Captured(7)

“Corporal West?” I ask, my voice faint. “You mean Derek?”

Bradford nods. “Yes. Derek.”

I try to smile. “Those two were always causing trouble together.”

He gives me the same effort in return. Neither of us are entirely successful.

“Yeah, they’re troublemakers, that’s for sure. They…it looks from the reports on the battle that I’ve seen that Derek and Tom—they…acquitted themselves well.”

I sigh. “If you know Tom and Derek, then you know that’s not a surprise.”

Bradford bobs his head. “That’s the damned truth.” He ducks his head, breathes deeply, and then meets my eyes once more, steel in his gaze. “We’ll find them, ma’am. One way or another, we’ll find them and bring them home.”

“Dead—dead or alive…you mean.” My voice breaks.

He doesn’t need to agree. “And we’ll get the bastards who took ’em. You have my personal guarantee, Mrs. Barrett.”

“I know, Sergeant Bradford. I know. But revenge won’t keep my husband alive, and it won’t bring him home.”

The younger man speaks up. Oliver, I think his name is. “I know I don’t have to say this to you, ma’am, but if the media should contact you, it’s vital to the investigation efforts that you don’t comment.”

Bradford gives the younger officer a brief but scathing glare, then returns his attention to me. “We’ll be in touch, Miss Barrett. When we find out anything, we’ll call you, no matter what time it is.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Bradford.” I offer a small, faint smile to the other man. “And you, too, Sergeant Oliver. I know this wasn’t an easy visit to make.”

Bradford shakes his head. “It’s always hard to make these visits, but I know Tom and Derek personally, and I was—I grew up with their lieutenant, Jonathan Lewis. We joined the Corps together after 9-11, and we fought in Desert Storm together. He was—he was like a brother to me.” He blinks hard several times, squeezes his eyes shut, and then opens them again. They shimmer with emotion. “His wife lives in Dallas. I’m heading there next. That visit—that’ll be hard.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Sergeant.”

“Thanks.” He stands up, straightens the lower edge of his uniform jacket, and places his hat carefully on his head. As he does so, I can see the emotion draining from his eyes. By the time I stand up, he’s buttoned-up and hard-eyed once more. “We’ll find them, Reagan. I promise.” He hands me a business card with his name and rank and a phone number. “We’ll be in touch, and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

I can only nod and hold on to the back of the couch as the two men make their way out.

Bradford pauses with one foot on the second step and glances back at me. “I don’t know if you’re the praying kind or not, Miss Barrett, but…pray for those boys.”

“I will.”

“I will, too.” He touches the rim of his hat in an old-fashioned gesture. “Good-bye, Mrs. Barrett.”

I wave, my throat closing. I lean against the back of the couch and watch them drive away. When all I can see is dust, I let myself sink to the floor.

I sob. Choke, gasp.

I place both palms on my belly, which is just beginning to grow round. And I scream.

For me.

For my baby.

For my husband.





CHAPTER 3





DEREK





Afghanistan, 2007





It’s hard to swallow. They gave us water sometime yesterday, and a single piece of moldy pita bread the day before. Rice the day before that. Some gruel. No medical attention for either of us. I’m okay. I mean, my shoulder’s f*cked up, of course, but I was able to make some mud out of my piss and the dirt on the floor to cake onto the wound. It stopped the bleeding, mostly. I did the best I could for Tom. His wound is too big to do much for, though. His vest stopped the first couple of rounds, and he would’ve been fine, but the impact knocked him backward, exposed his belly, and he took three rounds to his gut.

Nobody ever tells you how long it can take to die from stomach wounds. Not just days, but weeks. My boy Tom is holding on, though. Stubborn f*cker. I give him most of the food they give us. I want him to make it. He’s got a wife at home. I got no one except for Mom and Dad and my little sister, Hannah, back in Iowa. They’ll miss me. But that’s not the same as leaving a wife at home. Leaving a widow.

Tom’s in and out of consciousness. Honestly, the times when he’s out are blessings. He’s quiet then. When he’s awake, he’s groaning, trying not to scream as the stomach acid burns the open wound. He keeps clutching that letter. Unopened, unread. Saving it, I think. I’m worried if he waits too long to read it….

The door of the hut opens, bright sunlight outside making a silhouette of the form in the doorway. I tense, wait, watch. He doesn’t speak, just leans in, grabs me by the shirtfront, and jerks me forward, up to my feet. I struggle to keep my balance, not bothering to protest. He pulls me out the door, jabs the barrel of his AK against my spine, barks a command I take to mean “walk,” or “go.” I move forward, blinking against the light. I try to make out my surroundings. Low huts, mountains in the distance, rocks, some larger buildings, glassless windows and open doorways. Other older, fallen-in buildings. Some that have clearly been destroyed by rocket or air strike. I don’t see any people on the streets, so this is either a Taliban base of some kind, or a town on lockdown, the residents terrified of leaving their homes. Sometimes the two are the same thing.