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CHAPTER 1

That inner part of a soldier that tells him when he's being watched was going off big-time in Wes Holden's head. His face was hidden beneath a layer of menthol-scented shaving cream, which gave him a false sense of anonymity, yet, despite his disguise, they'd found him again.

As he looked up, his eyes narrowed to slits, staring first at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, then into the room behind him. When his gaze centered on the woman standing in the shadows, he stifled a groan.

He should have known.

It was Margie.

The fear on her face was palpable. He knew he'd caused it, but unless he changed what he did and ignored who he was, he didn't know how to help her. He'd known her since childhood, had loved her since high school — and, for the last fifteen years, had called her his wife.

He started to acknowledge her presence but changed his mind. There was tension between them that had nothing to do with his most recent tour, which had sent him first to Afghanistan, in search of Osama bin Laden, then, after the president had declared war, into Iraq.

Like every soldier's wife, Margie knew that he served his country at the risk of his own life. But this time it had been different. This time they were at war. Every day she'd watched the news on CNN in silent desperation, partly hoping to see his face, partly praying, if the filming was in the midst of conflict, that he was nowhere around.

The day she'd answered the door to find two army officers and an army chaplain standing on her doorstep, she'd started to scream. It had taken valuable minutes of their visit to calm her down long enough to explain that her husband, Colonel John Wesley Holden, wasn't confirmed dead — only missing.

Missing in action.

Three words that had almost brought sanity to an end.

The next month of her life had been a blur of fear and numbness. She admitted to Wes later that, if not for the presence of their son, Michael, she would have gone mad.

At that point Wes quit thinking about the weeks he'd spent as a POW, not certain he would ever see his family again, and shifted his focus from her face to his own.

There were still whiskers that had to come off before his meeting with a base psychiatrist at 0900 hours, and while the pace of life might be slow and easy in Georgia, it was a different story at Fort Benning.

Before he could resume shaving, he heard the sound of running feet. Moments later, he heard Margie cautioning their son not to run in the house; then Mikey burst into the bathroom, landing with a none-too-gentle flop on the closed lid of the commode.

"Easy, buddy," Wes said. "You almost missed the landing pad."

Five-year-old Michael John Holden giggled, then shoved the hair out of his eyes as he gazed longingly at his father.

"Daddy?"

Wes pulled the razor through a patch of shaving cream and whiskers, twisting his chin to accommodate the blade.

"What?"

"Someday will I have whiskers like you?"

Wes hid a grin as he sluiced the razor beneath a steady flow of hot water.

"Yeah ... someday, but not anytime soon. You have to grow up some more before you get whiskers."

"Is it as long as Christmas?" Michael asked.

Pain wrapped itself around Wes's heart as he looked down at the earnest expression on his little boy's face.

"Yeah, Mikey, it's at least as long as Christmas."

Satisfied with the answer, Michael settled back for his front-row seat for the ritual they shared, where Daddy shaved and Mikey watched, interspersing the moment with a constant barrage of comments and questions that soon had Wes laughing.

Mikey was so enthralled with the process that Wes finally caved in, took the blade out of an extra razor, handed it to his son as he stood him up on the lid of the toilet seat, then put some shaving cream on Mikey's face.

"This is just for practice, okay, son?"

"Okay," Mikey said, then took the razor with all the ceremony due a first shave and peered at himself in the mirror. "Look, Daddy, I'm 'most big as you."

"Yeah, buddy, you sure are," Wes said gently, then watched his son scraping the shaving cream off his face with the empty razor, twisting his chin as Wes did, and grimacing with great élan. A few minutes later, he pronounced himself done and settled back down on the toilet seat with a wet washcloth to his face while Wes finished his own shave.

Wes's thoughts wandered, trying to come to terms with the fact that when he'd left for Afghanistan, Michael had been barely four and his biggest interest was watching Bob the Builder. Now he'd come back to find him only months away from his sixth birthday and concerned about growing whiskers.

It was enough to stagger a normal man. For Wes, it enhanced his guilt about leaving his family, and reinforced his concern about the nightmares and flashbacks he'd been having.

Post-traumatic stress disorder.

PTSD.

A nice four-letter acronym for a bitch of a problem.

Fancy words for trying not to go crazy from the hell of war.

He'd accepted the diagnosis with little emotion. It was his opinion that army doctors, like all doctors, preferred to categorize their patients' health issues. It was easier to treat them if their symptoms fell within certain parameters, so they gave everything a name. Wes would like to give the name back, but he had yet to figure out how to shake it.

It should have been simple.

They had rescued him, sent him home to heal, and one day soon, when he was pronounced ready on all counts, they would send him back to Iraq. But it wasn't simple. There were days when he wasn't sure he would ever be healed. For now, he would make love to his wife, watch his son grow, and take all of the fierceness of their loving with him when he went.

He was almost finished when a trash truck backfired on the street outside. Wes's stomach lurched. His instinct for survival told him to duck and run, but reality surfaced. He could still see his son's face and smell the citrus scent of his own shampoo, which meant he was in a safe place.

Still, by the time he realized it was a false alarm, he had pulled the razor too close to his skin. When a tiny dribble of blood suddenly appeared on his neck, he cursed beneath his breath.

Mikey saw the blood and cried out in quick dismay.

"Daddy! You're blooding!"

Wes studied the tiny droplets. Considering where he'd been and what he'd seen, they were nothing, but he couldn't seem to break his gaze, or stop the memories of bloody bodies and lifeless eyes from flooding back into his mind. A knot began to form at the back of his throat as a cold sweat beaded across his forehead. He knew where he was. He could feel the cold tile against the bottoms of his bare feet, but he couldn't seem to pull away from the dark.

Then, suddenly, Mikey's hand was on his forearm.

"Don't cry, Daddy," Mikey said. "I can fix it."

He bolted out of the bathroom as Margie came back into the bedroom with a stack of freshly laundered towels. Ever cautious that sometimes her son's swift exits were because he'd done something wrong, she hurried into the bathroom where Wes was still standing.

"What happened?" she asked.

He swallowed the bile at the back of his throat and then took a deep breath, willing his voice not to shake.

"I just nicked myself," he said, as he pressed a washcloth against the spot.

"Let me see," Margie said, and moved his hand aside. "It doesn't look bad," she said. "I think I have something that will stop the bleeding in the medicine cabinet."

Wes slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close before burying his face against the curve of her neck.

"You have everything I need right here," he murmured, then kissed the spot just below her right ear.

Margie moaned, then sighed, savoring the feel of him in her arms. She'd loved him forever, and having him home — even for a short time — made her whole again. But before anything went further than a kiss, Mikey was back.

"Hold that thought," Wes whispered as Margie grinned.

"I got it, Daddy. I got it!" Mikey cried.

Wes knelt down on one knee and put his arms around his boy.

"Got what, my little man?"

"A Band-Aid. Mommy puts 'em on me when I get blood. This will be good, but you have to be still."

Wes nodded and sat down on the side of the tub, wondering how Barney the purple dinosaur was going to blend with his uniform. Now they were face-to-face and only inches apart. Wes could see his own reflection in Mikey's eyes and was slightly surprised he looked no different. He would have thought it would be evident that he seemed to be coming undone.

"Just a minute, Daddy," Mikey said as he peeled the wrapper from the small antiseptic bandage.

Wes looked at his son, taking strength from the tenderness of his little boy's touch. The mint from Mikey's toothpaste was still strong on his breath, and there was a tiny bit of scab just visible on the curve of his chin that his pseudo-shave had not disturbed. His hair was thick and black, with a swirl in the crown just like Wes's, and when he smiled, the gap left from his missing tooth was too heart-wrenching for Wes to take.

He took a slow, deep breath, swallowing past the knot in his throat. His child was growing up without him. His commitment to serving his country and to the military was strong — as strong as it had been the day he had enlisted — but he had to find a way to honor his commitment to his family, as well.

"Sit still, Daddy," Mikey said. "Dis won't hurt."

Wes closed his eyes to hide tears and made himself smile as he felt small fingers pressing against his neck.

"You're a good little doctor," Wes said. "That feels great."

Mikey nodded but kept staring at his father's neck. Wes sensed there was more to come, and when his son slowly rubbed his own little neck, Wes suddenly got it.

"Better let me have a look there," Wes said. "Well, that's just what I was afraid of."

Mikey's eyes widened. "What, Daddy? What do you see?" "Darned if it doesn't look like you need a Band-Aid, too, and right in the same spot."

Mikey sighed. "Yeah, that's what I was afraid of, too."

Margie quickly hid a smile.

"Since I'm the only one in the family who's not part of the walking wounded, I will get another Barney Band-Aid, ASAP."

As she left the room, Mikey scooted between Wes's knees and then slid an arm around his father's neck.

"ASAP means as soon as possible."

Wes nodded. "Yes, it does. Good job, buddy. You're learning fast."

Mikey beamed, and then, suddenly bashful, hid his face beneath his father's chin.

"I'm glad you're home," he said softly.

Wes wrapped his arms around his son and tried not to think of how small and fragile he felt.

"Yeah, buddy, I'm glad I'm home, too."

As soon as Margie returned, Wes returned his son's favor. With their heads so close together, Margie thought, it was like looking at the large and small editions of the same face. Then she put her hands on her hips and pretended to frown as Wes stuck the other bandage on his little boy's neck.

"Out now, please, before I have to start mopping up any more spilled blood," Margie teased.

Her words set Wes's stomach to turning, but, again, he hid the feeling.

"Come on, buddy. I think we're in Mommy's way."

A short while later, they were all in the car, on their way to the base.

* * *

Georgia was beautiful in the springtime. As they passed through their neighborhood, Wes glanced longingly at the lawns of new grass and thought of the endless miles of desert sand and heat to which he would soon be returning. The peach orchards they'd driven past yesterday, with their glorious acres of blooming trees, would set fruit, ripen, go through harvest and lose leaves before he would be back. Mikey was chattering in the back seat, keeping up a running commentary about what they would buy when they got to the base commissary, with peanut butter being at the top of his list.

Everything seemed so ordinary, and yet there was a measure of insanity within Wes that he couldn't seem to shake. As badly as he hated to admit he needed a shrink, if that would help him get a grip on reality, he would suffer it gladly.

Margie rode with her hand on Wes's leg, as if she needed the touch to assure herself that he was really here. Wes understood the emotion. For him, the ordinary act of driving in a car with his family seemed surreal, and he had to admire Margie's womanly skill of being able to answer all Mikey's questions and still carry on a conversation with him without losing her concentration.

Soon they were turning off the highway toward the main gate. Subconsciously, Wes sat up a little straighter and automatically returned the salute from the guard at the gate.

Wes glanced at his wristwatch. Five minutes to nine. He would be right on time.

"Margie, there's no need for you guys to wait on me. As soon as you drop me off at the hospital, go do what you need to do. If I'm done before you finish, I'll just wait outside. The day's too pretty to waste being indoors."

"Okay," she said as he pulled to a stop. He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss, then winked at Mikey before getting out of the car. "See you later, buddy. Be good for Mommy."

"Okay, Daddy."

He turned away and headed for the door, but a few steps away, he felt an overwhelming urge to call Margie back. He turned abruptly, lifting his arm to hail the car, but she was too far away. Shrugging off his uneasiness as nothing more than reluctance to spill his guts to a stranger, Wes opened the door and walked in.

* * *

A half hour later Wes was trying to find a way to answer Dr. Price's question without admitting how fragile his hold on reality had become, when a loud explosion suddenly rocked the building. A fraction of a second later, all the windows in the doctor's office shattered inward. Wes was belly down on the floor before the glass blew, but the doctor's reaction wasn't as sharp. He was running toward the door when the glass shrapnel began to fly, peppering the back of his head and piercing his clothing and flesh. He fell to the floor, writhing in pain and leaving a blood trail on the carpet.

Before he had time to look up, Wes went into survival mode. He glanced toward the gaping windows, making certain that no enemy was in sight, then got up in a crouch, grabbed the doctor beneath his armpits and dragged him out of the room.

Out in the hall, chaos reigned. People were shouting and running, and he could already hear the sounds of both fire and ambulance sirens. Still pulling the doctor with him as he ran, he was all the way into the lobby before he found help.

"What are his injuries?" one of them asked as Wes gave the doctor up to their care.

"The windows in the office blew inward. I think it's all glass, but I can't be sure."

The doctor moaned as a medic laid him facedown on a cot.

"Easy, sir. You're going to be all right."

Wes's heart was hammering against his ribs as if it were a wild bird trying to get out of a cage. He could already feel the cold sweat running down the middle of his back as he tried to pull himself into a rational state of mind.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Explosion at the commissary," one of them said as they wheeled the doctor toward an examination room.

The commissary? Oh, Lord.

At that point the room started to tilt and Wes felt himself losing control. In a panic, he hit the wall with his fist, knowing that the pain would force him to focus. He bolted out of the building and into the street just as an ambulance pulled away, heading for the site of the explosion.

At that point, he looked over the rooftops, saw an ominous plume of black smoke and started running. Two blocks later, a trio of non-coms in a jeep picked him up. When they arrived on the scene, a perimeter was being set up.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't go in there," a young M.P. said.

Wes tried to push past.

"My family ... I need to see if —"

"I'm sorry, sir, but no one is allowed inside the perimeter until the fire chief says so."

Wes took a staggering step backward, then started walking down the line of onlookers without taking his gaze from the fire. The front of the commissary was gone. From what he could see, there appeared to be a very large hole in the pavement right at the loading zone. He didn't need anyone to tell him what had caused it. He'd seen this time and time again, only not on American soil. This was an American army base. Car bombings didn't happen here — and yet, from what he could see, it appeared that one had, just the same.

Suddenly he bumped into a car, then stumbled. He turned then, staring down the long rows of cars in parking spaces, and realized he was in the commissary parking lot.

He didn't see their car. What if their car wasn't even here? What if Margie was back at the hospital, trying to find him right now? God, please let that be so.

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Excerpted from "Missing"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Sharon Sala.
Excerpted by permission of RosettaBooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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