'I attended your funeral,' he stated then. The admiral finally sighed as silence filled the room. As were the muscles in his back that he had worked to rebuild. He was still having trouble with one leg, but it was strengthening. But it wasn't disrespect, it was an arrogance, a confidence that had only been thinly veiled until now. His uncle was sitting, all protocol pretty much abolished where he was concerned. 'Sit down, Nathan.' The admiral nodded to the chair behind him before taking his own seat. He expected a snap in the admiral's reply he didn't expect the old man's face to smooth out or the understanding that lit his gaze.Īdmiral Holloran had once been not just his superior officer, but a man he respected. 'Sorry, sir, protocol isn't my strong suit these days.' 'That explains your borderline disrespect. 'Yes, sir, I am.' He wasn't going to lie about it either. Forced patience didn't sit well right now. The ones that pushed his body to exhaustion, that made the hellacious arousal that still cursed him lessen. Hell, he just wanted to get back to the exercises he'd been doing. 'Thank you, sir,' he finally managed to say. The psychologist assigned to him made a few notes. He felt like he was being stretched on a rack of fire. He stood to attention, but this was fucking shit. 'Lieutenant Malone.' The admiral nodded back at him, his lined, weathered face drawn in worry and concern. But he had a feeling he wouldn't be one for long. The man he had once been was no more than a dream. Surgery after surgery to repair his body and his face. Of course, there wasn't much left to do but listen to rumor in the highly secured, specialized private clinic he had been recovering in. His resignation from the SEALs three months before had surprised Nathan when he'd heard about it. Three doctors, an admiral, some scowling bastard in a suit, supposedly a JAG representative, and his uncle Jordan Malone. He stared back now at the small group of men who had rescued him from Diego Fuentes's hell. Because Nathan, enraged, crazed, animalistic, had been unable to break the vows he had made to his wife. Before Nathan could realize the danger he was in, he had been strapped to a hardwood table and the first of a series of synthetic drugs pumped into him.

His heel had been sliced open before the spy ever appeared. There had been an electronic tracker in his heel that he could activate the moment he saw the spy. Rescue three young girls from a cartel drug lord in Colombia and allow himself to be captured just long enough to draw out the government spy working with the cartel lord, Diego Fuentes. Since the day he walked out his front door and headed into hell. He knew how many days, how many hours, how many minutes and seconds had passed since he had 'died.' He was six months past the most horrific nightmare he could have imagined enduring.

Nathan Malone stood in the clinical white office he had been brought to.

Wild Card by Lora Leigh