“Not sure.” Nat looked to Bobs, who had been tasked with gathering updated intelligence from the field.
Bobs shrugged. “There’s been a few incidents, but it’s not the standard MO. These fuck knuckles are more cartel than military. When they ain’t bombing the shit out of their markets and schools, they’re kidnapping any Westerner they can find. Aid workers, journos, any squaddie stupid enough to get left behind.”
“Ransoms?” Chris asked.
“Not financial ones,” Bobs said grimly. “More a ‘Get the fuck out of Babylon or we’ll cut their heads off’ kinda vibe.”
Nat chanced another glance at Connor. His decision to let him into the briefing had come down to the wire, and it had been Chris who’d swayed him with another uncharacteristic nugget of brutal wisdom.
“Chuck it in the fuck-it bucket, Nat. He’s a good bloke. Let him write.”
Lacking any better ideas and feeling reckless, Nat had opted to do just that, but with classified intelligence spread out as far as the eye could see in the cramped briefing room, he couldn’t help worrying that he’d made a terrible mistake. What if Connor bypassed their agreement and the confidentiality waiver he’d signed with the MOD, and published everything he heard and saw? Behrouz would know they were on to him and disappear, but worse than that, every insurgent in Iraq would know the identity of the men on his tail.
Might as well put another fucking target on our backs . . .
“Nat?”
“Yeah?” Nat looked at Wedge. “What?”
Wedge eyed him steadily. “There’s an RM base at Basra Palace. We can bunk in there, but we’ll have to drop in at Camp Bucca before too long. The intelligence coming out of there is incomplete.”
Camp Bucca. Nat bit back his distaste. They’d had no cause to visit Abu Ghraib when they’d been in Baghdad, but the detention facility in southern Iraq was just as bad. “Fine. After we’ve gathered the intel, we’ll need to get out on the ground, find some friendly faces, start listening. First things first, we need to know how these fuckers are getting their weapons. Cut off the supply.”
“Is it likely that you’ll find some friendly faces?” Connor asked. “I heard Basra was pretty much under siege.”
“You heard, eh?” Marc shot Connor a dark look. “Well, from your point of view, or at least the point of view you claim to be writing from, you should focus on the civilians trapped in the city. They’re running out of money and food, and it’s only going to get worse.”
That was Marc all over. A soldier through and through, but the medic in him was often the only thing that helped them all see beyond the violence and death of day-to-day life in the field. And his words gave Nat an excuse to send Connor on his way.
“There you go, mate,” he said. “Brush up on your geography. People talk more in the poorer neighbourhoods. Go figure out where we should take the first aid-packages.”
Connor raised a surprised eyebrow, and Nat knew the others would be wearing similar expressions, but he didn’t care. Planning the hunt for Behrouz required complete concentration, something he didn’t seem to have when Connor was around. In fact, he didn’t seem to have much of anything in Connor’s presence, save a compelling urge to absorb every movement and gesture he made, every flex of his lean body and quirk of his dark brow—
“Get your head in the game, mate. Ignorance gets us killed.”
As if Nat needed Pogo to tell him that.
Five
Connor held his breath as the email containing his precious column disappeared into the vortex of the internet. He waited a moment to see if it would bounce back like it had his first few tries, but this time it finally went through.
There goes nothing. Connor left the communication centre, which was really a mess of wires and radio equipment crammed into a tent, and made for the shower block, trying not to remember the last time when he’d wandered inside and seen Nat naked. He failed, naturally, because it wasn’t a sight he’d forget in a hurry. He’d thought Nat was gorgeous before, but naked? Jesus. Nat Thompson was the stuff of fantasies. The only thing that had stopped Connor making a total arse of himself had been the startling scar on Nat’s back, a smooth, circular smudge that had to be the mark of a bullet.
Damn. In that moment, Connor had found himself drifting closer to see if there was an exit wound on Nat’s chest, muttering a garbled request for a razor he didn’t need, but Nat’s sharp gaze had prevented him from staring too hard. And then, of course, Nat had left, leaving Connor to ponder the scar ever since. Nat was relatively young, but chances were he’d been in the Army for more than a decade. Connor tried to count the wars he’d read about in the last ten years. Had Nat seen them all? Picked up a scar from each one? The notion left Connor appalled as he imagined the pain behind the mark on Nat’s back, but he couldn’t deny the fascination that came with it. Nat had a story to tell, and Connor couldn’t leave Iraq without it.
They didn’t spend much longer in Kuwait. The next morning, Connor was observing Marc’s work in the medical tent when Wedge came to tell them it was time to move out. Another bumpy Chinook flight followed, and before Connor knew it, they were unpacking their gear at Basra Palace, a former residence of Saddam Hussein that now housed a garrison of seven hundred British soldiers.
Back in London Connor had seen pictures of the base, but the images hadn’t done justice to the bizarre sight of British squaddies making themselves at home in the opulent palace. Not that there was much luxury left. Beyond the ornate pillars and shiny floors, it was clear the palace had suffered from fighting, looting, and neglect.
“Quit staring, Regan.” Wedge gave Connor a playful shove. “We’ve got work to do.”
Work turned out to be commandeering a secluded corner on the second floor of the palace, complete with a balcony that overlooked the battle-scarred grounds. A few Royal Marines were unceremoniously ejected before Nat and Marc were predictably called away.
Connor settled down beside Chris, trying not to track Nat as he disappeared into the bustle of the palace. Chris rarely said much, but Connor had fast learned what he did say was worth hearing. “Bit different to your usual digs, eh?”
Chris grunted. “They’ll do.”
“So what happens now? What do you usually do when you arrive on a base you’ll be stationed at for a while?”
“Find a place to eat, sleep, and take a leak.”
“Right, and we’ve done that. So what now?”
Chris huffed out a gusty sigh. “Bit eager, aren’t you? Simmer down, mate. There’ll be plenty to do once Nat gets his nose to the ground.”
“You mean the hunt for Behrouz?”
“Nah, don’t worry about the heavy shit. We’ll handle it. You said you were here to write about the humanitarian stuff. Nat’s good at that. Got a way with the natives. You’ll see.”
It wasn’t something Connor could picture, and a hundred questions came to mind, but Chris put an end to the conversation by folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. Connor was dozing to his rumbling snores when Nat kicked his legs a little while later.
“Got something for you.”
He stomped away without waiting for a response. Connor scrambled to his feet and followed him out of the room and down the battered, ornate staircase. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere exciting,” Nat said. “And get a shift on. I haven’t got much time.”
He led Connor to the equipment store and began pulling things from boxes and tossing them Connor’s way. “Belt kit, boots, helmet.”
“I’ve got boots.” Connor scooped the belt kit from the floor. “And a helmet.”
“Not ones worth having, you ain’t. Where’d you get that crap from? Tesco?”
“No, I got it in Hereford.”
Nat scowled. “Fucking brilliant. They’ll be sending it over here for us next. Penny-pinching bastards.”
He disappeared briefly behind a stack of boxes and came back with a vest. “Here, try this on. We don’t
have enough body armour to go round, but this should at least protect your chest.”
Do you have body armour? Connor swallowed the question and held his arms out as Nat fitted the vest to his torso, tying it tight and shifting it around until it was positioned to his liking. His nearness made Connor oddly nervous. Nat smelled good—of sweat and diesel—and it made a heady combination with the brush of his rough fingers on Connor’s skin.
Nat stood back. Connor eyed him and jammed the helmet on his head. “How do I look?”
“I wouldn’t bother shooting you.”
“Um, thanks? I’m assuming that’s a compliment?”
“If you say so. There’s probably a mirror around here somewhere if you’re that bothered.”
Connor wasn’t. He took the helmet off and turned it over in his hands. “The helmet I brought identifies me as press. Does that matter?”
“I don’t know,” Nat said. “Depends what we’re doing. We’ll play it by ear, I reckon, but don’t worry. Whatever happens, I’ll keep you safe.”
Connor blinked. “What?”
“Hmm?” For the first time since Connor had met him, Nat Thompson looked fazed. “I mean, don’t worry about getting shot. I— We’ll all make sure you’re kept out of harm’s way.”
“Why?”
Nat’s flustered frown evaporated like it had never been there at all. “What kind of bonehead question is that? Think I want you getting slotted on my watch? You, or anyone else? Think it doesn’t matter, eh? That it’s just fucking statistics when your friends get killed?”
The sudden fury in Nat’s tone took Connor by surprise. “Of course I don’t think that. I might be an ignorant civilian, Nat, but I’m not a complete dick.”
“Yeah? Well ignorance ain’t no excuse for anything around here. It’s my job to keep you safe, whether you like it or not.”
“Never said I didn’t like it.”
Nat’s eyes blazed, bearing down with a heat that belied the cool blue Connor found so mesmerising, and for a moment Connor was caught, disturbed by the tired pain he’d never seen in Nat before, a pain that was familiar in the worst way, no comfort or warmth, just plain old heartache that would never fade.
Nat shifted onto his side and suppressed a sigh. It was 0200 and he was trying to get some sleep before they headed out on their first dawn patrol, but his mind couldn’t find rest, a situation not helped by the knowledge that Connor Regan was lying just a few feet away.
“I’ll keep you safe.” Fucking idiot. What the hell had Nat said that for? At the time, it had been hard to tell who’d been more taken aback, himself or Connor. Not that Connor had said much. Nat hadn’t given him the chance, scarpering like a scared cat and retreating to the only quiet place he’d managed to find in the palace.
It’d been hours before he’d seen Connor again, bunked down on the floor close to Chris. The scene had stopped Nat in his tracks and distracted him from the distinct feeling he’d forgotten something, and now, when he should’ve been asleep himself, or at least going over the imminent patrol, Connor Regan was all he could think about.
“I’ll keep you safe.”
Jesus Christ. Not only had he made a complete tit of himself, he’d told a barefaced lie. “I’ll keep you safe.” What a load of bollocks. Of any promise he could’ve made, it was the one he’d find hardest to keep. He’d let his best mate get slotted in his damn bed. How the fuck was he going to keep Connor Regan safe in the field?
Dawn came around far too soon. Nat’s watch beeped at 0430 and he opened his eyes as alert as when he’d closed them just ten minutes before.
He sat up. Only Marc was awake, checking and rechecking each man’s medical kit, like he did before every operation, no matter how small.
Nat caught his eye and nodded. “All right?”
“Yup. Want me to wake the troops?”
Nat stretched his arms over his head. “Nah. Give ’em five more minutes.”
Pogo grinned. “Ain’t no beauty sleep gonna help these ugly fuckers.”
“What about you?” Marc said. “You look like you haven’t slept in a month of Sundays.”
He said it with a smile, but likely meant it. Marc took his role as team medic to heart and always seemed to know when one of them wasn’t running on all cylinders.
Which made lying to him pointless. “Didn’t sleep much,” Nat admitted. “Too much to think about.”
“Isn’t there always?” Marc picked up the belt kit Nat had given Connor. “Gonna be harder this time, though, with a civilian with us. Did you get a squaddie to watch Regan?”
Damn it. The feeling he’d forgotten something had niggled Nat all night, at least when he hadn’t been straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of Connor’s darkly stubbled jaw. He’d taken Nat’s advice and quit shaving, and the result— Yep. Nat had lost way too much time staring at that. And he was kind of glad he’d neglected to recruit a grunt to watch over Connor. Left him more reason to do it himself—
“Nat?”
“What?”
Marc shook his head. “I think you’ve got the hots for our roving reporter.”
“Piss off.” Nat glared and then looked for something to throw. It was a thinly veiled secret in their tight-knit team that Nat swung both ways. “Haven’t you got anything better to do than ruminate over what goes on in my thick head?”
“Thick?” Marc snorted. “Mate, you’ve got the brains of fucking Britain behind that chip on your shoulder.”
“Jesus feckin Christ.” Wedge sat up. “How’s a man supposed to sleep with you two gobbing off like a pair of old birds?”
Wedge couldn’t do anything quietly, and his gruff exclamation woke the rest of the room. Chris and Bobs got straight up, snapping awake the way years in the military had trained them. It took Connor a little longer to get his bearings—not that Nat was watching, of course.
Bobs took pity on him and hauled him to his feet. “Up you get, Regan. Get your shit together and meet us by the Jackals.”
“Jackals?”
“The swanky limo Nat fought a duel to get us instead of the tin can hamster cage we were assigned. Go on, get lost so we can figure out how to palm you off while we get some real work done.”
Connor took the hint, gathered his gear, and sloped out. With him gone, a more sombre mood settled over the group. They’d worked together for nearly three years. Between them, they’d pretty much seen it all, but then, that was a phrase that could never be used in their line of work because there was no such thing. Heading into a new zone was no fucking joke.
Marc did his rounds, checking everyone had the correct gear, while Wedge passed out fags. Nat lit up and cut to the chase, unfolding the map of the nearby neighbourhoods Connor had identified as the most deprived.
“We’re going to start here.” Nat jabbed his finger on a network of narrow streets that led to a market square. “There’s a couple of Marine patrols who’ve been out in this area for a few months. It’s dense and pretty hard-core. They reckon we should find decent intelligence if we target the right people. Folks are getting tired of being blown up while they buy their daily bread.”
“What’s the militia like there?” Chris asked.
“Mixed,” Bobs said. “There’s definitely Mahdi Army floating around, but from what we can tell, they’re not working with Behrouz, and Behrouz has a better foothold here.”
“So we might be able to get some Mahdi buggers to turn on Behrouz,” Wedge said to no one in particular, but the notion of turning rival guerrilla groups on each other gave them all pause for thought. Would the inevitable carnage that followed be worth the brief flood of intelligence?
There was no way to tell without trying, and there was no way of trying until they got out there. Nat outlined a patrol plan, and then they got moving, heading down to the vehicles to meet Connor and the Marines who’d be guiding their way.
Nat touched base with the officer in charge. “Rogers. How you doing, mate?”
“All good,
thanks, Nat. Heard you’d brought your merry band of assassins to town.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nat rolled his eyes, aware that his crew’s reputation for “neutralising” their targets often preceded them. “How’s the missus?”
“Still breathing . . . down my neck, mostly, but can’t complain. You? I saw the final inquest on the news last year . . .” Rogers fell silent at Nat’s stony glare. “Er, anyway. My OC said you want to have a look around. How do you want to play it? Blend in with us, then take a butchers of your own?”
“Suits me.” Nat spotted Connor hovering at the sideline, kitted out in the gear Nat had all but forced on him, albeit with PRESS scrawled on the back of his helmet in thick, black pen. “I’ve got a journo embedded with me. Gotta behave ourselves for a while.”
“Fuckin’ hacks.” Rogers flicked his spent cigarette. “How did you get lumbered with one of them tossers?”
Nat glared again, struck by an odd urge to defend Connor. “He ain’t no tosser, mate. Just doing his job, like the rest of us.”
“All right, all right, keep your hair on. You ready to move?”
Nat shouldered his weapon. Here goes nothing. “Let’s roll.”
Patrol took them out of Basra Palace in a seven-vehicle convoy. The Marines led the way while Nat’s crew took up the rear, Wedge driving, Nat riding shotgun, and the others crammed wherever they found a space.
Nat kept his gaze on the city as they rumbled through the dusty streets, trying to ignore the tickling sensation of Connor somewhere behind him. This first look at Behrouz’s turf was important, and so far the town looked every bit as bad as Baghdad had proved to be. Off the main roads, the streets were claustrophobic and narrow, laced with staring faces and hostile eyes. Nat had grown hardened to feeling unwelcome, especially in the Middle East, but Iraq was something else. He’d never been quite so sure every man who glanced his way wanted to slot him.
“Gonna be hard to creep in and out of here,” Wedge said. “Eyes everywhere.”
The echo of his own thoughts rattled Nat. Without Wedge’s endorsement, it would be all too easy to convince himself he was overthinking it—overtired, overworked, whatever. Anything that helped him believe their mission wasn’t, at best, totally fucking impossible.
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