Whole Pieces Read Free

turned the once-missing hand toward himself.
    It . . . worked? Split-second recon told him it had—the team, the whole team, still intact, in the trench. Six men. Still alive. Still breathing. No blood. No death. Oh, God, please let it be true.
    A strangled yelp lurched from his throat.
    â€œQuiet,” a voice hissed.
    And in that split second, Hawk knew it had worked. Knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it had worked because that voice belonged to his longtime buddy, Greg Stratham. The man whose funeral he’d attended. Whose parents Hawk had offered his condolences and heartfelt apologies to. It hadn’t been enough. Nothing could fill the hole in their lives—or his—with Stratham dead.
    But he wasn’t dead. Not anymore.
    Wait. Maybe it was a dream. Or an illusion.
    Yeah, that would fit the MO of that character who’d called himself Time. Were these men figments of his imagination?
    Only one way to find out.
    Hawk reached toward the master sergeant’s shoulder. If he could touch the guy, he’d—
    Stratham slapped away Hawk’s hand. The one he didn’t have two minutes ago. Or two minutes thirty-two years in the future . . .
    â€œWhat’re you doing?” His buddy scowled beneath the somber glow of the moonlight. “Sitrep!”
    It worked! In his mind, Hawk saw himself yanking the guys into a man hug. He wanted to. Wanted to touch them, hear their voices, convince his brain that what wasn’t possible had actually happened. Tremors raced down his arms and through his legs, making him itch to leap up. Shout. Scream.
    Instead, he laughed. Clapped Stratham on the back. “It’s good to be alive.”
    â€œWhat’s with you, man?” Stratham shifted, the dirt beneath him grinding beneath his leather personnel carriers. “Sitrep. What’s happening?”
    Afraid to look away and have this dream come true vanish, Hawk shook his head. He’d been here once before. He recalled, like a weird echo in his head, Stratham asking for the sitrep. “Nothing.” Yeah, that was the right answer. He remembered it. Saying it again felt like some sick, twisted déjà vu. This time, though, his voice felt weak, his mind even more so. “Clear. All clear.”
    Maybe weak was the wrong word. Try tangled in the past . . . er, future. In what could happen. That in the look-see that went all kinds of bad on March 12 at 0435, every man in this trench could die again.
    What time is it?
    The watch!
    As his neural net snagged the thought, he felt the metal, warm and round, in his left hand. He lifted it, his pulse chugging as moonlight streaked over its pristine surface, traced the number 7. What happened to Constant? Why hadn’t he come for the piece?
    He slumped back against the ditch he and the others had prepped and covered before taking up position twenty-four hours earlier. It afforded them a clear view of the small village they’d been ordered to watch. Command wanted to know the goings-on of a certain Afghan security officer who frequented the area and seemed to have intel on key military placements and incredible—how had General Burnett put it?— awareness of Taliban movement.
    Awareness being an intimate familiarity through corruption. Either through bribes or direct connection, the politician had undermined and sabotaged not only progress in stabilizing the region, but the camaraderie between US and Afghan forces. In fact, with what Hawk knew now, having lived thirty years with the knowledge that Burnett’s suspicions were dead-on, Hawk wished he could skip right to the end, cut short that politician’s life, and just take the heat for whatever happened. But that was another battle.
    Or was it? After all, the boy had skipped home, and soon after, Taliban fighters had descended like a plague. The only way that could’ve happened so fast was if the politician had those terrorists on speed