Masters at Arms

by Kallypso Masters

  Montague looked down at the floor, unable to maintain eye contact. His voice was a harsh whisper. “Damned fine Marine. One of the best men who’s ever served under me.” He looked up at Marc. The pain in his face took Marc’s breath away again. “I’m sorry I got him killed.”

  Marc didn’t understand. It was an ambush. Bad intel. How could that be the master sergeant’s fault?

  “I trusted the wrong people.” His Top looked down at his hands. “We’d worked with these Afghan soldiers for months. They swore we had friendlies in the village. I led my men into a fucking ambush. Called for air support. No helos available. Called for Hotel Echo…” he said, referring to high-explosive artillery shells. “Nothing. I should have made sure those things were in place before we went in. I shouldn’t have trusted anyone.”

  Would Gino have been alive if there had been backup? Maybe. But the master sergeant wasn’t to blame for the lack of it. Marc knew enough about the insanity that takes place in a war zone to know those things just happened sometimes. You can’t predict and plan for everything. You couldn’t know who to trust. The enemy and the US-backed foreign military all looked alike. Infiltrators were common.

  “I don’t blame you, sir.”

  The master sergeant reached up to rub the back of his neck again. “Your brother was one of my best.” He glanced up at Marc. “I’m not just saying that to make you feel better, either. He was my lead scout in the recon unit. When we drew gunfire, he and another member of the team hunkered down behind some boulders. They returned fire. But we were taking it from all sides. From the village. From the caves in the cliffs above us. Total clusterfuck.”

  He paused, looking down again, deep in thought. Then he looked back at Marc. “Clearly, you’re brothers.”

  Puzzled, Marc furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “When an incoming mortar round came at them, your brother shielded his buddy from the blast. Just like you did for Orlando.”

  Marc could see the scene as if he were there. Tears welled in his eyes and he turned away. Gino, the brother he’d admired growing up, who had done everything right. Gino who loved serving as a Marine. Gino who had even died right, saving someone else. Images of his big brother’s body being blown apart by flying rock and debris as he’d tried to protect someone else forced Marc to place his arm over his eyes, hoping to block the image out. No such luck.

  Marc regretted that they’d fought over some damned woman the last time they’d been together. He’d never again let a woman come between him and the ones he loved.

  Had Gino been with Marc on that rooftop a few days ago, guiding him in how to honor the Reconnaissance Marine’s Creed? Regardless, he felt a bond with his brother he’d never imagined he would experience again after Gino had been killed.

  Montague reached out to grasp Marc’s forearm and squeezed, bringing his back to the present. Marc had to know one more thing. “Did he succeed?”

  The older man looked thrown off by his question, then realization dawned and he smiled. “Hell, yeah. Sent his buddy home to his wife and newborn baby. If you’d like to meet them sometime when we get stateside, I’ll hook you up.”

  Marc had to clear his throat to speak. “I’d like that very much, sir.” How soon would he be shipped home? Would this injury put an end to his service? “I’m not ready to go home yet, sir. You think they’ll let me return to the unit after I recover?”

  “Above my pay grade. What’ll you do if they send you home?”

  Marc knew the chances of remaining on active duty were slim. He thought for a moment about his options. “Guess I’ll go back to Colorado. Not sure what I’ll do once I get there.”

  “Why not go to school and train for something in the medical field? You’re damned good at it, you know.”

  “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

  The worry lines on the man’s face relaxed a bit. “I’m retiring after this tour. Maybe I’ll just follow you to Colorado. My wife always loved the mountains there. Still thinking that’s where I want to go, even without…” The master sergeant looked down and twirled his wedding band. “Thinking I’ll move to Denver and start a fetish club.”

  Marc wasn’t sure what the appropriate response would be, so he remained silent. Was the man serious or joking? Then he realized he was dead serious.

  “Well, maybe I’ll just join your club. I was known as Master Marco back in the day.”

  Montague laughed. “Thought you might be like-minded. Saw you and Orlando at a fetish club in L.A. just before we deployed.”

  Oh, shit. They were lucky they weren’t busted. Then again, if the master sergeant was there, too…. Talk about a “Top.”

  Montague grew serious again. “My wife Joni and I talked about owning our own club. Those years between the Gulf War and Kosovo were some of the best in our marriage. Total power exchange.” He remained lost in the memories.

  Marc had never found a woman willing to do a power exchange with him. He realized he hadn’t even come close with Melissa.

  Could he ever open himself up to another woman? Everyone thought the Dom in the relationship had the power, but that was nonsense. The sub held all the power. He’d like to find a woman he could trust completely.

  The master sergeant continued, breaking into his thoughts. “We wanted to show others how satisfying a Dom/sub relationship could be for the right couples. Planned to live off my pension and open our house up for weekend classes and BDSM scening.”

  “I’d like to meet her someday.”

  Adam looked at him, pain filling his eyes. “I lost her to cancer two years ago.”

  Shit. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I didn’t know.” Maybe that explained something about why the man had been such a hard ass in those early months after Marc had joined the Marine unit. He sure didn’t seem like one once you got talking with him.

  Silence fell between them. Uncomfortable, Marc blurted out, “Until I sort out my future plans, I’d be happy to help you get the club started. I’ll need a diversion.”

  “I might just take you up on that.” Montague stood. “Now, get better so you can get home and start living again.”

  Marc realized he hadn’t started to live in the first place until he’d joined the Navy and then been assigned to the Marines. If he was discharged, would that end? The thought of what lay ahead scared him. He’d changed since enlisting. He wanted his life to stand for something. He definitely had no plans to work at the family’s ski resort. No, he was going to make a difference in some way.

  Damned straight.

  But doing what?

  * * *

  Two months later, January 2005, Ramstein Air Force Base, Ramstein, Germany

  “Take cover!”

  Grenade. Move. Damn it, move! Damián slammed his body against his buddies, trying to push them away before the damned thing went off. The world exploded. Blood. Pain. So damned much pain. Grant and Wilson standing over him. Damián tried to get up. What had fallen on him? Dizzy. Sarge. Where was Sarge? Damián opened his eyes and saw his sergeant’s bloody brains spilled over his chest.

  “Madre de Dios! No! No! No!”

  Damián jolted awake from a dead sleep, his screams reverberating through his ears. Sweat trickled into his eyes. His heart pounded like a sledgehammer, igniting a responsive throbbing in his right foot. The lingering effects of his nightmare receded by slow degrees, but the pain in his foot persisted. He sat up, shoving the sheet aside, and reached down to massage away the ache.

  Thin air. He stared at the bandaged stump above where his foot should be.

  Fuck.

  He closed his eyes and slumped back against the pillow and sheet, both of them cold and wet from his sweat. How many times would it take before he stopped reaching for something that wasn’t there? He’d left the damned thing behind in Fallujah. But the phantom continued to haunt and taunt him every time he fell asleep.

  Damián stared up at the ceiling. What in the hell was he going to do wh
en they sent him home? They’d told him he’d be taking rehab in San Diego for a few months. But what were they rehabilitating him for?

  Would he ever be able to ride his Harley again? Hold down a job?

  Carry Savannah to their Laguna cave?

  Well, he didn’t have to worry about that one. He’d had dreams of returning home to her as a man, finding her, and convincing her she belonged with him. He wanted to take care of her, slay whatever dragons pursued her, and love her the way she should be loved….

  But he wouldn’t be carrying her anywhere ever again. He wouldn’t saddle her with a cripple, even if he could find her. She deserved a whole man—nothing less to match her perfection. He tucked away the memories of their one idyllic day at the beach. Those images would have to last him the rest of his life.

  He should have just fallen on the grenade and been done with it. Why hadn’t he? A hero would have done that. They’d pinned a god-damned Purple Heart on his chest a few days ago, but he’d stowed it away in his seabag. All he’d done was get wounded—and let a man die. Why did he need a fucking reminder medal for that?

  If he’d been a true hero, he’d have saved Sarge’s life. The man had a wife and three kids back home. Fuck. Just months from returning home and he’d been killed by a fucking hand grenade. So damned senseless.

  Dios, you took the wrong Marine home.

  Damián heard a squeaking wheel and looked up. “Doc? What are you doing here?” The corpsman wore a hospital robe that barely fit across his shoulders. He wheeled an IV pole that kept veering away from him. Each time, he’d pull it back in line.

  Damián had heard what the man had done to save him from further injury. Doc had taken the very shrapnel in his chest that might have finished the job for Damián. Another wasted opportunity. Another man became a casualty because of him.

  “Just got here this morning. Took me a little longer to get out of Fallujah than you.” Damián watched as Doc’s gaze roamed over him, head to foot…and stub. His gaze stopped to linger there a little longer, then returned to Damián’s face. “Wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “Can’t complain.” Not out loud, at least. “How about you?”

  “Coming around. Should be headed home in a week or so if the infection doesn’t come back.” Doc took a series of shallow breaths as if the exertion of walking and talking had taken a toll on him.

  “Take a load off, Doc.”

  “Thanks.” He pulled the chair closer to the bed. “How about you? Any news on when you’ll head home?”

  Home. He had no home to go to anymore. He’d always dreamed about having a home with Savannah. But that dream had faded one November day on a rooftop in Fallujah.

  “Nah. They say I’m headed eventually to the Naval Medical Center near Pendleton for rehab.”

  The two remained silent for a moment. Doc broke the solitude and asked, “Then what?”

  Stunned by the question, Damián just sat there and stared back at him. He really had no fucking clue what he’d do after that. He didn’t even see himself finishing rehab. What would be the point? Damián shrugged.

  “Don’t you have a girl waiting for you?”

  Damián looked away. “No. There was one once, but she was out of my league.”

  “You’re a Marine now. You’re going to find you’re in a league of your own. You’ll have women falling at your feet.”

  Damián met Doc’s gaze and said, “Foot, you mean.” He pointed at the stub.

  “Nobody’s perfect. You have a lot more going for you than looks and a body. The right woman will overlook shit like that if she really loves you.” Doc ended his speech by sucking several more breaths into his lungs.

  Damián wished the man wouldn’t get so riled up. No way would he change his mind. First chance he had, he’d put an end to this miserable life. When Doc caught his breath, he asked, “Does she even know what’s happened?”

  “No. We haven’t kept in touch.”

  “Maybe if she knew…”

  “I don’t even fucking know where she is!” Damián regretted his tone as soon as the words came out. “Sorry, Doc. It was nothing more than a day of hot sex with a Latino on the beach. Let’s just drop it.”

  “Orlando, you have more integrity, courage, and honor than anyone she’ll ever meet again.”

  Those words burned in his craw more than any others. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn’t do anything courageous. Sarge is dead. You got wounded trying to save my sorry ass. You guys are the heroes, not me.”

  Damián’s chest hurt now, too. He put his forearm over his eyes to hide the embarrassing tears that sprang from nowhere. “I’d like to get some sleep now.” He knew his voice sounded ungrateful, but didn’t care.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  Madre de Dios. I wish everyone would fucking leave me alone to just rot and die.

  Courage? Integrity? Honor? No fucking way. He was nothing but a lousy Chicano scared shitless. What the hell was he going to do now?

  * * *

  Marc slowly made his way back to his room. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his legs shook at the effort. Just this short excursion left him feeling as weak as a runt-of-the-litter gattino refused its mama’s tit. When would he experience the simple pleasure of filling his lungs with air again?

  His talk with Orlando haunted him. The kid was fucking wrong if he thought women would never want him again. Maybe that one girl had broken up with him, but that was before he’d become a Marine. Women loved Marines. Especially heroes like Orlando.

  Right now, Orlando’s feelings of hopelessness worried Marc the most. He needed to get through to him before the kid was shipped back to San Diego. Chances of seeing him again after that were slim.

  He’d talk with the nurses to be sure they stayed on top of the man’s depression. He knew they were monitoring him already. Depression was common for an amputee. But Orlando meant a lot to him. They’d trained together to be recon Marines. They’d even played hard together. He remembered the redhead at the L.A. fetish club. Orlando didn’t need a foot to please a woman.

  Dio, he didn’t want the kid to become another suicide casualty.

  Marc entered his room and saw his bed ahead of him, hoping he’d get there before his legs gave out. So fucking weak. So close…

  “Marco!”

  Mama? Marc turned slowly to find both of his parents standing in the doorway.

  Shit.

  “Mama? Papa? What are you doing here?” They had a business to run. This was the height of the skiing season. His mother came toward him. Dio.

  “When we heard you were injured…” Were those tears in her eyes? She reached up and stroked his cheek, and he just marveled at what looked like real tears streaming down Mama’s plump face. For him?

  “We’ve been waiting for you here in Germany….” Her voice cracked and she wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

  “Waiting for you to get out of the hospital in Iraq,” Papa finished.

  Marc noticed the dark circles under both their eyes. Their clothes looked as if they’d slept in them. How long had they been waiting here? Why hadn’t they booked a hotel room?

  “I’m fine. You didn’t have to come all this way.”

  “They said you almost died,” Mama said.

  Who told her that? He hadn’t been that bad off.

  “They said you saved a man’s life,” she said, then smiled, her mouth quivering.

  Marc turned away. He sure as hell wasn’t a hero. The heroes were people like Miller and Orlando. Like Gino.

  “I was just doing my job, Mama.”

  “Well,” said Papa, “we want you to know we’re proud of you, son. The whole family is so proud of you.”

  Marc looked from one to the other. While having them be proud of him wasn’t his goal or even anything he cared about, for some strange reason, the words made him feel better. Then Mama wrapped her arms around him. She hadn’t done that since he was a little
boy. He’d always been in trouble, and was more likely than his brothers to be punished. Marc put his arms around her shoulders and hugged her in return.

  “I hated that you joined the military, Marco. But that was just because of Gino…. I didn’t want you to…”

  Marc pulled away to look down into her eyes. Tears streamed down her face and she did nothing to wipe them away this time. Papa wrapped an arm around her, too, obviously as stunned by her emotional state as Marc was.

  “Mama, you won’t believe this, but I’m actually serving with Gino’s unit. With his master sergeant even.”

  “No!”

  When Mama looked as though she’d collapse, he and Papa grabbed her by either side and guided her to the only chair in the room. Marc was careful not to dislodge his IV. He hadn’t told her before because he didn’t want to remind her, but needed to tell them what he’d learned.

  “Master Sergeant Montague told me about Gino. Mama, Papa, Gino was a real hero, a brave Marine. He saved a man’s life.”

  His mother rocked herself. Seeing her exhibiting such maternal emotions shook Marc to the core. She’d hardly cried when she’d heard about Gino, at least not in front of him. Something inside his chest broke, as loud as if his rib had cracked. He’d never thought of her as being vulnerable. Of course, Gino was special to her. His brother always had been her favorite one. For good reason. He’d never given Mama any trouble.

  Easier to love.

  Marc hunkered down beside her chair, but his legs began to shake and his lungs grew tighter and tighter. He wanted to comfort his mother, but his head grew light. When he gasped for a breath, Mama looked up, “Marco, you must get into bed!” She motioned for Papa to help her get him to the bed. They guided him to the bed. Marc collapsed against the pillows, trying to catch his breath. Damn. He hated feeling so fucking weak and helpless.

  “Go get the nurse, Papa,” Mama said, lifting his feet into the bed and pulling the sheet up over him.

  Between his gasps for air, Marc said: “No nurse, Mama…I’m fine…Just moved too fast…Hard to catch my breath still.”