Nat glared, silently inviting Marc to try. Apparently unfazed, Marc took his arm and guided him to bed. “Drink the electrolytes and rest. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
He disappeared. Nat forced himself to drink a bottle of water laced with electrolytes. It stayed down on his third attempt, and then he lay down on his bed and longed for Connor as he slipped into another disturbed sleep.
His wish was granted at dawn when he woke to Connor brewing tea over a hexy block.
“Morning,” Connor said when he noticed Nat was awake. “How are you feeling? You had a pretty rough night.”
“Did I?”
“Yep. Marc gave you an injection to stop you throwing up in the end. You slept after that, but I think you had some weird dreams.”
That rang truer than Nat cared to admit. He couldn’t remember what he’d dreamed about, but his tight chest and clammy palms suggested it hadn’t been good.
He accepted Connor’s hand and stood. For the first time in twenty-four hours, the ground didn’t rush up to meet him.
“All right?” Connor asked.
Nat nodded. “Yeah, actually. Can you take this cannula out of my arm for me?”
Connor looked horrified, but with Nat’s guidance, managed to slide the IV cannula out of Nat’s arm.
“Thanks,” Nat said.
“Good for something, eh?” Connor passed Nat a cup of hot, sweet tea, his expression indecipherable. “Get that in you.”
Nat drank it with apprehension, but it stayed down, and as his system absorbed the sugar and caffeine, he began to feel a little more human. He braved a shower and subsequently endured another lecture from Marc.
“Stay put for now,” Marc said. “Wedge will be good to go by tonight. If you keep your dinner down, I’ll sign you fit for business.”
Nat couldn’t argue with that. His mind craved fresh air and sunlight, but his body was still knackered. “All right, princess.”
Marc rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Did anyone brief you on Echo-4’s raid on that dodgy mosque?”
“Nope. Haven’t heard a thing. What’s the score?”
“Not much,” Marc said. “Chris and Bobs went with them. They found nothing but a bunch of smashed-up furniture. The place was deserted.”
Nat frowned hard enough to reactivate his dormant headache. “That doesn’t feel kosher. What do you think?”
“Me? I don’t know, mate. Perhaps there was nothing there to begin with. It doesn’t matter right now. Just eat your dinner and rest while you still can.”
Nat let it go, at least for the time being. Marc fetched him a tin of beans, watched him eat it, then wandered away to check on Wedge. With him gone, Nat immediately looked for Connor, who’d made himself scarce while Marc worked.
He didn’t have to look for long. Connor soon stepped back into the alcove, clutching his ever-present laptop.
Nat held out his hand. “Give that here. ’Bout time I caught up with that shit. How many am I behind?”
“Two,” Connor said. “But it doesn’t matter. We figured unforeseen circumstances might delay me, so my editor scheduled the articles a fortnight in hand.”
Nat turned that over in his mind. “When are you leaving?”
“I’m not . . . not yet, at least. I was given six weeks out here at first, but the MOD granted me an extension to stay as long as you’ll have me, within reason, of course.”
I don’t want you to go. Nat didn’t verbalise the thought as it warred with his less selfish instinct to send Connor as far from harm’s way as humanly possible. “You kept that quiet.”
Connor shrugged and relinquished his laptop. “Wasn’t sure it would happen. Think it helped that I haven’t published much of any substance yet. Reckon they’ve written me off as pretty harmless.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Nat booted up the laptop and opened the folder containing Connor’s articles. He clicked on the first document and waited for it to load. “How do you feel about what you’ve written so far?”
“Judge for yourself.”
Connor’s flat tone irked Nat. He tore his gaze away as Connor stretched out on his own bed and began to read.
Nat sat back a little while later and frowned. Connor’s work was as flawless as ever, and he’d stuck to the rules, stripping any real reference to Charlie-3 and the hunt for Behrouz. “How do you do it?”
Connor opened a lazy eye. “Do what?”
“See all you see, and then write something else?”
“I don’t. I write everything, then streamline it for pernickety motherfuckers like you.”
“What happens to the original article?”
Connor sat up. “Why are you asking? Do you think I’d do something with it behind your back and get my arse sued to buggery by the MOD?”
“No, I’m just wondering what it means to you.”
“Everything, I guess. What goes out there for public consumption is my job, what I write is me. Everything I was before I came here, all I am now.”
The somewhat cryptic answer was deeper than Nat had anticipated. He let it hang while he scanned the last article again and considered what had truly compelled Connor to put himself on the frontline. His brother? Or simply a desire to write something relevant? Nat thought about asking . . . perhaps, maybe, but Connor stood before he found the words.
“I’m going for some air. Shove that in my bag when you’re done, yeah?”
“Okay . . .” Nat started to get up, but Connor was already gone. Nonplussed, Nat lay back down and studied the laptop screen and its dozens of jumbled icons, though what he was looking for, he wasn’t sure. A folder marked “Private and Personal” stood out. Nat’s fingers hovered over the touch pad for a moment before he growled and shut the laptop with a snap. Did he really distrust Connor so much he had to go snooping through his private shit?
No fucking way.
Nat set the laptop aside and closed his eyes. The urge to vomit had dissipated, but he was tired—bone-tired—and it wasn’t long before he fell into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
He woke some time later to a mug of cold coffee and a Kit Kat. The chocolate bar didn’t touch the sides, and, appetite renewed, he ditched his quarantine and ventured out in search of real food.
Mission complete, he tracked down Marc and Wedge to the medical centre. “Where are the others?”
“Weapons training with the mujahedeen, last I heard,” Wedge said. “How are you doing? Reckon I’ve lost a stone, all that fecking puking.”
“I’m still hotter than you, mate. You ready to work?”
“If the good doc says I can.”
Nat and Wedge looked to Marc, who shrugged. “Fine by me. I’ve got some paperwork to fudge. Find you later?”
They left Marc to it and made their way to the firing range. Nat spotted the Iraqi recruits first, counted heads, accounting for all five men assigned to Charlie-3. Three of them sat to one side, under the watch of Chris and half a dozen Marines. The other two were on the firing range, aiming M16s with Bobs and— What the fuck?
Nat blinked. His recovering body must be playing tricks on him. Logic told him it was the most sensible explanation, but when he looked again, the scene before him solidified and there was no denying that he was witnessing Bobs direct Connor to lie in the dirt between two armed Iraqis and fire a loaded weapon.
Rage exploded in Nat’s veins. “Stupid fucking arseholes!”
“Eh?” Wedge followed Nat’s gaze. “Oh tits. Here we go . . .”
Nat hardly heard him. He closed the distance to the firing range and came up behind Connor, tearing the gun from his hand. Furious, he ripped the ammo links out and jammed the safety on.
Connor grunted in surprise, but Nat paid him no heed and turned his anger on Bobs. “What the fuck are you playing at? Are you out of your bloody mind?”
“He was just having a go, Nat. It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal? Are you fucking mad? Wedge, shut this shit down. You—” Nat jammed
his finger at Bobs “—you, come with me. Now.”
Nat strode away, Connor’s borrowed M16 still in hand. Bobs caught up with him as he reached the munitions store.
“Jesus, Nat. What’s the matter with you? We’ve shown civilians the ropes on the range loads of times before.”
“Not in a war zone, we haven’t.” Nat thrust the gun at the man minding the gun store. “And with good fucking reason. We’ve hardly got time to train ourselves, let alone waste time on some ignorant hack.”
Bobs opened his mouth. Shut it again. Nat stared him down, before he realised Bobs was looking over his shoulder.
Nat turned. Connor was behind him, his face a picture of anger as hot as Nat’s. “‘Ignorant hack’? That’s how you see me? Nice, Nat. Fuck you.”
“You are ignorant when it comes to handling loaded weapons. And you—” Nat pointed at Bobs again “you should know better. I wouldn’t put one of us between those Iraqis, let alone a civilian. We’ve got no idea what they’re capable of.”
“I was watching them the whole time,” Bobs protested. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”
“Right now? Yeah, I’d say so.”
Bobs clenched his fists, but said nothing, and as the silence stretched, Nat knew he had him. Bobs did know better, even if he had no inkling of the raw panic brewing in Nat’s gut at the mere thought of someone turning their gun on Connor. “Sorry, Nat. Won’t happen again.”
“Damn right, it won’t. Get out of my sight.”
Bobs shot Connor a look Nat couldn’t quite decipher and sloped away. Nat waited for his anger to fade, to evaporate with Bobs as he disappeared around a corner, but as he met Connor’s stony gaze, his temper reignited. “Don’t even start,” he growled. “You’re not here to piss around with guns.”
“Piss around? That’s what you think I was doing, Nat? That I’m just here to get my rocks off?”
“I don’t give a fuck why you’re here. You don’t muck about with weapons . . . you don’t touch them, fire them, nothing. Got it?”
“Got it?” Connor shook his head. “Bloody hell. Do you enjoy being an arsehole?”
“Yeah, that’s it, Connor. This is all about me. Do you know what? Fuck you.”
Connor stood his ground. “You shouldn’t have ripped into Bobs like that. He had his reasons for letting me train with them.”
“Reasons? And I suppose you think you’re better qualified than me to judge whether those reasons are valid, or just plain stupid?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you’re saying!” Nat slammed his hand on the counter beside him. “It’s not a negotiation, Connor. Or a bloody game. I don’t care how invincible you felt when you woke up this morning. You’re not a soldier, and you’ve got no business playing at it to keep yourself entertained. From now on, you don’t take so much as a piss without clearing it with me first.”
“And you’d get a real kick out of saying no, wouldn’t you? Of spoiling my game. Do you know what, Nat? You’re a fucking wanker. This isn’t about keeping people safe; it’s about your bloody ego.”
Nat’s rage spilled over. He lunged forward, before he checked himself and forced his clenched fists back to his sides. Was he really about to deck Connor? The man who’d become the closest thing to a best friend he’d had in three years? The man Nat was falling in love with?
But he didn’t correct himself fast enough. Connor clearly read his supressed intention and reacted in kind. He shoved Nat back with the strength Nat had always known he possessed. “You might be in command here, but you don’t get to tell me how to feel.”
He was gone before Nat had recovered his footing.
Fourteen
Dawn in Basra was the worst part of Connor’s day. Most mornings found him up on the roof, tensely awaiting the safe return of Nat and Charlie-3, and today was no different, save that Nat was the last person he wanted to see.
Connor rolled onto his back and stared at the flawless blue sky. A day had passed since Nat blew a gasket on the firing range, but time hadn’t dulled Connor’s anger. Nat’s sneering derision had been hard to take. Did he honestly think Connor valued Charlie-3 so little that he’d treat their work as a game? If he did, everything—every conversation, every moment—meant nothing.
And perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps it did mean nothing, to Nat, at least. Connor closed his eyes and pictured Nat shivering in his bed, dehydrated and wracked with sickness. Marc had assured Connor over and over that it was just a bug, that Wedge, along with half the base, was in a similar state, but Connor hadn’t slept a wink while Nat had been ill. How could he, when Nat had become the focal point of every moment he’d spent in Iraq? When it was Nat’s face he saw in front of every bullet and bomb? Nat. Not James. Nat.
But the lines between them had become so blurred Connor could hardly tell one from the other if he put the mind-blowing sex aside. Did every soldier think like Nat? Had James? The possibility that James had died believing Connor and Jenna thought he was some kind of tin soldier, that it all meant nothing, broke Connor’s heart all over again. Damn fucking Nat Thompson. But it wasn’t Nat’s fault. How could it be? Nat wasn’t James. And he never would be.
You bloody fool. What kind of idiot looks for closure in a new can of worms? Besides, if Nat believed Connor was an ignorant hack, even after all Connor had seen in Basra so far, then Christ only knew what James had thought when he’d watched from afar as Connor penned article after article that meant absolutely nothing.
The rumble of approaching vehicles roused Connor from his brooding. He peered over the edge of the roof and watched as a convoy of fifteen vehicles—the biggest Connor had seen so far—returned to the palace.
Wedge, Chris, and Bobs disembarked from Charlie-3’s Jackal and kept a close watch as their assigned Iraqis followed suit and lined up by the vehicle bay. Nat got out last and spoke to each of the Iraqis individually while Connor studied them from afar. He hadn’t spent much time with them, and they tended to keep to themselves, speaking only to each other and sleeping in their designated area, in full view of most of the base, but he’d observed them on the firing range—before Nat had blown his top—and they’d seemed pleasant enough.
But, then, what did he know? Nat’s barb about him being an ignorant hack had been closer to the mark than Connor cared to admit.
The patrol dispersed and made their way inside. Connor moved away from the edge of the roof and waited to see if Nat would seek him out, like he had so many other mornings. Half an hour later, he admitted defeat and slipped into the alcove Charlie-3 called home.
Only Nat was awake, sitting up on his bed, reading a battered issue of a Hebrew newspaper. Connor eyed it as he sat on his own bed, and noted that it was dated very recently.
Nat kept his eyes on the paper. Connor wondered if his linguistic skills extended to actually reading it, but pride stopped him from asking. He took his boots off and waited for Nat to break the silence. When it didn’t happen, he lay down and closed his eyes.
He was still awake when Nat left the room a little while later.
Charlie-3 was gone again when Connor woke. Most of their surviving possessions were absent too. Odd. He got up and had a wander round until he ran into Echo-4 packing up their stuff.
“Off somewhere nice?” Connor asked.
John snorted. “As if. We were just about to come spoil your beauty sleep, move in with style.”
“Eh?”
“We’re nicking your bedroom. The view’s better.”
Connor was officially confused. Until now, Echo-4 had made their camp in the main foyer of the palace, slap bang in the hub of the base, in stark contrast to the seclusion Charlie-3 preferred. “Are you swapping?”
“Could say that,” Dick said. “Nat’s crew jumped on a heli this morning. They’re going underground for a bit, so you’re stuck with us.”
“What?” Connor’s stomach began a slow, painful churn. “How long wil
l they be gone?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
Dick shrugged. “On how much you know about where they’ve gone.”
Connor considered that. While Nat and Wedge had been out of action, Echo-4, with Chris and Bobs in tow, had raided the mosque that had been on their radar since they arrived, but had found nothing but broken chairs and discarded Korans. They’d returned, sure they were missing something huge, a sentiment Nat had shared. “They’re embedding in the city and watching the mosque.”
It was a fair guess, and an accurate one, it seemed, when Dick nodded. “Yup. Gonna keep eyes on it around-the-clock until they see what we need to see. Nat’s got a stick up his arse about tunnels too. I reckon that’s bollocks, though. If there were tunnels under this city, we’d have heard about them before now.”
The image of Nat reading the Israeli newspaper returned to Connor’s mind and something clicked. “Hamas have been using tunnels to conceal their movements for years. Gaza is riddled with them.”
“But it’s different over there,” Tom said from his position in the corner. “The Israelis haven’t had the access to Gaza we’ve had in Iraq. Dick’s right. There’s no way someone wouldn’t know about tunnels around here.”
They were wrong. Connor was so certain it took every scrap of willpower he had not to argue his case, but what good would it do? If Nat, like James so many years before him, had written him off as an ignorant hack, chances were everyone else had too. “What are you doing today?”
“Patrol,” John said. “If you want to come, be ready in ten. And no fucking about. Nat’s a bigger arsehole than me, but I ain’t having you pissing around with guns on my watch either, got it?”
Got it. Fuck’s sake. Connor gritted his teeth and nodded. “Ready when you are.”
“Then let’s roll.”
John’s turn of phrase made Connor’s breath catch in his throat. It was one he’d heard Nat use from day one. He followed Echo-4 outside with a heavy heart and watched them make their vehicle ready. With Charlie-3—and Nat—gone, he couldn’t help the nagging worry that he might never see them again, and if he’d learned anything in the past three years, and especially in the last month, it was that his worst fears could become reality in the blink of an eye.
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