Out of the Ashes Read online

  Out of the Ashes

  RC BOLDT

  Out of the Ashes

  Copyright © 2017 by RC Boldt

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 13: 9781635760026

  Editor: Editing4Indies

  Proofreader: The Word Lyricist

  Proofreader: Julie Deaton

  Cover design: Wicked by Design

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. 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 and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by trademark owners. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features in any media form are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if one of these terms are used in this work of fiction.

  Visit my website at www.rcboldtbooks.com.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue One

  Prologue Two

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Epilogue

  Note From The Author

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Dedication

  Matty,

  You’ll never be able to understand how grateful I am to you for showing me what true love is all about. While I was definitely no phoenix, you certainly pulled me from the “ashes”.

  P.S. I still love you more.

  A,

  You are—and will always be—my favorite girl in the whole, wide world. Never change—except for that whole temper tantrum thing. That, I’m totally okay with being 86’d. Otherwise, you’re golden.

  I love you “more than the world and the universe”.

  To our fallen warriors and veterans,

  May you know your sacrifices are not forgotten nor taken lightly. You will forever be heroes in our hearts.

  Prologue One

  Initial News Report

  “Al Alam News has received reports of explosions in an area known to be an ISIS stronghold in the Helmand Province. These militants have declared they are holding a United States Special Forces officer captive and demand eight hundred million dollars in exchange for him. We have reached out, but US officials have declined to comment.”

  Six months later

  “We at BBC News have just been made aware of some breaking news. In a press release from the United States government, it was confirmed that a Special Forces unit was ambushed in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan, leaving no survivors. US officials are dismissing the reports from ISIS claiming they have a Special Forces officer captive. Families of the fallen have been notified.”

  One year, ten months, and seven days after capture

  “We’re interrupting this broadcast for breaking news. The United States government has confirmed reports that a member of the United States Special Forces has been found alive. He was one of five soldiers declared dead when their helicopter was shot down during a mission. The name of the individual has not been released, but they have confirmed he is now in a hospital at Landstuhl, Germany, due to be transported stateside.”

  * * *

  Walter Reed National Military Medical Center

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Hendy

  Two months later

  I could hear the voices at the doorway of my hospital room, and while I recognized both, one of them stood out.

  One of them caught me off guard.

  That same voice elicited anticipation from within me. I’d never gotten serious about any woman, but she was one I thought might have potential, the only one I could see myself getting serious with.

  Katie was a nurse I’d met while visiting another SEAL in the hospital, and we had hooked up anytime I returned stateside. For whatever reason, she hadn’t been a hit-it-and-quit-it for me, and we’d kept in touch via email and sometimes Skype—whenever I was graced with a decent internet signal on my deployment.

  “How is he?”

  “He’s…doing better.” The hesitation was clear from Nurse Ratched’s tone. That woman earned her nickname. Her bedside manner was non-existent—not to mention, she could give the Navy medics a run for their money when it came to the “I start an IV by shoving a needle in your arm and then dig around to find a vein” thing.

  “They’ve been working me nonstop, and I just now got a chance to come see him.” Katie sounds nervous.

  I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I wasn’t nervous as shit for her to see me.

  “He’s been awake for a short time, but he might still be a bit groggy,” Nurse Ratched warns. What she doesn’t realize—or doesn’t care to notice—is the fact I rarely press the button that automatically dispenses pain medication via my PCA pump. After hearing “Pain is just weakness leaving the body” over and over from the start of BUD/S training—Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training—and throughout my career as a SEAL, it’s engrained in me.

  Not to mention, feeling pain means I’m not dead, and I have to admit I’m still shocked I made it out alive.

  The tentative footsteps entering the hospital room draw my attention from where a muted Jeopardy plays on the television. Katie comes into view; her blond hair pulled back in a clip, she’s clad
in plain scrubs. Luckily for her, the door to the room is to my right, so she’s greeted by the unmarred side of my face.

  Unlike the left side. Much unlike the left.

  Drawing to a stop at the foot of my bed, she offers a gentle smile. “Hey, handsome.”

  I attempt a slight smile—at least as much of one as I can offer. The scarring and muscle damage in my left cheek creates more of a lopsided grin now. When I turn toward her—allowing her a full view—I see it.

  The revulsion.

  The horror.

  The disappointment.

  It’s all written there on her face. It’s in those widened, hazel eyes.

  “So, uh…” she falters, stammering as if we’re acquaintances and not two people who’ve gotten to know one another—intimately, if nothing else. “How are you feeling?” She winces as she realizes how lame her question is.

  But I answer just the same. “I’ve had better days.”

  Her laughter sounds stilted. “I can imagine.” Her eyes dart to the left side of my face before jerking away, as if she’s looked directly at the midday sun. Wincing. Painfully.

  “It’s good to see you, Katie.” My tone is far too polite.

  She needs to go. I know this, and so does she. Obviously, she was only into me for my looks, and I should’ve known better. After all, I was the manwhore who slept my way through quite a few single women before all this happened.

  I never had any complaints—all of them knew the score. A SEAL. A guy who’d deploy to some random part of the world no sane person wants to visit. A guy who chose his country over himself. A guy who killed sometimes as much as he saved.

  For those reasons, I was also a guy who didn’t do attachments—a fun guy. I’d never slept with a woman who turned into a “bunny boiler” or flipped out on me in some equally psychotic way. We always parted on good terms, amicably, thanks to the charm instilled in me long ago, courtesy of my mother.

  But it isn’t until this moment that I realize how vain and callous I’d been. Shallow. Because at times like this, people need support—need to be appreciated and loved for more than their looks.

  Life is totally giving me a big fat fuck you right now. That much is certain.

  “Yeah, it’s…great to see you home.” She clasps her hands together; her expression so overly bright it’s painful. “And doing so well, too.” Her energetic tone grates on me.

  “Well”—I blow out an exaggerated breath—“I’m actually pretty beat, so I think I’m going to rest.”

  It’s an easy out. I know it, and she knows it. I’m giving her the reprieve she’s searching for, so she doesn’t have to look at the damage. More specifically, she doesn’t have to look at the left side of my face.

  Relief washes over her features before she stifles it. She might have been quick but not quick enough.

  “Oh, of course.” Her words come hastily, almost frantic. “I’ll let you rest.”

  I close my eyes, partly to shut her out. “Take care, Katie.” Goodbye, Katie. Have a nice life.

  “Bye, Hendy,” she says softly before her footsteps fade away.

  Only then do I open my eyes. Training my gaze on the television, I press the button to increase the volume slightly.

  “Who is Rembrandt?” I murmur.

  And I continue doing so—rambling off answers and answer attempts—until exhaustion finally overtakes me. All the while, in the back of my mind, it’s confirmed; it’s a done deal. The damage to my face is far too extensive for anyone to see past it. I was right—I wasn’t completely off-base when I first caught sight of my reflection in the mirror.

  My face is the sight of horrors, and no one will be able to see past it.

  Not even me.

  Prologue Two

  Hendy

  Two and a half months later

  CNN, critics’ discussion at “The Round Table”:

  “First of all, it’s absolutely unheard of for them to hold anyone alive. This same group televises beheadings!”

  “On top of that, many question how this individual could have mistakenly been presumed and then declared dead when, in fact, he was alive, held captive, and tortured by the enemy.”

  “There were only charred remains.”

  “That doesn’t matter! He was declared dead! Can you imagine what the family members have gone through?”

  I flip the channel, turning it back to Jeopardy, my favorite game show. It’s one of the many things I missed when I was in bumfuck hell.

  “What are capillaries?” I murmur beneath my breath.

  “What is The Odyssey?”

  “What is cacao?”

  “What is ‘When it rains, it pours’?”

  By all rights, if I were on the show right now, I should have quite the impressive cache of, well, cash to my name. Life would be fucking sweet if I were on Jeopardy and winning.

  Instead, I’m laid up in this goddamn hospital bed like a weak ass—a fucked-up version of Frankenstein.

  The approaching sound of swishing fabric catches my attention. Turning toward the interruption, I watch as Dr. Emerson enters my room. The lead on my medical team, she’s in her mid-forties and quite the looker.

  Oh, and happily married.

  Yeah, I’d asked. Afghanistan may have taken the lives of some of the best guys I’ve ever known, but it sure as shit didn’t take away my sense of humor—or my horny tendencies. Hell, some days, that’s all that gets me through. Not that I’m delusional enough to think any woman would give me the time of day with the way I look now. Before all this, women flocked to me. I sound like a dick saying that, but it’s the truth.

  Now, though, they run in the opposite direction. There’s no shock and awe here; it’s just horror.

  “How’s the pain today, Hendy?” She’s one of the few docs who heeds my request and calls me by my nickname.

  “Barely feel a thing. More like a paper cut, really.”

  Her lips quirk as she marks notes on my chart. Likely jotting down something like, Patient is still a smartass.

  She and I have a code, though. When I say it hurts like a paper cut, she knows what I mean; I’m downplaying it because I hate the pain meds handed out like candy at the hospital. If I’m honest, the pain is often so bad it feels as though a million fire ants are crawling over my skin, eating me alive—creating the sensation that my skin is ablaze—especially in the areas of my skin grafts.

  Dr. Emerson swears these sensations are normal and simply the nerve endings—it’s natural. It might be natural, but it doesn’t make it any less fucking painful.

  After developing an infection, I had to undergo hyperbaric oxygen treatment to help increase my blood’s circulation and oxygen to assist in the healing process. Finally, after multiple treatments, my skin grafts began to heal properly.

  “I need to check your wounds. Specifically”—she nods toward the left side of my face—“this one right here. Want to ensure you’re healing as expected to stay on schedule with your release.” She offers a kind smile.

  Every time it’s checked, I wince visibly—inwardly, too—because I’m reminded of just how fucked up my appearance is now. I’ve been left with such a vivid reminder of my time with those fuckers who tortured me for shits and giggles. Those who would carve my flesh until I didn’t feel anything—until I was numb from the pain—only to send someone in to rub salve on my wounds to heal me.

  Once a thin layer of new skin covered my wounds, they would begin the torture all over again. Asking the same damn questions—ones I didn’t have the answers for, as well as ones I couldn’t answer. I still have the occasional dream—nightmare, really—with that shitty interpreter’s voice on a loop.

  “Tell us about your father.”

  “Why were you sent here?”

  “Who were you trying to find?”

  “What did your father tell you?”

  Every single time I refused to answer, as we’d been trained to do, I’d internally scream out in frustration. Because m
y father was dead—he’d died before I was even born—and I had no idea why they kept asking me about him. At my refusal, the torture would escalate.

  Dr. Emerson, now examining my back, murmurs, “Looking good.”

  “Don’t forget to check out my back, too,” I quip, implying she’s checking out my ass. I smirk when I hear her soft snicker. She’s also one of the few doctors treating me with a sense of humor.

  The super soft cotton pants—donated by one of the foundations started by a former SEAL himself, Heath Mitchum—are a saving grace. He donates modified hospital clothing to combat-wounded patients. They slide around a bit without a firm elastic waistband, but it prevents any irritation on healing wounds, so I’m sure I’ve flashed Dr. Emerson some crack.

  She continues her examination in silence before finishing with a pat on my shoulder. I shift back to a sitting position as Dr. Emerson brings a chair next to my bed and takes a seat. I can tell by the look in her eyes and her sober expression that I’m not going to be a fan of whatever she’s about to say.

  We’ve been over this a dozen times. She’s worried about me—about my emotional and mental health, as well as my physical recovery.

  “We need to discuss your options for continuing your care.” Leaning forward slightly, she pleads with her brown eyes. “Please.” She pauses, her lips rolling inward before she does it. Puts the nail in the coffin—cuts off all arguments from me.

  “Do it for the friends you lost.”

  Chapter One

  Hendy

  Fernandina Beach, Florida

  One Month Later

  “Dude! You totally double dipped.”

  I shoot a hard glare at Foster Kavanaugh, one of my best friends. However, right now, I’m grossed out by him sticking his chip in the bowl of homemade salsa—twice.

  He smirks like the cocky bastard he is. “What’s worse is that you don’t know where my mouth’s been recently.” Popping the salsa-laden chip into his mouth, he crunches, eyeing me smugly.