TICK TOCK (EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) Book 1)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Instead, I turned my head to stare at the ceiling.

  “Every soldier feels that—the fear of the unknown—but our training teaches us to control it or to use it be a better soldier.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I tried to explain.

  “In any regiment, there’ll be one or two headcases. They’ll take stupid risks because they think they’re in a game of Call of Duty or something. They’re the ones who’ll charge the enemy uphill with only one clip of ammo. And when it works, they’re heroes.”

  “And when it doesn’t?”

  “They’re the poor sods who got killed because they didn’t follow their training or listen to orders. Or the arsehole who got his buddies shot, too.”

  “So it’s just the outcome that makes them a hero or a fool?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She hesitated.

  “Which one am I?”

  “I think you’re incredible,” I said honestly. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  My arms tightened around her compulsively, and when she slid her legs down the bed and over mine, it felt as though we’d been doing this the whole of our adult lives.

  Restraint snapped and I kissed her hard, the shock of her lips on mine sending sparks shooting up my spine.

  When she moaned and clawed at my shoulders, my dick went from hard to rigid and pulsing with need. It became a raging necessity that this didn’t stop.

  “Oh God, I shouldn’t but I need this!” she cried out in the darkness.

  I kissed the smooth, soft skin of her neck, her chin, her cheeks until she sat up and pulled off her t-shirt. Immediately, I was touching and tasting her full, heavy breasts, feeling their weight in my groping hands as her knees clamped on either side of my hips.

  I pressed one hand between us until I reached the apex of her legs, surprised and excited to find that she wasn’t wearing underwear; she wasn’t waxed either, and my pulse accelerated. Instead, I felt wiry hair coated with moisture and my fingers sank in easily, in and out, then circling her clit. Her back arched as she sat upright.

  “Yesss,” she hissed, “like that, don’t stop!”

  She sighed and writhed, moaned and scratched her short nails down my chest aggressively, her fingers tangling in my dog tags. When she gripped my leaking cock, I nearly levitated off the bed. She was trying to angle my dick towards her, ready to sink onto me.

  “Can’t!” I said with gritted teeth. “No condoms!”

  “Don’t care,” she breathed against my chest. “If this is my last night on earth, I don’t care.”

  It went against everything inside me: as a kid who’d been abandoned by his parents, and as a man who took his responsibilities seriously. But she was asking me, saying it could be her last night, and I wanted her badly. Right now, this second, this moment, I needed her as much as she needed me.

  And my brain disconnected as I pushed inside her eagerly, thrusting against her bucking body, grunting as her nails scored tracks across my shoulders, then flipping us over and grinding her into the bed with my weight.

  Her feet hooked behind my arse, urging me on as she muttered words that melted my thoughts: harder, faster, more.

  Electric sparks sizzled across my skin and the base of my spine while my hips pumped furiously. My balls tightened and with a curse, I pulled out of her, cumming over her stomach as orgasms ripped through us both.

  Her body shuddered with pleasure as I panted above her, my arms trembling and sweat dripping from my face.

  Unexpected emotion was close to overwhelming, but her next words made me laugh.

  “A tactical withdrawal?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Something like that,” I grunted, falling onto my side and feeling her nestle against me.

  We were silent for several seconds.

  “That was intense,” she said softly.

  My eyes were already closing as I smiled to myself. But then she pressed her lips against the heart that beat steadily inside my chest.

  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  My eyes snapped open as awareness of the time and place flooded back.

  “Don’t, Amira. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “I really shouldn’t have done that. I’m ashamed … but I don’t regret it either. How can I feel both those things together?”

  I had no clue.

  “I should have spent the night on my knees, praying, preparing myself.”

  I was wide awake now.

  “You don’t have to do this, Amira. You don’t have to go tomorrow.”

  “I do! Smith said…”

  “He’s not the one putting his life on the line.”

  She laid her finger across my lips, silencing me.

  “I’ve made my choice, James. If I was stronger, I wouldn’t be so scared, but it doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind.”

  The resignation in her voice was painful to hear.

  “I don’t understand. Nursing is a profession where you save lives—it’s important, it matters, and you can help so many people that way. I don’t get why you’re doing this.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” she said stiffly.

  “Great, because I don’t!”

  “We fuck once and then you think you can say what you like? Because you’re kind of being an asshole right now.”

  I took a breath, trying to peg back my frustration.

  “I didn’t think good Muslim girls were allowed to say that, or got into bed with strange men they don’t know.”

  She sighed and shook her head.

  “I’m a work in progress—always have been,” she added more quietly. “Is that what you think?”

  “I’m sorry. I was just teasing. I was trying to make this…”

  “Easier?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “You’re right,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t be here—sex outside marriage is definitely haram. But you’re wrong, as well: you’re not a stranger and I do know you. I may not know your last name, but I know what’s inside here,” and she laid her warm palm over my heart. “And it’s good, James. You’re good, a good man.”

  I tugged her hand into mine and kissed it lightly.

  “Say the word, and I’ll get you out of here. Now. Tonight. Just say it, Amira, and we can leave together. We can go far, far away from here—forget this place ever existed.”

  I felt her warm breath fanning over my chest.

  “That’s a tempting offer, but I can’t. And neither can you. No one made me sign up for this…”

  “They didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Because I’d wondered about that.”

  She moved restlessly in the bed.

  “You thought someone was forcing me to do this?”

  “It was one of the possibilities.”

  “No. No one’s forcing me.”

  “Okay. Then … will you tell me why? Here, in the dark, with no one else to see or hear. Can you tell me the truth?”

  “Here, in the dark?”

  “Yeah, because someone once told me that it’s easier to tell the truth in the dark.”

  She laughed quietly, the gentle movement rocking the old bed so it squeaked sympathetically.

  “I’m doing this for Karam. And that’s the truth.”

  A flare of jealousy burned through me. Boyfriend? Husband?

  She continued quietly, her words anonymous in the dark.

  “He was my little brother.”

  Was.

  “He was killed in Syria. He should never have been there. He was such a fun person, you know? He loved to surf and hang out with all his beach buddies. Even when he’d gotten into medical school, he was always at the beach, always catching one more wave. And then one morning he woke up and said he was going to Syria to put his medical training to use. He wasn’t even a doctor—he’d done one year of med school! We all tried to talk him out of it, but he was so … so certain. He said he was need
ed, that he could do good. He promised he’d be there for one summer and come home to finish med school.”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “But he never came home,” I added, and it wasn’t a question.

  It was a long while before she replied.

  “He came home in a coffin,” she said bitterly. “My parents were devastated—their only son.”

  I was putting the pieces of the jigsaw together.

  “He was killed by Daesh?”

  “Daesh?” She gave a long, low laugh that chilled me. “Did you know that ISIS have threatened to cut out the tongues of anyone who calls them ‘Daesh’? It’s an acronym for the Arabic phrase al-Dawla al-Islamiya al-Iraq al-Sham, which means the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, but it’s very similar to the word ‘daes’ which means ‘one who crushes, or tramples something underfoot’. No, ISIS didn’t kill my brother—it was American drones that bombed the hospital where he was working.”

  I froze. I literally froze. My blood ran cold at her words and my skin crawled as she cuddled against me.

  I’d just spent the last two weeks training her to make bombs, passing on my knowledge and skills, when her little brother had been killed in a U.S. air strike.

  Was I sleeping with the enemy? I was wrong, I must be wrong.

  “I hate them,” she said, her voice shaking with fury and loathing. “I really hate them.”

  Amira

  SUNLIGHT ON MY eyelids woke me, but when I sat up, I was alone in James’ bed.

  Every memory from the night before rushed back, and my cheeks heated with shame at the thought of how whorishly I’d behaved, what I’d said, what I’d done, how I’d begged him.

  I’d been trying so desperately to be good, to be worthy, trying so very hard. But my fears had overwhelmed me and the need to feel something other than crushing terror had led me to his bed. It was so many types of wrong, even though he’d been amazing. A different heat flooded through me, and I felt the stretch and pull where he’d taken my body, where’d he’d filled me with his own.

  But as my gaze drifted lazily around his room, I realized that it wasn’t just the bed that was empty, every part of James was gone—his clothes, his backpack, the book he’d been reading, everything.

  I sat up and squinted at the light filtering through the dirty windowpane. The sun was climbing in the sky and we were long past dawn.

  In a panic, I shot out of bed and found my t-shirt, neatly folded on a chair. I yanked it over my head and scurried back to my room, falling to my knees as the bedroom door slammed behind me.

  Karam, forgive me! I’m trying so hard to be strong—it was one moment of weakness. I’ll do better, I promise. But please, something, a sign—am I doing the right thing?

  When the silence became too painful, I climbed to my feet and wiped a solitary tear from my eyes, disgusted at my weakness, loathing my pathetic neediness.

  I didn’t have time to be weak. I had to be a warrior.

  I dressed quickly, but this time I exchanged my niqab for a burqa—even more concealing. My vision was immediately limited as I viewed the world through a one-piece veil that covered my face and body, leaving just a mesh screen to see through. It felt like putting on armour. I felt like I could face everyone—even James.

  I packed my small bag and left the stuffy room that had been my home for the last two weeks and headed outside.

  The burqa took some getting used to. My peripheral vision was nonexistent and even staring straight forward, what I could see was limited, hazy and indistinct.

  Clay and Larson were staring at me, but I felt protected, invisible even as their eyes followed me.

  I nodded at them both, and Clay gave a gentle smile, taking my bag from me and stowing it in the bed of the truck.

  I couldn’t see Smith or James and glanced around.

  “They’ve gone,” said Clay, his voice oddly flat as he spoke. “They said … to say good luck.”

  Disappointment that felt like pain filled me. He didn’t even say goodbye. After the secrets we’d shared, the hungriness of his kisses, after the way we’d shared our bodies, not even a word. But maybe it was better like this—I didn’t need the distraction. And I certainly regretted my ridiculous attraction to James. But still, saying goodbye wouldn’t have killed him, would it?

  Larson didn’t say a word, his cold eyes watching me closely. I wished it was Smith who’d be my handler—I felt a lot more comfortable with him. But I didn’t have a choice, and Larson was the man I’d have to rely on. I was so glad that Clay was going to be there. Even if I wouldn’t be allowed to talk to him, just knowing he was near would be enough.

  I sat in the back of the truck, my mind whirring dully, watching the road stretch endlessly, wondering where it would take me. And wondering if I’d ever return.

  I should banish all my memories of James, the memories of his hands on me; forget how it felt when he pushed inside me; ignore the moment of connection that had sparked between us. I shouldn’t have used him like that. When he’d offered to take me away, even if it meant going AWOL, he would have done it. I could hear it in his voice—he’d have given up everything for me. I had a guilty conscience about James. I must have hurt him—the fact that he hadn’t even stayed to say goodbye showed that. But since I’d never see him again, I had to forget it all. As if last night had never happened.

  In some ways, I felt as though I’d already passed on from this life. Whatever happened next, it would be like nothing that had gone before in the first 29 years of my life.

  I felt unconnected, adrift, alone.

  WE DROVE FOR four hours straight and by then my bladder was bursting for relief. Larson wouldn’t let me leave the truck at any of the rest stops we passed even when he filled up with gas, saying that my ‘bedsheet’ would cause too much comment. I knew he was right, but I still thought he was a sadistic bastard, Allah forgive me.

  I couldn’t even perform salah properly, but I knew that Clay was praying at the same time when I saw him bow his head and mouth the words of prayer.

  Finally, Larson stopped at a more secluded, heavily wooded part of the road, and we were allowed to leave the truck. I walked as far into the forest as I dared, then squatted over a dry patch of dirt to relieve myself.

  When I returned, Larson tossed a boxed salad at me that he’d bought earlier. I lifted my veil and ate as discreetly as I could, ignoring the glances that Larson threw me in the rearview mirror.

  I had too much time to think, but every moment my thoughts drifted to what I was about to do, panic threatened to take over, and that was going to get me killed.

  I took a savage bite of my salad, yelping as I chomped down on my own tongue. Tears pricked my eyes, but I wouldn’t give in. I’d never give in. Not while there was breath in my body.

  Although maybe that wouldn’t be for much longer.

  From the position of the sun, I could tell that we were travelling north, but I still wasn’t sure where we were, the names of the small towns and villages meaning nothing to me, and Larson had chosen to avoid any of the main roads.

  I don’t know how he found his way along all the small, dusty tracks without GPS, but he drove unerringly, so either he had an amazing memory or he’d been here before. Maybe both.

  His phone rang once on the journey, and he pulled over, parking on a patch of gravel. As he climbed out of the truck without speaking to either of us, he grabbed the keys out of the ignition, then strode away to take the call.

  Clay turned and smiled at me.

  “He’s pretty intense—I think I need to get him a stress ball.”

  I laughed because he was ridiculous, smiling to myself as Clay winked at me.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, as fine as I can be. You?”

  He hesitated.

  “Look, if it gets too much, just say the word and I’ll get you out of there, okay?”

  “Clay…”


  “Promise me.”

  His dark eyes burned with intensity.

  “Okay,” I said softly. “I’ll tell you.”

  Something like relief passed over his face and he nodded.

  But when Larson returned to the truck, he was frowning. Whatever had been said, it didn’t make him happy. Although I’d never seen him smile. Ever.

  “Change of plan,” he growled at us. “You two are going in as a married couple.”

  Clay looked worried.

  “Why?”

  “Change of plan,” Larson repeated, his face becoming expressionless.

  “But we hardly know each other. It’s going to look weird if we…”

  “An arranged marriage—Amira, your parents found Clay on the internet.”

  “Damn, man!” said Clay. “This isn’t what we planned! We don’t even have wedding rings.”

  “We don’t necessarily need them,” I said quietly. “Although it might look a bit weird that you didn’t even get me an engagement ring,” I said, trying to smile. “They’ll probably just think you’re cheap.”

  Clay gave me the ghost of a smile.

  “Better learn fast,” scowled Larson, always short of patience. “Get in the back with her and get to know her.”

  Raising his eyebrows, Clay slid onto the back seat next to me.

  “What else don’t I know?” he asked, his smile strained.

  “Wedding rings signify a sort of ownership over the other person. But in Islamic belief, there is no ownership of your partner. That’s why Muslim women don’t necessarily change their last name to their husband’s.”

  Clay sighed.

  “We’d better get sharing if we’re going to pull this off. Where did we meet? Where did we marry? What internet site did we meet on? Had I already converted? Wait, I must have if your parents found me. Who’s my family? Who’s your family? There’s a lot of ground to cover, Amira.”

  The change of plan threw me. I had to start thinking of Clay as my husband. I guess that meant we’d have to sleep together. I liked Clay, he was kind, so maybe it wouldn’t be too weird…