Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(41)

I pressed the latch and lifted the top. Immediately visible were Gentry’s childhood clothes—shorts and T-shirts and a pair of Toy Story pajamas. I lifted out the topmost clothes and unrolled the rest to reveal what I was really after.

What greeted me were memories from Iraq. Hours on the FOB or in Mortuary Affairs. The recovery missions when I’d driven the reefer to collect our Marines and bring back their bodies. The companionship of my fellow Marines, and the grief when some of them made the ultimate sacrifice.

And, of course, my time with Dougie.

I picked up an olive-drab T-shirt I’d worn on the FOB and pressed it to my face.

How does anyone make military-issue clothes look hot? Dougie had teased me once when we were on a midnight stroll.

The need to hide the truth of our relationship meant there were few opportunities for anything physical between us. Except for a few frenzied encounters, our relationship was celibate. In the absence of actual lovemaking, Dougie had pursued me with the grace I imagined had been used in medieval times when knights wooed their lords’ untouchable ladies. Courtly love—love as a noble ideal rather than a consummation—became our routine. Twenty-first century style, which included barbed wire, jersey gates, and remote outhouses.

Do you get tired of this? I’d asked.

He’d raised an eyebrow. Tired of looking at you?

Tired of never touching.

His hand found mine. My hand rubbed against the hard calluses in his palm, my fingertips feathering the rough skin.

How do I love thee? I whispered, smitten with sonnets even then. Let me count the ways.

Dougie slipped his hand from mine and brushed back my hair. All I think about, Rosie, is what waits for us when we get back to the States. We’ll have our whole lives together.

In Gentry’s dimly lit room, my tears soaked the T-shirt. What fools we mortals are to think that the plans we make are anything more than a soap bubble blown against a hurricane, a frail and fleeting wish destined to burst.

The light shifted as the Sir sat on the end of Gentry’s bed, luminous in the gloom, his ruined legs invisible on the far side.

Near the door, Clyde lifted his head.

I heard the Sir’s voice. “Self-pity? Unbecoming in a Marine.”

“Momentary weakness, sir,” I muttered. But I set the T-shirt aside. “If you want to be helpful, why don’t you tell me what went down in Iraq. Who gave the order for what we did? Was it really Richard Dalton, like Sarge said? Is he the Alpha?”

“Figure it out, Marine. Stop wasting your brain.”

“Very helpful, sir.”

I leaned over the remaining items in the suitcase and closed my eyes, breathing in the scents. Dust and oil and—another burst of momentary weakness—the unique smell that was Dougie’s. Most of what I’d placed in the suitcase had belonged to him. Given to me on what would turn out to be the last time I’d see him alive.

There wasn’t much.

The Sir watched while I unrolled a pair of Gentry’s jeans and revealed the first item. An old WWII Wittnauer military field compass. I slid it out of its cloth case. The Wittnauer had belonged to Dougie’s grandfather, and he’d carried it everywhere. Up until my encounter with Sarge, I’d also carried it, safe inside a pouch in my Sam Browne belt—relying on it as Dougie had.

The compass was simple and small, about the size of a silver dollar. It had a scratched and polished nickel exterior, stamped with US, and a loop through which an optional chain could go. I opened the lid. Inside was a brass face, a blue needle, and a few sparkling grains of Iraqi sand. The needle vibrated as I moved, swinging steadily north.

The night when Dougie had pressed it into my hand before a mission, I’d protested.

It’s your good luck charm, I’d said. It’s your grandfather, watching over you.

I don’t need it. He’d shaken his head. We’ll let him watch over you for a time.

My tears splashed on the face of the compass. How wrong he’d been.

I swiped my eyes with the back of my hand and studied the compass face. When I’d looked at it before, I’d noticed there was conceivably a narrow space under the mechanism in which to hide something. I’d shaken the compass, but only the needle rattled. My efforts to pry the compass free of the case had failed, and I hadn’t wanted to destroy it with what might be nothing more than a snipe hunt.

I tried again to remove the mechanism from the case, but nothing had changed. I slid the compass back into its pouch and then into my canvas bag.

I unrolled another shirt. Dougie’s lion’s head ring. Dougie had worn it around his neck on braided leather; it was the one thing he hadn’t relinquished to me that day. After his body was brought into the MA bunker, I’d glimpsed the ring around his neck before the Sir hustled me out and made me stay far away, under guard, while he processed Dougie’s body. Later, the Sir had given the ring to me without the braid. I had to assume the leather was too bloodstained for him to pass along.

“Thank you for this,” I whispered to the Sir, who still watched from the end of the bed.

He nodded.

Like me, Dougie had been an orphan. No family had come forward to claim any of his possessions. His fellow warriors had died on the same mission that killed him. I was all he had. Up until six months ago, I’d worn the ring around my own neck, hung on my father’s silver chain.