Semper Fi

  I hadn’t been here for 36 months, but nothing had changed. From a distance the Koh Daman Mountains looked beautiful, still covered in snow, despite the 110oF heat at sea level. But up closer, the city was just as ugly and miserable as I remembered.

  If you’re doing a winter tour, it’s constant cold and freezing mud; summer tours, it’s dust. Endless, yellow dust: in your food, in your water, in your bed, in the lining of your helmet. Rumor says the dirt out here is 10% fecal matter so the whole place is shit.

  And soon Caro would be here, too. I hated to think that she’d be stuck in this rat trap, even if it meant she’d be closer to me.

  Yeah, I wasn’t happy to be back.

  The sticky heat hit me as soon as I exited the plane, and I breathed in the dust and acrid stench of fuel and hot rubber. In the distance, gray-blue smoke drifted upward. IED? Car bomb? Welcome to Afghanistan.

  We’d landed at Bagram Airfield, about 15 miles northeast of Kabul. Most of the guys I’d flown with were in transit to other bases, but my orders took me into the city.

  I squinted into the white heat of the sun and slid on my Oakleys, staring out at the acres of tents and shanty buildings that made up the base.

  The air was humid, but we still disembarked fast, getting under cover as quickly as possible. In the arrivals area (aka a shed), I had to go through the rigmarole of checking into theater. Despite being ID-checked and listed as getting on the flight at Ramstein, I still had to go through the exact same procedure getting off at Kabul. What the fuck? Did they think anyone might have gotten on the flight halfway? Probably the cheap fucking computer systems they use. Thanks, Uncle Sam.

  At least my sea-bag had arrived, which was good. I had to rummage through the baggage cart to find my Dress Blues—if they’d gone missing, they were a bitch to replace.

  I strode toward the exit, stopping at the helpfully named information desk, only to find that the car that should have been waiting for me was nowhere to be seen and no one knew fuck-all about it. The US Army clerk couldn’t have cared less, shrugging when I asked him how the fuck I was supposed to get to Kabul. Fucking ground-pounder.

  In the end, I caught a ride with a Lieutenant Colonel from the 10th Mountain Division, who bored me to death for 35 minutes about being in Eye-raq for the first Gulf War. At least his transport was an armored air-conditioned SUV.

  As we got closer to the city, we were passed several times by kids on motorcycles, customized with carpet over the saddles—the Afghan version of pimp-my-ride. At least something here made me smile.

  Because I was working for military spooks, I was billeted next to the Embassy. The colonel raised his eyebrows as he dropped me off, but didn’t ask any questions—not that I would have answered him anyway.

  A bored-looking private checked my ID and waved me through security. It was checked again before I was let through the steel and concrete barrier and into the main compound.

  For guys who were arriving solo like me, the Embassy’s other role was liaison. I needed to contact my chain of command to schedule the deployment briefs.

  I waited while my name was passed up, and helped myself to a cup of water from the dispenser. It was chilled. Nice.

  “Hunter, I’m John Nash. Welcome to Kabul.”

  A tall thin guy in the uniform of a Captain of Marines stood in front of me. I slammed a salute and then followed him up the stairs.

  His office was a tiny room, crammed with filing cabinets and a bank of computer screens. He made sure I sat facing away from them.

  “Your last CO thinks you’re a waste of fucking oxygen, Hunter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your present CO thinks you’re redeemable.”

  “Good to know, sir.”

  I thought I saw a hint of a smile, but since I couldn’t be sure, I stayed standing at attention.

  “Take a seat.”

  I sat down and tried to look intelligent.

  “How’s your Pashto?”

  “Rusty, sir.”

  “You’ve got eight hours to get it shipshape. The UN is hosting a function tonight for local military, Press, and important Afghan government officials. I want you there, ears to the ground. See what you can pick up, but don’t let it be known you speak the language. You’ll meet your team leader, Ryan Grant, and he’ll go over the fine print. Fact is we want Gal Agha. We need him on our side. We’ve already made him our offer, but he wants to meet face-to-face. Find him, talk to him, impress the fuck out of him, and Helmand will be one degree safer for ISAF forces. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Helmand is the most kinetic province in Afghanistan.”

  I kept a straight face. ‘Kinetic’ just meant more shooting.

  “Here’s the file—everything you need to know on Gal Agha. Read it, memorize it, fucking inhale it, if you have to. Learn it, so that it’s in your gut and you’re ready to shit facts. Be at UN HQ at 1900 tonight—a driver has been requisitioned for you. Your billet is down the hall, third door on the left. And you’ll be deploying with Grant at oh-five-hundred tomorrow. This isn’t fucking Cuckoo-clock land, and you’re not on the block now. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  I saluted, scooped up the file, along with my sea-bag, weapon and the rest of my shit, and situated myself in my billet to read. I was hot, sweaty and longing for a shower, but I had a file to memorize first.

  I stretched out on the cot, wondering where Caro was right now. Fuck, if I hadn’t screwed up her papers, chances were that she’d have been at the UN event tonight. It would be fucking ironic if I’d cockblocked myself. No, I had to stop thinking about that shit. I had a job to do.

  Stay safe, Caro. For fuck’s sake, stay safe.

  Two hours later, I’d read and absorbed as much as I could. I closed the file, deciding I’d test myself later, and stretched out on the cot, setting my phone to wake me at six. Fuck, I was tired.

  I woke up bleary-eyed and short-tempered. Being here brought back some of the nightmares. Anyone who’d served had them. We all saw shit that never left our brains. Caro had nightmares. She wouldn’t tell me what they were about, but I could guess. I hoped I was wrong—I didn’t want that for her.

  I shook it off, did some stretches and crunches to get the blood flowing, then staggered off to find somewhere to shower. I ran my hand over my light stubble. Yep, definitely needed a shave. That was one thing I hated about being a Marine: it got old having to shave every day—some days I just wanted to let the scruff build up and grow my hair longer than a quarter of an inch. One day, when I was out, when I had a home with Caro. Maybe only two years from now. Being back in theater, it felt more like an impossible dream than ever. My stomach turned over and I hoped like fuck that she wouldn’t change her mind now that we were apart again.

  I showered quickly, scraped a razor across my chin, cheeks and upper lip, then pulled on the Blues. The standing collar always rubbed. Bastard. The coat was midnight blue with red trim and a white web belt with my rank of Warrant Officer denoted by the gold waist plate. The pants were sky blue, worn with black socks and black dress shoes. White barracks cover and white gloves finished my outfit. I pinned my medals on the left chest of my coat; it was the only time I ever looked at them.

  But I was proud of my uniform, I’d earned it, but yeah—it wasn’t the most comfortable thing to wear, especially in the Afghan heat.

  My driver was a Lance Corporal who looked about 15 but must have been in his early twenties, and drove the armored SUV like he’d graduated from NASCAR instead of boot camp.

  I half-listened to a monologue about the highlights of his tour and stared out the window. There were more men dressed in Western clothes on the streets than I remembered. The women still looked the same, all covered by flowing blue burqas, their faces and figures hidden as they haggled at the markets. Barefoot kids tried to earn a few bucks washing cars or selling whatever crap they could get their hands on.

  There were a lot more Me
rcedes than there used to be. It’s like that here—Rolexes on guys whose fathers herd goats. It was heart-warming to see all those aid dollars being put to good to use.

  Kabul was more prosperous, but that only highlighted the signs of war: bomb-blasted buildings, walls with bullet holes, and burned out patches where cars had been turned into bombs.

  My driver skidded to a halt in a cloud of yellow dust and grit outside the Intercontinental, Kabul’s premier hotel for Westerners; an ugly building of white blocks that looked like something out of the Soviet era.

  The kid said he’d be waiting for me, and went off to hunt down some chow. A uniformed doorman held the door, looking for all the world like he could be outside the Four Seasons and not in one of the most dangerous cities on earth.

  I was directed to the ballroom where the dinner was being held. I kept an eye open for any Marine Captain—chances were he’d be my new skipper.

  It quickly became apparent that I was the lowest ranking person around; everyone else was a commissioned officer. No skin off my back, but it sure reminded me of my place in the food chain.

  A splash of bright green caught my eye. It was unusual to see that color in a Muslim country because green was supposed to be Mohammed’s favorite color and mentioned in the Qur’an. I cursed under my breath when I realized I recognized the woman. Shit, a ghost of past fucks: Natalie Arnaud. I dodged behind a pillar and wondered if I’d manage to avoid her for the entire evening. Smart money said no.

  She disappeared into the ladies’ bathroom, and I decided that the safest option was to stay where I was … doing recon. At least I’d have a chance of avoiding her if I kept her under surveillance.

  A long five minutes later, she reappeared with another layer of red lipstick making her look like a vampire’s hard-on. That sort of shit used to appeal to me, but not anymore. I thought she might have gone into the bathroom to cover up her tits, because the UN were pretty strict about their staff behaving appropriately, especially in a Muslim country, and Natalie’s behavior and dress was … not.

  But then she was followed out by Caro.

  How? What? Holy fuck! She was here! She was really here!

  Her papers must have been cleared more quickly than I’d expected. Suddenly Kabul had redeeming features after all.

  She looked beautiful. Her long dark hair was glossy, and her simple black dress showcased her hotter than hell figure. Then I saw that she was wearing the shoes I’d bought her in Salerno. My heart lurched and started beating to the rhythm that was all for Caro.

  I waited until Natalie had sashayed out of shot, and I caught the irritated expression on Caro’s face as she muttered, “What a bitch!”

  “You don’t know how right you are,” I whispered in her ear.

  She jumped, then whirled around, a huge smile making her beautiful face glow.

  It was so fucking hard that PDA wasn’t allowed in uniform. I was aching to kiss her, touch her, but I couldn’t. It would be dangerous for both of us.

  “Sebastian! What are you doing here?” she whispered. “I thought they were sending you to Kandahar?”

  “Change of plan,” I said, unable to rein in the ridiculous smile I was wearing. “I have a 24 hour stopover and I heard the Press would be here tonight, so I wangled an invite.” Not strictly true, but I couldn’t tell her my real reason for being here. “I wasn’t sure when you were arriving. But now that you’re here, I’m planning on seducing you behind the potted palms.”

  I was joking. Sort of. But then her eyes darkened and her lips tilted upward, a sexy smile playing on her beautiful lips.

  “Or somewhere a little more private, I hope,” she breathed out.

  My dick twitched in response. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “By the way, do you know that tramp?” she asked testily, jerking her head in the direction of my former fuck.

  And was that jealousy I could hear?

  I smirked a little.

  “Her name is Natalie Arnaud. French. She’s a PA for some guy at the UN, but she likes people to think she’s important.”

  “And you know her because…?”

  Oh shit. Of course she’d ask me that.

  “One of your Parisian conquests,” she finished when I didn’t respond.

  “It was just a warm body, Caro,” I said quietly.

  “I understand that, but she’s going to get herself into a lot of trouble; she’s only dressing like that to impress you, Sebastian—I heard her in the bathroom—so you’d better speak to her.”

  Was she serious? Fuck me, she was—and she was enjoying it, if the expression on her face was anything to go by.

  “Suck it up, Hunter,” she said, a small smile teasing her lips. “You created this situation; you’ve got to deal with it. And then find somewhere private for us.”

  I shook my head, pissed at having to deal with Natalie. I also wasn’t happy that she’d somehow heard I was going to be here. Fucking military intelligence—what part of ‘need to know’ gave them a problem? But I smiled at Caro and threw her a salute. I was about to get laid—so I didn’t care if she gave me orders.

  “Yes, boss.”

  Then I glanced around, took her hand and tugged her down the corridor that I knew led to the staff area of the hotel.

  I had to try a few doors before I found an empty office, pushed her inside, slammed her against the door, and kissed her with all the urgency that 24 hours away from her had given me. She kissed me back, her tongue driving into my mouth, her teeth nipping at my lips, and sucking them hard. Her breasts pressed against my uniform and my dick was trying to punch an emergency evac route through the buttons on my pants.

  I yanked up the hem of her dress, dragging my fingers to the edge of her panties, before circling quickly and pushing inside her beautiful pussy, making her cry out.

  “Fuck, you’re wet,” I hissed.

  She moaned in reply.

  “I am so fucking hard right now,” I growled into her ear. “Here and now: yes or no, Caro?”

  “Yes!” she grit out, her voice deep and husky.

  I unbuttoned my fly, quickly rolling a condom over my erection, while Caro shimmied out of her panties.

  “Bend over the desk,” I ordered, gripping her hips.

  “Sebastian, the door!” she gasped.

  “Fuck!”

  I hadn’t set a cordon or secured the boundary—Marine safety 101, for fuck’s sake. I wedged a chair under the handle and spun back to the desk, hauling her dress over her ass and forcing her feet apart with mine.

  We didn’t have long before the banquet started, and it would definitely look suspicious if we walked in together. I plunged into her, relieved, happy, fucking delirious to be inside her again when I thought it would be months. Here and now in this cursed city, this dying country, where the body count rose each day. My woman showing me that life could still be worth living.

  My breath hissed out through my teeth and I forced myself to make it good for her, too. I pulled out slowly, then pushed back in, circling my hips, watching her knuckles whiten as she gripped the edge of the desk. I felt her tighten around me and I had to clench my teeth to keep from losing it too fast. But when she pushed her ass back to meet me, I couldn’t wait, ramming into her desperately. I could hear her body slamming against the desk, and even though I knew her hips would be bruised in the morning, I couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. I wanted to mark her—my woman. I was aroused and disgusted with myself at the same time. Fucking thoughts! And then I lost it, my spine snapping and sparks shooting up from my balls. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them on fire.

  Holy shit, that was the hottest in-uniform sex I’d ever had.

  We collapsed onto the floor together and she twisted around, softly brushing the tips of her fingers over my face.

  She was flushed and so fucking beautiful, her hair spilling wildly over her shoulders, unaware that her dress was still around her waist. And I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it—but
I was getting hard again already.

  “Fuck, that wasn’t enough, Caro. I want you again.”

  “We can’t, Sebastian,” she panted. “As it is, we’ll be missed if we don’t hurry.”

  I knew she was right but I didn’t have to like it. I brought her hand to my lips, sucking her fingers, one by one, insanely desperate to repeat the last few minutes.

  “I need you, Caro. Let me come to your room tonight, please, baby.”

  “You can’t, I’m sharing with Liz.”

  Fuck! The fat British broad.

  “Get rid of her!” I whispered, rubbing her arms gently, hoping to persuade her.

  Suddenly someone rattled the door handle and I could hear voices outside.

  “Fuck it!”

  Playtime was over. I peeled off the condom and tucked my dick into my pants, cursing the asshole who’d interrupted us.

  “My panties,” Caro hissed, looking around her distractedly.

  I grinned at her, finding them hanging from a handle on the desk drawer.

  “I think these are yours, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” she muttered, pulling them on and straightening her skirt.

  The door handle rattled again and I could hear two guys arguing about who had the key. At least my Pashto wasn’t as rusty as I’d thought it might be.

  I helped her up, then opened the door cautiously, but the corridor was empty in both directions.

  “You’re good.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not so bad yourself, chief.”

  I grinned at her and winked. “Later?”

  But then I heard more voices coming toward us. Caro smiled once and hurried away. I didn’t know if she’d agreed to meet me later or not, but I knew I’d be knocking at her door. I gave her a few seconds head start, then sauntered after her.

  Her cheeks were still flushed, but there was nothing else that showed what we’d been doing. The image of her peachy ass bent over that desk was enough to make my dick remind me how fucking uncomfortable the Blues were. I had to think about something else.

  Well, fate was a humorous bitch, because then I saw the one person I’d hoped never to see again—Caro’s ex-husband—and he was talking to her. What the fuck was that asshole doing here? Since when did landlocked Afghanistan need help from the US Navy? Yeah, so the douchebag was a medical doctor, but still … shouldn’t he be retired by now?