Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(77)

“Just get the video.”

Sarge glared at us another minute, then shook his head and crossed the road to the hotel, stopping long enough to grab a backpack from his car before disappearing into the room.

The moon sank behind the mountains. A gust of wind set the swings to swaying.

Dougie looked up, and I followed his gaze. The night was a spangled glory, ablaze with silver light, magnificently indifferent.

“Perspective,” Dougie said.

My heart wasn’t fluttering, either. “The kind of perspective that says our lives mean nothing? That none of this matters?”

“No. The opposite of that.”

I held out a hand, and he hoisted me back atop the wall. I was starting to get used to the pain. Like having a tracking monitor on your ankle. At least you knew where you stood.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

Dougie’s heels drummed against the wall. “After I nearly died in that ambush, I spent a long time in Iraq. Every day for six months I walked a line between death and life, moving back and forth across that line with every hour. Then for another six months, even as my body grew stronger, I wondered if going on was worth it. My men and I had been betrayed by our own countrymen. Most of us had died. Dalton had died.” He folded his arms. “I’d seen the worst this world has to offer.”

“So what changed?”

“All this time I was hiding in the home of a man who took me in for no reason other than that he believed God expects all of us to care for anyone in need.”

I remembered Zarif’s words. “The hadith.”

“That’s right. A source of guidance for Muslims. This man took me out into the countryside, to the home of his wife’s brother. The brother and his wife took care of me, and the man visited as often as he could, at first bringing medicines and bandages. Later other things. Books. DVDs. Fruit from the market. Little gifts to keep up my spirits. Every day, these people risked their lives and the lives of their families to help me. Me, an invader. One of those who brought death and destruction down on their country.”

He stopped, and I waited out his silence. After a moment, he went on.

“Then one night, when it was near my time to leave, the man who’d first taken me from Habbaniyah asked me to walk with him in the desert. We walked for a long time. I was much stronger by then, and I kept up with him. Even when we went so far out into the desert that I thought he had changed his mind and meant to kill me.”

“What happened?”

“When we were out of sight of all man-made light—campfires, lanterns, lights from the generators—he led me up a hill and pointed to the same sky you and I are looking at now. He said that even though there are many stars, each one is glorious. Each star has a place in the heavens. And no star is greater or lesser than any of the others. And that is why he helped me.” He dropped his head, kept drumming his feet. “It sounds corny now. Stars in the heavens, for fuck’s sake. But when I was with him in the middle of the desert with my life hanging by a thread, it didn’t sound trite at all. It made perfect sense. He also said that eventually every star goes out. And the thing for us to remember is that when our own time comes, there will be others to carry on. Others to pick up the sword or plow that we dropped. And we’ll always have our place in the heavens.”

My tears were unexpected, rising from a place I’d barricaded shut long ago. I turned my face away so that Dougie wouldn’t see me weep.

“It sound corny to you?” he asked.

I forced a laugh. “I wish it did.”

“I’m asking for just a few hours with you.” He became so still that for a moment it was as if he’d slipped away into the dark. “Just tonight. And I’m not talking about sex. I know you love someone else, and I’m glad for you. I just . . .” He pulled in a deep breath. “I just need to hear you breathe. Need to have my eyes on you for one night. You were always my compass rose.”

I looked up once again at the glittering canopy of stars. Blinked away the last of my tears.

Then I reached over and took his hand in mine.





CHAPTER 22

There is no place in war for love. But I loved anyway.

—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.

In the hotel room, I closed and locked the door behind us and fastened the chain. I heard one of the beds creak as Clyde jumped on top.

When I turned around, Dougie hadn’t moved away from the door.

Our bodies were only inches apart. In the gloom, the heat rising from his skin flared over me like the signal arc from a radar beacon. His scent, both foreign and familiar, filled my nose and mouth. Memories swirled through my head like leaves caught in a storm, urging me to a distant place, another time.

Beneath this longing was the drumbeat of my fear for Cohen.

I dug my nails into my palms and pressed my back against the door, grounding myself. In the faint light, I searched Dougie’s face, trying to read his expression. The single overhead bulb merged his shadow with mine. We seemed more dream than flesh.

“You’ve been covering it well,” he said, “but you’re hurt.”

“It’s not so bad.” Not for my body, anyway. In my soul, an existential battle waged.

“Let me see to it.”

“I’ll be fine.”