Love, Lies, & Crime: Anthology

by Kimberly Blalock

  I look up to the name sewn on his standard issue uniform. It reads “Richard”. A small smile emerges from my lips. He’s a rare one; his last name can pass for a first name.

  “Ahh, she smiles,” he declares humorously, and that makes me look at him for the first time.

  Sharp, stunning green eyes greet my surprised ones. He takes notice and grins showing me his healthy pearly whites. I gaze/daydream at his strong and quasi-chiseled forearms, the part where his rolled-up sleeves meet his desert sunburnt flesh. I really don’t know what it is about a man’s forearms, but they make my heart skip a beat (or two). Tattoos creep from under his sleeves, making me wonder what the rest of his built body looks like. From where I’m resting he has to be a little over six feet tall. For a split second I forget the fact that I am convalescing from two bullet wounds. Looking at him reminds me I must look like complete and utter shit.

  I must have been making a face because he peers over me, and says, “You look better than you think. I saw you checking me out a minute ago…” I’m confident my eyes have popped out of their sockets and rolled down to the floor. He noticed. Before I can snap back some half-assed excuse as to why I was blatantly gawking at him, he speaks. “Too bad there aren’t any decent coffee houses around here. Oh the things I’d do for a coffee from back home.”

  I sigh in relief. He’s easing the awkwardness away with normal conversation. “I’m sure the coffee here tastes just as good, if not better. Too bad it isn’t safe to venture out.” I watch for his reaction. He nods, silently conceding with my statement. “But Starbucks does sound amazing…”

  He lets out a guttural groan—the kind that emerges from behind closed doors. As if it wasn’t already hard to swallow, I grimace at the flurry of delectable sensations coursing through my battered body. I shouldn’t be able to feel this way—hell, I was shot. But no, I feel everything. I take a deep breath trying to compose myself, hoping—no—praying he doesn’t notice how my body is reacting in his presence.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  “Far too long, though, I did just arrive to camp. I was–” He stops abruptly, and his once charismatic features grow dark; it’s eerie, and it makes my skin flower with goose bumps. With a clearing of his throat he forces a smile, something I take notice of immediately. “I believe my job here is done. I’m going to head out so you can get some rest.” With a quick wave of his hand, he walks away without taking a second glance my way.

  It is in that instance that I regret never asking his first name, because chances are I’ll never see him again. He could be sent on-leave, or worse, killed in action. It’s the price that comes with the territory. With a resigned sigh, I throw my head back and close my eyes. It’s going to be a long road ahead. As I drift into a haze of painkillers and exhaustion, I wonder if I’ll be sent home, and if I’ll ever lay eyes on medical officer Richard again.

  “She didn’t see anything, I can assure you that.”

  “We should get rid of her. She’s a liability. If she knows something, she can bring all of us down single-handedly—the entire command. You know this, man.”

  “No. She didn’t see the asset. Trust me when I say she would’ve said something by now.”

  “She hasn’t been debriefed, though. What makes you so sure she isn’t withholding information? Seriously, let’s handle this now before this goes too far.”

  “I said no! And if you keep this up, there’s a door to your left. You can walk your ass right outside, and forget your cut.”

  “No, man, I have a feeling this will come back to bite us in the ass.”

  “She’s harmless, just another patriot.”

  My head feels like a Broadway chorus line stomped on it. These drugs are giving me the worst hallucinations—dreams of enemy combatants, treason, and conspiracies. I open my eyes and search for something to drink on the table beside me, but before I grab it, medical officer Richard pops his head in. He’s back.

  “Good morning, soldier. How are you feeling?”

  I try to sit up, but grimace. I am in such tremendous pain. He takes notice and helps me adjust the bed. “Thanks.” After fidgeting with my IV lines and checking monitor readings, he nods his head with apparent approval. “How’s it looking, Doc?”

  “You lost a lot of blood during surgery. We gave you two units, but it takes the body a long time to adapt to that kind of transfusion. Severe headaches and unquenchable thirst are not uncommon.”

  “Yeah, my head hurts pretty bad… can I have different pain meds? These are making me have weird dreams…”

  He pulls a round stool nearby, and sits. “Tell me about your dreams, Caballero.”

  Why is he so interested? The way the good doctor is looking at me makes me apprehensive. I inhale a deep, calming breath, but something clicks inside me to stay mum.

  “I keep dreaming about an endless river. I’m floating for what seems like days, and I never reach the end…it’s so strange.” I bite my tongue after spewing out such a horseshit lie.

  “Ah…I see. Perhaps it’s a repressed desire to return home. Maybe you’re subconsciously thinking about the length of your tour? That could very well be it.”

  I pretend to agree. “Maybe, Doc,” my head quirks to the side, “they’re not sending me home, are they…”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” he replies with a gentle nod of his head. “You’re not fit to travel. Not to mention, with too many threats of airstrikes and missiles intercepting our birds, there’s not a chance in hell high command would let you, or anyone, go.”

  The inflection in his voice is very telling. I’m pretty sure they are waiting for me to heal to be debriefed. I sit in quiet contemplation. From the get-go this mission had wrong written all over it, and the more I think about it, something is definitely off with Dr. Richard. Maybe I wasn’t dreaming about two men speaking about me…and what I might’ve seen the day of the compound attack…

  “Don’t fret. Sure our clinic isn’t as fancy as the ones back home, but you’re in good hands. You’ll be slinging a rifle over your shoulder in no time.” He looks towards the door, and forces a smile. “I have to check on the others. Get some rest. See you soon.”

  I nod, returning his constipated smile. “Okay.”

  The morning finds me tired and groggy as hell. Last night’s dreams were filled with unimaginable horrors; anyone who tells you war doesn’t leave its mark on you is full of it. The nightmares, the nameless faces whose lives you took in the name of religious and political freedom always tend to visit you at night. Mornings are always the same—it takes me a good five minutes to find my bearings and catch my breath.

  With trembling hands I reach for the glass of water resting on the bedside table, and drink to the very last drop. A medic swings by to check on my vitals, redresses my wounds, then another brings a tray of breakfast I can’t fully stomach. To the right of my bed there’s a small window—I’m confident prison windows are larger than this one. For hours I gaze at the sky watching its colors transmute from golden to azure to golden again, until there’s nothing but the faint twinkles of stars and the paleness of the moonlight shimmering through the clouds.

  This becomes my routine for weeks. Sometimes I get a reprieve and am allowed to walk down the clinic hallways escorted by Dr. Richard. He’s grown on me so-to-speak. Some mornings I actually count the minutes down for our oft pointless conversations—we bicker like it’s going out of style. We don’t share the same views on politics and warfare, and he is stubborn as they come. But then again so am I, so it works.

  “How are you feeling today, Natalia?” Dr. Richard’s smile is one of the few things I look forward to each day, but I’ll never admit to it openly.

  “I don’t know, Doc. I think I’m getting restless just lying in bed all the time.” I stop mid-stride to turn, and face him. “I miss being out there…behind enemy lines. But…”

  “But what?”

  “I’m terrified to go back there. It’s funny how a w
rinkle in time can change everything.”

  His hand reaches for my shoulder, and gently squeezes it. My skin flowers with goosebumps. “You don’t have to go back there if you don’t want to. You can retire whenever you want to…I saw it in your file. There’s a recommendation from High Command for an honorable discharge.”

  All oxygen escapes from my chest. “What?” Taking a few steps forward, I find the nearest wall and rest my back on it. “I don’t understand…a little over a week ago you said there wasn’t a chance in hell they’d send me home. What’s changed?”

  “I don’t know, but this means you can go home, and walk away from this place.” He comes closer forcing my heart to pump blood into my veins at a frantic pace. My spine stiffens when a rogue hand of his cups my cheek. “Natalia, this war is pointless. No one will win. Lives—innocent ones—are lost every minute of every day. If I had the same opportunity to be stateside and leave all this behind, I would. I wouldn’t bat an eye. It doesn’t make you any less of a patriot. You’ve paid your dues; you’ve completed your years of service… My advice? Take the recommendation and go.”

  I look into his eyes searching for something. I just don’t know what that something is, though. For the briefest of moments I see my military career flash before me; from the moment I broke the news to my parents that I was enlisting, the sleepless nights I spent looking at the top bunk during basic training, to the tours of duty and all the friends and battle buddies I’ve lost along the way. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should go home. Maybe this is all just a blessing in disguise.

  “I guess I could. I don’t know if I’m ready to walk away just yet…I was asked to–” I halt mid-sentence. I was sent here for a reason, a highly classified mission…Is Captain Lizardi aware of the recommendation, or someone else? My brain goes into overdrive analyzing everything.

  “You were asked to do what exactly?” Dr. Richard prompts, his eyes flickering with something more than just curiosity. All of my senses scream to keep my mouth shut, and that’s exactly what I intend on doing. I have to get to the bottom of this. I need answers, and something tells me I’m not going to get them from him.

  “Before I was sent here, I was asked to reenlist for a possible job in Arlington after this tour is over. If there’s a recommendation from high command for an honorable discharge, then I won’t be promoted for the job at the Pentagon…”

  “I see,” he responds with a hum. “A lot of my retired buddies get jobs as civilians. It’s not uncommon. If you had an opportunity to start over, to have a civilian job versus being in the military, what would you do? Who would you be?”

  I take a moment to think. I’m good at what I do… I like to make others feel safe under my care, and when I was a kid I loved playing at cops and robbers. I was an only child so I always had to imagine I was chasing after the bad guys. The memory brings on a smile.

  “I suppose I could be a cop. That’s what most of us do when we leave the military…”

  “Yes,” he asserts with a chuckle. “That’s what they do, though, if you want to venture into something less cliché, like say, private security, I know some guys who’d benefit from your talents.”

  I nod, considering his offer for a moment. “Yeah, sure thing.” He glances at his watch, and sighs.

  “Want to head back to your room?”

  “I suppose. I am feeling a little tired at the moment.” As I’m turning around to walk back, I feel his hand squeeze my elbow.

  “You’re going to be released soon…I was wondering…maybe you’d like to grab a coffee at the mess hall at some point?”

  The answer shoots out of my mouth without even thinking. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  He grins, and my legs feel like they’re about to give way. “Good. I was worried you’d turn me down, Caballero. You are extremely hard to read.”

  “Why do you feel the need to read me? Aren’t doctors supposed to know how to read their patients?” I sass, winking before turning on my heel, and hobbling away.

  “I can read injuries, Natalia, but not brains. Just sayin’.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I retort playfully, with a dismissive wave of my hand. As I walk away, I hear his deep chuckles which bring on a few giggles of my own.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Two weeks pass before I’m discharged from the base clinic, and while I can walk without losing my breath, I have a long ways to go before I am back to my usual self. There’s only so much staring out of a window you can do before you start losing your mind. It’s been a little over a month since I was shot and almost killed in action, and almost two months since I last saw my family let alone speak to them.

  I find it odd that every time I ask to video message them, I’m told there are issues with telecommunications, and when I ask for pen and paper to write them a letter, my request is granted almost begrudgingly. I bet none of the almost dozen letters I’ve written have made it out of the base. I can’t pinpoint what it is, but something is off, and it’s bugging the hell out of me.

  During my stay at the clinic, I couldn’t stop noticing a military police officer standing guard either down the hallway, or close to my room. For a while I thought there might’ve been a higher ranking officer in a room nearby…but there have been fellow soldiers in and out those rooms, yet the MPs never leave. Then there were the whispers between medics and officers, and nine times out of ten a glance was cast my way. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I don’t believe in coincidences. I trust my instincts, and my gut is telling me I am being kept on a tight leash.

  But why?

  I’m still coping with the pain that comes with being shot twice. Recovery time stalls when you have to walk everywhere to do absolutely anything. I used to shower in the barracks closest to the mess hall around dinner time, but then I started getting that creeped-out feeling—like I was being followed—so I stopped going there. Now I wake up at 06:00 hours to shower before everyone returns from drill. I find myself looking over my shoulder more often than not, and while my conversation with Dr. Richard hinted that someone would approach me to talk about my superiors’ recommendation of an honorable discharge, no one has. In fact, my chalk leader hasn’t even made contact for the usual post-mission debriefing.

  And that is highly unusual, and most definitely not the norm.

  I don’t know what I’m waiting for. I feel like a sitting duck expecting someone to march into my barracks with orders. I’m used to the structure and well-established routines that the military provides. Every day I try to report to my chalk leader, and for some reason he is unable to see me—or give me an assignment for that matter. Communication with the outside world is virtually impossible. The more time I spend on my ass waiting, the more time my brain plays all these different scenarios as to why I’m still mission-less at Camp Blue Diamond.

  This is frustrating.

  I’ve started keeping a journal, jotting down the dreams that unfurl every night. I’m seeing a routine; and it all has to do with the day I was shot. It’s like my brain is drawing me an incomplete map, and all I have to do is connect the dots. The more I write, the more I’m convinced that day has anything and everything to do with my stagnant state. I’ve never been a conspiracy theorist, honestly, that’s for wackos who have too much time on their hands…but maybe—just maybe—I might be onto something. I thought the feeling of persecution would dwindle with time…that maybe it was associated with my injuries, but no, it hasn’t. On the contrary, it has only raised my level of alertness.

  No one can be trusted. Not even the good-looking doc.

  After stuffing the small notebook deep into one of my fatigue’s cargo pockets, I walk towards the small window next to my bed. To the far left I see the dirt field where some are playing hoops while others are mid-drill. A shadow of a figure pops up from my peripherals. I try not to steer my head in their direction, but curiosity gets the better of me.

  Sure enough, the feeling of being followed is no longer delusional paranoia. It’s not the meds, a
nd I’m most certainly not making this up. Then there’s that feeling of fight or flight popping up again.

  Screw it.

  Ignoring the pain I race out the door of my barrack, taking two steps at a time down the narrow stairway that leads into the yard. I want to know who the hell is keeping tabs on me, but more importantly why.

  I guess I arrive a minute too late. No one is there, and I hate second-guessing myself. I dislike the fact that I’m standing there wondering if I really did see what I saw. Then the pain of my sore body catches up with me; I lean my back against the wall where the shadow once stood. Bowing my head with regret, I look down at my feet, but something catches my eye—the swirling smoke of a just-lit cigarette. I kneel to get a closer look at it; it’s definitely hand-rolled, its sweet and spicy scent invading my nostrils. At least it’s a clue of who’s following me, but then again it could be anyone—we’re in the Middle East and this type of tobacco can be acquired almost anywhere.

  I rise and instinctively stomp the cigarette with my boot before walking back to the barracks. And as I’m walking away, there’s that feeling again, but this time I don’t ignore it.

  “I know you’re following me. I’ll find out who you are sooner or later,” I call out without even bothering to look over my shoulder.

  I’ll be damned if I let anyone or anything intimidate me like that. Only cowards hide in obscurity, and I’m not one of them.

  It all happens too fast.

  Zip.

  Zap.

  Bam.

  Boom.

  Times infinity.

  I wake up in a daze trying to gain my bearings. The base is under attack—or at least that’s what it seems like. There’s no time to think other than to grab my handgun and find cover. The sounds of crashing glass inside my barracks forces my heart to gallop…smoke and tear gas begins to wreak havoc on my senses. It hurts to breathe and in an instant, my vision is gone.