In Love and War

by Tara Mills

  Chapter 15

  The angle of the sun had changed so it no longer beat directly on the still blanket in the backseat of the damaged car. Dylan jerked back to consciousness at the sharp sting of a bullet punching into his left thigh. His hand flew to his leg and he swallowed a groan when he found the fresh entry wound. Warm blood spread outward from the point of entry and soaked his pants. The salty sweat on his skin mixed with the fresh blood and burned the ragged edges of the wound. Investigating further, he discovered there was no exit wound. He hadn’t taken a direct hit. Still, it wasn’t exactly a comforting thought. The next bullet could just as easily take off the back of his head.

  How long had he been out? The heat was suffocating. He wished he could move out from under the blanket, but giving himself away was suicide. Every inch of his body was drenched in sweat, the thirst it left behind almost unbearable. Even worse, the smell inside the car was getting to him, making his stomach churn. It was an alarming combination of odors he had no wish to identify. Vomiting would only make things worse, especially his throbbing headache.

  There was a ringing in his ears, while everything else seemed muffled and yet, somehow, it didn’t stop him from hearing the bullets pierce the shell of the car and embed themselves in the interior.

  “Jim. Jim, are you all right? I’ve been hit,” Dylan whispered. There was no reply.

  Too afraid to lift the blanket for light, he touched Jim’s cheek. His skin was cool, but Dylan found a weak pulse at his neck. His relief was heady, but their predicament couldn’t be worse. How the hell were they going to get out of here?

  Dylan shifted a little in order to check on Jim’s condition. He ran his hand over him, searching for wounds. Everything seemed fine until he followed down Jim's left leg and his hand dropped off into space. Where the hell was the rest of it? Dylan choked back a gasp. Never had he been so reluctant to do anything in his life, and yet he knew he didn’t have a choice. He had to confirm what he thought he’d felt, or rather hadn’t felt. He took a steadying breath and ran his hand over the leg again. This time his fingers curled when the limb came to an end. He felt jagged bone and shredded muscle and tissue. Everything was wet and sticky. He fought down nausea as his hand came away coated with blood.

  “Jesus, Jim, be glad you’re unconscious.”

  Dylan rubbed his face with his clean hand, trying desperately to tamp down his rising panic. He needed to act fast, or Jim was dead. He didn’t even want to imagine Ali’s condition.

  Anger and desperation seemed to close in on him as he carefully worked a shirt out of his bag and began the painstaking job of tearing it into strips without making any outwardly noticeable movements. It infuriated him to be forced to move so slow, or risk becoming an obvious target. He needed to stop the blood at both the stump and the groin or he was going to lose his friend.

  Dylan packed the open wound with his clean underwear then tied it off as tightly as he could. Their confinement was working against him, impeding his movements, but he worked steadily on. When his knuckles grazed across a thick, sticky puddle of blood on the floor, it opened a whole new worry. Jim might have lost too much blood already. He needed a hospital—now.

  Reaching carefully around Jim’s upper thigh, Dylan apologized under his breath for cinching the tourniquet at the groin as tight as he did. Finally done, he leaned down and kissed the back of Jim’s sweaty, clammy head.

  “I hope I was in time, buddy,” he whispered. “Hang in there.”

  Now he needed to deal with his own wound.

  Making as little movement and noise as possible, he carefully rooted in his bag until he found a clean cotton sock. His body jerked instinctively when another bullet tore into the headrest above him. Dylan folded the sock into thirds. He brought it to his waistband, but couldn’t work it down his pants without opening his fly. Expelling a shaky breath, he flicked open the button and drew down the zipper, taking the sock on a long uncomfortable journey down his sweaty, bleeding leg to the wound. He placed it carefully over the area and pressed his leg against the backseat, using it to hold the sock in place while he pulled his hand free and zipped back up. Dylan carefully shifted onto his hip, his left thigh in the air, and applied pressure.

  Now he could really feel the burn of salt working against him in the wound. It didn't help that he’d clapped a dirty sock over the top of it. Just sliding the sock down his leg had compromised whatever cleanliness it had at the start. Under the circumstances, there wasn't much he could do about it. He tied what was left of his stripped out shirt around his thigh to hold it in place.

  If he could feel fortunate about anything, and that would be a very loose interpretation of luck, it was that his eardrums hadn’t burst when the bomb went off. Another bullet rocketed through the shattered driver’s-side window and Dylan suddenly pictured the gas tank exploding. He hoped it wouldn’t ignite right next to him. Then a more comforting thought followed. He realized shooting the tank was the last thing the sniper would want to do. Siphoning was a popular practice when essentials were scarce and expensive.

  As more bullets peppered the car, he tried to sink deeper into the depression in the floor. Why were they shooting? Why didn’t the bastards just rush the car and take any survivors out? Then a horrible thought struck him.

  There had to be a good reason the sniper was keeping a safe distance back when no one was returning fire. Was he sitting on a minefield? Was there another bomb that hadn’t gone off yet? Regardless, the continual gunfire was meant to guarantee no one survived this single, unremarkable episode on the streets of Baghdad, where violent acts were commonplace. The killers wanted to be thorough. Dylan dropped his head onto his bag and waited for death.

  ***

  When she couldn’t sleep, Ariela curled up in Dylan’s favorite chair, wearing his big, soft shirt, with his scrapbook of articles open on her lap. She adjusted the lamp, angling it where she wanted it, then looked around. She had to chuckle. The guy didn’t have much to be proud of in the furniture department, but he’d definitely made the right move when he bought this amazingly comfortable recliner.

  Looking through his work brought Ariela closer to the man. It was easy to appreciate his obvious external attributes, like his luscious body, those intense eyes, even his playfulness. But in reading what he wrote, she gained more insight into who he was. He opened himself up on a level she’d never experienced with anyone else—not even Jean. God, she missed him.

  He was a talented writer, clear and competent, but that wasn’t all Ariela learned. Dylan was decent to the core, concerned, and outraged by hypocrisy. He was fearless when he took on issues, but even more so when going after people deemed too big to topple. He truly was a champion for those without voices and access. And she’d only been kidding when she’d called him her champion while hanging halfway out of the ambulance, strapped to a gurney. Who knew she’d actually nailed his character right then?

  With every article, Ariela realized she’d just scratched the surface of his passion and intensity outside the bedroom—and the shower. Mmm, she liked his wild, almost feral side when he let it off the leash.

  Oh, this wasn’t good. She was getting aroused by his articles?

  Well, not exactly, it just brought him to mind, everything about him. She wanted to see Dylan parading around the house again, shirtless, shoeless, tousled and sexy, and wearing those soft, faded jeans that hugged him so right. She wanted to pick his brain some more over another meal, laugh and taunt him while they played games. She wanted to walk the neighborhoods again while holding Dylan’s hand, confiding things she’d never dreamed of telling Jean.

  She knew she was safe, in every sense of the word, when she opened herself up to him. He’d protect her—body, soul, and heart. But she was selfish. All the qualities she admired most, Dylan's nobility, compassion, and strong sense of justice were the exact ones she feared would get him killed. He was heroic for pursuing truth, even when it wasn’t always welcome. He made people aware of what w
as happening around the world, without turning the focus on himself. How could a man be so driven, yet so modest? He wanted the pieces he wrote to get attention. He wanted the respect of his peers. But he didn't want fame. He seemed perfectly content with his salary, so it wasn’t about money either. If he splurged on himself at all, it was to keep up with the technology that made his job easier, better, faster. She’d never known anyone like him. He was unique. No wonder she’d fallen in love with him.

  When he came home, she’d tell him she trusted him and would support him in every way she could from now on, personally and professionally. She didn't want to be an obstacle in his career, his life. She just wanted to be the best part of it. She’d be his high spot to counter all the lows that came naturally for a man in his profession. She hoped. She wanted to be that person for him.

  Ariela looked over at Dylan’s other adoring fan. Her eyes turned misty and she smiled at the golden retriever snoring on the sofa. Even Dylan’s stupid mutt was growing on her—irrefutable proof she was in love.

  Without warning, her body suddenly jerked and she was hit by a sharp and unnerving sensation. Looking up with wide eyes, she had no idea why her hand rode down her leg and squeezed. Max lifted his head and looked at her, roused by her gasp of alarm.

  “I’m okay,” she assured him.

  It was a lie. Ariela’s heart was racing, her body tense with fear, the dramatic shift completely at odds with her tranquil mood a moment ago. She couldn’t explain it, but it terrified her.

  ***

  An ominous noise in the dark woke Dylan from a shallow sleep. Before he could focus on it, he was hit by a smell, unpleasantly reminiscent of food-encrusted dishes left in a sink too long. It filled the car, blending with the metallic overtones of blood. Whatever was left of Ali, added to the thick puddle under Jim, had begun to rot fast in the heat.

  Struggling to control his gag reflex was only half the battle because now he realized what was so wrong, what was different. There was an eerie lack of gunfire. The change had been remarkable enough to wake him. Miserable and resigned to his fate earlier, he’d dozed off to the staccato sound of gunshots, a perverse variation of white noise, in the background.

  Accepting the inevitability of his death had been easier somehow when he’d expected to be struck by another random bullet or two. At least it would have been impersonal. But now, tensing for who knows what, he wasn’t ready to tolerate a very personal slaughter. He wondered how to handle the distinct possibility he was about to be dragged out by his painfully cramped legs and forced to his knees, with his hands clasped on top of his head.

  Yeah, right—like that was going to keep it attached to his shoulders!

  He reached over and touched Jim’s cheek. It was cold, unreal, no longer living tissue. Still, just to be sure, Dylan searched for a pulse—nothing. As much as it broke his heart, he’d expected it. Not that it made accepting his friend’s death any easier. His throat constricted with the pain. At least Jim never regained consciousness. He hadn’t suffered.

  Dylan put his forehead against the back of Jim’s head and came to a decision. If he was captured, he was going to do his damnedest to inflict a little pain in return. If he was going down, he wasn’t going down alone. He was fucked anyway. Why not fight it out?

  Soft footfalls sounded outside the car. He froze, straining to hear everything. It took all the self-control he possessed not to scream when the door pressing against his feet suddenly opened. Now he was stuck. How had they known he was here? Had he moved and given himself away? What did they want? Were these just looters, or those bastard pricks who’d shot him and killed Jim and Ali? Should he kick out and hope like hell he snapped this guy’s neck before he was executed by the guy’s friends?

  “Shh.”

  A woman? No. Yes. It was a woman and she was cautioning him to keep quiet. It could only be one of Ali’s aunts.

  Dylan tugged the blanket from his face and peered over his shoulder into the dark, trying to see her behind the black veil. She climbed around him, onto the backseat, and reached for Jim.

  “No,” Dylan whispered, stopping her hand.

  She drew back as if burned. Then, collecting herself, she stretched out to look into the front seat. She let out a muted sob and dropped back, her body shaking violently. He could hear her deep, deliberate breaths as she fought through her anguish. In no time, her trembling subsided and something about her posture reassured him. She crawled backward off the seat and out of the car, waving for him to follow. He didn’t understand the whispered words, but he certainly understood the need to move quickly and quietly.

  Before climbing out, Dylan reached into Jim’s back pocket and took his wallet. He slipped it into his own then eased out backward, pulling his and Jim’s bags with him.

  Sweat was running off of Dylan when his cramped feet touched the ground. It was all he could do to stifle his groan when his wounded leg was forced to bear his weight. Even without touching his thigh, he knew it was bleeding out, soaking the sock anew.

  All of a sudden he found himself covered in a black abbaya, his arms trapped at his sides. The fabric hid the bags, as well. The woman settled the black veil over his head, shifting it so he could see, then with a finger to her lips, she led him to the shadows of the nearest house.

  Ali’s other aunt was waiting there. Together, they crept silently along the side of the building, away from the street. It was a slow and careful trip to their home. Every footfall was jarring as he tried to keep up—shaking, sweating, weak, and dizzy. He couldn't believe how painful it was to continue on with knees bent. The strain was more than he expected.

  The old woman was waiting just inside the back door when they darted into safety. She looked more fragile than she had mere hours earlier. Her eyes glittered with tears, her anxiety impossible to mistake. The aunt who’d collected him from the car spoke, her voice cracking. Their wave of grief encompassed Dylan, as well.

  He felt even weaker now, beyond fatigued. The muscles in his legs twitched uncontrollably, his bouncing kneecaps reminding him of chattering teeth. The room began to close in on him and in one mighty whoosh, everything went black. Dylan crumpled soundlessly to the floor, his arms still pinned to his sides, the bags clutched in his hands.

  ***

  Ariela never returned to bed. She went back and forth to the computer, hoping a reassuring message would suddenly appear from Dylan. One never came. Keyed up on the pot of coffee she’d brewed around four a.m., she decided to head in to work early.

  It was useless. She couldn’t focus there either. A cold, gripping dread had spread through her, and hours later, try as she might to share in Jean’s good news, her mood cast a pall over everything.

  “The steaks were fabulous,” Jean said in a happy rush. “I always overcook them, but this time Ron’s had the perfect amount of pink. Of course, by then, he was getting pretty buzzed. He’s not used to wine. I’d poured him three glasses before everything was ready. We never even touched the salad. There’s plenty for lunch, if you’re interested. It’s good. I had some for breakfast.” Jean spun around in her heels, her face alight with joy. “Ariela! I’m getting married! I asked him. I asked him and Ron said yes!”

  Ariela shared in the laughter, but it was half-hearted. “I’m so happy for you. Really, really, happy,” she said, trying to placate Jean. “I’ve just got this horrible feeling something happened to Dylan. I know that sounds crazy, but I feel it.”

  Jean sighed and slouched down in her chair. “Don’t do this to yourself. That’s fear talking. So, he’s a little late sending you a message—big surprise. He warned you that would probably happen. Now look at you, you’re falling apart right in front of me for no reason whatsoever. I can’t stand to watch it.”

  “Then don’t watch.”

  “Why don’t you call it a day here? It’s not like you’re getting anything done, anyway,” Jean snapped moodily.

  Ariela agreed.

  ***

  Once she�
��d let Max into the yard and brought the garbage out of the bathroom, Ariela went on a hunt. She picked up Dylan’s scrapbook and began flipping pages, looking for anything that might give her a clue, or a contact. A contact…

  Setting the book aside, she went over to his desk and claimed his chair. There was something going on. It harassed her like an itchy scab. She considered trying his phone again, but what was the point? She’d already left him two messages—not that she expected him to have cell phone service wherever he was. She’d also tried his satphone number, but that was futile too. Of course, there was an even more disturbing reason why she chose not to call again. What if she inadvertently made whatever situation he was in worse? It scared her to think she might put him in danger herself.

  Forget it. This was better. At least that’s what she thought until she found herself stymied by his coded address book. Why hadn’t she expected this? Of course he’d protect his sources and contacts. And she wasn’t going to get anywhere on his e-mail without his password. Damn it.

  Shaking with desperation, she began rummaging through his desk until she found an old appointment book tucked into the top drawer. She flipped through it, her eyes crazed with hope. One number, running along the margin, looked promising. She picked up her phone and dialed. She was connected to the automatic-answering system for his paper. After listening to the options, she pressed a button for the editorial department, hoping for the best. A woman answered.

  “Hi, yes, I’m trying to reach Dylan Bond. It’s an emergency.”

  “I’m sorry. We’re not allowed to give out personal information.”

  “I realize that. I’m not a stalker. In fact, I’m…” she faltered for a second, “his girlfriend. I’m staying at his house and taking care of his dog. I know he’s in Iraq, but I need to reach him. Please, it’s very important.”

  “Have you tried his phone?”

  “Yes, many times. All I get is voicemail.” Ariela squeezed her head in frustration.