Saving Emmy by Rayne Lewis

Chapter 11

Not too many things could rattle Slate.

“You didn’t have my back.”

T’s words dropped like an anvil. The rage and fury on his face was raw and palpable. Slate’s mind reeled. He failed his teammate.

Cy walked over to Slate and put his hand on his shoulder. “Not your fault, man. He’s looking to lay blame, and right now, he’s pinning it on you.”

“How’d...what the fuck happened?” Slate’s heart rate ticked up.

“Got called out a week after you left. New guy wasn’t hired yet.” Cy crossed his arms settling in, and continued the story. “It was a quick, get in get out hostage retrieval. CIA intel...we were fed bullshit, as usual, and from the time we touched down ’til the time we left, everything was FUBAR. The cartel was heavily armed and were waiting for us. We breached the front compound and things went smoothly until we met the second force of resistance, then all hell broke loose. We were out-manned.

“T’s gun jammed, and before he could pull his Sig, two guys were on him. Knifed him in the arm and again in the neck.” Cy paused, ”Got his right thigh as well. He was able to kill one, but the other got him in the lung. It collapsed and he was helpless.”

Helpless.The word made his stomach flip. He would’ve had T’s six if he’d have been on the mission.

“We all had our hands full in our own fights and couldn’t get to him.” Cypher looked at his boots, reliving the moment in his memory. “We tried, but like I said, we were outnumbered with our own hand-to-hand.”

“His eye?” Slate didn’t know if he wanted the answer to his question.

“Got jacked with the butt of his own rifle by the guy on top of him. When he figured it was jammed, guy mustn’t have known it was non-op and turned it on T. T took a blow to the face...got his eye.” Cy paused, the gravity of the memory weighing heavy.

Slate closed his eyes when he asked, “Blind?”

He could taste the guilt in his words, hear the guilt in them as well. It was as if each syllable was poison. T-BAR losing his sight would mean he could no longer be an active member on the team. Being operational meant being one-hundred percent, physically as well as mentally, capable to take care of yourself and those around you. He would either have to work behind the scenes, in an advisory position or tech capacity, but field missions would be a no-go.

Slate was waiting for Cy to answer. When he hesitated, Slate met the grief on Cy’s face. Cy was coaxing the end of his nose in a repeated motion, a tell that was his nervous tick.

“Blind?” Slate’s voice hardened.

“Don’t know, man.” Cypher’s words tinged with uncertainty.

“Come again?”

Cy adjusted his stance, balancing his weight from one foot to the other. “Don’t know yet. Had a detached retina and an orbital fracture that needed surgery.”

Slate, being a medic, knew the extent of the damage without his friend simplifying, but Cy did anyway.

“Got his eye socket cracked, and the eye nerve to the brain...fucked it up.”

The layman's terms put the injury into perspective. T most likely was off the team.

“So, he’s blind.” Slate’s statement rolled his stomach.

“Don’t know yet, Cy repeated himself. “Doctors fixed what they could, now, just a waiting game. He could see just fine,” Cypher shrugged one shoulder, “have a little blurry vision, double vision…”

“Or he could be blind.” Slate’s words were concrete.

“Don’t hang on that. Speculation isn’t gonna heal it any faster.” Slate knew his friend's words were to comfort him, but Cy rubbed his nose again which told Slate Cy was worried about T’s outcome.

The silence hung between them.

“Did you dispatched the son-of-a-bitch?”

Cy nodded, “T was out of commission. King got to the guy and ended him in one twist.”

That sentence sent satisfaction into Slate’s gut. Contrary to belief, no man in the field wanted to take a life if it wasn't necessary, but when killing was at the mercy of saving a fellow teammate, no man had qualms about it. None whatsoever.

Knowing King, when in rage, his deadly factor ticked off the charts, Slate knew King would have no qualms saving his teammate. King was the boss and team lead, but being alongside brothers always trumped being the boss when it came to being an operator.

King got his hands dirty, and soul blackened, along with his men. He wasn’t a cake eater, managing a mission from three thousand miles away, giving directives and second guessing decisions, while not physically being in the fight. No King was beside them every step, on every mission.

Cy’s phone rang, giving an end to their conversation. He excused himself, and Slate stood alone in the silence of the room collecting his thoughts. He couldn’t let his emotions get the best of him. He locked them tight and headed to King’s office.

* * *

Slate rapped on the doorframe of King’s office. The door was open and he had to stop himself from just waltzing in. He wasn’t on the team anymore, which meant King wasn’t his boss, so open-door office policy no longer applied.

King, on the phone, motioned for Slate to come in. He wore a dark blue business suit, a crisp white shirt, with a blue pinstripe tie which was rare. Very rare. Only a handful of times a year rare, which told Slate that a meeting with the alphabets and/or men who wore stars on their shoulders probably happened in the office earlier.

Yes, they came to King. King didn’t go to them.

He was not a man who extended his services, or his men, to just anybody for any mission. It wasn’t about money. King could make a fortune ten-times-over, taking any and as many jobs that were offered to him. But, King wasn’t offered or given jobs. No, King chose, and chose carefully, the jobs he and his men executed.

“...again, it doesn’t matter to me…” King glanced up at Slate then back at his desk and brought the phone closer to his mouth, “...I know we had Mexican food the last three nights, so a fourth night will be absolutely fine...Mare…” King swiveled in his chair and then walked over to the window, essentially getting distance between him and Slate. “...Mare, just ’cuz I don’t have an opinion doesn’t mean I don’t care...not mattering and don’t care are two different...don’t cry…”

Slate felt awkward listening to the conversation between King and Mary, but he couldn’t distance himself any farther, so he pulled out his phone and busied himself.

“...I’m sorry...I absolutely have an opinion, and I would love to have Mexican again for supper...yes, I’m sure...extra spicy...got it...I’ll pick it up on my way home...no, I’ll remember...okay, gotta go...love you, too, Sugar.”

Slate heard him end the call but didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping, so he continued futzing with his phone until King spoke.

“Take a seat.” Unlike the phone call, his voice hardened and his pitch was deep as usual. Gone was King, pussy-whipped phone husband, and back was King, stone-cold boss.

Oh, God, did I just think those words?Never in a million years, even under the most inhumane torture, would he ever let King know his thoughts had conjured up the words, “pussy-whipped,” as an adjective to describe him. Slate’s mind raced for another word, panicked…ah...concerned husband, yeah, that’s better...concerned husband. His mind sighed in relief and was apologizing for even thinking the vile words, “pussy-whipped.”

Slate took the seat in front of the desk as King settled back into his chair.

The vibe in the room was tense. Both men sat facing each other, neither one sure if the other was going to speak first.

King won the coin toss.

“You wanted to talk?” He leaned forward with his forearms braced on his desk, hands clasped together. Relaxed, but formidable.

King’s size was impressive. For a moment, Slate wondered if he needed to order a special reinforced chair to hold his massive frame. All the men at Hellforce were big—none lacked any bulk—but King, King was huge. An image of the superhero, Mr. Incredible, formed in his mind. Steeling himself, he cleared his throat, hoping to disguise his musings.

He centered himself. Humbled himself. T’s words rolled through his mind. “You didn’t have my back.” The words stabbing each time they presented themselves, almost buckling Slate at the knee. Listening to Cy retell the details of the mission and how T had no one at his ready, watching his six, Slate had a come to Jesus moment. He had a difficult but powerful realization. His decision, though meaning to be selfless, put his team, his brothers, literally at death's door. Which made him more determined to get King to agree to his proposal.

Slate met King, eye to eye. If there was one thing he knew it was that King could smell bullshit from a mile away. He wanted King to know there was no masking or deception in his words. He held King’s stare. “I’m sorry.”

Two words. Wholehearted and sincere.

King’s posture didn’t change. His face didn’t disclose a single reaction. He sat.

Slate felt the temperature in the room rise, the awkwardness of no reaction made him want to squirm, but he sat still waiting for King to make the next move.

But it didn’t come.

King sat.

Slate tried not to swallow but the visceral reaction couldn’t be stopped.

King waited.

“I fucked up.”

King waited. Unmoving.

“Damn it, King!” Slate stood from his chair and paced to the window.

King didn’t track his passage. Eyes forward. He sat.

Slate paused at the window hoping King would say something. Anything. With long strides, he paced back to King’s desk, hoping his former boss would make eye contact with him.

But he didn’t.

Slate rubbed the back of his head and squeezed the base of his neck. “I’m sorry, King. I fucked up,” The words were a strangled plea. “What more do you want me to say?”

Still unmoving, King spoke. “Sit.”

Slate hesitated, waiting for him to continue the sentence but nothing came. So, like an obedient, disciplined child called to the principal’s office, Slate made his way from the side of King’s desk to the chair he’d vacated in front of King.

And, he sat.

And, he waited.

He knew King had the upper hand. King could wait a man out for days, probably weeks, if the human body would let him. He had the patience of a praying mantis. Like a Siberian tiger stalking its prey, King could wait. And, he did.

King took a measured breath, then exhaled as slowly as he inhaled, eyes dead set on Slate.

Breaking the stare, King loosened his tie, looping it around his hand a few times, then set it on the corner of his blotter. Methodically, he placed his hands on the edge of his desk and pushed back, smoothly rolling his chair from beneath his mahogany desk. Standing, he side-stepped his chair and rolled it back into place. He removed his suit jacket, placing it neatly over the back of the chair, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and straightened his cufflinks, pulling each one into submission.

No words were said. Slate waited.

King strode around front, putting his massive frame between the desk and the chair where Slate sat. Every inch of space was occupied by this man. Leaning back against the desk top, King crossed one foot over the other and folded his hands at his waist. He was a force not of intimidation but of strength.

Slate went to stand, not liking to be towered over.

“Sit.”

One word. One command.

Like an obedient dog, Slate sat.

King locked eyes once again, then spoke. “You saved my life.”

Slate was silent waiting for King to elaborate, which he did.

“I was at death’s door, cashing in, and you saved my life. Not once, but twice. I wouldn’t be standing here if you first hadn’t saved me on that mountainside and then at the warehouse.”

The memory washed over Slate. The day he and his team of Deltas saved King and Arctic in the remote hills of Afghanistan. He could taste the air, that distinct taste that only men who wore the uniform or lived there knew. He felt the weight of his gear, bulky and heavy, strapped to his body. He heard the guttural, agony cry Arctic let out as the men lifted the burnt, torn remains of the armored Humvee off his legs. He saw King’s stare. The haunting, empty stare of King’s blue eyes and the fear that raged within them before they drew blank. A death stare looking back at him.

No life. No soul. Blank. Empty. Dead.

And suddenly, his memory met the same blank eyes as he rolled King’s massive bulk over the night he was shot, point-blank at the warehouse.

King cleared his throat, breaking Slate from his reverie.

“When you joined this team, I told you I needed you. You were one of the best damn operators I knew.”

Wereand knew. Those weren’t the words, past tense, he wanted to hear.

“I told you when you joined this team, that you were not an employee, you were family.”

King paused so long, Slate didn’t know if he was waiting for him to respond. Then, King continued. “You hurt me….walking out that door, you hurt me. Family doesn’t abandon family.”

Slate had the thought come to mind family also doesn’t turn their backs on family but he remained quiet.

“I, too, was wrong.”

The words hit Slate like a brick wall. So much so that Slate recoiled in his chair.

A soft chuckle came from King and Slate looked the man in the eye.

“I know. Words you probably never heard me say.” King rubbed his left forearm beneath his white dress shirt. The arm that bore the horrific burned scars of that day they first crossed paths in the Afghan mountains. “But, I'm a big enough man to admit when I’ve fucked up.”

King was a man of few words. He wasn't flowery, he wasn’t poetic, he wasn’t long-winded. He was pithy. The only time he got long-winded was when he was chewing the team’s asses for some asinine thing they’d done, which was more often than not, so maybe that meant King was long-winded.

King's voice kicked him out of his thoughts. “I always knew I owed you a marker. But, this isn’t it. This isn’t a boss correcting insubordination for a past debt. This is one brother coming clean with another brother. I want you back on the team.” King corrected himself, “I need you back on this team.” Correcting himself one last time, he said, “We need you back on this team.”

Slate took in King’s words. Not just mere words to his ears, they were words to his heart; his soul. He knew he’d fucked up. He told himself he was walking away to protect Ember, that he had to do it to protect her. King lost faith in him but, as King’s words settled in his soul, he realized he failed King as well. He, too, lost faith in his boss, his brother and teammate. He should have known King would never put Ember in danger. King would’ve had her six because she was Slate’s. And, because she was his, she was theirs. Just as Mary was theirs. Each man would walk through fire to protect Mary. They did walk through fire and hell to protect her by protecting King that night at the warehouse. How could he expect any less than that from King?

Yes, he fucked up.

“What about the new guy?” Slate wanted back on the team but wanted to make sure the new guy wasn’t slighted.

“Creed? We’ll keep him on until we know the outcome of T’s situation. Then plan accordingly.” King continued, “Creed can go back to Zion if T comes back, or he can stay on if he’d like.”

That realization soothed as much as it stung. Slate’s gut soured and churned, because if T wasn’t able to come back it would shatter not only the team, but it would decimate their friendship.