Between Ghosts

by Garrett Leigh

  Praise for GARRETT LEIGH

  “…sure to satisfy readers who enjoy grittiness and intensity mixed in with their romance.”

  RT Book Reviews

  “…Leigh writes like no other in MM romance right now…”

  USA Today

  “…Garrett Leigh keeps us coming back for more…”

  Publishers Weekly

  Between Ghosts

  Garrett Leigh

  Copyright © 2015 by Garrett Leigh

  All rights reserved. Second Edition.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art: Garrett Leigh @ Black Jazz Design

  Original Edits: Carole-Ann Galloway & Alex Whitehall

  Additional Proofing: Annabelle Jacobs

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Appendix

  PATREON

  SOUL TO KEEP — a SHORT excerpt

  MISFITS — a SHORT excerpt

  DREAM — a SHORT excerpt

  About GARRETT LEIGH

  Also by GARRETT LEIGH

  For Rachel. Love yahoo . . . and Man Fox, for droll banter I’d never have found on my own.

  Prologue

  “If we cannot find Osama, bomb Iraq,

  If the markets hurt your Mama, bomb Iraq,

  If the terrorists are Saudi

  And the bank takes back your Audi

  And the TV shows are bawdy, bomb Iraq . . .”

  * * *

  On the fifteenth of February 2003, my sister and I joined a million people on the streets of London and put our names to the biggest antiwar protest the world had ever seen. Eight months later, our elder brother, Sergeant James Napper was shot dead on a British Army base just south of Mosul.

  I remember both days with perfect clarity. The protest had felt like a carnival in muted colours—black, white, and khaki. There were children dressed in hessian, and peace puppies with tie-dyed bandanas knotted around their necks. Cans of Red Stripe littered the ground and spicy bean burgers scented the air. If I closed my eyes and let the drums and folksy music wash over me, I could’ve been at Glastonbury—a place James would’ve found far easier to picture me, the “artsy fartsy” baby brother he still called “our kid.”

  Except, I wasn’t at Glastonbury this time. Instead, I was heading to Hyde Park with a million others in the most civilised act of anarchy I’d ever seen. It was kind of beautiful; a march of peace in the truest sense of the word. It felt like it mattered, like I mattered . . . like we all did. For those precious few hours, I’d honestly believed every soul on those streets had made a difference. Little did I know James was long gone, dropped over the Turkey/Iraq border with his unit, already fighting a war the rest of the world seemed convinced they could stop.

  My sister, Jenna, sixteen years old at the time, hadn’t had much concept of why we marched that day, and she went home that night with no more understanding of the turmoil in the Middle East than she’d woken up with. When the war exploded on our TV screens, it didn’t feel real to her, or even to me, with my insider knowledge from working at the Guardian. Sporadic emails from James were the same as they’d ever been, and despite the constant parade of death and violence in the news, I never dreamed any of his short, crude messages would be the last.

  Naïvety, or just plain old denial, who knew? Both mind-sets suited me back then. It was almost too easy to ignore it all and pretend the uniformed men would never come to my doorstep.

  But they did come. They came at dawn on a Sunday morning and by the time they left, my brother was gone, and I knew I’d never see him again. They’d told me where and when, but despite the inquest, which didn’t take place until two years after the event, details were thin, and the final brutal moments of my brother’s life remained a mystery. For three long years, his death haunted me. Restless with grief, I did everything I could to distract myself—moved house three times, changed my role at the Guardian, but I still missed him, and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t put my heartache to bed. Couldn’t silence the nagging in my heart that I needed to show his ghost that there was more to me than the pop-culture hack he’d left behind. More to his kid brother than a Doc Martens–wearing hippie who marched through London, chanting to politicians who ignored a million-strong protest like it was nothing.

  The desire to prove myself to a dead man was a welcome distraction from my grief. It took a year of training and planning, but it seemed like no time at all before I found myself on a plane to the most volatile region in the Middle East.

  Was I afraid? Of course I bloody was, but as the aircraft took off from Brize Norton, somehow I knew I was on a path that would change my life forever.

  One

  September 2006. Incirlik Air Base, Turkey.

  * * *

  Connor Regan stepped off the cargo plane into the balmy Turkish heat and scanned the sprawling air base. For a moment, he searched for someone he recognised, before he remembered that, James aside, he’d left behind the only soldiers he knew at the reservists’ base in Hereford.

  “Regan?”

  Connor blinked. In his travel-weary haze, he’d missed a thick-set Army official stepping into his personal space. “Er, yeah. That’s me. How could you tell?”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “You just got off a plane with twenty-five Royal Marines, mate. No offence, but it wasn’t hard to pick you out.”

  “Fair enough.” Connor raised a tired grin and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The scruffy band of men he’d shared the long flight from Brize Norton with had been no bloody Marines. They were SAS, like James had been, and Connor and his new friend both knew it. “Where are the Marines headed?”

  “Iraq.”

  “Am I going with them?” Connor’s pulse quickened as he followed the soldier into a nondescript corridor. He’d pushed for a Special Forces assignment back when the Guardian had first contacted the MOD more than a year ago, at the time, struck by a deep-rooted need to feel closer to James, but with the SAS stationed all over the Middle East, it had seemed unlikely that he’d be sent anywhere near where James had died.

  The man dug a swipe card from his back pocket and opened a secure door. “That lot are being dropped over Tikrit. The gang you’ll be embedded with aren’t here yet. Here, park your arse. The Head Shed will be out in a bit to fill you in.”

  Connor’s guide pointed at a battered plastic chair and promptly disappeared. For a while, Connor sat and observed the vast aircraft hangar that housed the administration area of the air base. There were a lot of military personnel, obviously—American airmen, mainly, but he spotted a few Brits, and heard the odd familiar accent floating through the buzz of chatter. He wondered if James had ever been here, but doubted he’d ever find out. The SAS was, by nature, secretive, and no amount of Googling their operations had borne Connor much fruit. It had taken a year to confirm James had even been Special Forces, and by then, Connor had lost the stomach for pressing the issue.

  So why are you here? Connor silenced the devil on his sh
oulder. He’d asked himself the same question, more than once, when he’d first spawned the idea of shadowing British Special Forces in Iraq. His long-suffering editor and mentor at the Guardian seemed to think that Connor was looking for answers—closure on James’s death, but the more Connor thought about it, the less that seemed to fit. In a vortex as big as the war in Iraq had become, Connor was cynical enough to know any answers he went looking for would likely be thin on the ground.

  Besides, James had died three years ago. With so many lives lost since, who the fuck would care? No. Connor was here to find out why, not how. Why had James died? Why were others still dying? What the hell had been so important—?

  “Connor Regan?”

  Connor glanced up to find another soldier staring at him like he was an idiot. “Yup. That’s me.”

  “Thought so. You’ve got that green stare all you hacks turn up with.”

  “Hacks?”

  “Journo, ain’t ya? From the Guardian? Yeah, we’ve heard about you and your fancy column. Couldn’t find nothing when we looked it up, though.”

  Connor chanced a wary grin. “That’s because I haven’t started it yet. Planning on sending a piece home every couple of days while I’m here.”

  The soldier snorted. “Good luck with that. I’ve been trying to email my missus for a fortnight and the bugger won’t go through. I’m Dib, by the way. Nice to meet you, mate.”

  Connor shook Dib’s hand, trying not to wince at a grip so firm his hand felt bruised when Dib let him go. Dib. He turned the name over in his mind, but knew better than to query it. He’d learned long ago from James that squaddie nicknames often meant little to an outsider. “Are you part of the team I’ll be shadowing?”

  “Me? Nah. You’re going out with Nat’s crew, Charlie-3, but they ain’t here yet. Due in tonight if the weather holds.”

  Connor peered over Dib’s shoulder at the cloudless blue sky. “Expecting rain?”

  “Sandstorm,” Dib said. “Not this end, though. Back at the shithole they’re flying in from.”

  He turned and walked away before Connor could question him further. Lacking any brighter ideas, Connor picked up his bag and followed him out of the administration area, and into the main hub of the base.

  Noise hit him like a truck: aircraft, vehicles, and the shouts of at least a thousand men cooped up in close quarters. The fierce Turkish sun warmed his bones, and it was hard to believe he’d been warned that nights in the Middle East could be chilly.

  He caught up with Dib by what appeared to be an exercise yard. “Where are we going? Thought I had to see the boss?”

  “He’s busy,” Dib said. “I’ve been tasked with getting you settled and keeping you out of mischief till your crew gets here. You can meet the big man later.”

  Another jolt of anticipation surged through Connor. His colleagues at the Guardian thought he was mad for ditching his cushy beat in the pop-culture department for the brutal world of war reporting, but even without the need to close the door on James’s death, he’d probably have been keen to get stuck in. He’d trained for this moment for more than a year. He was ready, damn it.

  “Your bedroom, sir.” Dib stopped abruptly in front of a plain building that looked a little like an office block. “Room service is shit, but enjoy the bunks and showers. Fuck knows when you’ll next get the chance.”

  “Don’t suppose you know where I’m going, do you?”

  Dib shrugged. “I’m just a minion, but my bet is you’ll head out to Kuwait for a few days before Nat gets his orders. Get you acclimatized and halfway competent at looking after yourself. Nat won’t put up with any stragglers, so get your head down and do as you’re told.”

  “Nat? Is he going to be my commanding officer?”

  “Jesus. Curious motherfucker, ain’t ya?” Dib shook his head. “Nat’s your fairy godmother for however long we’re stuck with you. Everything you’ll do goes through him. Not that he knows it yet. Grumpy bastard’s gonna bloody deck me when I give him the good news.”

  Connor wondered if he should be offended, but he wasn’t. It had taken months of negotiations and even then, the SAS—the Regiment—had made it clear their eventual agreement had been the result of political manoeuvring beyond their control: a desire from the government spin doctors to repair the damage caused by the Basra prison abuse scandal of recent years. “When do I get to meet him?”

  “Hmm?” Someone called Dib’s name. He glanced over his shoulder. “Who, Nat? Bloody hell, listen, will ya? You’ll meet Nat tonight when he gets in, or maybe in the morning. Depends how long his debrief takes. You okay from here?”

  “S’pose so. Which room is mine?”

  “Whichever one you find a corner in. Get some sleep. You’re gonna need it.”

  Dib disappeared, leaving Connor to shuffle into the accommodation. He found a vacant bunk in the last room, a bottom bunk by a window that seemed to be jammed open. He dumped his bag on the floor and flopped onto the bed. He was exhausted, but a little lost too, and anxious, perhaps even afraid. He’d left London two days ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. Was this how James had felt every time he’d boarded a plane for a war zone? Guilt prickled in Connor’s veins. A heavy dose of denial and avoidance had meant he’d rarely asked James where he was headed.

  Not that he’d have got much of an answer. James had never been one for fuss. “Don’t worry about me, mate. I’ll be back for my dinner before you know it.”

  Connor’s eyes burned with the tears. Idiot. You’ve had three years to cry. Don’t do it here. But it was hard. In the years before James died, he’d become guarded and coy about his work, but with hindsight and a bucketload of regret-laced grief, Connor often wondered if James would have told him how he spent his days, if only Connor’d just bloody asked. A brisk “fuck off” would have been far more bearable than the guilt that tortured him now. The idea that James had died believing Connor wasn’t interested—that he didn’t care—cut deep, though it was less painful than considering the possibility that James simply hadn’t trusted him enough to really talk to him.

  He sat up and retrieved his bag, searching out the reinforced netbook he’d brought along to work on. When it powered up, he typed a short email to send home when he found an internet connection, letting Jenna know he’d arrived safely for his eight-week sabbatical in the Mediterranean—the cover story he’d concocted with his editor over too many beers last Christmas. With that done, he closed the laptop. He’d had every intention of dumping his stuff and exploring the base, but after travelling three thousand miles, exhaustion outweighed curiosity. He lay back on the bunk and closed his eyes. The noise of the air base became a dull roar, and he fell asleep dreaming of James—his laugh, his smile, and the pine box he’d come home in.

  Two

  Sergeant Nat Thompson jumped from the Chinook and wiped the desert dust from his eyes. He was exhausted and, glancing at his team, it seemed the feeling was entirely mutual. Their latest mission had been brutal, ending with a cramped flight in the helicopter, and now he was craving a hot shower and a few hours of decent shut-eye.

  “Oi, Nat . . . catch this, mate.”

  Nat turned and caught the bergen that Wedge tossed down the ramp. “Bloody hell. What have you got in there?”

  Wedge smirked. “Nothing B Squadron won’t miss.”

  Nat didn’t want to know. Knowing meant giving a shit, and giving a shit meant culpability when B Squadron came looking for revenge. He chucked the bergen back. “Just get it squared away somewhere better than you did last time. I don’t want those knobbers going through our kit again. And don’t forget to file the debrief, got it?”

  “Got it, boss.”

  Wedge sauntered off with Marc, the team medic, in tow, to deliver Nat’s report on their latest operation and hide his loot, probably before hitting the sack with a hot brew and the BBC World Service to keep them company. Nat watched them go and then shook his head as the remainder of his team disappeared too. The aircrew vanishe
d, and it wasn’t long before he found himself alone, completing the kit inventory that was technically Wedge’s job.

  “You’re too nice, Nat. Let ’em pull their weight. No point you being knackered while they’re kipping round the bloody campfire—”

  Nat silenced the voice before it could take hold. Pogo had been his best friend and he missed him something fierce, but he didn’t need the company of ghosts tonight. Fuck that shit.

  “Nat?”

  “Yeah?” Nat glanced over his shoulder. “What’s up, Dib? You need me?”

  “Not especially, mate. Them upstairs wants to see you, though. Said to send you in.”

  Nat suppressed a sigh. He’d had his feet on the ground for barely an hour and command wanted to see him already? That didn’t bode well for the downtime his crew so desperately needed. “On my way.”

  He abandoned the inventory. Inside the base, he caught sight of the rudimentary camp the lads had set up around a box of Minimi rounds. By the look of it, they were all fast asleep, but he could see they’d left a space for him and a meal in his mess tin. His stomach growled, reminding him it had been twelve hours since his snatched breakfast in a flooded ditch, but his supper would have to wait.

  “Evening, Nat,” the operational commander greeted Nat when the latter found him in his office. “I’ve read the debrief. Looks like a success. Anything else to report?”