Jameson (In the Company of Snipers Book 22)
Page 29
It dawned on him then. The Iraqi’s fought dirty. Saddam was a bastard. They’d used nerve gas on him. Either that or his men really spoke to him. No. Nerve gas explained everything. It had to be.
Thunder shook the ground. Shrapnel and bullets pinged too close and personal, pushing him to act. So that’s the way it was, under fire and his men had been forced to leave him behind. He was alone. Instinct kicked in. Training took over.
Move it, soldier. Move it. Move it. Move it!
He steeled his jaw, stiffened his spine and secured his belt around his own bleeding leg, padding it with a rag from the dirty ground. The chemicals in the smoke provided an acid eyewash that would not quit. He could barely see to stagger away. His feet would not follow. No matter. He carved a drunkard’s path into the desert and away from hell. One more step. Then another. Time and distance. All he needed now. Three things were sure. He wouldn’t be taken alive. He’d live to fight another day. And he’d catch up with his men.
Keep moving.
Confusion and guilt ruled the day. It sure looked like his men were dead back there. He was sure they’d begged for help. But then they were gone. That meant they were alive, that they walked away. Didn’t it? Parts felt real. Parts did not. Like that detached hand. How could those fingers tap like they were attached to Kent when they weren’t?
Harley collapsed against a wall. Scrubbing the pain away, he tried desperately to remember or forget. The puzzle remained. Hadn’t he seen this same damned movie before?
Shreds of bizarre nonsense swirled inside his tired skull.
“Nine o’clock team meeting, don’t be—”
“Your favorite peppered shrimp—”
“Mark’s baby girl... JayJay... looks like—”
“Judy.”
The last word, that name tugged at his weary mind for further scrutiny. It meant something. He could tell. It was a pleasant name. Like the piercing beam of a lighthouse cast high above the pitch-black storm in his head, it called to him. ‘Look at me. Remember me.’
Harley sucked in another breath of desert air, his soul whipped and beaten by the war.
Who the hell is Judy?
About the Author
Irish Winters…
…is a best-selling author who, when she isn’t writing, dabbles in poetry, grandchildren, and rarely (as in extremely rarely) the kitchen. More prone to be outdoors than in, she grew up the quintessential tomboy on a dairy farm in rural Wisconsin, spent her teen years in the Pacific Northwest, but calls the Wasatch Mountains of Northern Utah, home. For now.
She believes in making every day count for something, and follows the wise admonition of her mother to, “Look out the window and see something!”
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