Will peeked out from behind his cover to look down the slight slope of the valley. All he saw was bush. All he ever saw anymore was bush. But the Viet Cong were still out there, surely, regrouping for a counterattack. It was only luck and a little misdirection that bought even this much time.
Darren paused to grasp Will’s shoulder. “If there was any way, brother.”
“I know. I know. Don’t mean nothin’.” Will gasped at the pain in his belly. “Anyway. ‘Tell my momma I done my best,’ right?”
“I will,” Darren nodded. He heaved Carlisle up and hustled away.
“Or better yet, tell his cracker wife an’ daughter!” Will shouted, then muttered, “Yeah. Tell ‘em you owe your ass to a darkie.”
Will pulled up the M-60, then laid the M-16 next to it. If he could keep both of them going for just a little while when the Cong made their next move, he could hopefully give the impression he wasn’t alone. That had already worked once when he and Darren rushed back, guns blazing and grenades going everywhere in their ploy to rescue Carlisle. Maybe he could keep the gag going.
None of this would’ve happened if Sergeant Haffner hadn’t lost his cool, calling a full retreat without stopping for shit. The six-man team became too spread out trying to keep up. Haffner vanished, Jimenez got wasted from behind, and everything went to hell.
Long Range Recon Patrols used to be more together than this. Will couldn’t dwell on that. He dug through his pack, through rations and his poncho and other gear to find the spare Claymore mine. Along the way, the letter from Stephanie fell out.
It was a waste of precious seconds, but he thumbed it open. It wasn’t one she sent during his first tour. Instead, it was the one she’d sent just after his second tour began, angrily justifying her infidelity. He didn’t understand why she bothered. It was dirt simple: he went off to war, she said she loved him and she’d wait for him, said she needed him to send money because she couldn’t find work…and then he came home after a year in the ‘Nam to find her four months pregnant and engaged to whatshisname.
Why in the fuck he was humping that letter through the bush after a whole ‘nother tour was beyond him. He’d meant to bring the one from his younger brother, who wouldn’t have to go to ‘Nam while Will was in country…or at all now, since Will wouldn’t be leaving. Will never would have re-upped for ‘Nam if Stephanie hadn’t been cheating on him, but at least something good came out of the whole mess.
“Third tour, my ass,” Will hissed. Then he heard the snap off to his left. Will raised his M-16 one-handed and started firing off rounds. He didn’t care about aim; he just needed to make a ruckus and keep some heads down.
Big Darren could haul ass through the bush. He’d make good time even while weighed down by that jackass redneck. Darren was cool. West coast kid. Will liked him, particularly for a white boy. Maybe in his next life Will would have to live on the west coast. It’d be nice if a body could have another chance.
He saw a head pop up and blew it away with the sixty. He blew away everything around it, too. Every tree branch, every blade of grass. Every nasty little bug.
Will heard shrieks of pain. He poured it on.
They flanked him, of course. They shot him twice, in the leg and the small of his back, causing him to jerk and crunch up. Almost over.
They’d want a prisoner. They dug taking prisoners.
Will had hidden the detonator to the Claymore mine right under his backpack. They didn’t see it in time. The three Viet Cong that came up on him and turned him over onto his back didn’t see the Claymore where it was stuffed under his shirt, either.
Not until he set it off.
Teasing fingers and an indulgent hand slid across his groin. His body would never take such wake-up calls for granted, but such treatment was now less of a surprise. It felt so good that it briefly distracted him from the burning feeling in his closed eyes.
Awareness came with sensations of discomfort: cold, hard metal around his ankles and wrists, with his arms and legs stretched out. This was no bed. His eyes burned painfully, so much that his enjoyment at being groped was quickly disregarded. This was very wrong. His smile faded.
Two hands grabbed his head to hold it still. Someone else pried his eyes open. A third person poured a cold, clear liquid into his eyes to take away most of the burning sensation. The hands pulled away, allowing him to turn his head and blink away the solution, the blurriness, and the fading pain. The hand didn’t leave his groin.
Alex thrashed his head a bit to clear it. The last thing on his mind right now was sex. Lorelei was in danger. Rachel vanished. He had been attacked at his home. For all he knew, his mother had been there, too, and now…now he was in a cold, dimly-lit room, chained to a table.
Regardless of how his flesh reacted to that hand at his groin, Alex didn’t feel aroused. He felt afraid.
Strange people stood around the table. A couple of them were very pale, specifically a man in an all-black suit and a woman in an elaborate black dress fit for a medieval queen. Alex saw other strange folk, too, like the dark cowboy, and the man in black robes with his hood drawn to hide his face. The only normal-looking person was a distinguished, well-groomed, older man, also in a sharp suit, only his clothes had some color. A pentagram on a chain rested over his red power tie.
“Not complaining about me being on your dick now, are you?” Lydia asked Alex with a venomous smile and feigned affection. She loomed over him dressed in an elegant green gown. She gave him a lewd squeeze.
Alex pulled against the restraints, but he could move only a couple of inches. The way his body reacted to Lydia filled him with revulsion.
“It would appear you were right, Lord Stefan,” said a deep, relaxed voice. “Lorelei here reacts to Lydia touching him just as you suspected.”
Alex twisted to look to his right. He saw Lorelei muzzled and chained to the floor. Standing over her was Lydia’s date from the restaurant…only different. He looked more imposing now. He wore a purple dress shirt and black slacks, but no tie or jacket. His eyes had gone black.
Lorelei’s eyes conveyed a swirl of emotions. The muzzle prevented her from giving voice to any of them.
“Your name is Alexander Carlisle,” said the distinguished-looking man in the suit. “You are roughly a month short of your twentieth birthday. You are a student at North Seattle Community College and a part-time file clerk for Keating and Rose. You live with your mother, Michelle Carlisle. You were rejected for military service. Need I go on?”
Alex remained silent. He glared at the speaker in part to avoid looking at Lydia.
“No, I need not. You rightly fear for your mother’s safety. However, she is not a part of this. I need you to focus instead on Lorelei and how the two of you came together.” He pulled a picture out of his pocket and showed it to him. “Do you know this man?”
Alex wondered if he should answer. Instead, the choice was taken away from him.
“Ah. I see. You do not, at least not personally, but you fought with him the night you met Lorelei and-” Stefan cut himself off. He fell silent as if watching something unfold on a television. “And you watched him die,” Stefan finished. “Lorelei killed him. His assistants died, too. Everything burned.”
The pit in Alex’s stomach deepened. Stefan seemed to read things straight from his mind. He also realized that Stefan gave only an edited account.