The Marine's Return

A burning pain washed over his missing arm. He muttered a curse and dug his nails into his thigh until it subsided.

Danger. A threat to women and children. The image of the little girl running toward the cart flashed in his mind. Her wide eyes. The terror. The deafening noise and searing pain. A glimpse of her listless body seconds before he blacked out.

Sweat beaded and trickled down his temples. Nausea swept over him then faded. He lowered himself onto the steps overlooking the yard.

The clinic wasn’t in a war zone. Or was it? Danger was danger. Terrorism—the ultimate shape-shifter—existed in a sickening number of forms. What would it hurt to go check out the place? It’d get his parents off his back. All he had to do was to report to his father that the place wasn’t safe and it would get shut down, at least temporarily. At least until the poachers were caught. Or until new ones were spotted, which essentially meant the place would be shut down for good and his duty would be done. Tony’s wife and unborn kid would be forced to go live under safer, normal circumstances. Surely she had family in the States she could go back to. In any case, she’d be better off than at a rural clinic.

And his mother would be devastated. She was so passionate about providing medical care to the tribal children. They often lived too deep into Kenya’s savannah and Serengeti to have access to proper care. He knew the clinic meant everything to Hope. And she’d already given up so much of her time to care for him when he’d been hospitalized in the US, taking her away from those kids. Was this how he’d repay her? Shutting down the place to fulfill a promise to a friend and get himself off the hook? Damned if he did. Damned if he didn’t.

But his mother had her mobile unit, too. This was just one location. If an injured poacher was on the loose in the clinic area, then this pregnant nurse had no business running the place. Decision made. He’d go.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and squinted up at a solitary cloud making its way slowly eastward. To be up there in the clouds again...to feel the lift of a helicopter, and the surge of adrenaline he experienced before a mission... He closed his eyes briefly, noticing for a fleeting moment that he wasn’t in pain. Not in that brief second, at least.

If he didn’t go and something happened at the clinic, something he could have prevented, he’d never forgive himself. Ben wanted him to check out the area? Fine. He could deal with the clinic’s staff gawking at him for a few hours. Maybe he’d scare the children at the clinic enough that they wouldn’t notice they were getting shots. He could see it now. The looks. The finger pointing. Maybe he’d even earn the code name Dubwana. Monster.

He stepped back inside the house, closed the glass door and stopped at the sight of his reflection. His injuries barely showed in the faint and fuzzy image. His dark T-shirt and upper body faded against the dim backdrop of the room and all that showed of the small flecks of scars on the right side of his face was the one that pinched the skin at the end of his eyebrow.

Then his father’s face appeared. Chad turned, hoping Ben would assume Chad had been looking outside and not at himself.

“Take this,” Ben said, pausing expectantly then setting a black handgun case on the dining table near them.

“Like that would be of much use with my left hand.”

“Your aim with your left hand is better than anyone else’s best shot, marine.”

Chad torqued his neck to each side, but it did nothing to relieve the strain. He let out a long, slow breath then stretched his jaw.

“Tell Mom and Mac that I’ll head out with them. Just this once.”