A Soldier's Devotion. Cheryl Wyatt
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hand clamping his shoulder stopped him. “We’ll make sure he has desk or rigging duty until his doctor clears him.”
Rigging chutes? He’d rather eat overgrown slugs. But desk duty was worse than rigging. A sitter he was not. A rigger he could be and survive. Anger resurfaced over the woman who sent his day south. Two weeks? Not only would he be at risk of death by boredom, he’d miss important training sessions with recruits. And for what? To be holed up in a back room with a bunch of parachutes that he’d have to fold instead of fly. Better than desk duty though.
He bypassed the wheelchair the nurse brought him and limped with his team toward the exit. They stayed close but knew well enough not to try and lend a hand. Speaking of, something else hit him.
He faced his superiors. “I’ll still be able to launch Refuge’s community swim-safety program, right?”
The cautious looks Petrowski passed Joel told Vince he probably didn’t want to know the answer to that.
Once again, ire flared against the woman who caused these problems. He wrestled mental frustration at thoughts that the community programs would be delayed, therefore risking the sponsors’ continued support.
Pressure-cooked anger boiled inside his lidded emotions to the point of explosion.
“If Miss Russo knows what’s good for her, she’ll steer completely clear of me.”
Chapter Three
“How’s the pilot?” Vince asked Petrowski through a door in a back room at the DZ the next week.
Chunka-chunka-chunka of a sewing machine whirred behind him. Chance, at its helm mainly to keep Vince company, paused as Petrowski stepped inside.
Vince surveyed this morning’s work lining the cubbyholes on the far wall. Neon parachute harnesses and canopies hung to his left.
Sewn canopies rested on a stainless-steel work desk against the wall behind him.
“Not sure yet.” Petrowski stepped over a parachute stretched across folding mats on the spacious floor.
Something in Vince’s gut said Petrowski was withholding information. His prerogative, he guessed. But every day that pilot remained unfound added sobering percentage to the possibility that he wouldn’t be found alive.
Joel entered. “What’s making you bark this time, Reardon?”
Vince tamped down his acrid mood because he didn’t want to stir the volatile pot and disrespect the authority of the man who was also his friend. “I mean no disrespect, sir, but there was no need not to send our guys to attempt that rescue last week.” Vince swiped up his plastic jug and swigged his water, wishing it was a cold beer instead. Then just as fast, the thought of tasting beer turned uncharacteristically sour. Way weird.
Maybe he had some undetected brain damage from the wreck. No other rational explanation for him not wanting to down a cold one.
Chance abandoned the sewing and knelt to fold the next chute in the lineup.
Vince dropped to his knees to help. “Though I’m sure they’re properly trained, they don’t have as much experience with pilot rescue as we do.”
Petrowski stood to his full height. “Then they needed the practice, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, but—they could practice during training. This was a real mission with an actual human life at stake, sir.” Frustration surged over the fact.
Joel shifted his stance. “Don’t ride Petrowski, Reardon. We requested he send another team as long as it wouldn’t further jeopardize the pilot.”
“Fine.” Vince’s diamond-plate will yielded. He trusted and respected his leaders and their decisions. Period. That still didn’t explain why they’d choose him over bringing a pilot back. That went completely against their creed. And against any good reason Vince could wrap his mind around.
Unless Vince meant more to them.
Nah. Not possible. Right? Not as intentionally difficult and brooding and belligerent as he strove to be.
Vince folded his arms across his chest and grunted. “I think all your sanities just fell off a corporate cliff.”
But the deep care embedded in their eyes said otherwise.
Petrowski leaned in, eyeing Vince’s elbow. “That has to hurt. But I expected you to look worse only a week after your wipeout.” He smirked.
Now that was more like it. Let them give him grief. Give him a hard time. Give him relentless razzing. Anything was better than the pity plastered on their faces upon seeing him ride down the hall strapped helplessly to an annoyingly creaky gurney last week.
“That’s because that dame who hit me blasted things out of proportion.”
“Whoa, grumpy,” a familiar voice said from the doorway.
Refuge’s Sheriff Steele and Officer Stallings walked in with an armload of his things.
“I recovered your stuff.” A metallic clank sounded as Stallings laid the items on an empty stainless-steel table.
Rounds of surprise rumbled through the room from each member of his team.
Obliterating silence followed as his leaders and fellow PJs eyed the objects.
Or what was left of them.
Vince swallowed hard. So did most of his team. If it hadn’t been for the thick leather jacket and helmet he had worn, he would have been far worse off.
Stallings handed Vince his scuffed-up wallet. “There’s a copy of the police report at the station once you feel up to filling your portion out. Although the other driver was cited for infractions, you should know she was distracted by a family emergency.”
Vince blinked. What kind of family emergency? She’d said she was on her way to court. So which time was she lying? Figured. Didn’t all attorneys?
“So, go easy on her,” Stallings was saying. “She’s fully prepared to take responsibility for the accident.”
“She admitted fault?” An attorney?
“Yes. Without hesitation. And she was insured.” Stallings’ gaze veered toward the helmet and the scuffed black jacket that had shredded down to his skin.
Vince’s arms tingled at the thought of how much worse he could have fared.
“You ought to thank the Big Man Upstairs that you’re alive.” Stallings jabbed a pointer finger toward the ceiling a couple times to drive his divine point home, then stepped out.
Silence pervaded for several moments.
Vince peered at the items. Joel walked over and lifted them up one by one. Vince’s other teammates moved close to look. Vince raised his head to see over Brock’s broad back and Chance’s tall shoulders.
“Wow. Dude.”
Who said that, Vince couldn’t be sure. His mind had skidded back to the moment of impact. He forced images away and focused on his rain-and-red-soaked belongings.
The bloodstained leather was mangled into shreds, the inside of the material scraped from asphalt and oil on the arms where he’d skidded.
Joel whistled long and lifted Vince’s helmet.
His very scraped helmet.
“That could have been your skull, Reardon,” Joel said.
What could he say to that? Certainly couldn’t refute it. He’d only recently begun wearing one, ever since Stallings had pulled him over for the third time and told him it was the law.
“Lemme see that.” Vince held out his hand. Joel placed the helmet in it.
Vince turned it over in his hands while his team looked on. His helmet was scraped