SCAR_A Dark Military Romance Read online

  It takes us a long way to pick our way through and find a safe spot to look out over. We could have done this with drones, but a drone can’t do much about a problem. It can only identify it. While we sit, the others are transmitting information back to base about the mines and their location. Some of the bomb squad will come out and deal with them, hopefully successfully.

  Intelligence suggests there’s a weapons pipeline running through the valley below. Most of the time the local boys avoid valleys. They’re too easy to set up ambushes in. But they also have shit lines of sight for most of our tech, and as many of us are out here, we can’t cover everything all the time.

  The war is being fought beneath our noses. We cover this country like an electronic hawk, and still they manage to get away with transporting the essentials of war: weapons and fuel.

  As night turns into day, and our post becomes completely visible, we back off and head away. If they were out there, they moved earlier, or some scout spotted us and warned the others off.

  Dawn is breaking as we head into what’s supposed to be a friendly village. Mary is impressing me so far. She’s dead quiet. She literally hasn’t said a word since we started. I’ve nudged her a few times to see if she’s awake and alright, but she’s alert and quiet. A little huntress, her dark hair slicked back into a bun behind her head.

  Some of the village kids come running, hoping we have something for them. There’s a bag of candy we got for them. Winning hearts and minds with melted chocolate from the other side of the world. The women don’t come near us. They stay back, shades of black and red and brown, covered by their hijabs. There’s still a lot of suspicion and mistrust around. They’re liberated today, but they’re worried we’ll pull back and the Taliban will sweep back in. It’s not an entirely unfounded fear. We can’t stay here forever, but these people will live and die within a hundred miles of where they were born. They’re living like we all used to, at the mercy of war bands who rush through, kill men, carry off women, and leave everything to burn if it doesn’t meet their satisfaction.

  We stop in the village and get out. I have a couple of contacts I’d like to talk to, men who are brave enough to risk horrible deaths to give us information. I tell Mary to stay in the vehicle. If we have to make a quick exit, I don’t want to have to rush around and find her.

  MARY

  I love talking to the women in villages like these. So often it is the women who suffer most in silence, and it’s the women who rarely have their stories told. In this part of the world, it’s common for one man to have several wives.

  When Ken moves away, I get out of the LAV and see if there’s anyone wanting to talk. A lot of the younger women are curious when they see an American woman, so usually it doesn’t take too long for some of them to slip up to me.

  I’ve learned enough Pashto to communicate basically, and sure enough, soon there is a small group of ladies congregated about me, fascinated by my clothing which is modest enough not to scandalize them, but so much more practical than their own in many respects. Their children cling to their legs, looking up with wide eyes. Some of the older ones giggle at my broken sentences.

  I have a few supplies I like to share out, nothing special, just hotel shampoos and soaps, little treats they appreciate because most of the time they don’t make their way out to rural Afghanistan, and the little money they have in their households rarely stretches to toiletries. I give each of the women a little bit of eau de toilette and some soap. They secrete it in their clothing as fast as they can. Jealous eyes make for swift stealing out here.

  They tell me that it has been three months since the Taliban left, but before they did, they warned a fiery retribution for anyone who allowed the invaders in. These people are expected to resist and to fight, even though there is no chance of them being able to do that. I know that they welcome us because they have no choice. Most of them have never known anything other than a life under occupation. This part of the world has been broken so many times it feels like it might never be whole. This is where civilization began, more or less. It should be the most advanced. It should be full of gleaming cities and great works. It should be a beacon of human advancement, an example to civilizations born later. Instead it is dust and rubble, people scraping out subsistence living as they have done for thousands of years. There’s probably a lesson in that somewhere, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.

  Their names are Asal, Larmina, and Damsa. Asal and Larmina are sisters married to a man named Mohammad. It may be two different men, but in a rural village like this, there’s a high chance it’s the same man. Polygamy is the way of the world where the male population is decimated by war. Damsa is married to a man named Mustafa. The others cringed when she mentioned him, so I take it he is not popular for some reason. They are all beautiful, but their hard lives are taking an inevitable toll. Asal tells me she has had seven children, of which four still live. Larmina has two, but she is only a new bride. And Damsa has six living. They ask me where my children are. I just shake my head and their eyes grow sad. Some things are universal, the regarding of children as blessings. Out here, they truly are. Sons work fields, daughters bear more sons. It’s brutally unfair in so many ways, but they know no other way. Years ago, I would have felt nothing but pity for them. Now I have a different understanding. There is not one world. There are a thousand worlds in a thousand places, maybe a million, maybe there’s effectively a world for every individual on the planet. At any rate, people do what they can with what they have. They pity me and I pity them, and what is the point of that?

  Halfway through our conversation, the women squawk and fall back. At first I have no idea what is frightening them, then a big shadow falls over me, and a large hand grips me by the upper arm.

  “I told you to stay in the LAV,” Ken growls down at me. He’s trying to maintain his friendly face for the benefit of the villagers, but women of all nations and all languages know a displeased man when they see one. More than one sympathetic glance is cast in my direction as they hurry away.

  “I’m ten steps from it,” I argue back.

  “I said inside. Not ten steps. You can be taken at ten steps,” he growls under his breath. “Get in the vehicle.”

  Okay so he’s pissed now. Fine. Whatever. I’d trade that risk for ten minutes talking to these women. Women know more than anyone gives them credit for. That’s true almost everywhere, but especially here. Women hear things they’re not supposed to hear. Women talk. There’s no internet out here. Information travels at the speed of gossip. If he had any damn sense, he’d be asking me what the women were saying, not barking at me for doing my damn job.

  I get into the LAV. The others are still outside, waiting for his orders. Apparently he’s going to deal with me in the cramped confines of this mutated minivan. I try to get to the back, put myself against a wall where he won’t be able to do anything but growl at me, but as he gets in, he grabs me by the back of my head, his fist grasping the hair at the back of my neck.

  “Let go of me!”

  “No,” he says, giving my head a tug. “You didn’t listen to me. I explained it nicely before, but I guess I’m going to have to explain this much less nicely now. You don’t take a goddamn breath without my permission, you understand? If you were military, I’d be wearing your ass out for the next month.”

  “I’m not military. I’m a journalist. And you need to let me the hell go.” My words don’t really make sense, but we both know what I mean.

  “I don’t care what you are, you’re still going to goddamn well do as you’re told.”

  “I’m going to do what makes sense for the story.”

  “This isn’t about you, or your story. This is about operational safety.” He pulls me back against his hard body, his lips right next to my ear. “You’ve got two choices, Mary. You submit to my punishment when we get back, or I put your ass on the next plane back to the United States.”

  “You can’t do that!”


  “Watch me.” He releases me, gives me enough space to turn around. I guess he thinks he’s made his point. He’s wrong.

  “You’re not sending me anywhere.” I get in his face, just like he’s getting in mine. He doesn’t need to hold my head up to his, because I was never going to back down to him anyway. “I’m here because you were ordered to take me, so how about YOU start following your orders, and stop trying to turn me into your bitch.”

  I can feel his powerful body less than an inch away from mine. I can see the frustration and anger coursing through him. He doesn’t get me at all. It’s not my job to hunker down in the back and wait for the good guys to protect me. It’s my job to go and see what the bad guys are doing.

  “If these men take you, what happened to you in that laboratory is going to look like a summer camp,” he growls. “I can see you’ve got a death wish, but you’re not dying on my watch.”

  “I don’t have a death wish. A death wish would be sitting in the back of the biggest potential target in the village and waiting for you to come back having achieved nothing at all. I’m entitled to talk to people. It’s literally what I’m here for.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what you think you’re here for, or what you think you’re entitled to,” he snarls down at me. “You do as I damn well say.”

  “Uh, sir? We need to get moving.”

  A reluctant voice comes from outside the vehicle. It gets through to Ken in a way nothing I have said does and makes us both realize that we’re basically having a domestic spat in the middle of an Afghani village. Not a good look for anybody.

  “Let’s go!” Ken calls out. I slink to the back and stay as far away from him as possible as we head out of the village and back to the FOB.

  The ride back to base is slow and stony silent, on my part anyway. I’m not pleased with the way he dragged me away like he owns me. I’m not exactly an embedded reporter if I have to sit inside the car like a little kid every time we stop.

  Ken’s protectiveness is out of line and way over the top, and we are going to have words, just as soon as they’re not in front of all his buddies who I know will back him up. Everyone is subdued and quiet. They didn’t find their gun runners and they obviously didn’t get the information they wanted in the village either. So this isn’t my fault, strictly. This is tired men being grumpy because the heat of the day is coming on now and we’re all starting to gently bake.

  The smell of sweat, socks, and opened MREs starts to pervade the vehicle, amplified by masculine farts. I’d ask to have a window opened, but something tells me they’re not going to add ventilation just for me.

  KEN

  “Sit the hell down, before I tie you down,” I growl as she lifts her ass off the seat to try to look out the sliver of reinforced window. This isn’t going to be a sightseeing tour for her now.

  She is in serious trouble. She wandered off out of line of sight. Anything could have happened to her. It takes less than a second for a hidden terrorist to pop out and slit someone’s throat. It’s happened before. Not everyone in the villages is friendly, and not every person who wears a hijab is a woman either. It was a simple instruction and she outright disobeyed it.

  Fortunately, there’s a good long drive to calm down in, and plan what I’m going to do with her. If she was in the military, she’d be getting chewed the hell out and punished severely with the sort of shit work and PT that’d break her will and leave her in a state to actually learn something.

  I don’t want to break her down. Life has already had a damn good go at that, and it didn’t work. Not everyone is made for military handling. A lot of people will crumple so bad they’ll never go back together again. And some are so hard, either through natural temperament or life experience that being ripped to shreds and humiliated just doesn’t touch them. I shudder to think what it would take to get Mary into a receptive frame of mind now. She’s no baby rookie who can be shouted into cowering submission. I’ve got to go against my instincts and put a lot of what I learned over the years to the side. Even if she is a little different from the usual personnel I deal with, she can be trained, and she damn well will be. I will not let her put herself into the kind of danger she was just in again. We’ve had soldiers taken by ‘villagers’ before. Some of these fighters are opportunists. They can blend in with the innocent locals seamlessly. A lot of them genuinely are locals, so the danger we’re in is not understated. That’s why we go in armed, and in sufficient numbers to defend ourselves. And it’s why we don’t wander around asking vague questions about husbands and nonsense like that. This is Afghanistan, not a college canteen.

  I can feel her eyes on me. She doesn’t seem sorry in the slightest yet, but she will be.

  When we get back to base, I dismiss the others. Macky and Fraser are both good guys, but they won’t keep their mouths shut about that little incident. I’ve got to get Mary under control, and quick.

  “Come with me,” I say, my tone clipped but controlled.

  She follows me back to the CHU, a sulky, quiet expression on her face. She’s wary. I open the door and stand outside, refraining from the impulse to smack her ass hard as she walks past me into the cabin.

  “Fine, so you’re mad,” she says in a fairly transparent attempt to get ahead of the discussion. That’s not going to happen.

  I take her by the arm and push her gently, but firmly against the wall. Her eyes spit fire, her teeth are clenched. She’s ready to fight me because she still doesn’t understand. This isn’t about me being an overbearing asshole. It’s not some bruised ego because she didn’t obey me. This is literally life and death. Her life and potentially, her death.

  MARY

  He’s so fucking tall. It’s not possible that he’s taller when he’s angry, but he seems taller right now, his hands on either side of my head, but higher as he leans over me, looming shamelessly.

  I know he doesn’t want me to be aroused by this. I don’t want to be aroused by this, but he’s wearing short sleeves and his biceps are ripping over my head and he’s hot when he’s angry. The intensity which is always present lurking beneath the surface of his controlled exterior bursts forth. I can feel it emanating from him, pure masculine energy pumping into the space between us.

  I’m tingling with excitement, my heart is pounding.

  “I was doing my job!” I offer the excuse, knowing he’s not going to accept it.

  “You were maybe sixty seconds from being sushi,” he growls. “That village isn’t safe. We’re pretty sure it’s being used as a stopover for weapons trafficking. There’s every chance that those houses hide stockpiles of ammunition, explosives, god knows what else. When you’re out here, everybody is a possible threat. There are fighters everywhere. Do you know what would happen to you if they got hold of you? Shall I get descriptive, Mary? Do you want to know what they do to women they capture?”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  Those three words hit him square between the eyes, because they’re delivered with the weight of truth. I have seen worse. Far worse. I see worse when I close my eyes. I know the reputation for brutality and cruelty some of the fighters have out here, but I have seen creative cruelty played out in ways that would make the men out here cringe. I refuse to be frightened of that anymore.

  “Then use your damn brain,” he growls. “You think I want to find pieces of you?”

  “What do you care?”

  I throw the question at him, and his head rocks back as if I hit him.

  “What do I care?” He growls the question again, shaking his head. He seems surprised, and maybe even a little hurt. I guess he’s forgotten the same thing I keep forgetting. We don’t really know each other. We’re total strangers, and whatever bond we do have was forged in such a fucked up way I don’t know if it will ever be strong enough to support anything remotely resembling a healthy relationship.

  Right now, that’s not what’s at issue though. Right now, he just wants control. Control I don’t want to give anyb
ody, even him.

  I can see him hunting for words inside his mind. I don’t know what he’s going to say, and in the end he says nothing. His mouth descends on mine in a passionate kiss which captures my lips and makes all thought of resistance flee my mind. His lips are strong, but soft, urging mine apart and soon his tongue is snaking against mine. Our kiss deepens. His hands move from the wall and cup my head, large paws cradling me as he kisses me with the kind of passion I have only felt inside myself, the sort no man has ever mustered for me before.

  I breathe him. Taste him. Feel him. My world is him and I am his as my tongue twirls with his and returns the vigor of desire.

  When he breaks the kiss, none of the intensity has been lost.

  “You’re going to do as you’re told,” he says in a husky growl. “I don’t care if you want to. I don’t care if you understand why you need to. I’m going to make sure you do either way.”

  “You’re going to spank me again?”

  “I’m going to do more than spank you, girl,” he promises. “I’m going to strip you down and…”

  “No!”

  My voice is strained and panicked.

  “No?”

  “You can spank me. You can even fuck me. But you can’t see me naked.”

  He tilts his head to the side, and a look of compassion comes into his eyes. I don’t want that look. I don’t want pity. I want his anger, his fury, his passion. I want him to want me so fiercely that I forget the reason I can’t be nude with him.

  “I’m going to have you naked,” he says, softly, but firmly.

  Emotion cascades inside me. Fear. Relief. Both so intimately entwined and neither one of them making sense in tandem with the other. The relief is that it is no longer my call to make. The fear is that he will see what they did to me and then this moment will evaporate forever. Men don’t want broken women. They want whole creatures, perfect nubile, fertile goddesses. I’m barely female anymore. He doesn’t know that yet. But he will when he takes my clothes off.