Rogenna Brewer - Mitzi's Marine

“How much?” Bruce demanded, coming to an abrupt halt. He didn’t for one minute believe the old-timer was headed to the Veterans Administration.

“Four dollars to get me there and back. Another couple dollars to fill my belly…”

“Here’s a five.” Bruce shoved it at him. Kissing that six bucks goodbye, he started walking again.

“Them damn drivers don’t make change.” The old-timer kept pace with him, grumbling.

“How much to get you to stop following me?” Bruce demanded, losing all patience with the old guy.

“Depends on where you’re headed.”

“Right here. This is where I’m headed,” Bruce said, walking up to the recruiting office door with the Navy and Marine Corps logos and opening it wide.

The two-story brick-and-mortar office had received a recent face-lift. The sign above the two doors read “Armed Forces Recruiting Station.”

“Well, hell, son, that’s where I’m headed, too.” He blew past Bruce. “I asked was you Mitzi’s Marine?”

“I’m not Mitzi’s anything!” Bruce said a little too vehemently.

“MITZI!” the old-timer called out. “You here?”

“Be right out, Henry,” she answered from somewhere beyond the alcove. The bathroom? The storage room? The stairs to the second-story loft, maybe?

The Navy/Marine Corps half of the recruiting station was divided into front offices and back offices, separated by a short hallway. Alcoves built into either side of the hall were fitted with kitchen-style counters and cabinets.

With Bruce hot on his wheels, the old-timer scooted off in search of her. “Hey! You can’t go back there.”

The one-eyed wheelie scowled at him. “Says who?”

“Says me!” Bruce was about to argue further when Mitzi stepped out from the unisex bathroom in the locker area. Were those tears she was trying to hide? He felt a familiar tightness in his chest. The last time he’d seen her cry she was running from his hospital room.

“Henry Dawson Meyers,” she said, “what is that thing over your eye?”

“Found it in a Dumpster,” Henry said proudly. “Lots of good stuff left over from Halloween.”

“What have I told you about digging through Dumpsters?”

The guy had the decency to blush. Mitzi took the eye patch from him and stepped back into the open bathroom. After washing the patch with soap and water, she wiped it down with a paper towel and handed it back to Henry, who tucked the prop into his jacket pocket.

Bruce stood there shaking his head. “Ol’ Henry here has a bus to catch,” he said. He’d put the guy in a position where he’d have to leave or be caught in a lie.

“Oh? You don’t want a ride today?” Mitzi asked Henry.

“Course I do.” Henry glared at Bruce with two weathered eyes.

“I give Henry a ride to the VA hospital every Wednesday,” Mitzi explained.

“Of course you do.” First he’d been outmaneuvered by Mitzi, aka mini-Marine. Then a one-legged con man with a fake eye patch had tried to take him for a ride. Not today. “I’ll drive,” Bruce insisted.

MITZI BEGAN DIGGING through the glove compartment of his government vehicle. “What are you doing?” Bruce demanded.

“Looking for this,” she said, hanging the handicap permit from the rearview mirror.

Bruce yanked it down and shoved it back into the box. “We’re just dropping him off,” he said, pulling up to the front entrance of the VA hospital.

“You don’t want to stop in and say hi to your mother?” she asked, incredulous. “What about your aunt? You probably haven’t seen her in ages.”

“I saw my mother at breakfast.” His mother and paternal aunt were registered nurses. Both worked at the VA after having served in Vietnam together thirtysome-odd years ago. That’s where Aunt Dottie had introduced his mom to his dad and his uncle John.

True, he hadn’t seen Aunt Dottie in a while. But he’d had enough well-intentioned smothering for his first day home. His mother had fussed over him at breakfast more than when he’d been an inpatient at Balboa.

Hospitals weren’t exactly on his list of favorite places, no matter who worked where and what shift. Not after his extended stay. Been there, done that. Didn’t need the handicap permit to prove it.

Bruce put a hand to his collar to loosen the choke hold his tie had on him. “Even if I was sticking around,” he said, “I wouldn’t need to take up a handicap parking place.”

“I just thought you might want the extra room for Henry’s wheelchair.”

“That’s why there’s a loading zone.”

“Get me out of here,” Henry demanded from the backseat. “I’ve had about all I can stand of the Bickersons. If I’d of known you two was gonna fight the whole way I woulda taken my chances with the bus.”

Bruce and Mitzi exchanged censuring looks.

He managed not to slam anything as he got out of the car, got the wheelchair from the trunk and pulled it alongside Henry’s open door. The old-timer barely had the upper-body strength to transfer himself into the chair. Once he did, Bruce shut the car door and wheeled Henry over to the dip in the curb.

“I can take it from here,” Mitzi insisted.

Bruce eased off the handles. “You’re going in?”

“You can wait in the car in the farthest spot in the parking lot, for all I care. But I have business inside and you’re the one who insisted on driving.”

“How long do you think you’ll be?”

She shrugged. “Half hour maybe.”

“That long?”

“Just go, Calhoun. I’ll find a ride back to the station.” Pushing Henry’s wheelchair toward the sliding double doors, Mitzi left Bruce standing on the curb.

“I like the other fella better,” Henry was saying as the automatic doors slid open.

“Wait!” Bruce stopped her before she could push through to the lobby. “Here,” he said, removing the spare key from his key ring. “Keep the car. I’ll walk back to the station.”

“You can’t walk all the—”

“Then I guess I’ll have to run,” he said, squaring his shoulders.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know what you meant, Chief. I’ll park the car in a handicap spot where you’ll be sure to find it.”

She expected him to fall on his ass.

Maybe he would, but he’d be damned if he was going to fail without trying. He’d never give up the fight, no matter how low she set her expectations.

Eighteen months earlier

Baghdad, Iraq

“HURRY UP, you lazy son of a gun,” Freddie taunted as Bruce and his charge ran behind the truck, trying to catch up to the slow-moving vehicle.

Bruce threw his weapon over the tailgate. Hopping onto the back bumper, he reached behind to help the new kid up and over. Lieutenant Luke Calhoun slid down to make room for them. Bruce declined with a shake of his head.

Stepping over first Luke’s, then Freddie’s outstretched legs, Bruce acknowledged Alpha and Bravo squads with a nod. The six men on the opposite bench were all Navy SEALs. While his side, a combo of Recon Marines and Navy SEALs, grumbled about having to make room for seven, the truck could hold twice as many in a pinch.

“Move your ass over, Freddie,” Bruce said, squeezing himself and the new kid into the middle of the bench seat to the left of Freddie. There was nowhere he’d rather be than right here. This was his home and these guys were his family.

Luke literally. And Freddie soon to be.

“Gum?” Freddie offered.

“Thanks.” Bruce pocketed it for later.

Taking a moment to catch his breath after almost missing his ride, Bruce leaned back against the canvas cover of the supply truck and closed his eyes. Not only was he late getting back, he’d been put in charge of their newest team member, a young hospital corpsman by the name of Manuel Henriquez.