Declan

by Ava Manello

  Declan

  Wounded Heroes #1

  By

  Ava Manello

  Copyright

  Ava Manello

  Declan

  © 2015, Ava Manello

  KBK Publishing

  eBook edition

  Cover Designer: Margreet Asselbergs

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  DEDICATION

  I thought long and hard about who I should dedicate this book to. I wanted it to be something special and that’s why I decided on the following.

  I dedicate this book to those who have served or are still serving in the Armed Forces. To those who have given up their lives on the battlefield, or after as a result of the injuries or trauma that they suffered. To those who lost loved ones serving their country.

  We owe a massive debt of gratitude to the men and women, who put their lives on the line in order to protect us, to the families who raised them, loved them and gave them up so that they could serve us.

  “They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

  At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

  We will remember them.”

  Laurence Binyon

  Prologue

  Declan

  The touch of my fingers sends a small tremor through her. I try to keep the massage firm, yet tender. I can already see some of the tension leaving her body. She groans as I knead the hard knot at the base of her neck. This past week has been a living nightmare for all of us, but especially her and the stress has really knotted her neck and shoulders.

  My hands leave her skin for a moment as I reach for more body lotion. She moans in protest. There’s a delicate hint of coconut in the air as I warm it in my hands before applying it at the base of her spine.

  I knead up and down her back, leaving a trail of warmth where I’ve passed. I can feel my cock twitching in my tight boxer briefs, begging to be let loose. It’s been too long since I allowed myself that particular pleasure. After everything that’s happened I wasn’t sure it would show interest in sex again, I’m pleased that it is, but I can’t. Not here. Not now.

  Georgia is laying face down underneath me, dressed only in skimpy briefs so that I can massage her back. My legs are astride hers and I’m pretty sure she can feel my cock pushing against her. She says nothing though.

  How the fuck did I find myself here? On this bed and in this position? This is my friend’s widow for fucks sake. I need to show him some respect. I need to remember the man that he was, not the shell he had become. He sank so low that there was no coming back. That’s why I’m here. We buried him today, so the last place I should be right now is in his widow’s bed.

  I couldn’t ignore Georgia’s scream though as she’d woken from a nightmare, or the fat tears rolling down her face. She’s too young to be a widow; she’s not even forty. She has her whole life ahead of her. I’d consoled her by drawing her into my arms, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling her close. She’d whimpered when my hand touched her back. The downside of living with Max for these past few months had been the abuse. She may have outgrown most of the bruises but the residual pain was still there.

  I’d offered her a back rub in my innocence, and that’s how I came to find myself here now, sitting on top of her and desperately begging my cock to go back into its usual state of stupor.

  There’s something sensuous about caressing a woman’s skin, and it’s turning me on. As awful as it sounds it helps that I can’t see Georgia’s face. I couldn’t do this if I looked her in the eye. I need to just pretend she’s some anonymous stranger if I’ve any chance of getting through the rest of this night.

  Georgia moans as I release a particularly deep knot in her shoulder, but it sounds more like a moan of passion than relief.

  “Declan,” she pleads. “I need you. I need this.” She whimpers.

  “I can’t.” I whisper back. “I can’t do it to Max.” I apologise.

  “Fuck Max.” She hisses. “He didn’t give a shit about either of us these past few months. I need this.” She pauses. “And from the feel of your cock digging into my ass you need it too.” She reasons.

  She’s right. I do need it. But I can’t.

  “I can’t look you in the eye.” I apologise.

  “Then don’t.” She reasons. She reaches down behind her, pulling her almost non-existent underwear down and raising her ass slightly. I can see her glistening pussy. She’s wet for me and I know for sure that my cock is hard for her.

  I dismiss the guilt from my mind and release myself from my boxer shorts. Without allowing myself time to think about it I push into her. Fuck! That feels so good. It feels so tight and deep. I pause for a moment just enjoying the sensation, and Georgia lets out a loud groan of satisfaction.

  “That feels fucking amazing.” She almost purrs.

  Slowly I move in and out of her, each time it feels like I’ve gone deeper than the last. Her legs are trapped together between mine by her shoved down underwear and her ass is gripping tightly to my cock as I move in and out.

  She moves a hand to caress my leg. I stop her by holding her arms down. From the satisfied moans she’s making, it’s clear she likes that. Her face is almost hidden in the mattress, the pillow already tossed aside. She’s got short hair, I want to grab hold of it and pull her head back each time I push into her, but it’s too short for that. It’s just long enough to hide her face, and that’s probably a good thing. If I saw her face right now I suspect my cock would deflate faster than a popped balloon.

  The only sounds in the room are the slap of flesh against flesh as my movements become stronger as do our mutual groans of pleasure. I slap her ass sharply, and when she doesn’t protest I do it again. She’s pushing her ass back up against me, silently begging for more. I give it to her.

  That’s when it all goes to shit. I’m having the best sex I’ve had in months, fuck it I’m having the only sex I’ve had in months, when I hear it.

  A car backfires outside and I lose it. Suddenly I’m not in this suburban bedroom; I’m back in Afghanistan the day it happened. I can feel the heat, taste the sand in my mouth, and hear the screams of the other guys.

  I snap out of it, just in time. My hands are round Georgia’s neck and I’m strangling her. She can barely breathe, let alone make a sound and her face is going a shade of purple. I release my hands quickly.

  Georgia draws in a deep gulping breath of air before collapsing back down to the mattress and taking shallow breaths.

  “What the fuck!” She croaks, her voice barely there and raspy.

  What do I say; how the fuck do I explain the nightmare that I live constantly? I can’t. Instead I do the most dick move possible. I pull out of her and rush from the room without explanation.

  Within minutes my bag is packed and I’m gone. Driving to an unknown destination in the dark of the night. I didn’t even say I was sorry.

  I’m not sure where to go so I just drive. I’m not fit to be around normal people. Something broke in me out in Afghanistan, and I’m not sure I can ever be mended.

  So I drive, and wait to see where the road takes me.

  Chapter One

  Declan - Three months earlier

  The sand is so fine it’s like dust, invading everywhere regardless of how well you pack your kit away. Afghanistan may have some beautiful scenery,
but right now it’s my idea of hell. The cold nights make way to blistering days, the sun scorching the parched earth, and dehydrating you faster than you can take fluids on board. Even here in the supposed shelter of the tent I can still taste it.

  This place is supposed to be our sanctuary, our respite from the day’s challenges, yet it feels more and more like a prison. Armed soldiers patrol the high fence, the sniper tower is constantly on alert and yet we pretend that on this side of the fence we are home. We couldn’t be further away if we tried, here in a country where I’m not even sure we belong. The residents don’t want us, the Taliban sure as shit don’t want us and our families back home can’t understand why we’re here fighting someone else’s war.

  I’ve long since stopped trying to make sense of it. Just joining the Army cost me my girlfriend; she couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to stay and set up home with her in Australia. I couldn’t explain it. It’s like a deep seated need in me to be part of this. Or it used to be. Now after so many years of service, of seeing friends blown up or shot, of attending funeral after funeral, I’ve become immune. I’ve forgotten why I wanted to sign up. I just want this to be over and to go home. There’s nothing for me at home, but right now, anywhere is better than here.

  I’m a Corporal in the SASR (Australian Special Air Service Regiment) and as part of 4 Squadron; I lead a patrol of five guys. We’ve almost reached the end of our six-month rotation out here, and we’re all looking forward to this one finishing. This will be the last tour for most of us. That means going back to civilian life. We’ve become so dependent on each other out here, it’s going to be strange not living out of each other’s pockets back home.

  We can communicate without saying a word; so finely tuned to each other that a look or a nod of the head often suffices. We’ve bonded and become brothers over the last few years. This is the life we know. Fuck, it’s the only life I know. Going back to normal feels more alien to me than anything I’ve experienced so far.

  We’ve all come from coastal towns on the west side of Australia so this constant desert sand makes us miss the coast even more. I miss the kiss of the breeze in the air, the tang of the salt from the ocean on my tongue. Shit. I’ve got to pull myself out of this mood. I can’t afford to become melancholy out here. Lives depend on me. I have to be alert at all times.

  There’s a ruckus outside the tent that tells me the guys are back from the cookhouse. Cameron is taking the piss out of Max yet again for wanting to re-enlist at the end of the tour. The rest of us can’t wait to get home and as far away from this hellhole as possible. I don’t understand Max. He’s married, happily last I heard, which is unusual for guys like us and I know he and Georgia were talking about starting a family when he goes home at the end of this rotation.

  We all enlisted at the same time, and have gone through training together as well as a shit load of deployments into situations you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. We’ve been taught to kill stealthily and silently, to go in and rescue hostages, how to blow shit up and just be a general bad ass. There must be something missing in each of us because we used to love this shit. What normal person gets off on this kind of life? The key words there though are ‘used to’. It’s become a taboo subject none of us dare mention. What’s changed to make us feel this way?

  Over the last couple of years there’ve been an increasing number of green on black attacks. The people we’re here to teach to protect their own country are turning on us, killing us, and it’s no longer black and white. The only guys I trust anymore are my own unit. None of us can sleep safe in our beds anymore. It got a little too close to home last year when one of our colleagues was shot while playing football with some of the local soldiers. One of the guys on his own fucking team just casually reached into his trousers, pulled a gun out and shot Glen point blank. His own team!

  I try and pull myself together before the team sees me. They don’t need my negative mood to bring them down as well. I look up with a smile on my face, as Cameron is the first into the tent. He’s a good-looking bastard, short dark hair, tanned complexion and dark eyes. Whenever we go out he’s always the first to pull. He’s probably the closest thing I’ve got to a brother. We keep talking about setting up in some sort of business when we get out of here.

  Max closely follows him. He’s the odd one out, the only one that’s married and yet the only one who doesn’t want to go home. He’s a little older than the rest of us, in his early thirties and we often call him Grandpa to tease him. He’s probably the most calming influence on the group; I think he’ll make a great Dad, as he’s great at handling our petty conflicts or offering advice. I’ll miss him when he doesn’t come back with us.

  Luke is the quiet one. He keeps his dark hair closely shaved and his brown eyes look like he holds the secrets to the universe. He watches and listens, and for all that he’s so quiet he’s the most deadly of us. He can take a sniper shot better than any of us. They always say it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.

  Ryan’s the joker of the group. Even in this heat he wears that bloody beanie hat when we’re off duty, along with his full dark sunglasses. He’d like to think he’s dark and mysterious, but with his short blonde hair and cheeky grin he’s the cutest of us as well. He gets nearly as many women as Cameron.

  Jacko, or Jacob as he’s formally known, is the serious one. He’s a vet, or he will be when he takes his final exams. He’d almost qualified when he shocked the shit out of his parents by enlisting. It happened just days after his best friend from high school was killed out here. His parents begged him not to, but like the rest of us, it was some kind of calling that he couldn’t ignore. He’s the messiest in our unit, from his scruffy tousled hair to the stubble on his chin. For all that, he keeps his kit immaculate. We all do. We rely on it to keep us alive.

  We all grew up around Perth in outlying suburbs, but it’s a vast area meaning that none of us had met before basic training. We quickly bonded, we’re so tight together when we’re working, but somehow seem to drift apart when we get home. It never lasts long as we can’t go over a month without all meeting up and hitting a bar or two.

  The last few visits home have affected us all. The more we struggle with being out here the more we’re finding our loved ones struggling with it as well. It’s gone on too long, there’s been too much blood shed and there seems to be no end in sight. Not to mention all of our families think its someone else’s war, and that we shouldn’t be out here. We’re starting to agree with them.

  Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all hell out here. Not everyone we meet wants to shoot us where we stand. The scenery is beautiful and some of the locals are the kindest, most gracious people I’ve come across. They’re happy in their poverty because they don’t aspire to anything else. Fuck, back home everyone wants the biggest TV, a better house than his or her neighbour or the fastest car. It’s all shit. Its just stuff. Stuff that in the grand scheme of things means nothing. These people have nothing so don’t know any better. They’re fighting every day to survive, and yet they’re happy and gracious with it. It’s greed that brought us to this hellhole in the first place. One man wanted more than he was given and that’s what starts wars. Greed. Some despot decides that they’re entitled to more and instead of earning it, they take it. Then idiots like our unit are sent in to make it right. What happens is that idiots like us die for someone else’s argument.

  I’ve got to shake myself out of this maudlin mood. It won’t shift. It’s been like a black cloud over my head for the past week at least. The closer it comes to ending our deployment and going home, the more unnecessary our time here feels.

  There’s a shout from outside the tent. “Yo, Declan!” shouts my Captain. “It’s time.”

  The guys don’t wait for my command; we’ve done this so often the routine comes naturally. Within moments they’re packed up and we’re all heading out to our Nary patrol vehicle. M4 carbines slung over our shoulders and Glock’s holster
ed in our belts. The heavy protective equipment is dragging us down in the 130 degree heat, but none of us will go out without it.

  The Nary is our armoured beast. It looks like something I built out of Meccano as a child, all chunky, square and sand coloured. It’s open topped to give us mobility with the guns and grenade launcher, but its armour is supposed to protect us from stray bullets and IED devices, those sneaky little devices that are hidden in the ground and designed to blow a man to shreds. I’ve buried more than one friend thanks to those bastards. It’s fast on this terrain, which is what we need, and it can handle the gullies and rutted roads we have to work along. It’s also the ugliest vehicle I’ve ever seen. I swear when I get home I’m getting my bike out of storage and going back onto two wheels.

  I take my command seat in the front of the vehicle and signal for Cameron to head us out for todays patrol. It’s one patrol closer to going home.

  Chapter Two

  Declan

  The patrol so far has been boring and routine. I’m no longer sure why we’re doing this, other than a guy behind a desk in Perth thinks we should. From what I’ve heard it’s not going to be much longer before all the Australian forces are pulled out of here. Right now that day can’t come soon enough.

  A small child runs out onto the rough road in front of us, and I signal to Cameron to stop. It looks like he’s innocently chasing a ball that’s gone astray from the soccer game on the rough ground to the left of us, but we’re trained that in this country nothing is innocent. The children are so immune to the sight of armed soldiers that they don’t even flinch when they come into contact with us. This little boy can’t be more than six or seven. He stands there in is his tattered robe and bare feet just watching us. There’s no fear on his face. He shouldn’t have anything to fear from us, but who knows If we have anything to fear from him.