Terry sat on his sofa, wearing civilian clothes and watching Felicity cry. His tiny son nuzzled at her breast and Terry could hardly pull his eyes from the tender vision. But he remained apart, across the room, standing his ground and preparing for her rebuttal even though everything in him wanted to snuggle close, hold her tight and run his big hand over the fuzz on Henry's tiny head. It was about Henry, about what would be best for the boy as he grew, about preparing for the future he deserved. Surely Lisy could see that? But perhaps she was still struggling with new motherhood, new responsibilities and the marriage that was proving to be more than difficult.

"It's just a consideration. It's a great opportunity and can change everything for us. You know that, love."

"You just want to get away from my father," she sniffled, shifting the infant to the other breast with a sigh.

Well, hell yeah, he wanted to get the fuck away from her father. Having a disgruntled father-in-law as his C.O. was tougher than the average man could deal with. And Terry was average, trying to do the right thing and be the best soldier against all odds. He'd deflowered the General's daughter, but he married her, did right by her. That didn't seem to matter. It seemed obvious that if the General could have, he'd have taken away Terry's commission, busted him to the bottom of the ranks. But as it was he simply made life nearly fucking unbearable for him.

Terry loved being a soldier and had a few more years left, unless he chose to make a life of it. He was just looking at options, wanting to discuss them rationally with his wife . . . but who was he fooling. He was no happier with Felicity than she was with him. It was about Henry. About his son; the rhyme and reason for everything, for moving ahead, pretending marital bliss and planning for the future.

Struggle was the name of the game these days. Struggle with his work, struggle with the duplicity of the General's agenda to prove Terry a farce but forcing him ahead with a dangerous and important career. Struggle with his disappointments at home. Only behind a gun, crouched in the trenches did Terry find simplicity, comfort, even joy. There and in Paula's arms.

Big mistake, very big and very bad mistake, but he was naked and beside Lieutenant Paula Dunbar every Wednesday afternoon, sweating, grunting and finding the physical satisfaction he couldn't at home. At first, it was curiosity then it evolved slowly, painfully into something far more. It had become survival for the marriage battle weary Thorne, and as much as it pained him to do so, he had put an end to it only that morning. Done it over the phone in the cryptic, official shorthand he and Paula had devised to keep their secret.

"Aborting the mission, Lieutenant," he'd said clearly into the receiver. "No debrief, no report, no . . . farewells."

"Accepted. Good luck Thorne."

And that was that. Now, watching what he was left with, he wondered if it was wise. There were two years remaining before he could change his life. He'd done all the research. Kidnap and Ransom work would serve him well and serve Lisy too. Give them space, distance and relaxed blocks of time apart. He'd be away a lot, give Henry all his attention when he was home and find comfort in his solace. How could he have ever known marriage to the wrong woman, even for the right reason could prove so fucking devastating?

He'd broached the subject carefully, knowing she'd understand his financial reasoning and hoping her mind would grasp the emotional solution such a career change would offer them. Needless to say, she didn't. Felicity was a new mother grasping at straws. Wanting to hold her baby . . . and hire a nanny to do it for her. Wanting to be a good and loving wife . . . but finding herself often at the dinner club complaining about her husband's inadequacies. Wanting the simplicity of a newlywed . . . and the fairytale privileged life she'd known in her father's home. She was a dangerous dichotomy and Terry treaded cautiously.

He'd thought to approach the subject of opening their marriage. They'd been husband and wife for nearly a year and he could count on one hand the number of times they'd made love. Guilt burdened his heart. He'd planted the baby there. He'd stood by Lisy. Was he about to sacrifice her for his own physical needs? No. The subject was closed. If he found himself in a similar situation as he'd fallen into with Paula, he'd deal, secretly, silently and with his own well deserved remorse.

"Why would you leave the military, Terry? Lord knows, it's the only thing that makes you happy," Lisy interrupted his thoughts.

"Not the only thing." Terry permitted her to misinterpret his meaning, to think he meant that she made him happy, but this time he couldn't control how his eyes fell on the little boy, snuggling into slumber in her arms. Fuck all, she had to know, right?

"We have dinner on Friday at the club with mummy and the General, you know."

"No, I didn't know," he stood, walked to the cabinet and poured himself a stiff drink. "No worries, looks as though I'll be sent off again. Won't be embarrassing you."

"It's not me you embarrass, Terry. It's you. It's my father. If you'd just learn to keep your mouth shut."

His jaw clenched. Keep his mouth shut? He was a man, for fuck's sake. A man forced into social situations where his own C.O. and father-in-law took great pleasure in verbally castrating him at every turn. Something snapped inside him. Assignment or not, he would not be going to the club with mummy and the General. Over his dead fucking body.

"I just hate to see you leave the military, Terry," she was whining behind him. "Eventually you'll be promoted, you'll manage things. We'll just need to sit tight for a while, that's all."

"Sit tight?" He turned a glare that wilted Lisy. "For what? Even though it's twenty-four months away, I've received three offers and need to look at them, make a choice."

"What about my choice?" Felicity stomped out of the room and returned with a vicious scowl, her hands free of Henry and fists clenched. "If you're bound and determined to do this, I should have a rightful say, don't you think?"

"That's why we're talking, Lisy," Terry groaned and sat on the sofa, rubbing his eyes and steeling against the eminent attack.

"Right. We're talking. But in truth, you're talking and I'm listening. I'm supposed to just sit here and let you tell me what we're going to do?" She was pacing, hands flailing. "I'm not a stupid woman, Terry! I've done a bit of homework. K&R? K&R? You will be gone most of the time! What kind of husband will that be?"

"And what kinda husband have I been? It's a fuckin' solution, a bloody good one if ya really look at it. Good money. I can get ya outta this flat you hate, into a real house, maybe a nice one, Lisy. Use your head, love. Think about it."

Felicity Thorne suddenly blinked then slowly leaned against the wall, melted there with a pitiful sigh. "What kind of a wife have I been?" She whispered through tears that tugged at Terry's heart.

"I'm just trying to think about the future, Lisy. Why are ya havin' such a hard time with this? It's two years off, things might change. I just wanted to talk it through, that's all."

"And make a choice. God, Terry. I love you so much. What has happened to us?" Lisy gasped back a sob and stood away from the wall. "Don't you understand?" She knelt at his feet and Terry swallowed hard.

When was the last time she'd made such an approach toward him? When had she ever seemed so vulnerable? So desperate? And why didn't he love her the way he should?

"Understand what, Lisy? I've got a family here. Responsibilities. You want a big house and nice things, I want the best uni for Henry. What don't I understand?" He spoke softly; his words nearly choking him, the warmth of her palms along his thighs making him shake.

"The military, Terry," Lisy whispered. "At least under daddy you'll be taken care of . . . for my sake. I'll always know what you're doing and where you are. That you'll be okay, important. Daddy will watch over you for me. I can't bear the thought of losing you Terry. The danger, the risks of K&R will kill me. And you'll be gone so much, months and months on end."

"I could be gone months under the General's orders, Lisy, you know that."

"But you'll be safe."

"Fuck, Lisy! I'm never safe. Another reason to look at this option. At least . . . if somethin' happens to me, with the money I can make . . . you and Henry will be taken care of. Fuck, be logical."

Lisy stood, tears glowing in her blue eyes. "Do you think that's what I want, Terry? A big house, an insurance settlement that puts our son through university? I know, I know. Terry I do know how I act, how I seem, but I'm more than that. More than a spoiled military brat. I'm your wife and I can't even begin to verbalize how much I love you. How devastating I'd be if . . ."

His hand rose to touch hers, their first tender touch in months, a simple brush of fingertips over her flesh. Why didn't he love her that way? Love her enough? How he should? Terry wanted to, wanted to suck her into his heart and keep her warm and safe and happy there. And he knew that if he did love her enough, all the silly shit and bloody arguing would mean nothing. "Lisy, why don't we ever make love anymore?"

Her face softened. "I thought you didn't want me, after the baby, my body fat and soft and . . ."

"Christ!" Terry stood and wrapped his arms around her. "That's just crazy, love." His mouth caressed hers, slid to her ear. "You are now, always have been and always will be a beauty, Felicity," his voice was a husky rasp, his cock straining and desperate. And his mind spun. With sex, perhaps he could cope, perhaps he'd grow to love her the way she loved him . . . perhaps it would all work out. Perhaps. Perhaps.

***

Things remained extraordinarily difficult for Terry. Never again would he cheat on Felicity and their marital bed found adequate activity. He was tender, kind but he had not grown to love her as he should and this tortured his soul.

The General was relentless. Verbally abusive in social situations but ever vigilant to place Terry in the right place at the right time, to stretch and challenge him as far as possible. Month after month, mission after mission Terry struggled and prevailed. Russia. Egypt. Arabia. Iran and Iraq. Terrorists threatened the world and Terry was always at the hottest spark of the flames, thinking and fighting his way out of mess after mess, more than lucky on so many occasions he began to wonder just when his luck would run out and how soon his life would end.

And the General? He was privately boasting proudly of his son-in-law at the officers club, but publicly berating Terry at every turn. In a dark officer's parking lot one evening, late and after far too many beers, Terry found himself face to face with his father-in-law.

"General Watson." He haphazardly saluted with a disrespectful chuckle. "Ya know mate," Terry leaned close and slurred. "I'd fuckin' kill ya if I thought it would make my life easier."

"To what end, Thorne? You haven't got the balls to face me down or to kill me. Get your sorry arse home to your wife and get some sleep for that inebriated brain of yours. I expect you in my office at oh-four-hundred to receive your next assignment."

"Yeah? Well I expect you to suffer a bloody terminal coronary. Looks like we both may not get what we fuckin' want, does it now." And Terry promptly passed out cold at the old man's feet. He'd never remember the disrespectful words he'd spouted, and he would never know the gentle way the General had taken him home and put him to bed. How the old bugger lectured Felicity to take better care of her husband, or what the General really thought of his remarkable son-in-law.

***

Forty-eight hours later, Terry was deep in a Libyan desert, hunkered down and alone. His three man team had been dealt a nasty blow, one injured through simple negligence, a misstep and fall shattering the left leg and two ribs. He'd sent the able bodied soldier off to take the bloody klutz to safety and moved ahead. Unwise, but necessary; the primary objective looming not far ahead, timing was critical. And Terry knew, without a doubt that if he failed at this one, he'd never see home again.

Their mission was to silently unearth, observe and report activity within what had, until just days ago, been a hidden meeting point for some of the ugliest terrorism efforts on the planet. Alone, Terry was at a grave disadvantage, overburdened with weapons, surveillance equipment and a digital camera he was not prolific with. Under the cover of darkness he inched his way closer and closer to the man-made dune camouflaging what was expected to be a massive facility. His eyes sharp for technological observation of his activities, he slithered further and further, calculating the darkness and coming dawn, when he'd need to retreat and where he could hide should he not make the distance that night. His water was limited, he carried no rations. And his mind was pinned on the last vision of his son taking his first steps alone only months later . . . and the fact that he'd missed it.

Suddenly Terry sensed a minimal lightness of his load and blood surged through his veins. His hands slowly traveled the various packs around his body. One was gone. He swung to glance behind. The camera sat like a fucking beacon on the smooth surface of dark desert twenty long feet behind. To retrieve it immediately or move ahead? Would he have more than one chance at the facility? Could he photograph it the next night? Within the split second of his thought process the ground suddenly opened beneath him and Terry dropped thirty feet, thudding hard enough to knock him out, deep inside the very place he'd been searching.

***

Sera brought her screen to full focus on Terrence Thorne. Her monitors listed a variety of minor injuries and she controlled her heartbeat as they dragged his unconscious body to a cramped cell.

"Show time," she whispered and calculated the risks, the intentions of his captors, Terry's state of mind. "Damn." Options. Options. She had options, but which shall she use?

***

Terry's mind was losing its edge. By his count it had been twenty-two days. Twenty-two days in an eight foot square cell constantly illuminated by one dangling light bulb. He had no sense of day or night, only his watch which had not been confiscated. At first he walked circles, reversing often and thinking strategy. Eventually he focused his mind on math, spelling, naming everyone he knew and reciting song lyrics. He was obviously being monitored as his twice daily ration of food and water came only when he was asleep; a tin cup half filled and one approximately four once dry biscuit, flavorless and dusted with gritty sand. He'd done push- ups, sit-ups and squats to retain his strength, but he was weakening at an alarming rate.

Twenty-two days and he'd seen not one human being. Twenty-two days and no interrogation, no questions, no torture . . . except the torture of being alone. He'd blocked his time by counting to one hundred, changing his thoughts then counting again. Three times each thousand counts he'd indulge in thoughts of Henry, what he was doing, if he was learning more words, what he'd say to his son when he saw him again. Once each thousand counts, Terry would suffer over Felicity, what he'd done wrong and how he could correct it, if he could. But more often lately his mind would wander to the future or the lack of possibilities for a future, what he had done with his life, what he should have done. After these episodes of desperate disappointment, Terry would rush into the physical, praying his body would control his mind.

And before sleep, Terry found himself exploring the curiosities of life after death.

Things had seriously deteriorated. His daily ration of biscuits had been cut in half and he was becoming thinner and thinner. One biscuit a day. Or was it every two days? He shook his head and crawled to his feet, forcing them to move, one ahead of the other around and around and around. The biscuit was not Terry's concern. Four days had passed and he had received no water. He was positive that his captors had decided to murder him slowly, painfully. One lap around the cell and his eyes slid back in his skull. For the second time that day he had lost consciousness. This was not good. Not good at all.

He rolled over to his knees and crawled, slithering along the walls . . . around and around and around.

***

General Watson was leading the rescue team. It was done, no longer could he play the fucking game. What did he know of the game anyway? Or of the truth? Facts were facts and Thorne was in a desperate situation, one even the British S.A.S. might not even be able to save him from. But the General had other motives, motives he had never divulged.

How could he? He knew nothing of showing himself. He had a son-in-law who meant more to him than anyone in his life. A man worthy of respect and admiration. A soldier he was honored to command and a young man he would have been privileged to have as his own son. He'd done everything he could to assist, advance and support Thorne, but of course never in a way that would appear inappropriate or tainted with fraternization. Felicity imagined that daddy would protect Thorne for her sake, but this was untrue. Watson would protect Thorne for the British Army first, and for himself second.

Watson knew that his daughter's marriage was flawed, understood the hardships Thorne had endured, the grave responsibilities taken on amidst a trying and difficult military career. He knew because he'd done it himself. Suffered daily, struggled moment by moment to put on the right show. What a break, having a daughter. Easy, bloody simple. Give her what she wants and keep her quiet. There were reasons there were no other children; reasons that caused he and Felicity's mother to occupy separate bedrooms. Reasons he'd hoped to spare Thorne, but the soldier had made his own bed and was trying, giving the doomed marriage monumental efforts as he did with everything. And he did it with dignity, reverence and nobility. Thorne was doing far more than the General had ever deemed to do.

Before Watson had told his daughter of Thorne's capture, Felicity had beamed the news of another pregnancy. And unfortunately, before the rescue could be launched, the miscarriage had occurred. Hardships all around. But no more for Thorne. His officer would be rescued and rescued by his own hands. What he did with his life after that was in his own choice. As much as Watson wished to counsel the man he loved as a son and admired as a soldier, he would not, could not advise him. It wasn't within his makeup to do such things.

It was to be a fast in and out mission and the fact that he was leading the team left little room for failure or question. They'd pinpointed Throne to the square foot, monitored peripheral activity and were in place for a perfect attack.

***

Terry sat in the center of the cell, unable to lift his arm or stand, unable to speak as his throat was raspy raw and dry. Dehydration was taking the last of his strength and he prayed. Terry prayed for Henry and he prayed for Felicity. Prayed they'd be taken care of, prayed they'd be happy. He prayed for his family, but Terry did not pray for himself.

***

"I've sent the Calvary, Terry. Hold on, just hold on," Sera whispered and watched the crumbling of Terry's heart, the subtle way it slid further and further away, the strain of his body, dry and wasting. His suffering. Tears filled her eyes and slowly trailed her cheeks, streaked wetness to her chin then dropped onto her chest.

***

Plop.

Terry's eyes slowly opened. They focused on the darkened spot on the filthy cement floor. His head tilted with curiosity then he looked up.

Plop.

Water? Poison? A trick? His trembling palm hovered over the wet spot.

Plop.

Wetness darkened the dirt in his hand and a finger dragged it across to the mound at the base of his thumb. Water? He sniffed the liquid, glanced again to the ceiling. Rubbing his damp palm over his pant leg, he climbed to his knees and watched the fluid gather into a tiny transparent globe above his head. Again he held his hand in position.

Plop.

He tasted. Flavorless. But even if it were piss, he'd have drunk it. He'd have drunk his own piss if there'd been any over the past days. He stood on wobbly legs, his hands cupped and his brain counting. The liquid was dripping at one drip per thirty-eight seconds. As it gathered in his hands he felt his heart do what it had been doing for two days; shudder, skip a beat, race then become steady. With a gobble he lapped the small amount of fluid, most of which melted into his paper dry tongue. Again he held his hands, cupped as though a deluge might drop into them. And he counted. Counted. When his hands were half full he carefully sat on the floor, watching the liquid as though it was gold. He sipped cautiously, savoring every drop then swallowed. Terry cried out with relief and pain as his throat gripped a spasm and almost rejected the offering. Then he lay back, too weak for anything but blissful sleep.

It sounded like a muffled crackling fire, getting louder and louder until Terry opened his burning dry eyes and rolled to the side. There was the blast and pop of gunfire and the smell of burning sulfur. He grunted to his knees and finally to his feet, wavering as the explosion obliterated the door, his arm too weak to raise and cover his face, a shard of metal slicing across his cheekbone and nearly causing him to loose footing.

His heart stuttered, skipped, raced and Terry felt the floor soar toward him, felt his shoulder and head slam hard against cool cement. Then he focused. Was it possible? Had he been rescued? Was it really the General looking down at him? Was he hallucinating?

"What the fuck are you doin' here?" Terry rasped, his mouth begging moisture from a parched tongue.

"Saving your sorry arse, Thorne." General Watson had dropped to his knee and was offering an opened canteen.

"Why?" Terry gasped just before everything went black. He didn't see the concerned cloud cross the General's eyes or how carefully Watson himself lifted the captive to rush him to safety. How he held him tight, willing his own heartbeat to keep Terry's going.

***

Two weeks in the hospital and Terry was feeling stronger. Lisy came daily to visit and often brought Henry.

"Look at this little bloke," Terry grinned as the baby climbed and crawled over him on the bed. The child was beautiful, displaying more of his mother's delicate features than any of Terry's rugged face. Henry giggled and cuddled, snuggled and babbled constantly.

"We've missed you, Terry."

He blinked, suddenly, painfully aware that he and Lisy had developed their own form of shorthand communication. Unemotional. Unattached. Henry being the only fragile string that bound them.

"All unpacked, love?" He shifted the subject as talk of their new house always sparked life into his wife.

"Bit by bit. I've had things on my mind lately, Terry."

He winced, wondering if he was responsible for causing her unnecessary worry and concern. He ran a hand over Henry's golden curls. "Lettin' me outa here on Thursday."

"Are you coming home?"

"No. Debrief. Full report. Meeting with the General."

"Oh God!" Lisy's hand shot to her mouth. "He can't mean to send you out again!"

"He can't. I'm not cleared for active duty. Won't be cleared 'til it's over, Felicity."

"Over?"

He finally looked into her eyes. "Yes. Over. I'm finished with the military. There's more important work for me to do," he gazed down at his son. "Places to go and money to make. Within a year we can get that bigger house, Lisy. Think about it, love. More room for Henry to play . . . maybe another nursery . . . another baby?"

Lisy's eyes were blank. She gathered her things and stood. "It's time for Henry's nap. We'll come by tomorrow."

"Thank you, Lisy," Terry said softly as he handed his son into her arms.

"Thank you, Terry." Her eyes were clear, intense and focused on his.

"For what?"

"For trying so hard."

He watched her leave the room.

***

He stood at attention before the General, his uniform loose but pressed and perfect. The conversation was performed like a military march, perfect cadence, perfect pauses for effect, and the perfect distance to make Terry feel the coldness he always experienced in General Watson's presence.

"I am prepared to promote you, Thorne."

"No, thank you sir." Terry's eyes were focused ahead, determined.

"So. Decision made, I see. Kidnap and Ransom. Not the best choice for a family man, Thorne."

"Maybe not, sir. But it is my choice."

The General was silent for several long moments and Terry fought the urge to look directly at his father-in-law.

"Are you sure, Terry?" It was almost a whisper and Terry blinked.

"Yes, sir."

Another painful silence.

"Dismissed."

He saluted, snapped a turn and walked away from a life he loved more than air.

***

He hadn't seen the house since the day they'd moved in, having been sent to Libya the very next morning. Felicity had lived there without him for over a month and done well with their limited funds. The place looked like a home. Terry smiled, watching her make him a whisky and water. He was relieved to have made his decision, chosen the practical path that would take care of his family and their needs. And the whiskey would numb the ache he'd come to live with, an emptiness more familiar than breathing.

But there was always hope, there were always those moments lost in each other's arms, pretending so hard it almost seemed real. He wanted that and he wanted it immediately. He needed it. He settled on the sofa, his arm propped, expecting Lisy to cuddle close and let the music start. She handed him the glass and sat across the room.

"Terry," she began cautiously, alerting him, bringing him to full attention. "We have to talk about a few things."

"All right," he sipped, let the whisky burn every nerve alive.

"Say nothing, Terry. Just . . . let me get this all out . . . please."

He blinked, steadied his heart and prepared. Terry Thorne knew what was coming. Held his breath and listened.

"You have tried and tried and tried so hard Terry. And I haven't tried at all. But, there was a reason. You see Terry, I am and always have been so hopelessly in love with you that everything just seemed easy. Everything . . . but seeing the truth. I'm not blind. And I'm not a fool. Ignoring it can not change it and I know . . . painfully know . . . that you've never loved me. That you have cared and given and sacrificed for me . . . but never loved me."

His mouth opened but she continued.

"I have given up on blaming myself, Terry. It's not my fault and it's not yours . . . and three years is far too long to live this sham. You deserve so much better and so do I." Tears brightened her eyes and she fingered an envelope, finally reaching over to hand it to him.

His hands shook as he tugged the documents free.

"All you must do is sign them Terry. You can see Henry anytime you wish, for as long as you wish."

"Why are ya doin' this, Felicity?"

She shrugged and pushed a tear away. "I think it's time for me to do something for us. Consider it a gift, Terry. Please take care of yourself, and please . . . please find happiness."

His eyes blurred and he lifted the pen, set it down and blinked, then lifted it again, scrawling his name and folding the papers carefully. He tucked them in the envelope and held them out to Lisy. "I'm so sorry, love."

"Don't be. Look what I got, Terry." Her smile was sad but genuine. "I have Henry. And I've had a few years with a wonderful man. Besides," she took a deep breath and let it out slow. "You know how a General's daughter gets back at daddy . . . she marries an Australian . . . and . . . she loves him 'til the day she dies."

She stood. "I've packed your bags . . . um . . . I'm leaving to run a few errands . . . spend some time with Henry . . . and," she turned to leave. "Always remember that we love you. Good bye, Terry."

***

Sera's hand pressed against her aching heart. "Why is it so hard for them?"

Ansi glanced at her screen, at Terrence Thorne, his head dropped back on a sofa and his body wracked with sobs. "It's the price, Seraphima. The price of free will. The problem with this bloke is that he uses it for everyone else's benefit . . . and never his own. He's destined for a tough life."

"He is remarkable, isn't he?"

"Yes." But Ansi's eyes were no longer on Thorne. They were locked onto Sera's profile. "Extraordinarily remarkable."