Page 29 of Deadly Obsession
TWENTY-THREE
JAMES
The room was completely dark, save for the thin razor blade of light coming from below the door.
I could hear most of what was happening on the other side.
Jade was dead. From what I gathered, it’d happened rather suddenly.
Perhaps an allergic reaction but most likely a drug overdose. That was my gut feeling.
This situation was totally fucked. I couldn’t logically be mad at Brian. He’d seen me lay into Robert like a freight train and then found me standing over Lola like that. Her body had still been rather fresh too.
If only he had given me the chance to speak …
“Afghanistan.”
The singular word escaped my lips at the same time an old anger rose in my chest. I took that anger and used it as fuel, enabling myself to slide the knife Sera had slipped me faster against the Shibari rope.
I’d been at it for at least ten minutes, trying to cut through enough of the rope before the pieces finally fell to the floor and my arms were free.
I took a moment to stretch and flex my upper body as the feeling returned, then started slicing away at the binding around my legs. I’d just moved on to the second segment of rope when I heard it. The sound of my custom exhaust roaring to life.
Fuck, my truck!
I considered screaming out but that would be pointless. No one could hear me and I needed to get free!
The moment my legs were loose, I wasted no time sprinting outside to the front porch. “Fuck,” I cursed through gritted teeth.
They’d stolen my truck, likely to try to get help.
All I could do was hope they made it. In the meantime, I needed to arm myself and find a vantage point.
Unfortunately for me, the only two weapons I’d brought were in that same truck.
My shotgun and the hidden Glock I kept in a secret compartment in the back seat.
Thank you, Chevrolet .
I needed to get upstairs and grab my gear, but curiosity got the better of me first. Stepping into the living room, I walked directly up to Jade’s body on the couch, her skin tinged blue.
“Rest in peace.”
I shook my head and turned, making my way upstairs to the main bedroom. I immediately went to the duffle bag situated in the closet, picking it up and dumping the contents out onto the bed. All my Mustang gear, apart from my mask.
I put on my combat gear, boots, trousers, body armor, and gloves, my mind wandering to the sandbox in a country I never should have left alive.
Marjah, Helmand Province, Afghanistan
15 February 2010
Day three of the operation and my squad had run into a British unit after almost taking each other out in the haze of battle.
The enemy had launched a vicious counterattack, composed mostly of suicide bombers.
The first two had been children we’d attempted to help out of the area.
A sister and brother, both running towards us down the main street.
We’d thought nothing of it and ushered them past us.
My unit lost six Marines and a Navy Corpsman in that blast as well as two machine guns and our Gunnery Sergeant.
After taking the hit, we bunkered down in a large hut. The plan was to hold tight and allow other allied forces to push past us and then take up the rear as a supporting element.
A few hours into it, we noticed armed figures moving in from the west, working towards our position. In the chaos of battle, it was hard to say who opened fire on who first, but a brief gunfight erupted.
Thankfully, one of our Recon Marine Snipers had been watching us from elsewhere in the city. “Three-six-bravo! Blue on blue! Blue on blue. British friendlies to your west!” came across the radio.
Just like that, the gunfire went silent. And shortly after, we were sharing our hut with a British squad that had gotten separated from their main force.
“That’s Reaper, Goliath, and I’m Mustang. How about you, partner?” I’d asked the British soldier, who’d sat down to play blackjack with us. The stakes? Cigarettes and candy from our MREs.
“Corporal Watson, Micheal Watson. You chaps can call me Mike.” He had short blond hair and beady blue eyes that only a fool would trust. He had good stories and plenty of smokes, so we’d let him join in the game. After all, he was a new face and it was a chance to interact with our allies.
It wasn’t long before Reaper and Goliath got called out to stand watch over the two most likely avenues of approach, leaving Mike and me alone in the hut.
“Blackjack,” I announced for the tenth time as I set down a nine of hearts, a ten of clubs, and a two of spades.
“Fucking hell, I haven’t beat you a single time. I’m done. Haven’t got a cigarette to my name anymore. You’ve cleaned me,” he cursed, throwing his hands in the air.
“Ah, don’t worry about it, partner. Here,” I said, handing him a full pack of Marlboro Reds from the stash in my assault pack. “America’s best. ”
He picked it up and we spent the better half of the night chain smoking and telling stories about our time in country until the conversation shifted to stories about home instead.
I told him things about growing up on a ranch, and he told me about the hundreds of women he’d had waiting for him—including his wife.
His stories were accompanied by a handful of photos he produced from his wallet.
“This here is Amy. A beauty I met at uni. Here is Abigail. Oh, and Stacy.” He continued shuffling the stack of Polaroids of half and fully naked women in his hands.
After girl number three, I’d honestly turned my mind off and was just politely nodding my head as this bastard bragged about how he was basically the biggest man-whore in his country. I was about to tell him to fuck off and try to get some sleep when one photograph caught my attention.
My hand shot out, my fingertip pressing on one picture he’d been about to breeze past. “Wait… Who is she?”
He paused, holding that particular photo out for me to see.
It was of a raven-haired beauty. With the darkest, most enchanting obsidian eyes I’d ever seen.
Her upper lip possessed this seductive cupid’s bow and her body was decorated in very elegant, fine-line tattoos.
Which peaked out of the black lace lingerie she was wearing.
“Oh, that’s just Sera. My wife. Not by choice, mind you. Got her pregnant and, well, things are rather old-fashioned. You understand, right? What do you people call it? A shotgun wedding?” He laughed and sat the photos down on the ground between us as he lit another cigarette.
But I couldn’t take my focus off the photo of the woman with the obsidian eyes.
I shook my head and realized that I was now holding a photo in my hand, brushing over it with my gloved thumb. The same photo I’d stolen from that British soldier back in 2010.
My harpy, my Sera.
The woman who’d unknowingly stumbled into my life. I opened the Velcro pouch of my body armor, slid the photo directly over my heart, and pressed the fabric back down. Before dropping two of my throwing axes into their holsters on my thighs, the other two gripped tightly in my gloved hands.
Unable to resist, I stepped into view of the closet’s full-length mirror. “DC Comics, eat your heart out.”