Chapter Eight
Four years earlier…
The desert was a hellish place, especially this time of year. The nights often turned blessedly cool after the scorching heat of day, yet in spite of the diminishing heat, Jared felt icy rivulets of sweat trickling down his back, soaking through his uniform.
As the team made their way toward the tiny village, he stole a glance at William Brady, his next in command, trying once more to figure out the emotions hidden behind his friend’s impassive expression. The platoon sergeant’s easygoing nature had shown some cracks in recent weeks—the sudden turn demonstrated in mean-spirited comments about the local populace, and brooding silences. Today, though, he seemed more tranquil than angry. Perhaps his shuttered look signified he’d descended into that state of weary acceptance often adopted by soldiers after too many tours.
Jared had enlisted a detachment of seven other men—having determined a larger unit would be too heavy-handed for this mission. This particular community had never shown hostility toward the Americans, in fact, they’d proved a great asset in the ongoing battle against the insurgents. However, a source had claimed this was no longer the case, that for reasons unknown people had turned to the other side, and perhaps a few enemies lay hidden within the walls of a certain home near the center of town.
Jared harbored some doubts about the reliability of his informant. Even so, he had little choice but to follow up on the tip. Reconnaissance remained the heart and soul of intelligence gathering, so despite some misgivings about questioning allies, he put together a small team of his best men to investigate.
The unit had parked their vehicles a quarter mile down the road and continued on foot. They filed up the dusty hillside in near silence. Not that it made any difference—no doubt, the roar of jeeps echoing off the distant mountains had announced their arrival.
Using stealth wasn’t part of the plan anyway. As far as he was concerned, driving right up to a man’s front door while armed to the teeth made no sense if he wanted his continued support.
In the unlikely event that a few insurgents lay hidden among the villagers, he knew the bastards would be ready for them regardless. It didn’t matter if he ordered an ambush or gave some warning—cornered rats were always prepared to fight hard and dirty. Knowing this, he’d taken the precaution of arming the team well. Even if the intelligence was uncertain, he wasn’t taking any chances in this blood-soaked region.
The sun wouldn’t set for another hour, yet the village looked abandoned. The house in question came into view. It was little more than a shack. Although a humble abode, it showed evidence of care, from the well-tended vegetable patch to a recent roof repair.
As the unit advanced on the house, with Jared and Sergeant Brady leading, the front door swung open. A man stepped over the threshold and shut the door. He turned to face them, and Jared recognized him as one of the village leaders, held in much regard by all. Despite their noisy arrival a few minutes before, the man’s head was bare of the karakul often worn by the village elders. Thin, gray strands of hair stood out in all directions, and Jared suspected his men had likely woken him from an after-dinner nap.
The old man approached the soldiers with some caution, his hooded eyes scanning the small group, then settling on Jared.
“Lieutenant Marlowe,” he greeted in clear but thickly accented English.
Jared returned the salutation, taking a moment to inquire about the man’s health and recent concerns of the village. He communicated in a tortured mixture of stilted Pashto and English, but the man seemed to understand him.
Pleasantries aside, Jared stated his wish to conduct a quick search of the premises. When the elder’s eyes flashed with surprise and affront, Jared launched into a carefully worded explanation, while attempting to convey the importance of his continued cooperation in order to rule out future searches.
He was a stubborn pain in the ass, but Jared sensed he would comply in due course. Such token resistance was not only a matter of retaining a measure of pride, but likely a stalling tactic to give the women of the household an opportunity to make themselves presentable.
Relief washed over him when the man yanked at his hair and flung up his hands in the universal gesture of defeat. Finally. Consent.
The interlude came to a halt when Brady marched forward, a hand poised on his M16 rifle. “Enough of your bullshit, you fuckin’ raghead. Move aside or I’ll move you myself.”
The tension in his unit became palpable. A momentary dread gripped Jared. Nevertheless, he stepped between his friend and the villager. “Hands off the weapon, Sergeant,” he ordered. “Step back. Now.”
Brady’s eyes turned wild with disbelief. “Ya kidding me, right? This fucker is breaking your balls and you’re just gonna take it?”
Instead of responding, Jared leaned in and chest-butted the smaller man, nearly knocking him to the ground. “Falcone, cover me,” he bade his third in command, keeping his gaze leveled on Brady. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Falcone take position inches behind his immediate superior.
Brady stiffened and stared at Jared. “You siccing one of my own men on me, Marlowe?” Then, turning to the soldier standing behind him, he edged closer, going nose to nose. “Back the fuck off, you little shit.”
Falcone looked a bit terrified but didn’t budge. Brady swung out his leg and hooked Falcone behind the knees in a sweeping movement. Caught by surprise, the soldier landed on his ass in the dust.
Brady reached down and smacked Falcone on the cheek. “I won’t even punch you like a man, motherfucker. You deserve no more than a bitch slap.”
With a growing sense of foreboding, Jared shouted, “You have assaulted your own man and have shown insubordination, Sergeant! Hand over your weapon!”
Brady swung to face him. The two men glared at each other, with neither backing down. A brief standoff ensued; then without warning, Brady barreled into Jared, who stumbled back and nearly lost his balance. With a bone-chilling roar of fury, Brady pushed away from Jared and sprinted toward the villager, who stood rooted in shock.
It was in that crucial moment between intent and execution Jared made his decision. The bullet hit its target—Brady dropped the rifle and crashed to the ground, shrieking in agony and clutching his thigh. Jared stalked over to his writhing body and, holding his own gun aloft, kicked the sergeant’s rifle to a safe distance.
“Falcone, secure the weapon,” he commanded. Jared shadowed Brady, who had managed to crawl to the side of the house and press his face to the wall, his grunts of pain audible in the shocked silence. He shifted onto his good leg and to Jared’s astonishment, began bashing his forehead against the unforgiving surface, muttering foul curses. Over and over, until bloody smears stained the whitewash.
Brady stopped, and an eerie hush descended. Jared cringed when Brady lifted his head and his unearthly howls filled the air.
The front door flung open, and Jared shouted for his men to take position. Instead of an insurgent, however, a girl of about twelve darted from the house, her long black hair trailing behind her as she streaked toward the old man, her choking sobs of “Baabaa!” adding to the din. A wail of alarm followed in her wake before her grandfather caught her in his embrace. Crouching over her thin frame, he shielded her with his body, staring up at Jared in naked terror.
The howling had stopped, and Jared’s attention switched to Brady, who now sat propped against the wall, shaking, his face bloodied, and eyes vacant. A growing spot of crimson bloomed on his uniformed leg.
“William,” Jared whispered low, but Brady didn’t respond. He inched over to the downed man cautiously, hands on his weapon.
A muffled sob rose from the cowering duo, and Brady’s head swung in the direction of the sound. With the unemotional precision of an automaton, he reached for the M9 pistol tucked in his belt.
Two shots rang out. The first tore through Brady’s hand, rendering it useless. Although ruined beyond repair, his hand spasmed around
the gun, causing a second bullet to discharge and enter the girl’s skull.
* * * *
Pamela sat on the sofa next to Jared, trembling and heartsick. “Please tell me she didn’t die,” she pleaded.
Jared was staring into the distance as if communicating with the ghosts from his past. Finally, he turned to her, his face strained and pale. “No. She didn’t die,” he murmured low. “But she sustained brain damage. She’s able to function on a limited level, but her abilities are…reduced considerably.”
It was too horrible. “That poor baby…and her grandfather.” Tears welled up, but she forced them back. This was not the time to indulge in sniveling. Jared needed her. She threaded her fingers in his, offering comfort.
Jared patted her hand with a preoccupied air, then gazed at her with a look of such desolation, it nearly tore the heart from her chest. He continued in a husky voice. “The real heartbreak, you see, was that before this tragedy little Amina had been her family’s shining star. They’d managed to educate her despite terrible odds, and she’d always been a brilliant student. There was talk of university—she had dreams of being an orthopedic surgeon…”
“Maybe she recovered,” Pam ventured.
“No,” he stated. “The operation saved her life, but the damage was irreversible.” He took a deep breath. “I visited the village two months later. Her grandfather never blamed me for her injury and welcomed me into his home. He was convinced Brady would’ve killed them both if I hadn’t stepped in. He even thanked me for saving her life.” At this, Jared stopped. Visibly struggling, he opened his mouth to speak, then shut it.
“Go on,” Pam urged, rubbing his back.
“I saw her,” Jared muttered. “Such a cute kid, even with that beautiful mop of hair shaved off. I can’t describe how it felt when she smiled at me as if I were some kind of hero, rather than a monster who’d ended her dreams, her hopes of a better life…”
Pam bolted upward in outrage, startling him. “Monster?” she choked. “Are you serious?” She gaped at him, aghast at his words. “It was Brady who shot her, not you.”
Jared’s shoulders sagged. “I should’ve aimed for the other leg. Shooting him in the hand was a mistake. That’s why the gun went off…”
Pam placed her hands on his shoulders and gave him a slight shake. “Nonsense. Shooting him in the leg only slowed him down. Who knows what he would’ve done if you hadn’t disarmed him.” She leaned in. “It wasn’t your fault. If anything, you kept a bad situation from getting worse.”
Jared shrugged. “So everyone says. My superiors praised my actions, my men vouched for me, even my father…” His voice drifted away. “In the last few years, I’ve tried convincing myself I did the right thing. Sometimes I believe it, sometimes not.”
“It was the best decision under terrible circumstances,” Pam said with conviction. “Jared,” she asked in a tentative voice, “how did you get out of that place?”
Jared looked haunted at the memory. “It had turned into absolute chaos by the time we retreated. The villagers threw rocks at us as we carried Brady to safety. Sometimes I wake up in a sweat after dreaming of the mob screaming at us while Brady cried for his mother and wife.” He took a deep breath. “Brady fainted on the trip back, he’d lost so much blood. But he survived.”
Pam shivered. “Why? Why did he do it?”
“PTSD,” Jared said simply. “He’d been suffering in silence for some time because of a misdiagnosis. Later, we discovered he’d been self-medicating for months. Alcohol, pills—whatever he could get his hands on to dull the emotional pain. I don’t know how he procured them, but I suppose there’s always a way if you’re determined enough. I should have noticed…”
“If the doctors didn’t pick up on it, how could you? Men under that kind of stress often don’t show severe signs until it’s too late.” She paused. “Whatever became of him?” she asked.
“He was discharged on medical disability. They said he’d suffered a psychotic break.”
“Well, if he had PTSD, that’s no surprise. Why did it go undetected for so long?”
“The initial diagnosis was extreme anxiety.” Jared issued a bitter laugh. “No shit. Too many tours. A growing drug and alcohol habit. An untreated medical condition. And just like any illness left untreated, it worsened.”
Pam pondered this for a moment. “I can’t help thinking something set him off, though.”
Jared nodded. “Me too. Who knows what made him finally snap? I knew he was having issues but nothing so serious. I know Brady had seen his wife only three times in five years.” He examined the pattern on the rug. “And he had a seven-month-old baby girl he’d never met.” His anguished expression gave way to words. “How could a good guy, a father, for Christ’s sake, become twisted enough to threaten a kid and an unarmed old man?”
“I don’t know,” Pam admitted, feeling at a loss. “I guess he wasn’t himself anymore.”
“No, he wasn’t. At the end, he was unrecognizable.” Jared leaned back, and Pam noticed the lines of strain around his eyes. She wanted to smooth them away and to banish the guilt exuding from his very pores.
“I know in some ways I’ve lived a sheltered life,” she said, “but I’ve seen enough of the world’s injustice and cruelty to wonder why things are so brutal.”
Jared lifted her hand to his lips. “You’re such an empathetic soul. And you’re the last person I would ever want to hurt. Forgive me for snapping at you earlier.”
At his look of utter devotion, warmth spread through her body. “I’ve already forgiven you. You thought you were guarding your privacy. Such a story isn’t an easy one to tell.”
His look was pensive as he agreed. “It isn’t. I didn’t tell you because I was worried you’d think less of me.”
“Think less of you?” Pam shook her head in disbelief. “Actually, the opposite is true. I think you handled a crisis in the best way possible. You took charge like a true leader.”
He closed his eyes at her praise. “Thank you, sweetheart. It means the world to me to hear you say that.” He drew her closer and tucked her head under his chin. Strong arms enfolded her and, for a moment, peace returned. Pam sighed with contentment.
His next words came as a complete surprise. “My comment about your mother was stupid. She’s a great lady, you know.”
She pulled back from Jared in order to read his expression. Was he being sarcastic? “Really?” She smiled. “When did you come to that conclusion, Marlowe?”
Jared’s face turned serious. “Ever since my dumb-ass self realized what a phenomenal job she did by raising such an intelligent, honest, and kindhearted woman. And she did it alone.”
Touched, Pam hid her face in his neck, afraid she’d release a torrent if she so much as looked at him. “What a nice thing to say,” she managed.
He kissed the top of her head. “Not nice. True. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who’s raised such a wonderful human being deserves the greatest respect.” Pamela lost the good fight and burst into tears.
After soothing her with gentle teasing and a cup of tea, Jared spoke of the crisis that ensued when he resigned two years after the shooting. He’d returned home to a grim situation. His father had raged at him for throwing away a brilliant military career and, after several weeks of bitter fights, kicked him out of the house and disowned him.
At that point, his father’s older sister, Chloe, stepped in. She insisted Jared relocate to her home in Charleston until he found his direction. Two months after he moved in, she was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer. A scant four months later, she was gone, leaving the bulk of her estate to her favorite nephew. Already stunned at her untimely death, Jared was astounded at the considerable size of her fortune.
“Unbeknownst to anyone except her closest friends, she’d made a fortune selling her artwork—her watercolors really are extraordinary—and making shrewd investments in the stock market,” Jared said, his eyes sparkling. “Aunt Ch
loe was quite a character. Some people viewed her as eccentric—she refused to marry and never had kids—but in fact, she was a free spirit. I always admired Auntie because she lived her life just as she pleased and made no apologies for it.”
“You loved her,” Pamela stated, her throat tight.
“Yes, I did. She was everyone’s favorite when we were kids because she was such fun. I didn’t get to see her often, but she made quite an impression on me.”
“She sounds awesome. I wish I’d met her,” Pam said wistfully.
Jared smiled. “Me too. I know you would’ve loved each other. You’re a lot like her, always looking distracted to the casual observer, when in fact you’re very astute, and a force to be reckoned with, especially if crossed.”
“Huh,” she huffed.
He chuckled at her indelicate snort; then his eyes misted over. “She was my rock during a terrible crisis. I could’ve gotten my own place when my father kicked me out, but Aunt Chloe understood my need for a support system after leaving the service.”
Pam bit her lip. “What made you finally leave the military?” She gripped his arm. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to answer that until you’re ready.”
Jared smiled at her attempt at diplomacy. “Come on now, sugar. You’ve already dragged the worst out of me.”
Pam felt herself blush at his bantering tone. “Well, um…okay…guilty as charged. Might as well tell me the rest, then.” She wiggled closer, waiting for his response with rapt attention.
Jared laughed at her eagerness. “Nosy girl.” He kissed the scowl from her face and settled back. “Only after they promoted me to major did I realize I was slowly dying inside. Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of my service to my country and feel honored to have served with some of the most dedicated people.”
“But?” she nudged.
“It just didn’t fit anymore. At one time, the military felt like a calling, but that was no longer the case. Strangely enough, I started having second thoughts even before the tragedy. I’d often ponder on if pleasing my father had been my greatest motivation rather than a wish to serve.” He shrugged. “I’m still not entirely sure, and it’s almost two years since I resigned.”
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