more, and
be more.
He
watched his son and wanted to explain.
But how do you explain war was more than a video game to a six-year-old?
“As
you know, Colonel, this is a transitional facility not a hospital. Although we will continue with your physical
therapy, our main purpose here is to prepare you for life on your own with your
new challenges,” Becky said with her perpetual grin.
Challenges. Right.
He stared at his unmoving legs.
Everyone was too politically correct for his taste.
“Oh,
it’s going to be great having you so close. We’ll come up every weekend to see
you. Dalton is very excited,” his mother, Gwen, said in that
too-fast-too-cheery-too-desperate voice of hers that was driving him nuts.
He
closed his eyes. He dreaded the idea of
spending every weekend with people who expected him to be the guy he was before
Afghanistan. He saw it in the eyes...the
expectation that he’d snap out of it and be the son they’d once known. But Dalton deserved a father, he knew that,
so he’d try. That’s all he could do,
try.
And
somewhere out there was that damned redheaded journalist pulling strings to get
him here and waiting to pounce, he knew it even though no one would confirm
it. Just thinking of the expectations
she’d hold made him sick to his stomach.
His
father and Dalton returned from the bedroom, beaming smiles and good will. As
they chattered about how wonderful it was, he realized they had all gone
insane. Completely nuts. The plant was
just a plant, no adjective needed. The
place was another trap, another illusion of progress and healing.
He wanted out. What he would give for a drink, a cold beer
or a shot of whiskey. God, what he wouldn’t give for one day of freedom. One day with no one telling him what to think,
when to roll over, what to eat, when to shower, what to say. One day of
normalcy. One day without sympathetic looks or discussions about his
injuries. One day when he wouldn’t think
about war and loss.
“Dad,”
Dalton approached him with a toothless grin, pulling up his jeans as he
moved. “Grandpa and I set up the XBOX in
your bedroom. Wanna play me
sometime? I’ve been practicing.”
“He
would love to play, wouldn’t you, Michael?”
Gwen squeezed his shoulder.
“Sounds
good.” He looked at his son and hated the awkwardness between them. He had been overseas so long…too long…and now
he didn’t know what to do or how to be.
Again
he thought of Hope, felt her arms around his waist as she had half-dragged,
half-carried him to safety from a burning Humvee, her husky voice warning him
not to pass out, pleading with him to stay alive, promising him a bottle of
ouzo if they ever made it back to the States together. She had saved his life.
He
would never forgive her for that.
“Michael?”
Gwen leaned over him, concern shadowing her eyes. “Are you okay? You look exhausted.”
“Long
flight, long day.” His gaze flicked over the wrinkles that had deepened on her
forehead. Being his mother had aged her
beyond her years. He looked away.
“Colonel?” Becky’s turn to hover.
“I’m
tired. I have a headache.” He wheeled his chair toward the windows
overlooking a courtyard. The front range
of the Rocky Mountains framed Denver’s skyline.
Aspen trees with leafless branches swayed in the cool breeze.
“We
need to leave dad alone, grandma. Let’s
go,” Dalton said to Gwen as he tugged her long skirt. “Let’s leave dad alone.”
He
glanced at his son. More than anything,
he wished he could undo his time away from his boy. When he thought he would die, he’d made Hope promise
to come back to the States, find Dalton and tell him how much his dad had loved
him. Now here he sat within five feet of
his son and couldn’t say the words he felt in his heart.
Once
a marine, always a marine. That’s what
people said, but for the past five months he hadn’t felt much like a
warrior. He didn’t know how to feel
anymore, what to be, how to act, or what to say. He had no idea how to stop the downward spiral.
“Where
is Hope?” He needed to know, instinct
cautioning him that all hell was about to break loose. “She isn’t here, is she? I mean, she’s not going to walk in the door
any minute…is she?” He looked at the
wooden box he held in his lap. She had
written him every day. Postcards.
Notecards. Backs of napkins and receipts. Whatever she could find, she had written on
and mailed. Every day until about six
weeks ago when she must have given up. He had written back, but never mailed
his responses because they had been filled with too much pain, too much
self-pity. “Is she in Afghanistan? Did she go back?”
“She
isn’t in Afghanistan, Colonel.” Becky
chewed her lower lip, arms folded across her chest as she studied him.
“No?
South Korea? Tell me she didn’t take that assignment.” His thumbs tapped on the box. “It’s too dangerous
over there, unpredictable.”
“She
didn’t go to South Korea.” Becky studied
him with those too-similar eyes and frowned.
“How close are the two of you?”
“Did
she have anything to do with me being transferred here? You’re her sister…that’s too much of a
coincidence. Hope and I…” He shook his
head, finding it impossible to describe who her sister had been to him. “I think it’s too much of a coincidence,
that’s all.”
“No,
Michael, we thought it would be best. This was our decision, especially after
Callie filed for custody of Dalton. Ms.
Shane did send us the information, even recommended Ms. Shane-McGill, said
she’d call in a few favors to move you up the list, but we made the decision.” Gwen glanced at his father who hovered
uncertainly behind everyone else. “Like
I said, your father and I—”
“I
know what you said, but I also know Hope.
She always gets what she wants.”
A familiar swell of dread sloshed in his gut. Not that she would want
him anymore, not like this...damaged beyond repair.
“We
brought up some family pictures and some other things to make this more
comfortable for you…” His father faltered and looked toward his mother. “We plan on getting up here as often as
possible. Dalton’s in school and doesn’t
have a break until Thanksgiving, but we’ll try to make it up as many weekends
as possible until you can...”
He
glanced at his father as his words trailed off.
That summed it up right there--uncertainty. Until he could what? Go home?
Where was that anymore? With
them? On his own? Where?
“I
started playing hockey this year,” Dalton said with a cautious look at
him. “I suppose you can’t come see me
play, huh? Do you have to stay here all
the time? Grandma said you were gonna be
home now.”
God,
this sucked. He wished his life had a
rewind button.
“We’re
driving back to the Springs tomorrow.
Dalton can’t miss too much school.
We want to give you time to get settled into the routine before we start
pestering you too much.”
“Yeah,
Dad,” Dalton said, taking a step toward him.
“Grandma and grandpa said we’re going to stay in a hotel that has a
water slide this weekend, isn’t that cool? Can you come see me there?”
He
nodded, afraid he no longer knew the right things to say to his family.
“Captain
McGee from your unit is in town. He said
he was discharged a few months ago, has a job driving between San Diego and
Denver. He’s been good about keeping in
touch.” Gwen hugged him again and
lingered. “We’re all so happy to have
you here, Michael, so close to home again. It’s a miracle.”
He
fingered the lid of the box resting against his thigh. Hope’s letters had been postmarked everywhere
from Pakistan to Libya. All with her PO
box in New York as a return address.
She’d written about the mundane observations of her day, just as if
they’d been lying in bed together like they used to do. He’d read them at all hours of the day and
night until some of them had torn at the creases.
“If
Hope’s not in Afghanistan, where is she?” he asked.
“She’s
in Denver, working at Channel 9 news.
She moved back a little over a month ago,” Becky answered, her grin
slipping. “Would you like to call her?”
“God,
no.” The thought of calling Hope
Shane--technically Hope Cedars—his estranged and apparently still secret wife,
crippled him more than his injuries ever could.
“Does she know I’m here? Tell me what to expect. I don’t want to be
ambushed.”
“Ambushed? I doubt it.
Since returning to Denver, she’s been working non-stop. You know how she is, always chasing a story. I don’t see her much.” Becky looked at his family for support but
they still wore their strained, awkward smiles. “Your move here came about
rather suddenly. I don’t know how she’d
know about it.”
It
was obvious from her sister’s blank expression that Hope had kept their
secret. Of course she had. A woman like that didn’t need to be saddled
with a disabled marine as a husband.
Maybe she had never filed the marriage certificate. Maybe she had finally given up but hadn’t
been able to tell him in the letters.
Maybe she had already found someone else. Maybe that’s why the letters had
stopped.
He
wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, punch something, throw something;
instead he turned his chair and stared out the window.
* * * *
“Are you sure this is the right
place?” Devon asked, peering over the
steering wheel of her Prius.
Hope
looked at the address scrawled on the back of the picture that had been sent to
her office. “Yep, this is it.” She flipped the picture over again and winced
at the sight of illegal immigrants piled into the back of a van like pellets of
produce. “I’m going to snoop around, you
stay here.”
“No
way I’m staying here.” Devon wrapped her
brown hair into a quick ponytail. “This neighborhood gives me the heebie
jeebies. We’re going to stick out like flamingos in Alaska.”
“Flamingos
in Alaska?” She fumbled inside her messenger bag for a stone she always touched
for luck. The white stone fit into the
palm of her hand. Smooth. Flat. She rubbed her fingers over it before
slipping it back inside the zippered pouch. Flashing Devon a smile, she opened
the door. “I love flamingos, all pink and balancing on one leg. I need a
vacation. Key West would be fun,
wouldn’t it? Are flamingos wild down
there or only in the state parks? Or zoos?
They’re not cooped up in zoos, are they?”
“Focus,
Hope.”
“Don’t
worry. I’m focused. You’re the one who brought up flamingos. Can
they fly? I need to Google that later.”
She tapped her fingers on her messenger bag while her gaze scanned the
block.
Every
building had bars on the windows. The
sidewalk played out like an amusement park fun ride, all ridges and
crevices. One house in particular kept
her attention: its stone façade reminded her of an old whore, used up and neglected. The note that had arrived at her office a few
weeks ago claimed a human smuggling operation was trafficking through Denver,
all going through this neighborhood. The leads she’d followed since had turned
up some interesting twists and created some threats. She grinned. Where there were threats, there
was a story.
“I have a feeling this is going to be a
big one, Dev.” She exited the car and
strode toward a corner store. “Just
hopefully not too big, if you know what I mean. I’ve had enough of dangerous
situations to last me a lifetime.”
“Yet
here we are skulking around one of the worst neighborhoods in town,” Devon
complained, keeping pace. “I never knew
Denver’s seedy underworld until you arrived.
You bring out the worst in people.”
“High
compliment, Dev.” She grinned at her
friend, feeling the zap of adrenaline pulse through her veins at the prospect
of breaking open a conspiracy. “We’ll get a feel for the place before we decide
where to begin, I’m thinking we can do a few feature stories about the
neighborhood—”
“No
one’s going to believe that you’re doing feature stories—”
“That
way we can build up some trust while we do the real digging.” Her grin turned into a toothy smile when she
noticed Devon’s frown. “Where’s the
faith, Dev? I can blend. I can be charming.”
Devon
snorted her answer.
“Let’s
have lunch,” she said, spotting a diner.
“Mingle. You know, we could find
some great stories here. People trying
to better their community, stuff like that.
I bet we can find some real gems while we sniff out the bad guys.”
“Sniff
out the bad guys? Right. Got it.
But do we have to eat? I just had
breakfast,” Devon protested.
“Okay,
here’s what we’re going to do.” She
stopped, mind jumping with ideas. “We’ll
do a feature on the diner to begin with, make nice with the locals, smile a
lot. People like being on television.
They’ll be flattered. The more we hang around, the easier it will be for us to
find out what’s really happening.”
“And
you think Marion will go for the feature series?”
“Of
course he will. He’s thrilled to have me
as part of the 9 News team, remember? He loves me.” She laughed at the doubt twisting Devon’s
face. “And I’m adorable...charming...the
list is long.”
“Gee,
I forgot.” Devon rolled her eyes.
“Maybe
our source will surface.” Energy pumped through her veins like an out of
control freight train. “We’re being
noticed. People like to talk. This is a good thing. Excellent.”
“You
never should have left network. Denver
will bore you. Did you know there’s a
bet at the station about how long you’ll stick around? You’re a danger junkie, meant to cover wars
and other major catastrophes around the world.”
Devon motioned to their surroundings.
“You had the glamorous job, the prestige of being a network war
correspondent. I don’t know how you
could have left it all for this.”
Her
smile faltered at the memory of being caught in the crossfire between
insurgents and the US military, the memory of her best friend Peter’s head
exploding in front of her, the memory of crawling into an overturned jeep with
corpses at her feet and picking bits of Peter’s skull from her hair, the memory
of dragging a wounded marine to safety while hell erupted around them. Not so glamorous.
Now
was not the time for memories. Focus,
focus, busy, busy.
Inside
the diner wasn’t much more appealing than the outside. Tile had been bleached
more than once and the damage was irreparable. Orange booths lined the walls;
some ripped, some not, a cliché of mundane.
“You
were the It Girl, the reporter destined to be a network anchor one day or to at
least have your own show like Anderson Cooper.
You were so close to having it all, the golden ring that every
journalism student dreams of and you walked away. Don’t you ever miss it?”
“Let’s
see what’s on the menu, Dev. I need to
eat,” she said.
She
feigned interest in the choices while her peripheral vision took in the
room. She had been in worse places than
this, eaten worse food. Hands shook on the menu as she remembered sharing a
protein bar with Michael as they hid in a bombed out shell of a home. She’d stitched up the gash in his head with
the thread in her bag, the same bag she carried now. He’d given her that stone then, told her that
they would be leaving and taking that with them as proof of survival. And she had prayed that he wouldn’t die…she
had prayed and prayed and prayed.
“Hey,
Hope, what’s clicking away in your brain now?
You look far too serious. What
were you thinking about?”
She
shook the images from her mind, folded the menu and struggled to regain
focus. Sighing, she rubbed the center of
her chest with a closed fist. “An old
friend and a shared dinner, if you could call it that.”
“The
war? How come you never talk about it?”
“I
was a war correspondent, Dev, I talked about it every day.” She exhaled a long breath. “Think I’ll have
the veggie skillet.”
“This
idea of yours is going to mean a lot of work.
Feature stories, investigative reporting, research…lots of work.” Despite her words, Devon’s face flushed with
shared excitement. “So when do we start
oozing charm and good will?”
“Now,”
she answered through a smile as she looked up to greet the waitress.
Hours
later, and one feature story on the diner done and canned, she rested her
elbows on her desk and closed her eyes.
The newsroom buzzed around her with tip tapping on computer keyboards,
ringing of phones and loud conversation.
She preferred noise to silence.
Couldn’t handle silence.
“Hope,
there’s a marine in the lobby asking for you.”
Devon tapped her on the shoulder.
“At least I think he’s a marine--looks like one, but dressed like a
civilian.”
Marine. Her heart stopped at the word. It couldn’t be him.
“That’s
the second time today you’ve disappeared on me.” Devon propped her hip against the desk. “What’s going on with you? C’mon. You’re off.”
She
rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand and ripped her gaze from the
doors. “What’s his name? Is he in a
wheelchair? Who did he ask for? Hope
Shane or…Cedars?”
“Cedars?
I said he was here asking for you.”
Devon glanced over her shoulder before leaning close to her. “Do you have another name I should know
about? An alias or something?”
“Can
you get rid of him for me?” She reached
into her desk for a piece of gum. Panic
clenched at her throat. Her fingers
struggled with the wrapper.
“Are you scared of the marine?” Devon squinted at her, a smile pulling at the
edges of her mouth. “Did you break a
heart or two over there? Think it’s some
long lost lover stalking you now that he’s back in the States?”
“My
life is not nearly as exciting as you think it is. I’m not scared of any
marine.”
Her
gaze darted toward the newsroom doors.
“How tall is he? Is he
wounded? Is he walking? Does he have a scar?”
“Geez,
I don’t know. I didn’t think I needed to
sketch the guy. Go find out.”
“Right. Find out.”
Gum snapped between her teeth.
Heartbeat raced as if she’d finished running a marathon.
“I’ll
tell him that you’ve left for the day.” Devon’s face softened with pity. “I’ve never seen you look like this,
absolutely terrified. I didn’t mean to
joke about it. I’ll take care of him.
Don’t worry.”
“No,
I’ll go. I can handle this.” She stood on wobbly legs. Nerves skittered
beneath her skin as she walked from the newsroom to the lobby.
The
only marine she cared to see had banned her from the hospital in Frankfurt,
Germany. From Germany to Walter-Reed,
she’d tried to see him, had been denied access, and had been humiliated more
times than she could count.
Her
heart sank like a deflated balloon at the sight of Captain Scott McGee, US
Marine, standing in the lobby looking at her framed picture on the wall. The last time she’d seen him, he had tossed
her over his shoulder and escorted her from the hospital in Germany. She had pelted his back with her fists, had
screamed down the hallway for Michael to admit who she was to him…but had been
shut out. Denied. Restrained.
Unwanted
memories assaulted her. Michael falling
face first into the dirt. Her running back
for him. McGee tackling her. Michael’s lifeless body. McGee shouting at her. Machine gun fire. The taste of sand and blood in her
mouth. Explosions. Helicopters.
And the screaming…she could never block out the sound of her own
screams.
“Captain,”
she said with more force than necessary.
He
turned, his massive frame blocking out the sun from the window behind him, face
hidden in sudden shadow, gray T-shirt with the words US Marine Corps stretching
across his massive chest. And she wanted
to hit him. Hard. Fist to the jaw and
then a kick to the crotch. That would make her point. Damn Captain Scott McGee.
Their
gaze connected, neither willing to break the stare first.
“What
do you want?” She rubbed sweaty palms over her hips to keep from lashing out,
rolled the gum in her mouth and straightened her spine. “I should have security
toss you out on your ass, McGee.”
“Payback
is a bitch, ma’am, wouldn’t blame you if you did.” He kept his gaze steady on
hers.
“Of
course you wouldn’t. You’re much more noble than I am. I hold a grudge.” Be brave. Stand tall.
Walk forward. “Is this an
official visit, Captain? I can’t imagine
you want to grab a beer or talk about old times. What brings you to Denver? All you used to
talk about was going back home to San Diego. What are you doing here?”
“Call
me Scott...or McGee...I was discharged a few months ago now.”
“What
do you want?”
He
shook his head, first to break the stare by glancing again at the framed
picture of her in the lobby. “I heard that
you won an Emmy for your series on Marishka,” McGee said after a long silence.
His dark eyes drifted back to her face. “Congratulations. You earned it. So did Peter.”
“Tell
me why you’re here.” She cleared her
throat when her voice faltered. Breathless,
she tried again. “This is about Michael, right? Is he dead? Just tell me and be done with it.”
“Hope,
I need you to calm down.”
“Calm
down? I am calm.” She shrugged deeply, hands outstretched. “This is me being calm. Stop being such a damn marine and spit it
out.”
“I
am a damn marine, ma’am.” He leaned his
back against the wall. “How would you
have me be?”
“Straight
forward, how about that?” She wanted to
vomit. “Is he dead? Is that why you’re here?”
From
the solemn expression on his face, she knew the news was bad. Michael must have died. Why else would McGee be in Denver and
standing in this lobby? There must have
been too many surgeries, too many complications, too much damage, and too many
ghosts. Michael. Her worst fear
realized, she braced herself against the wall and stared at her feet
“Hope…”
he began, eyes watching her closely,
“you need to know that I’m really sorry for what happened in Germany,
Shane. I’m really sorry for everything.
He’s not dead. He’s in Denver, at the New Horizons Institute.” McGee’s hand was on her shoulder, supporting
her. “I’m sorry if you thought—”
“The
New Horizons Institute?” She blinked at the man, certain she had misheard him.
“In Denver? When?”
McGee’s
smile softened his face, making him look less like a hunk of marble. “You
didn’t used to repeat things, Shane.”
“Well,
you’re not exactly getting to the point are you?” She punched him in the shoulder. “When did he get here? Is he okay?
Did he tell you to find me?”
“No,
I’m pretty sure he would be mad as hell if he knew I tracked you down.”
“I
gave his family the information on New Horizons, pulled some strings to move
him to the top of the waiting list, but then I backed off. Walter Reed said it would be months before he
was released. How did this happen? His family arranged on him coming here? Do they know about…about me? About Greece?” She stepped closer to him and lowered her
voice. “About the marriage?”
“I
believe only six people on the face of this earth know about Greece,” McGee
said with a smile, “despite your efforts to make sure the entire world
knew. I kept waiting for you to blurt it
out on one of your live newscasts.”
“No
one believed me.”
“Of
course not.” His smile faded. “I had to respect his wishes. He was my commanding officer, my best
friend.”
Crossing
her arms over her chest, she studied McGee’s face through a squint. “My sister Becky works there. She hasn’t said anything.”
“She’s
his physical therapist. She told me where to find you, thought you’d come if I
came to see you myself.”
Feeling
like a fool, she shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and
squinted at the floor. All those
unanswered letters…silly random comments and observations written on anything
she could find and tossed into the mail…hoping for a response that never
came. She embodied the word fool when it
came to Colonel Michael Cedars.
“It’s
about time he stops hiding from me, don’t you think?” She met McGee’s gaze.
“He’s
not the same man you remember.” His eyes held a warning, but she already knew
Michael had given up months ago. “He’s
not the same man I knew either.”
“I’m
not the same woman, either.”
“He
won’t want your pity.”
“I
don’t pity him. I’m spitting mad.” No, she did not pity the man. She
wanted to tell him off, maybe slap some sense into him and then kiss him until
he came back to life.
“Stay
out of trouble, Shane.” McGee
winked. “Give the Colonel some hell, I
think he needs it.”
“I’ve
been looking forward to giving the Colonel some hell, Captain.” With a mock salute, she turned her back on
him and walked toward the newsroom. Oh,
yes, she had definitely been looking forward to giving the Colonel some hell.
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