Laura Acton

​The Long Game

 

April 14 – Dan’s Apartment

​​Swimming through the ashes of another life, Dan replayed the deaths of Ripsaw, Buzz, and Dutch in his mind as his eyes welled, and a strange buzzing drowned out the music in his ears. Once enough hot liquid pooled, it escaped from the corners and rolled down his cheeks. When the pain of remembering became too much, Dan tugged out the earbuds and shoved the ghosts of a mission gone horribly wrong back into the box.

 

His breath coming in ragged hitches, he bent over in his swivel chair, buried his face in his hands, and silently screamed. Some memories he wasn’t ready to confront, and this was one of them. He would continue to carry the sense of failure and guilt for their deaths, as well as Brody’s and Yankee’s.

 

A soft hand on his back reminded Dan he wasn’t alone in his apartment. Lexa had stayed the night, and though it wasn’t a work day, she had risen earlier than he expected her to. He’d hoped to be finished with his mental therapy before she woke to spare her from witnessing this weak version of himself.

 

Lexa slid her hand across Dan’s back as she rounded to the front of the chair, knelt, and then wrapped her arms around him. She didn’t speak. Words between them weren’t necessary. Though she had no clue which memory he was working through, the pain it caused him was unmistakable. He needed comfort, and the best way to give it to him was via touch. So the hand, still on his shoulder, shifted upward, and her fingers began to massage his head lightly.

 

They stayed locked in those positions for several minutes. When Dan finally lifted his bloodshot, watery eyes and peered into Lexa’s golden-flecked hazel orbs, he expressed his thanks with only a look. Her soft smile in response conveyed anytime.

 

Dan exhaled slowly, the tight band around his chest loosening by degrees. Lexa kissed his wet cheek, a way of telling him it was okay to cry. The thread linking their souls hummed with empathy and undeniable love. He leaned his forehead against Lexa’s, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin and the familiar jasmine scent of her shampoo.

 

“Okay?” Lexa whispered.

 

“Will be,” Dan replied, then, as he sat up, he drew her into his lap and held her close as Lexa lowered her head to his shoulder.

 

In the quiet before dawn, before life’s many demands intruded, they were at peace simply being together. Each drew strength from the other, fortifying the shared walls that protected one another.

 

As the sky beyond the window began to give way from black to slate and silver, Dan pushed an errant lock of silky auburn hair behind Lexa’s ear and said, “This is my favorite time of day. The hour when the world feels suspended between what was and what might be.”

 

“So many possibilities,” Lexa answered, content to linger in his arms.

 

Dan nodded.

 

As the sun rose, they watched a new day come to life. With a small sigh, Dan said, “I better go shower. Jon’s expecting me at the range to shoot golf. I can drop you off at home so you don’t have to take a cab.”

 

“It’s out of your way,” Lexa said.

 

“You are never out of my way. Even if I had to walk five hundred miles and five hundred more.”

 

Lexa smiled. “I see you still have last night’s karaoke on your mind.”

 

Grinning, Dan said, “That song says what I feel. The Proclaimers got it right. I would walk a thousand miles or more for you. Lexa, you’re the one I want to grow old with.”

 

Her eyes widening, Lexa wondered if this was a lead-in to a proposal. Unlike last June, when he gave her the butterfly necklace, if he asked, she would say yes without hesitation—but then again, she hadn’t found a way to bring up the fact she might never be able to get pregnant or carry a baby to term, thanks to the bullets Two-Shots hit her with.

 

Realizing what he spoke aloud, and meaning it, but unsure Lexa was ready for that type of commitment, Dan shifted her weight as he stood, cradling her in his arms, as he said, “How about showering together?”

 

Lexa’s smile turned teasing. “Won’t that make you late for golf with Jon?”

 

Dan met her gaze. “Worth it. I’d choose you every time.”

​

TRF HQ – Outdoor Gun Range

​

Two dozen white and yellow golf balls attached to target racks with thin fishing line gently swayed as a light breeze threaded through the range. Jon strode back to the shooting line, boots crunching over gravel, as the faint chirps of year-round residents, early spring migrants, and the first wave of songbirds returning north sounded in the background.

 

He spotted Dan setting his rifle case on the shelf and called out, “You know, most people who show up late at least have the decency to bring coffee.”

 

Dan glanced up and quipped with a grin, “I figured you’d rather shoot a round of golf than have a tea party.”

 

The comment made Jon chuckle, and as he joined Dan, he said, “You’re never late. Not unless something—or someone—derailed you.”

 

Unwilling to lie or to divulge to Jon what, or rather who, made him late, Dan settled for telling a half-truth. “Needed a little bit to recenter after my morning mental exercise session … brought up some disturbing memories.”

 

Jon nodded, aware of Dan’s ongoing therapy. However, he didn’t ask or delve deeper because the things he’d learned in Dan’s hospital room years ago revealed Broderick endured many brutal experiences. Instead, he said, “You up for a bet today? Loser buys lunch?”

 

“You’re on.” Dan unzipped his case as Jon did the same.

 

They set up their rifles in companionable silence. Dan took an extra moment of due diligence to ensure no one had wandered into the live-fire zone, not that any of his fellow TRF officers would be stupid enough to bypass multi-level safeguards and enter the restricted area.

 

“You want to go first?” Dan asked.

 

“Nah. Rookie’s first,” Jon teased.

 

Dan rolled his eyes. “How many times do I hafta tell ya, I’m not the rookie.”

 

Jon smirked. “With Taylor on leave, you’re still Alpha’s rookie.”

 

Releasing a magnified sigh of acceptance that he wouldn’t shake the moniker anytime soon, Dan settled behind the rifle. Movements fluid and practiced, tracking the gentle sway of the nearest golf ball. He waited, breathed, and fired.

 

The ball snapped apart, fragments spinning away.

 

“Nice job for a rookie. Now let me show you how it’s done,” Jon quipped and moved into position. The whole reason he invited Dan to shoot golf with him was to give his teammate more practice in a relaxed, friendly environment with no pressure. He took longer setting up, letting the ball complete a full arc before squeezing off his shot. His target shattered cleanly.

 

“Slow, but great, for an old man,” Dan teased.

 

Chuckling, Jon stepped back. “You’re up.”

 

Dan lined up his next shot. The breeze kicked up just as he fired. The round skimmed past, close enough to make the fishing line twitch. Dan grimaced, believing he should’ve hit it.

 

“Wind shifted,” Jon said nonchalantly, as if missing was of no consequence.

 

“Yeah.” Dan blew out a breath, not happy with himself.

 

They swapped off several times, each hitting the mark with precision. Their styles different—Jon deliberate and unhurried, Dan quick, instinctive—but both marksmen were highly effective. By the last shot of this round, they were tied with one miss apiece. When all the balls were shattered, they strolled out onto the range to hang the box of balls Dan had brought with him.

 

After they returned to the firing line, it was Dan’s turn again, and he zeroed in on his target, waiting for the right moment to squeeze the trigger. With gentle pressure, he sent the bullet downrange.

 

It missed.

 

Frustrated at his lack of accuracy, he growled, “At this rate, I’m gonna owe you lunch.”

 

Recognizing that Dan was being hard on himself, Jon wished he possessed the right words to change his teammate’s thinking. He knew Dan grew up believing his parents disowned him after his sister’s death, and that he must be a perfect sniper or suffer the wrath of his father. Although that had been disproven in recent years, altering learned behaviors and patterns wouldn’t occur overnight; it might take years of concerted effort.

 

So as he moved into position to fire, Jon kept his tone casual, as if it were just another thought. “I want to run something by you.”

 

Dan kept his eyes downrange. “Alright.”

 

The wind surged like it had when Dan took his first shot as Jon fired and he missed, evening the score again. He turned and faced Dan. “I’ll be taking time off after the baby’s born.”

 

“Good,” Dan replied immediately. “You should.”

 

“That part’s easy. The rest isn’t.” Jon smiled faintly.

 

Pivoting towards Jon instead of taking his firing position, Dan asked, “What do you need?”

 

Gunmetal gray orbs locked onto sapphire ones as Jon met Dan’s gaze. “I want you to cover Tactical Lead, if you’re interested.”

 

Dan blinked and frowned. “Me? I figured Bram would.”

 

Jon shook his head. “Being a TL has never been Bram’s goal, though he’s more than capable of handling the role. He likes exactly where he is.”

 

That surprised Dan more than the ask itself. “Both Lexa and Loki have more tenure than I do. Why not one of them?”

 

“They do, but their strengths lie elsewhere,” Jon said. “So, you interested?

 

“Yeah, but why are you asking me six months out?”

 

Jon grinned. “Though you’ve got tons of tactical field experience none of us possess, as you know, TRF is different than JTF2. I don’t want you stepping into the role cold. Between now and October, I want you running tactical when it makes sense. Low-risk calls. Build the reps.

 

“This isn’t about filling a gap for a few weeks. I learned the hard way that leadership is a long game—one you prepare for way before you need it. Dan, you’re a prime candidate to lead a TRF team someday.”

 

Absorbing Jon’s confidence in him, Dan’s eyes narrowed—not in doubt, but recalibration. “So, you’re planning on mentoring me?”

 

Jon’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. Something I should’ve done sooner.”

 

Dan glanced downrange as another thought popped into his head. “You worried I’ll take too many risks?”

 

“No. We’ve established we measure risk differently,” Jon answered honestly.

 

Nodding, Dan agreed. The time spent recovering at Jon’s home after the Darby Dock dunking had helped them both work out some issues and come to a better understanding of how they each ticked.

 

Jon added, “I think you can assess a situation, find an angle, and be in position faster than most people. However, I want you to start thinking bigger picture, not just shots. A TL’s job comes with greater responsibilities.

 

“You excel at watching out for your teammate’s safety and never hesitate to protect them, but that is usually a reaction. You need practice in crafting a tactical response that is more proactive, but still going with the flow and adjusting when things change.”

 

Listening, really listening, Dan accepted Jon’s assessment.

 

“If things ever change—teams, assignments—I want you confident calling the shots. Not second-guessing yourself,” Jon concluded.

Dan nodded, shifted his focus to his rifle, then aimed at the golf ball furthest away. He fired and blew it to pieces. Standing, he said, “Alright.”

 

Jon raised a brow. “That’s it?”

 

A spark lit in Dan’s eyes as he peered at Jon, and a cocky grin formed before he said, “Yeah, but you’re buying lunch today.”

 

“Oh, you think so?”

 

“I do.” Dan declared.

 

“We’re tied right now,” Jon said as he prepared to fire.

 

“Maybe I missed on purpose to give you a fighting chance,” Dan teased.

 

Jon chuckled, pleased to see Dan’s lighthearted side—a rarity that now showed up more frequently, especially after his vacation in Jamaica.

 

Their game came down to the last two shots. If Dan hit it and Jon missed, Dan would win, and vice versa, but if both missed or hit, they would tie. The stronger breeze kept the balls swinging, making it more difficult.

 

Dan’s final shot was accurate, putting pressure on Jon.

 

As he targeted the moving yellow sphere, Jon redoubled his concentration. He was not the type of person to blow a shot on purpose, though he knew Dan’s confidence would be boosted if he won. In Jon’s mind, it would be a hollow win, and he’d rather have it mean something for both him and Dan.

 

Jon squeezed and released a sigh as the golf ball remained intact. He sighed heavily as he straightened and said, “I should stop betting with you.”

 

Dan aimed and fired, sending the fragments in all directions. He stood and grinned as he said, “You never learn. How about lunch at Jarmal’s?”

 

“Sure.”