Warrior Undone Read online

  Warrior Undone

  Jessica Ruben

  WARRIOR UNDONE

  JessicaRubenBooks, LLC

  229 E. 85th Street

  P.O. Box 1596

  New York, New York 10028

  Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Ruben

  Cover Design by Sarah Hansen

  Edited by Nicole Bailey, Proof Before you Publish

  Edited by Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Edited by Ellie at Love N Books

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-7321178-7-7

  E-Book ISBN-13: 978-1-7321178-6-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contact me by visiting my website: https://jessicarubenauthor.com

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  To the men and women who are currently serving and have served, thank you for protecting our freedoms. Today and everyday, I am grateful for your service.

  To Jonathan, who opened up his heart over eggs with olives.

  Contents

  Stay up-to-date with Jessica

  Reader Advisory

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Want more?

  Love what you just read?

  Acknowledgments

  Stay up-to-date with Jessica

  Before you read any further …

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  Reader Advisory

  Please note that Warrior Undone contains fictional characters who deal with gun violence, PTSD, and illegal drug use. All scenes in this book are completely fictionalized. Liberties were taken to fit this story.

  Prologue

  Slade

  The helicopter descends into the brown-and-gray peaked mountains that jut between the Afghanistan-Pakistan borders. Shifting forward, a tightness fills the circulated air. Systematically wringing my hands, I move them left before right. I’m a man of rituals.

  The door opens into extraordinary heat. It rushes forward and seeps beneath layered clothing. As I step off, my head focuses forward while my eyes do a snapshot perusal of the vast earth where people have lived and fought for centuries on end. When I slide on my sunglasses, the bright world dims.

  Images of the compound flash on the projector. It doesn’t look different from the hundreds we’ve raided beforehand.

  “We’re set to clear.” The commander’s hands move behind his back. He clasps them as he paces. “Marines are coming, too. They’ll be inserting with us and setting up a perimeter of defense. Covering while we do our work.” A cough rings through the room as coordinates are mentioned. “Intel says they’re abandoned.”

  But first, sleep.

  A sudden sensation of falling. Hard grains of sand nestled within the sheets move against my calves and between my toes. It’s gritty. It’s home.

  A hard knock on wood before the door swings open.

  Someone shouts, “It’s go time, boys!”

  I throw my legs to the right side of the bed and rise. Water to the face and brush my teeth. Time to suit up. My heart settles to a steady rhythm as I gather my weapons. The methodical movements are where I find my peace. M24 is strapped to my back. Heavy enough to make a dent but not too heavy to slow me down. An American flag sits on my bed, pre-folded. I place it between my armor and uniform. It settles inside my chest cavity. My body is its cocoon, reminding me of who I am, what I love, and where I came from.

  As a team, we enter the thick darkness, a perfect cover.

  A few kilometers into our hike, we sit to break. Rex is to my left, his photographic and video equipment resting on his side. He grumbles, spitting on the rocky ground before taking a swig from his green canteen.

  “How you doin’, brother?” I take a drink from my own.

  “Fuckin’ A,” he replies but not for nothing. Rex hauls some heavy shit. Between the weight of his communications equipment and the high altitude, he is miserable.

  He looks up at me. It’s so dark, but I can still make out his shining eyes and sharply gritted teeth. Rex is probably the angriest corpsman on the Teams. Yet his complete stability in the face of a firefight has always transcended any anger—probably why we work so well together. Always have and always will.

  I rise before holding out my hand. He takes it.

  The Team gets back on its feet.

  As I’m walking, sweat pours down my face.

  Our commander turns to me. “The caves are near, and we haven’t encountered a single person yet. Luck of the Texans, eh?”

  The sun rises as we reach the complex. It’s huge, circular, and wet with riotous colors. Looking up, I imagine who else around the world is staring at it, too.

  We start in, four of us entering in formation. Before I step inside, my rational mind reminds me there could be an ambush ahead. This cave could be booby-trapped.

  I turn to Rex.

  His eyes say, I’ve got your back.

  I clench my fists and walk inside.

  It’s dimly lit, but my adrenaline … it burns. I pivot.

  Wooden chairs and desks are organized neatly in rows facing a chalkboard. I’m in a classroom. Posters line the walls, full of anti-American slogans. Bin Laden’s smile graces the largest poster in the center as two planes crash into the Twin Towers behind him. DEATH TO AMERICA!

  Lives are dictated with propaganda. The systematic washing of brains.

  We clear the room and step out to report.

  Onto the next.

  It’s a fanatical dedication. They’re pursuing a brand-new type of combat the free world is only beginning to understand. My father fought in the trenches. He rolled across deserts with huge ground forces. But us? We’re up against decentralized cells. Guerrilla warfare on a scale of infinity.

  The work is nerve-racking and tedious.
Sweat saturates everything from my wool-blend socks up into my North Face jacket. It cools me.

  Hours later, our job is complete. We gather what we need before stepping out. Phil rigged each room. When he clicks, it’ll all blow to hell.

  We easily hike down in a comfortable quiet.

  Phil pushes the button.

  The explosion causes a wild fireball against the sky, rocking the ground beneath my feet. The world is an echo.

  Have I been here before?

  The gunfire begins, and the ground shifts again. Liquid black oozes from Rex’s mouth, and then his face is ablaze. Through a flaming mask, blue eyes stare as his mouth widens in terror. I move to him but fail to go quickly enough. An enemy comes up behind me. I jump and turn, muscles pulsing. I grab his throat with my left hand and my gun with my right. My mind tells me to forget the gunman and go to Rex, but my body is now on auto. Years of training take control away from my conscience.

  He’s carrying an AK-47 and a brown wool blanket. Motherfucker is going to die. I squeeze my grip, the world zeroing in on the two of us. He’s thrashing. The smell of burning flesh infiltrates my senses as I squeeze …

  Rex. Something in the recesses of my mind knocks frantically. He’s dead. Your friend is dead. You turned away, and now, he’s gone. It’s all your fucking fault. I want to scream, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I’m a dying fish.

  The cemetery is cold, and everyone is gone. I’ve killed him. It’s my fault. The sun sets, and I’m on the ground. Take me instead.

  Open your eyes. Open them. OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES, my mind screams.

  On an exhale, I do.

  A room …

  My room.

  I drop my gaze. I’m inside a bed where a thick hand is wrapped around a slender, pale neck. My hand? Teardrops pool beneath her pale eyes. The room is still dark, but nature’s light illuminates her in sepia. Bare, pointed breasts quiver, and goose bumps cover her soft flesh. I gently let go, my coiled muscles unraveling as my mind recognizes the pace change. Consciousness is restored.

  Another night terror. My God.

  I trip off the bed before righting myself and flip on the light. “I’m so sorry. Holy fuck,” I exclaim. I turn back to her and pause at her unmoving form. Shaking her. “Lilly. Wake up. Wake up.”

  She’s unconscious. I take a sharp inhale through my nose as I check her pulse. Alive. Next, I raise her bare legs over my shoulders to promote blood flow to her brain. Years of boxing and twelve years in the SEAL Teams have taught me a thing or two.

  Sixty-four seconds, and her glossy blue eyes open. She’s looking at me, confusion in her irises, as though she isn’t sure what’s happening. I turn my gaze to the bedside clock. It’s 1:04 a.m. It takes a few seconds for her puzzlement to leak into fear.

  My handprints—I can see them against the column of her white throat. Her breathing is somewhat normalizing.

  Sweat drips from my forehead. “I hurt you. I didn’t …” I pause, my hands rubbing against the back of my buzzed hair. “You’ll be okay. It’s happened to me before. Getting choked out, I mean. You might have a headache later, but you’ll be okay.”

  She stares at me, dumbstruck, not unlike the deer I used to shoot every October.

  “S-Slade?” Her voice is hoarse as her delicate hands move up to her neck. She winces, white-blonde hair twisted above her head like a wild halo.

  We just met tonight. I stayed until closing, just watching her wipe down the bar top.

  With a little T-shirt that shows off her midriff and red-painted nails, she bends down to grab something below the bar. The last few tired patrons leave some cash for her before walking out.

  “They’re pulling out their keys.” She nods toward the door. “I’ve got a crazy good sense of hearing.”

  “My younger brother, Aaron, had a keen sense of smell as a kid. Like a dog, he could sniff what the neighbor was cooking in the house next door. No joke.”

  I drink more of my beer, and her heart-shaped face laughs.

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Who?” I polish off my drink, not wanting to speak anymore.

  I want to get this woman into my bed and lose myself in her body. We’ve only met tonight, but she’s sweet and pretty. Reminds me of the girls I used to know.

  “Your brother?” Light eyes squint in curiosity.

  “Oh.” I clear my throat, rubbing the back of my neck. “He wanted to be like me. Join up. But …” I lick my lips, not finishing my sentence.

  “Oh shit. Sorry.” Her gaze nervously darts to the side.

  “Yeah.” I get off the stool. “Ready to go? My bike’s outside, and my place isn’t too far.”

  Presumptuous of me, sure. But women are strange. They claim to want freedom, but most of them just want to be told what to do. Not that I mind. I’m a decent man, but I know what I like—to be in charge.

  “Sure. Let me just grab my bag?” Her voice is hesitant with question, as though I might change my mind. She’s sweet but insecure.

  I nod before stepping outside and lighting up a smoke.

  When she’s on the back of my bike, her fingers grip my waist in excitement and fear. She tells me, “I’ve never been on a bike before,” as I put a helmet on her head. Yet she trusts me.

  And, now, look what I’ve done.

  “I don’t know what happened. I was … dreaming. Let me bring you home. You shouldn’t stay here with me.”

  I could have killed you, I think. Another round of sweat coats my forehead.

  I jump out of bed and move around the room, steadying my trembling hands as I grab her strewed clothes off the gray-carpeted floor. My place isn’t much, but I always keep it spotless and organized.

  “Rituals,” I mumble under my breath, the word leaving my mouth without any thought.

  My dream hits me again, ricocheting around my brain. The force is so strong; it stops my breath.

  I exhale, focusing on the task at hand—dressing Lilly. Slowly, I guide long and lean legs back into lacy black panties, trying to remain gentle. Her black miniskirt goes on next as guilt hits me like a freight train.

  She’s moving slowly but thankfully letting me help. Next, I clasp her bra behind her back and slide her white T-shirt over her head. It says, Stumble Inn. Have a drink.

  Millions of emotions threaten to take me down, but I tell them to shut the fuck up. Right now, I have to make sure she gets dressed and goes home safely. I’ll deal with myself later. When she’s clothed, I throw a pair of jersey sleep pants onto my legs and a blue T-shirt with the word NAVY in bold white letters.

  I help her into my red pickup. Some country song plays on the radio as I try not to drive over any potholes. Like it’s hard for her to speak, she tells me her address. I force myself to stick to the speed limit.

  Getting to her home, a simple bolted-down trailer, I park the car in front. She opens the car door herself, but I run around to the side before she can exit, taking her hand in mine to help her down. I hold the small of her back as we walk. She fumbles with her keys, a massive chain, but quickly finds them. The door opens to a clean home with white walls and flowery furniture.

  Her feet turn toward her bedroom, and I swiftly follow her lead. Hitting the bedroom lights, I lift her in my arms and gently place her on top of the bed, pulling off her short boots. The bedspread is pink. A large framed photo sits on her wooden nightstand. She is smiling in a blue cap and gown next to an older man with a wide, proud grin. Lilly is someone’s daughter.

  I head to the kitchen and find a glass in the cupboard, filling it with ice from the old white freezer and water from the sink. I take it to her room before asking, “Any Advil?”

  “Motrin. Bathroom.” Her voice rasps. It hasn’t returned.

  I immediately find it and remove two pills. Placing them in her hand, I finally ask, “Are you okay?”

  She swallows the medicine with a large sip of water, wincing, and then rolls away from me. My cue to leave.

  I hightail it
back to my place. Shit’s been going south in my head for too long, but this is a new low. Dirt kicks up around the car when I pull up to my small home, but I don’t wait for it to settle before jumping out.

  Within seconds, I’m rummaging through my own kitchen and pulling out a bottle of tequila, twisting the cap open. I need it to function.

  “God is watching,” my father loved to remind us at our wooden dinner table. He’d built it himself. Chewing his collard greens closed-mouthed with buzzed hair and his back ramrod straight, he’d lecture.

  I grew up well. Football captain. Great friends. Church every Sunday. Both my parents were hardworking and God-fearing. When kneeling for Holy Communion, I’d shut my eyes, just as I’d been taught, regardless of the fact that I was constantly restless from sitting too long. When I confessed to the priest, there was nothing I’d withhold.

  I believed in God back then. I still want to, but how can I now amid the shit I’ve seen?

  I take a few more gulps, aiming to drown myself in liquor and old-time memories …

  Aaron beating me in a shoot-out—it was one time, damn it, but he never forgot. That time when Dad drove his truck into a ditch, and the whole football team came to help push it out. Or the time Mom baked that zucchini bread for our new neighbor, but Aaron and I found it sitting hot in the oven, just waiting to be eaten.