And none of that meant shit to him as he stared down at the body of one of his men on a litter having his blood-soaked uniform cut away from a sucking chest wound. His men were closer to him than his own goddamned family.
The medic finished stabilizing the private for transfer to the Battle Aid Station, two clicks behind them. A physician's assistant there would either treat him...or make the decision for more intense treatment.
Drew stared down at the bloody mess of the concert T-shirt from a boy who had barely lived half as many years as he had. As they loaded the private into the Cracker Box Army ambulance, the scent hit him. The smell of blood and war that a man never forgot. The smell of mortality.
Chapter 14
The smell of freedom. It was so close Yasmine could almost sense it even in her dank, stuffy closet. Soon she would be out of Rubistan and away from Ammar.
So why wasn't she turning cartwheels in excitement? Or sleeping away the hours with blissful dreams?
Shuffling restlessly on her cot, she kicked the sleeping bag free, the quilted fabric too hot. Of course, no cover proved too chilly. One more reason she couldn't drift off. The erratic schedules of these military people had her sleeping patterns all flipped, leaving her cranky, restless, with too many lonely hours to remember one kiss that should not have changed so much.
The true reason for her insomnia.
Barren walls stared back at her, their monotony broken only by the hooks holding her drying underwear, daisy scarf and spare dress. Soon she would have a closet of clothes again. She would be leaving shortly, they assured her. Only a couple more days for the impending sandstorm to pass and apparently red tape would be snipped cleanly with the State Department. She would be away from Ammar's constant threat. Except she would also be away from Drew.
Drew. Rolling to her tummy, she punched her pillow, smoothed it, hugged it to her. She'd never met anyone like him. Someone so strong who did not use strength to overpower those around him into submission. He took the time to be gentle.
She'd been out with boys at the university and sometimes on trips with her mother away from Rubistan. She'd even flirted a bit on her graduation cruise, coming close a time or two to going further than a few kisses, curious as to what would make her mother leave her country and first family. What would cause other women to risk being publicly ostracized? Or worse.
But she had always stopped short because her practical nature held her back from risking all for something that was simply...nice.
Kissing Drew Cullen was way beyond nice.
He'd stirred more feeling with that one simple encounter than all of those boys combined. Could it simply be his experience, his age?
Maybe.
Regardless, she suddenly understood why women risked everything. Because right now, she would risk all to have more than just one kiss to remember Drew Cullen by.
A door slam jarred her back to the present. Feet thumped, picked up pace, pounding down the hall. Urgently, faster than the regular nocturnal activity of this never-sleeping group.
Curious, she crossed to the door, peered outside left, smiled briefly at the poor guard stuck watching her. Then looked right. Monica double-timed toward her.
Yasmine slid out into the corridor. "Is something wrong?''
Her sister slowed only briefly, tucking a wayward strand from her braid behind her ear. "Nothing for you to worry about."
Yasmine gripped her arm. "Then why are you running?''
"Work." Monica pulled free and sprinted past.
A niggle of concern tickled. Why would her sister, a doctor, be running? Yasmine trailed Monica and let the guard worry about keeping up. Breathless, she caught her at the stairs. "Since you don't have time, I will run alongside while you talk."
Monica's exasperated sigh hissed through her teeth. "Something went wrong on a training exercise."
"Training accident? A flight?" The tickle turned to a painful pinch, but she kept pace.
"No. The Army. A gunshot wound, one or two. There are too many damned stories coming through for me to get anything straight but that they need me at the medical transport before the ambulance brings in the wounded."
"Will you have to leave?"
Monica stopped, sighed. Ill-disguised anger snapped from her eyes. "If it happens that someone is so mortally wounded that we have to fly out, I'll be sure to put in a good word for you to get a spare seat."
Her sister's words smacked over her. "That's not what I meant."
"I'm sorry, then," she acquiesced, backing away. "But I don't have time to talk."