Between Ghosts

by Garrett Leigh

They piled into the Jackal. Chris slid into Wedge’s usual seat and tapped into the navigation system. Most crews stuck to their own roles, but Nat liked to change it up from time to time, retaining skills that could easily fall by the wayside. And Chris’s characteristically reticent company suited his mood.

  The patrol left the hardware shop behind and hit the road back to the palace. A few miles in, Nat noticed Chris scribbling in a notebook that looked suspiciously like one of Connor’s.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Some knob-job interview for the hack,” Chris said. “Wants to know if I miss my ma.”

  “He what?” Nat fought the urge to read over Chris’s shoulder—taking his gaze from the road could run them over an IED. “What else has he asked you?”

  Chris raised an eyebrow. “Nothing that means anything, Nat. We ain’t stupid.”

  “We?” Nat chanced a split-second look in the rear-view mirror. Marc remained asleep, but Wedge and Bobs spared him a smirk.

  “Got us all,” Bobs said. “Asked us different shit too. Wonder what he’s got lined up for you?”

  “He can suck my dick,” Nat growled before his brain engaged and heat beyond that of Basra’s desert climate flooded his cheeks.

  Bobs was sensible enough to shut his mouth and return his attention to the road behind. Nat glanced at Chris again, gearing up to enquire exactly what else Connor had asked him, but the hiss of the radio cut him short. The transmission was crackly and brief, but the few words Nat picked up froze the blood in his veins.

  Chris picked up the receiver, but Nat leaned across and snatched it from his hand. “This is Charlie-3 responding. Say again. Over.”

  Silence. Nat cursed and gave the receiver up to Chris who stared at him like he’d grown horns as he repeated Nat’s message.

  The answering transmission was garbled and interrupted by every vehicle on the convoy responding, but the message came through loud and clear: the palace was under attack.

  “Shit.” Nat braked sharply as the convoy stopped. “Get back on the wire. Ask them what’s going down.”

  He got out of the Jackal and jogged forward to meet Rogers. “What do you want to do?”

  Rogers shrugged. “Depends where it’s coming from and how heavy. If it’s a ground attack, my bet is there’s not many boots on the ground. We could flank them and shut it down, but I reckon it’s probably RPGs, so our best bet is to lay low until it’s done.”

  Nat gritted his teeth. Rogers’s response was textbook and hard to fault. Every man present knew all too well that the seven-vehicle convoy couldn’t sneak up on a band of insurgents firing mortars. The insurgents would simply shift their aim and blast the convoy off the road. But doing nothing wasn’t an option. Fuck that.

  The scaley in the lead vehicle got out. “Heavy mortar fire. They’ve taken three hits to the south wall.”

  “Sure it’s the south?” Rogers said. “The rockets have been coming from the north till now.”

  “That’s what they said. Sounds like they’re taking a pounding.”

  Nat grimaced as his heart did a painful flip. The palace was protected by a fortified perimeter fence, but Rogers was right: the north had borne the brunt of the insurgent attacks, leaving the south, where Charlie-3 had made their base, feeling relatively safe.

  Relatively. Fuck. Nat kicked himself. “We need to get back.”

  “Not likely.” Rogers shook his head. “They’ll let us know when it’s clear.”

  “We should at least get closer, see if we can take out any launch sites.”

  “No. It’s too risky. They’ll hear us coming long before we see them. Besides, they could’ve watched us pass by and be waiting for us to return. I want a Mastiff here before I take this convoy back on the road.”

  Frustration burned in Nat’s gut. Three IED-resistant Mastiffs had been destroyed in recent days, meaning the patrol this morning had left in an unmodified one. With the palace under siege, the only way to get a properly armoured Mastiff to check the return route for booby traps was to link up with another patrol.

  “What if we go around the main roads and cut in from the east?” The question came from behind. Nat looked around to see Marc had joined them. “It’s worth a try at any rate, because we’re sitting ducks if we stay here. Chances are they’ll blast us anyway.”

  “He’s right,” Nat said. “Whichever route we take, we need to press on.”

  Rogers shrugged, unmoved. “I’m not taking this convoy forward without a Mastiff.”

  Nat had heard enough. He stormed back to the Jackal and kicked the front wheel. The men inside flinched. Nat’s unflappable, ice-cool persona was legendary.

  Wedge looked down from the HMG. “What’s going on?”

  “The palace is taking direct hits to the walls, but that dickhead Rogers won’t move forward until a Mastiff comes out and checks the roads.”

  “There aren’t any fecking Mastiffs.”

  “Tell him that.” Nat drummed his fingers on the roof of the Jackal. “Bloody jobsworth.”

  Wedge grunted a response, and the others remained silent. Charlie-3 wasn’t under Rogers’s command, but even if they ditched the convoy, what good were four men in a lightly armoured Jackal against a barrage of RPGs?

  Nat cadged a fag from Wedge and lit up, closing his eyes to the blazing Iraqi sun as they listened to the attack play out in sporadic radio bursts. Marc returned after a while, his face grim. “They’re taking casualties.”

  “How many?” Bobs asked.

  “Hard to tell. Looks like it’s dying down, though.”

  Marc was right, but that was of little comfort to Nat. The radio transmissions were coming through on too many frequencies for Chris to keep up, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out the palace was enduring some serious damage. It would be a miracle if no one had been killed. He just had to hope Connor had possessed the foresight to get his head down. Nat hung his own head, fighting the overwhelming urge to jump behind the wheel of the Jackal and speed back to the palace. He’d be there in twenty minutes—

  Marc put a hand on his arm. “Faith, Nat. The worst isn’t always inevitable.”

  It was three hours before a Mastiff arrived with another patrol in tow. By that time, the attack on the palace was over, but with the news of seven fatalities, seven serious casualties, and more than fifty walking wounded, Nat’s hopes of Connor making it through unscathed were in a serious battle with his overactive imagination.

  They returned to a flattened perimeter fence and a pile of dust that had once been the southern wall of the palace. The balcony of Charlie-3’s room was completely destroyed.

  Nat jumped out of the Jackal and hurried inside. An efficient kind of chaos, unique to the military world, greeted him. He scanned the bustle of personnel, searching for a face he knew. Rogers was already by the munitions store, taking over command of the operation to make it safe.

  “Have you seen Connor?”

  “Connor? Who the fuck’s that? Do I know ’im?”

  “The journo I’ve got embedded in my team. I sent him back here just before the drama started.”

  Rogers shook his head. “Haven’t seen him so far, mate. You checked with the medics?”

  “Not yet.”

  Rogers nodded and clapped Nat on the shoulder before he went back to his task. Despite his earlier obstinacy, Nat knew Rogers had been doing this shit a long time, and knew the burden of responsibility as well as he did.

  Nat left him to it and quickly scoured the rest of the palace for any trace of Connor. He came to the shattered south side of the building and surveyed the destruction. No bodies had been pulled from the rubble yet, but with the second floor in ruins, it was hard to see how anyone left inside could’ve made it out alive.

  The desperate anxiety thrumming in Nat’s veins began to burn. He sucked in much-needed air and tried to slow his hammering heart. Don’t write him off. Don’t write him off. But the forced optimism had little effect. He’d looked everywher
e and found no trace of him. There was nowhere else Connor could be, but exactly where Nat had sent him. Buried under that fucking rubble.

  “Did you find him?”

  For the second time that day, Nat turned to find Marc behind him. “No. You?”

  “He’s not in the medical centre. I checked the evacuation lists too. Wherever he is, he’s still here.”

  Dead or alive. Marc didn’t say it, but Nat heard it all the same. “How many fatalities so far?”

  “Three. They haven’t searched the rubble yet, though.”

  “Fuck’s sake, I know that.”

  Marc pursed his lips in an expression Nat had seen a thousand times over, the expression that meant someone was about to get a barrelload of home truths.

  Nat didn’t have the stomach for it. He shoved Marc aside and moved blindly through the bustle of the recovery operation until he came to the command centre. It was a hive of activity, even more so than the operation going on outside. Someone called Nat’s name, but he ignored them and ducked down a corridor, following it until he came to a room as far away from the commotion as possible.

  He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, eyes closed. He’d run away from Marc, but even in the startling quiet of the dark room he couldn’t escape reality. Connor had come back to the palace on his say-so, bowing to Nat’s desperation to keep him safe, and now, with every other possibility fading away, Nat had to accept he’d almost certainly returned to his death.

  Grief lanced Nat’s heart. He saw death every day—strangers, acquaintances, even friends . . . good friends, brothers—but it had been a long time since he’d felt the loss of another so acutely. He’d known Connor barely a month, but some days it seemed like a year, two years, ten, a lifetime, and Nat couldn’t picture a world without his dry wit, insatiable curiosity, and smooth, warm—

  “Is it over?”

  Nat jumped out of his skin. His eyes flew open to find Connor right in front of him, his face so close Nat could feel his breath.

  “Jesus!” Nat lashed out and sent Connor flying. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

  Connor collided with a stack of boxes before he steadied himself. “Jesus, yourself. What’s the matter with you?”

  “What’s the matter with— Damn it, what do you think’s the bloody matter with me? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. We thought you’d fucking snuffed it.”

  Nat had never been so pleased to see a frown line Connor’s beautiful face. “Why the hell would you think that? I’ve been stuck in here all afternoon. Some douche bag corporal wouldn’t let me out. Said the RPGs were getting close to the fence.”

  Nat opened his mouth. Shut it. Then his faculties returned and the irrational fury clouding his gaze evaporated. He advanced on Connor and pulled him close, smothering Connor’s bewilderment against his chest.

  Connor fought Nat’s hold, his protests muffled by Nat’s crushing embrace. “What the—?”

  Nat cut him off with a bruising kiss, a kiss that went on and on, both men stumbling for balance, until they hit the closed door and Connor broke away, eyes blazing. For a moment Nat thought he might attempt to shove him back, then Connor reached up and flicked the lock on the door, and all bets were off.

  Nat shoved Connor again, paying no heed to the dull impact of his back against the reinforced door. He seized him by the throat and tilted his head until he found Connor’s defiant gaze.

  “Do it,” Connor said. “Whatever you need. Whatever you want.”

  Want, need . . . two words that had come to mean nothing to Nat in recent years. Anything he needed was for the good of his men and he barely remembered the things he’d once wanted for himself.

  But, fuck, he wanted—needed—Connor, needed him so badly he couldn’t think straight.

  “Jesus Christ, Nat.” Connor gripped Nat’s hand and squeezed, tightening Nat’s hold on his throat. “Just bloody do it.”

  Something in Nat snapped. He released Connor’s throat and grabbed his shoulders, spinning him round and shoving him face-first against the door. “Anyone ever tell you you’re hot as fuck when you’re pissed off?”

  “Wouldn’t tell you if they had— Damn.” Connor sucked in a harsh breath as Nat undid his trousers and slid his hand inside.

  Connor’s cock was hard and heavy, leaving Nat no room for manoeuvre. He pushed Connor’s trousers over his hips, exposing smooth, rounded muscle that made his heart beat faster. He’d always known Connor was beautiful, the stuff of the fantasies Nat rarely had time for, but in the flesh, real time, right now, he was fucking breathtaking.

  He slid a hand down Connor’s spine, ghosting lower and lower until he came to where Connor’s body parted and opened for him. He wanted to fuck Connor so badly, more than he’d ever wanted to fuck anyone. But it couldn’t happen. Besides the less than ideal location, his supply of Army-issue rubbers was upstairs in his bergen.

  “My front pocket.” Connor drove his hips back. “In my wallet.”

  Nat groaned. “Your wallet? I told you to leave everything but your press ID in Kuwait. Please tell me you’re not walking around Iraq with your Tesco Club card?”

  “Nat.”

  Nat let go of Connor’s cock, reached down, and retrieved Connor’s wallet from his trousers still pooled at his feet. Inside, he found Connor’s press ID, his driving license, and a solitary Durex. He stared at it, blood rushing in his veins, thrumming in his ears so loud he could hardly hear Connor’s throaty, panting breaths. “Are you sure?”

  “There’s a sachet of lube behind the rubber.”

  Nat didn’t need telling twice. He gathered the condom and lube in his fist and let everything else drop to the floor as he undid his military fatigues and freed his own dick.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so hard, even when Connor had taken him in his mouth out on the roof. Breathless, he leaned forward and ground himself against Connor, biting his back as the friction made his head spin. His last fragment of common sense told him they needed to be quick—quick and quiet—but he couldn’t suppress the groan that travelled through him, a groan that Connor answered with another backward thrust of his hips.

  “Do it, Nat.”

  Connor had always had a way of uttering Nat’s name, but never more so than now. Control abandoned him. He shoved on Connor’s back, bending him in half, and tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth.

  He rolled it on, shuddering with every touch, and squeezed most of the lube over his cock. The remainder he saved for Connor, smoothing it gently over him, absorbing Connor’s gasps until he couldn’t wait any longer. “Ready?”

  “Fuck, yeah.”

  Nat pressed his cock against Connor, easing himself in and absorbing the heat that was fast overwhelming him. The sensation of Connor’s body was incredible. Stars clouded his vision and release threatened to shut them down before they’d even got started. Nat gritted his teeth and fought for control—restraint, anything to stop him from blowing his load before he could truly appreciate being inside Connor.

  Connor had other ideas. He braced his hands on the door and drove backward, again and again, fucking himself on Nat’s cock and moaning with every thrust until Nat was sure they’d both combust. He took control, fucking Connor as hard as he dared. Connor was tight and hot. Nat felt him everywhere, but nowhere more than the devilish ridge on the underside of his dick, the electric ruck of flesh that seemed made for Connor . . . made for both of them, together, like this.

  Connor gasped. “Jack me.”

  Nat reached around and gripped Connor’s dick. He squeezed hard, trying to centre himself, but it was no good. Connor throbbed in his hand, and Nat came undone, coming with a yell, muffled only by his teeth in Connor’s back.

  Wet warmth coated his hand as Connor followed. Nat consumed every jolt and moan until Connor finally stilled.

  Reality crept in, facet by facet. The sticky mess on Nat’s hand cooled as his breathing slowed. He slipped out of Connor and
rubbed his spine. “Okay?”

  “Hmm?” Connor sounded dazed. He straightened up and met Nat’s gaze over his shoulder. “Yeah . . . yeah, I’m good. You?”

  Nat had no answer to that. He helped Connor dress, then turned him so he could see his face, touch him, kiss him. “You know, I think this room might be soundproofed. Can’t think of any other reason that no one dropped in on us, or that you didn’t hear the south side of this building being bombed to bits.”

  Connor stretched his spine and looked around. “Soundproofed? That would go with the badass door, I s’pose. What happened outside? I heard a few rockets and stuck my head out, but some arsehole told me to stay in here, and he hasn’t been back to say otherwise.”

  “Arsehole he may have been, but if he didn’t come back, he’s probably dead, or fucked up on a stretcher. It was a serious raid.”

  Connor’s expression turned grave. “How many dead?”

  “Too many,” Nat said. “It’s going to be a heavy couple of days while we clean house, inside and out.”

  And just like that, the heady heat between them faded. Connor nodded grimly. “When do you start?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “You’d better go, then.”

  Connor wasn’t wrong, nevertheless, Nat wrapped his arms around him and held him close. He spied Connor’s laptop. “How’s the writing going?”

  Connor shrugged. “I can’t get a grip on what I’m seeing here. It’s all so fragmented . . . Behrouz, the IEDs, pissing about with the aid packages. I don’t get it. Any of it.”

  “Perhaps you’re not meant to,” Nat said. “Us minions aren’t supposed to think so hard. We just do as we’re told, where we’re told to do it.”

  “I get that, and I knew when I came here that nothing would be as I expected it to be, that whatever happened, I’d see the world differently by the time I left, but I guess I thought I’d find the obvious answer too, or at least something that led me to it.”

  “The obvious answer? To what?”

  “To everything that brought me here? Fuck, I don’t know . . .” Connor shook his head, and the sadness Nat often found so compelling took over every feature of his beautiful face. “My brother was a soldier.”