Deadline (Sandra Brown)

helplessly. They murdered them singly, sometimes two or three at a time. The lucky ones, they shot. Some weren’t let off that easily. Old men. Kids. Women, who were…” He paused to clear his throat. “What they did to them is unspeakable.
    “Our guys finally got air support and stormed the place, but it was literally an uphill and bloody battle. They took out a few of the enemy, but many got away. The carnage they found in the village was unimaginable.”
    He spread his knees wide and stared at the serviceable but ugly carpet between his boots. “When they returned to the outpost, they were whipped. Casualties had been heavy. Six men dead. Five seriously wounded. Those were helicoptered to the hospital at Bagram. One of them died en route. The rest of them took these losses hard.
    “In the barracks the mood wasn’t boisterous. No one was pumped. They didn’t joke or swap insults or play grab-ass. They didn’t talk except when necessary. They barely made eye contact with each other. They had seen the ugliest face of war, and it had changed them. They’d had an up-close-and-personal experience with it, and it wasn’t glorious.
    “That was going to be the hook for my story. What happens to the warrior when war ceases to be noble and deteriorates into savagery? Not especially an original theme, but I figured I could write it with fresh insight. If I could get them to talk about the experience.”
    He continued to stare at the floor. “Gradually, with some gentle prodding, a few of them began to open up to me. They told me that some of the villagers had been used as human shields. They were having a hard time dealing with the fact that it was actually their bullets that had ripped apart the bodies of grandmothers, boys, girls barely past puberty, a woman heavy with pregnancy.”
    He stopped speaking, and for a moment, Amelia believed he was finished. When he resumed, his voice was husky and uneven.
    “One of the men I hoped to interview was a corporal named Hawkins. Good-looking ranching kid from North Dakota. Smart. Natural leader. Everybody’s friend. He’d come through the mission without a scratch. He’d consoled those who’d lost a particularly close buddy. He wrote letters to the kin of those who’d died, commending their valor.
    “One morning, I was on my way back to the barracks after breakfast. Hawkins was sitting on the crest of this rise, his back to the mountains, which were about two miles away. The sun had just topped them. He was in silhouette, and I had to shade my eyes to see who had called out to me.
    “He said if I wanted a story, to come up and join him. I started up. But the ground was loose sand and rock—I mean, this is the most desolate, lifeless, godforsaken place on the planet. The climb was a struggle. I kept losing purchase and slipping back down. He was laughing, deriding me, telling me to hurry my ass along.”
    He clasped his hands between his knees and studied the ridge of his knuckles. “I finally made it to the top. The sun was blinding. Sweat was stinging my eyes. I shaded them so I could see Hawkins against the glare. He gave me his homespun smile.
    “‘Want a story, Dawson?’ I said, ‘That’s what I’m here for.’ God’s truth, I can feel how idiotic my grin must have looked. I was blinking sweat out of my eyes, wishing he’d given me time to get my laptop, fishing in the pocket of my vest for a pencil and pad.”
    He placed his elbows on his knees, bent from the waist, and pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets. “Hawkins put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
    Overwhelmed with sorrow for him, Amelia remained unmoving until he lowered his hands from his face and looked across at her. His lips formed a bitter line. “I got my story.”
    Quietly she said, “That’s your nightmare.”
    “Last thing I hear before my own scream is the gunshot.”
    Mournfully, she whispered his name.
    “Don’t feel sorry for me.”
    She left the chair and walked toward him. “You’re pushing me away again. Or trying to.” When she got closer, she reached out to stroke his cheek.
    He yanked his head away from her touch. “Thanks anyway, but a pity fuck isn’t going to rid me of the nightmare.”
    “Another push, that one more like a hard shove.” She moved between his wide-spread legs. “But not hard enough, Dawson. I’m still here.”
    He placed his hands on her hips as though to forcibly push her away. But upon contact, his fingers