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      I’d like to dedicate this book

       to all the men and women who have been wounded

       serving and protecting our country.

       Thank you for your service.

       Your sacrifice is not in vain.

       1

      A HEAVY FIST CONNECTED with his jaw. Gage Harper’s head snapped backward and the crowd, pressed tight against the raised platform, roared.

      All Gage heard was the rush of adrenaline as it poured through his body. It drowned out the words that had been haunting him all night. “In a war that brings mostly sad news, tonight there is a brighter story to tell.” Someone should tell the solemn man who delivered that statement to the world that bright and war should never be used in the same sentence.

      But Gage wasn’t going to be the one to do it.

      Instead, he squared his feet beneath him and countered the blow he’d received with several of his own. Head, gut, kidneys. This wasn’t the sort of place that worried about rules. The backwoods fighting ring was exactly what he needed to distract him from the memories he didn’t want.

      Micah’s flag-draped casket being loaded into the transport for home. A hard-eyed insurgent yelling into his face before ripping both of his thumbnails out with pliers. The screams of his friends as they endured torture.

      Torture he could have prevented if he hadn’t screwed up.

      Yeah, this was a great use of a Thursday night even if he’d had to drive an hour out of Sweetheart, South Carolina, to find it. The blessed numbness would be worth every fist to the face.

      Grounding his weight onto his left leg, Gage lashed out with a roundhouse kick. Channeling all the frustration, rage and guilt built up inside him, he put more power behind it than he’d meant to, aiming straight for the guy’s gut. He was finding it difficult to hold back after months of fighting for his life. Those kind of hard-won instincts were a bitch to get rid of. Luckily the other guy blocked.

      Scenes he thought he’d dealt with flashed across his mind. Gunfire. Smoke-filled hallways. A dark, dirty cell with barely enough room to lie down. Tanner, a fellow Ranger, bloody and broken before they’d even been thrown into that room, moaning in pain. Needles. Knives. Pliers.

      But he didn’t break. He hadn’t told them a damn thing.

      Gage ground his teeth and pushed the memories away. Nothing could change what had happened to Tanner.

      Or bring Micah back. The man he’d met in jump school was gone. Killed when his gun misfired while cleaning it. That, more than anything, was what bothered him about his friend’s death. He knew Micah. Had trained with the man. Micah could disassemble, clean and reassemble his weapon in his sleep. They all could. Dying in battle, that he could have dealt with. They’d all signed up for that possibility. But not some freak accident.

      That anger, grief and skepticism were what sent him out into the scorching desert looking for the same kind of fight he’d found tonight. Something to silence the racing thoughts and numb the pain he didn’t want to deal with. He’d gotten a distraction, all right. And several good men had been pulled straight into hell with him.

      He never should have watched the national news story his mama had saved. The latest in a long line of shouldn’ts.

      Who knew she could operate the DVR? When he left for basic training twelve years ago she could barely get a DVD to play. He’d been looking for something mindless, like old football games or episodes of CSI. Instead, he’d found hours of news stories detailing his capture and high-profile rescue from Taliban insurgents.

      The worst had been the leaked propaganda videos. The close-up shots of his own dirt- and blood-streaked face as they’d forced him to deliver their messages to the U.S. government. He could still taste the bitter words, hated himself for saying them even if he’d done it to save Tanner from more torture he wasn’t strong enough to survive.

      He’d wanted to turn them off. Should have. But couldn’t. What those slick news anchors with their perfect white teeth hadn’t said was that what happened was entirely his fault.

      His thumbs began to throb where his missing nails should have been. Gage clenched his fists tighter, asking for more. He relished the pain. The reminder. His injuries were nothing compared to Tanner’s. If he hadn’t let grief and a mindless need for a distraction blind him to the warning signs …

      If he hadn’t taken unnecessary risks and pushed them all straight into a trap, his buddy wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed looking at months of rehab, learning to live without a limb and the possibility that his military career was over.

      The guy in front of him, clearly some gym rat trying to show off the muscles he’d honed in air-conditioned luxury, twisted on his heel and threw out a leg aimed straight for Gage’s head. He easily blocked the kick, letting the other guy’s foot glance off a shoulder.

      He could wipe the floor with this guy. It had taken Gage less than ninety seconds to pick up on his weaknesses, and if they’d been in the middle of the desert instead of a crude ring made from worn padding, plywood and rope, he wouldn’t have hesitated. But he wasn’t there to defend his life or a set of ideals he wasn’t even sure he believed anymore.

      He was just there to forget. And the quickest way to that was to let this guy beat the crap out of him so he could concentrate on something other than pointless regrets and decisions he couldn’t take back. Besides, he didn’t need the prize money these guys were after. Better to let some struggling father win the pot so he could buy something nice for his family.

      Gage’s lip split. Blood splattered across the floor. His head wrenched sideways and something in the audience caught his eye. The familiar flash of green-gold eyes and dark blond hair he hadn’t seen in twelve years.

      Well, unless you counted dreams. And he didn’t.

      Hope Rawlings. His belly tightened, a sensation that had nothing to

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