The man behind him leaned close, and Rex would have recoiled if he’d had the room. The man’s tobacco laden breath rolled over him as he spoke Pashti. Rex thought he recognized ‘ass’, but nothing else made sense. Then he heard the word bachas, and his heart stopped. He had the ass of a bacha. That’s what the man had said. Rough fingers danced lightly down his ass cheek, and Rex kicked out. Pain roared through his shoulder, and he realized the man had tied his arms to his legs under the gurney. When he kicked out, he ripped at his own injured shoulder.
He didn’t care, though. He knew about bachas in the country. They were young boys used for sexual services by the Taliban leaders. It was an abhorrent practice that the Taliban relished in, and that the American forces had been ordered to ignore. The American military considered it CSRV, combat-related sexual violence, and they were not allowed under any circumstances to interfere, even when they observed it happening. The practice sickened Rex, because it was young men who were already disadvantaged by the war and their circumstances.
“You son of a bitch. I’m going to kill you,” he growled, his body tense. He pulled at his restraints, and the one around his right hand seemed to loosen a bit.
“You’re a long way from home, American, and there is no one here to save you,” the man whispered in almost perfect English.
That made Rex pause for a split second. Had the guy been an interpreter or something? That English was too perfect. “I don’t need someone to save me,” he growled, wrenching at his right arm.
Almost simultaneously, a bomb went off nearby, rattling the building. The Taliban started yelling to each other, and Rex could tell they were alarmed. Another bomb went off, then another, and the men ran from the room. Rex took the opportunity to wiggle his wrist free of the thick nylon strap. It wasn’t made to be tied into a knot, and it loosened easily when he focused on it.
His head swam, and he knew he’d lost a significant amount of blood. But he was free and moving. Blood was flowing from both of his wounds, but he didn’t care about that. One-handed, he tried to shimmy his pants up, but they’d been cut on the sides, as well as his underwear. He realized then that his skin had also been cut and was flowing with blood.
“Fuck,” he growled, feeling supremely exposed.
He looked around for anything he could wrap around himself, but there was nothing close. Across the room was the linen closet. If he could make it there, he would find something.
Another explosion rocked the building, and he realized how crazy it was that he was more concerned with covering himself than taking cover. For a moment, he just sat on the cold floor, feeling the blood flow from his body and realizing what a close call he’d just had. Even if he died in the next minute, he would be okay with it, because he hadn’t been raped.
What the ever-loving fuck…
Then his mind flashed back to Baylee, and he prayed she’d been able to get away. Or fight them off. She was a strong woman. But he needed to check on them both. With that thought in mind, he looked for a way to get up. There was an IV pole lying beside him. If he could lock the wheels, maybe he could use it for leverage to get up.
Before he could do that, a massive soldier burst into the room, gun first. Rex went still, but the guy seemed to be American. American uniform, Colt M4A1, which the Special Forces preferred. “Fuck, yeah!” he cried, pumping his fist.
The operative held a hand out in a placating measure. “Stay down. It’s not secure yet.”
Rex stayed where he was, holding a hand to his junk. He looked for anything to cover up with, reaching till he cried out in pain for a tray from a rolling instrument cart. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
He waited, breath held and bleeding, as the American forces swept through the hospital. He could hear weapon fire inside and outside, but it quickly came to a stop. Had they won? Or the Taliban? Was he going to die sitting here on the floor bleeding to death, naked? His heart beat so fast, he thought he might stroke out. Still, he waited, knowing he couldn’t get up without help.
As if he’d heard him, the big guy that had come in first entered the surgery. He still had his M4 at the low-ready, but he set the safety and let it hang after he’d cleared the room. Then he came to Rex.
There was a terrible scar down the left side of the guy’s face, down to his lips, and Rex fought not to wince in shared pain. But the operator’s eyes were clear and direct, and there was a hint of a smile on his twisted mouth.
Rex considered himself a man’s man, but he blushed like a schoolgirl when the guy helped him to his feet and his scrub pants fell the rest of the way down around his ankles. The operative righted the IV pole and made sure Rex had a grip on it before he bent down and cut the scraps of fabric away from his feet.
“Are there scrubs around?” he asked when he stood.
Rex glanced around, figuring out which room he was in. “Across the hall.”
Without a word, the guy left, leaving Rex bare ass naked in the middle of the surgery. He came back within seconds, though, dropping a fresh pair of pants open. Matter of factly, he knelt in front of Rex, holding the waistband between his hands.
“My name is Truck,” the guy said, voice low. “I’m a combat medic. Before we pull these up, I’m going to have to bandage a couple of places on your hips. Look like knife wounds. They probably need stitches, but we don’t have time for that right this second.”
Rex stepped into the pants and pulled them up as much as he could, but he could feel the slices on his sides weeping. Obviously, when he’d been unconscious and tied to the gurney, the Taliban had cut his pants off him. And the asshole hadn’t cared if Rex got cut as well. He’d probably planned on killing him when he was done anyway. “That’s fine.”
Rex was amazed at how quickly Truck strapped bandages to his hips and taped them down.
“Are there any other injuries I need to know about?”
Rex knew what he was asking, and he was very glad that Truck was behind him so he couldn’t see his face. No eye contact needed. “No, no other injuries.”
“Good. These are going to be painful as hell coming off, but I have other patients.”
“That’s okay,” Rex said, feeling the pants slide up over the bandages. He tied the string off and turned to face the man. He held out a hand. “Rex. I’m an RN here at Nightshade.”
“Good to meet you, Rex. Now, if you can motor, we have injured.”
Yes, he could and would motor.
CHAPTER ONE
Rex was reaching for a plastic cup at the drink station when gunfire ripped through the air, echoing through the convenience store. Immediately, he hit the floor, scrambling for cover at the end of the counter. For a moment, the sound of gunfire from years past echoed through his mind, and he wondered if he had actually heard real gunfire, or if this was some fucked up flashback. He’d had them before, and they could come on suddenly like this.
Then he heard someone yelling. No, they were pleading. It was Mr. Ahmed, who owned the store.
“My son just took the deposit,” Ahmed said. “I don’t have money in the safe. I will give you what I have in the register.”
“Don’t lie to me, old man.” It was a younger man’s voice. Not one Rex knew.