by James Lear
He licked his left hand and slicked up the head of his cock, then started working it, standing close enough to me that I could feel the body heat. Within half a minute, his balls were tightening; it wasn’t going to take him much longer than it took me. Anyone looking through the glass window into the ward would simply see Luiz’s arm working back and forth, and would assume that he was washing me or massaging me, rather than jerking off in my face.
“Closer. I want it.”
He went on his tiptoes and unloaded over my face. I took as much as possible in my mouth. The rest of it ran down my cheeks, chin, and neck.
After the last spasm he wiped himself briskly on a towel, snapped his waistband back in place, and carried on cleaning me, wiping off the jizz with a washcloth.
“You’ll do,” he said, when I was clean and dry. “Ready for some lunch?”
“You going to feed me?”
We were both laughing about that when the door opened and a doctor came in. Luiz beat a hasty retreat, presumably to deliver various jizz-stained items to the laundry.
I’d been in the Navy Med for a week before anyone told me what had happened. Plenty of time to think, to piece together the shattered memories. There was someone I cared about back there in Baghdad. My usual type: a younger officer, straight until I persuaded him otherwise, then unstoppable every time he got near me. What happened to him? I racked my brains. I just assumed he was dead. Everyone I care for dies. You know about Will. I try not to think about him.
Major General Hamilton came to see me again. He was all smiles, never a good sign in a superior officer.
“Great news, Dan. I hear the metalwork is coming off in a couple of days.” He gestured towards the nuts and bolts holding my leg together. “You can start rehab. They say you’ll be up and running again in a matter of weeks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can call me Wallace, Dan. You’re off duty.”
“Okay, Wallace.”
He sat. “How much have you been told about what happened?”
“Not a lot.”
“You were in a car. You were rammed by another vehicle packed with explosives.”
“Suicide bomber?”
“Nothing left of him. The blast threw you clear. Obviously you weren’t wearing a seat belt.”
“Are you going to court-martial me?”
“I think we can overlook it on this occasion.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He smiled, started to say something and then stopped. His face fell, and his eyes flickered around the ward. “The other personnel in the vehicle were not so
lucky.”
“I see.”
“They were both killed.”
“Right.” What else could I say? “I’m sorry.”
“Do you remember anything about that day?”
“I’m having trouble remembering much about my last posting. Baghdad, right? What was I doing there?”
“You were part of a team coordinating the deployment of US troops across the region. You were temporarily stationed in the capital as part of a high-profile public relations exercise.”
“How did that go?”
“Badly.” He started laughing again, the old gallows humor of the USMC never far from the surface. Then he remembered his mission. “Do you remember any of the men you were serving with?”
“I was thinking about that earlier. There was a guy . . . a young officer. What the hell was his name? He and I were close.” I looked into Wallace’s eyes; we’d had many discussions in the past about sexual relations between serving military personnel, about professional boundaries, about not letting sex interfere with work. He knew better than anyone that I would always have a bed fellow.
“His name was Mark Williams, Dan. Second Lieutenant Mark Williams.”
“That’s it! He was a really . . . oh. Shit.” The penny dropped.
“I’m afraid so, Dan. He was in the car with you.”
“Why?”
“You were on your way to a press conference.”
Of course. I’d picked him for the job. I wanted him to be with me in Baghdad. Adjacent rooms in the hotel. No questions asked, as long as the locals didn’t get wind of it.
“I see.” I killed him, then. Not directly, but if it wasn’t for me and my persuasive cock, Second Lieutenant Mark Williams would still be alive. His family and his girlfriend back home would be looking forward to seeing him.
“It’s not your fault, Dan.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. I liked Wallace Hamilton, and I had much to thank him for, but if he hadn’t let me back into the corps, that beautiful young man with his light brown hair and tight pink ass would still be alive.
“I’m so sorry, Dan.”
I didn’t want him to see me cry. “Could you just leave me alone for a minute, sir?”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“It’s okay. Could you call the nurse . . . I think I’m going to . . .”
It was too late. I puked down my nightshirt.
The doctors wouldn’t let me see Wallace again till the next day, by which time I’d been given a thorough checkup and a Valium. Luiz told me that it was only the major general’s rank that allowed him on to the ward at all; the medical team were dead against any kind of conversation that might upset me. And it seemed that everything Wallace had to say was upsetting.
“There’s something we need to discuss with you, Dan.”
“We?”
“There’s a team of people who are very . . . interested in you.”
“And who might that be?”
“We’ve been working with the CIA.”
“Right.” The CIA? Fuck that. At least with USMC you know where you stand. Get in, kick some ass, get out, deal with the consequences in the sleepless hours of the night. But the CIA? The Company? Among old-school marines like me, they’re feared and despised. “What do they want with me? Someone they need killed?”
“No, Dan.”
“Then what? I’m not one of the suit and tie boys, Wallace. I’m a marine. That’s all.”
He blushed—Major General Wallace Hamilton, with all his medals and citations, his reputation for ferocity in the field and diplomacy off it, actually blushed. “You have a particular skill set that they think could be useful to them.”
This could only mean one thing. “I see. They want someone fucked, and then killed.”
Wallace laughed, thank God. “That’s closer to the mark.”
“Sounds like a job for Dan Stagg. Am I still a marine?”
“You always were, and you always will be.”
“I get the impression there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“Well . . .” Wallace looked around the ward, shifted in his chair. “There’s a mission lined up for you, Dan. Just as soon as you can walk.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“You’ll be fully briefed, if you accept it. Let’s just say that it’s an undercover operation, and it involves travel.”
“What’s so exciting about that?” I’ve done enough undercover operations to know that there’s no excitement involved, just hard slog. Some of them go well, some of them go badly. And then you pretend nothing happened. You weren’t there. Fake news.
“There’s a big difference with this one, Dan.”
Jesus, I thought, spit it out. He can talk about people getting blown to pieces, but now he’s struggling? “Go on.”
“The thing is, Dan . . .” He paused, looked at his hands, picked a nail, looked above my head. “The thing is, you’re dead.”
02
I had a moment of clarity. Of course I’m dead. That explains everything. The spooky white hospital room, the angelic Luiz—how could I possibly have believed that a military nurse would jerk me off and come in my face?—and the eerie lack of information about what had happened to me. Any second now I’ll sprout wings and start playing “From the halls of Montezuma” on a harp. So there is an afterlife. Maybe
I’ll see Will. My heart pounded for a second.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Officially speaking,” said Wallace, “you were killed in that explosion in Baghdad, alongside Mark Williams and the driver. There were no survivors. That’s what the news reports have said. No one knows you’re here.”
“My family?”
“Next of kin have been informed in the usual way.”
I stifled a laugh. Dead to the world—isn’t that what I’ve always wanted? To be without ties, separated from a family that rejected me, no responsibilities, no regrets . . . Dead. Free.
“You’re seriously telling me that my parents think I’m dead?”
“Yes, Dan.”
“How can you do that? I mean, is that even allowed?”
“That’s up to you.”
“The corpse has a choice?”
“Exactly. If you want, you can stage a miraculous recovery. We’ll smooth things over. We’ll tell the people who need to know.”
Who would care? Jody, maybe, but that was a long time ago. For all I knew he was dead too. Maybe he’d float by on a cloud any moment, sucking angel cock.
“And if I don’t want?”
“Then you have a new life. A fresh start. That’s what you always said you wanted, Dan. You came back to the corps to start all over again.”
“I guess so.”
“You got your wish.”
I liked the idea of being dead. “How did they take it? My parents?”
“They’re very proud of you.”
“I bet they are. And I’m sure the death gratuity will help. They can do a lot with ten grand. Go on a cruise. Build a new lanai.” Wallace said nothing, just looked at me. “What do you want me to say?”
“Just let me know whether you’re dead or alive.”
“How soon do I have to decide?”
“Your funeral is in two days.”
“In Washington?”
“Yes. Arlington.”
“Ten miles down the road.”
“Thereabouts.”
“Can I go? I’ll put on a disguise.”
“No.” Wallace was smiling at last.
“I’ll think about it. But you have to tell me why.”
“Why what?”
“Why do you need me to be dead?”
“It’s a question of security, Dan. There must be absolutely no way that your identity can be established. The CIA needs you to be operationally credible.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t know the details yet. The Company plays its cards close to its chest. What I do know is that you’ll be issued with a new identity, new papers, everything, and there can be no trails leading back to Colonel Dan Stagg.”
“I see.”
“And there’s another reason. Something I insisted be put in place.”
“What?”
“Have you noticed the armed personnel outside the ward?”
“I haven’t been outside the ward.”
“You’re sealed off by one of the tightest security cordons that has ever existed in a military hospital. You should see the guys at the entrance. Even I get searched.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s a very real chance that they’ll try again.”
“Who will try? And what?”
“ISIS. They tried to kill you in Baghdad. You were the target. The other casualties were collateral damage. ISIS don’t like failing, so we’ve allowed them to believe that they succeeded. They’re claiming that your death is a triumph.”
“Why? What have I done?”
“You’re a high-profile officer in the US intervention in Iraq. And they know your service record. As far as they’re concerned, you’re a sworn enemy of Islam.”
“How do you know?”
“US intelligence is pretty good in this area, Dan. Besides which, they’ve released videos on the internet which make it perfectly clear. We issued photographs of your corpse.”
“Nice. Anyone I know?”
“A clever mock-up from the graphics boys. ISIS lapped it up. Posted it everywhere. You’re famous.”
“A famous corpse.”
“Exactly.”
“And if they find out it’s fake . . .”
“They won’t be pleased.”
“You haven’t left me a great deal of choice, have you?”
“If you agree to this, Dan, you’ll be given excellent security support before the mission.”
“The mission. Yeah. I forgot about the mission. And afterwards?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“What you’re saying is that I might be dead for real.”
“It’s a possibility. You know that better than anyone.”
“And if I survive?”
“The future is yours to do with as you please.”
“Or as Uncle Sam pleases.”
“Your usefulness has been noticed at the highest levels, Dan.”
“They been talking to my ex-boyfriends?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Oh.” That took the wind out of my sails.
“First and foremost, you’re valued as an excellent officer. But you have other skills that make you uniquely valuable.”
“Fucking got me thrown out of the corps, and now it’s my biggest asset?”
“Times have changed, Dan.”
“You can say that again. The dead can walk. Queers are good. What are you going to tell me next? Pigs can fly?”
“There have been unconfirmed sightings, yes.” Wallace reached out and took my hand. “I don’t need an answer right away, Dan. It’s a big decision.”
“You know what I’m going to say, though.”
“I do. But it wouldn’t look good in my report if I didn’t give you time for reflection. They’d say I persuaded you. As if I could ever persuade you to do anything.”
I returned the pressure on his hand. Wallace Hamilton, for all the silver stars and medals, was the nearest thing I had to a father. “Come see me tomorrow. I’ll have an answer for you then.”
Of course I chose death. Old soldiers aren’t afraid of dying, and I’m readier than most. I’ve never enjoyed life. It’s great when I’m fucking or fighting or killing—everything else is blocked out. The rest is shit, and if it doesn’t start out that way I can turn it around pretty damn quick. I never got on with my family; there’s no love lost there, they’ll be much happier with the compensation money. They were proud of me as long as I was serving overseas. When I was discharged, when I lost everything—the man I loved, my job, my identity, my future—they were mortified. They barely tolerated my bridge-building visits. My father shook my hand when I told him I’d been accepted back into the corps; he wouldn’t discuss the whys and wherefores. He’d prefer a dead hero to a living son, and as for my mother—well, she always did what Daddy told her. She won’t grieve for long. She has grandchildren to withhold her affections from now, so she’s set for the next ten, fifteen years, whatever she has left.
If your parents don’t love you, you’re screwed. I’ve never been good at friendships or relationships, at least those parts that don’t involve the genital organs. Who are my friends? I don’t mean the people I happen to be working with or fucking—I mean the people who have stuck with me over the years. Who do I turn to when things are bad? Who do I celebrate with when things are good?
Nobody. I have no friends.
There have been times when I thought maybe, maybe him, maybe this time . . . Will, of course, and Jody, the two men I might have had a future with. One died, the other I betrayed and abandoned and did my best to forget. I can blame my parents as much as I like, but I know where the problem lies. It’s me. I’m like the Grinch. My heart is two sizes too small.
At least if I’m officially dead it saves me the trouble of committing suicide. And if my mysterious new mission puts me in the way of danger, so much the better. My real death will supersede my fake death, and nobody
, save the CIA, will be any the wiser.
And if I refuse to play ball? My fans in ISIS will get me.
All in all, a pretty compelling argument for death. I let Wallace know well before the deadline.
Days drifted by in a haze of powerful painkillers. Luiz took good care of me: I can only assume that he was acting under orders, keeping Dan Stagg calm and happy until he was useful again. Hand jobs graduated to sucking, and it was only my smashed leg that prevented me from fucking. We were never interrupted.
Soon I was able to sit in a chair, and to walk with the aid of crutches. The metal had been removed from my right leg, and the use returned. Luiz encouraged me to move around the ward, mobilizing my leg, starting the long process of rehabilitation. The muscles were wasted, the joints hurt like hell, but I began to believe that I might recover.
There were no reports from the funeral. Nobody told me how my parents were doing. Wallace visited me once more, but it was an official visit, a withdrawal. There were consultations with physical therapists, surgeons, and counsellors, all of whom agreed that I was doing fine and would soon be fit for active service. They wanted me out of the Navy Med and back in the field, where I could be killed all over again.
Of the CIA job, I heard nothing further. Perhaps it had been cancelled. I’m experienced enough in the ways of covert missions to accept that sometimes these things disappear without a trace.
And then, one afternoon when Luiz had fed, shaved, and sucked me, he said, “You have a visitor in about an hour, Dan.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Do you want to get dressed?”
“What, in actual clothes?”
“Sure. We have some things in your size.”
“My uniform?”
“Civilian clothes.”
So I’m not a marine any more, then. Not outwardly, at least.
He made me look presentable: slacks, a proper shirt with a collar, brown brogues. I could have been a stockbroker on a weekend break. He sat me in an armchair, made a few final adjustments, ran a cool hand over my forehead, and left.
The door opened, and a handsome man in a sharp suit carrying an attaché case walked briskly into the ward. “Dan Stagg?”
“That’s me.”
Someone must have been researching my sexual history, because my visitor was just the kind of guy I go for. What, I hear you ask, he was male and had a pulse? Well yes, my tastes in men are catholic, but this one pressed a lot of buttons: a little younger than me, say mid-thirties, medium height, slim, clean shaven, brown hair thinning on top, glasses. The nerdy kid at school who grew up to be hotter than hell, while the football and track stars ran to fat.
