Aimpoint, Candace Irving [best love novels of all time TXT] 📗

final text, his response—Understood. You owe me another bottle of vodka, but yeah, got your back—wasn't surprising. Nor was his conclusion—Now GET me that interview!

Easier said than done. The door was still closed.

Regan stared at the walls of the tiny storage closet, its floor-to-ceiling shelves burdened with an assortment of audio-visual equipment, most high tech, but a surprising amount not. Silence resonated from beyond. Though she was tempted to slip into the lobby, she didn't. The captain had told her to wait here, so here she would wait. She wasn't opposed to following orders—even his—so long as they dovetailed into her real ones.

And if they didn't…

As the minutes began to multiply, she began to wonder—had Garrison gotten so tied up with his regular and newly added collateral duties that he'd forgotten about her? She caught the sound of steady boot falls in the lobby and tensed, not wanting to be caught by yet another Special Forces soldier, who would also be well within his rights to demand an explanation for her presence—or worse.

What if LaCroix had returned?

As the door opened and she spotted that leading enormous forearm, biceps and shoulder, she relaxed. The captain hadn't forgotten.

But had he managed the rest?

The door swung wide.

Garrison tipped his head toward the lobby. "Come."

That was all he said as he forged a determined path across the tiled expanse toward another, heavier door. This one led to a corridor with multiple wooden portals leading off the right. He stopped at the third one and opened it, tipping his head once more to let her know she should precede him inside.

She did. She found the general at the far end of a modest conference room, standing in front of its sole window and staring out between the open slats in the blinds, seemingly absorbed. With what, she had no idea.

Ertonç was oblivious to Garrison's "She's here, sir," as well as the subdued swish of the door that followed as the captain departed.

Once again, she was kept waiting.

A solid minute passed, during which she considered coughing to sever the man's attention from—what was he staring at so pensively?

She risked finding out.

Regan stepped around the wood-grained conference table and padded chairs taking up most of the room to join the general at the window. She immediately felt the intrusion. Hers. Evidently, she wasn't the only one suffering the jagged edges of memory and regret today. Thanks to the hours she'd spent last night researching this man, she even understood the ones rasping into him, as well as the cause of that telling sheen to his faded brown stare.

A male ACU-clad soldier stood in the grass roughly twenty yards away, scooping up a chortling boy of perhaps two or three. A young woman looked on, smiling, as the soldier swung the tot around and around before settling the boy jiggling belly down over his right shoulder. The soldier began laughing as well, causing the dampness in the general's eyes to finally well up and spill over.

She was about to step back and leave the general to his grief, when he stiffened.

"I'm sorry; I did not realize—"

"No, sir. It's my fault. I shouldn't have intruded. I'll wait outside."

"Nonsense. I invited you." He took a deep, cleansing breath as he scrubbed a leathery hand through short, steel-gray hair. "I was just—" He broke off as the hoarseness returned.

When he couldn't seem to gather the words to finish, Regan offered hers. "Remembering. I know. I understand you lost both your sons recently." In the same horrific car bombing outside Inçirlik, no less. She'd seen the photos. "I'm truly sorry for your loss, General." She wasn't sure if she'd gotten caught in the tangle of her own ancient memories—the ones that somehow managed to knot up her gut on this very day, year after year—or if it was the added knowledge of his, but she reached out and briefly pressed her hand to his forearm.

She wished she could offer more, but feigned Public Affairs or not, she dare not let on that she also knew that his wife had died from cancer two years before his sons were murdered. Or that his only daughter, an asthmatic, had had an attack and drowned in the ocean years before that while on break from her studies at a British university. Like her, this man had no one left on the planet.

Life just seemed to crap on certain people, didn't it?

Over and over again.

The general's sigh was heavy, resigned. "Yes, it has been a trying time. But I must move forward. Allah wills it."

She wasn't so certain of Allah's will, but she did subscribe to the gospel of pushing forward, and zealously. There were days, weeks even, when that dogged, forward momentum was all that got her through. That, and the Army.

"So, Lieutenant Pace—" He stretched his hand toward the conference table. "Shall we have a seat and begin?"

Regan ignored the unexpected twinge of guilt as she tacitly affirmed the phony name and rank with a nod. "Absolutely."

Military etiquette dictated she wait for the general to select his seat, which she did. She took the chair catty-cornered to the one he chose at the head of the table, retrieving her phone and turning on the microphone app before setting it down between them. She waited until he'd also settled his phone on the table beside him before she began.

"First, General, allow me to congratulate you on your recent promotion. I understand it's well deserved. I'm not sure you know, but my boss, Captain Vaughn, had hoped to interview you regarding the circumstances leading up to it, namely your role in Operation Peace Spring in northeastern Syria last year. You—"

"I am sorry, Lieutenant. You may ask me anything else you like. But that topic is…how do you Americans say it? Ah, off the table." He softened the rejection with a smooth smile.

Clearly, he'd been prepared for the question. As he should've been.

But she'd had to try.

Regan mirrored his smile. "Of course. I apologize."

He inclined his silvery