Читать книгу The Baby Connection - Dawn Atkins - Страница 10

“MY PLANE LEAVES SOON,” Noah murmured near Mel’s ear, hating the fact that he would have to get out of this bed they’d rarely left all weekend.

Mel snuggled into him with a little moan of pleasure—a fainter version of the sound she made when she climaxed. In response, he went hard as a rock.

Damn, he didn’t want to go yet. He studied her golden skin, the way her dark hair shone in the gray light leaking through the hotel curtains.

She had the best smell—reminding him of that old-school tropical drink, the Zombie—sweet with a peppery stinger. The cocktail was red, too, which felt like Mel’s color. Intense and fire-bright.

He would have to hustle once he got to Fort Bragg to get his advance work done before he flew out with officers headed to Iraq, where U.S. troops remained to advise and train Iraqi soldiers.

Not the way he usually approached a big assignment, but he wasn’t sorry he’d spent his last free days with Melodía Ramirez. She was one of a kind. A straight shooter and passionate as hell, with a laugh like liquid silver.

She reminded him of himself after J school—hard-driving, totally on fire for the work. Which was how she was in bed, too, he’d been happy to discover.

She lifted her head to shove her thick hair out of her face. He helped her with the rest, running his knuckle along her cheek, enjoying the buttery firmness of her skin—strong and soft like her personality and her name. She had the best mouth. What she could do with that sweet tongue of hers…

She noticed the tent he’d raised and smiled, taking hold of him. “How much time do we have?”

“Enough for what you’ve got in mind.” He rolled her onto her back, she shifted her hips and he entered her, easy as breathing.

All weekend long, when they weren’t having sex, they were talking nonstop and they kept at it all the way to the airport. Mel had a million questions and more ideas than that. At the terminal curb, she bounded out of the car. “I had a great time,” she said, clearly trying to sound cheerful despite the wistful mood that had descended on them both.

“Me, too, Mel.” He pulled her against him, holding tight. I’ll miss you. He had the urge to say it. She was a smart, sexy woman who knew who she was and what she wanted. In life and in bed. It didn’t get much better than that.

“I wish I could go with you,” she said, quickly adding, “to take pictures.” As if he might think she was being clingy. Not Mel.

She stood on her own two feet. He liked that about her.

“Me, too,” he said. “Sadly, I’m taking my own shots, since they won’t spring for a photographer. I’m no Mel Ramirez.” But he wanted her along for more than her camera.

Predictable, he supposed. The result of that postcoital glow, when it all seemed perfect. That was where he’d gone wrong with Pat, his girlfriend for almost a year. Because she was a reporter, he’d figured she would roll with the punches, but he would return from weeks on the road to stony silence and slammed doors, then tears and bitterness when she finally did speak. It was a mistake he hadn’t made since. He knew better than to let anyone or any place sink its hooks in him.

“You’re my hero, you know,” she said.

“God, don’t say that. I’m just a news monkey. I’m all about the byline.”

“We both know better than that.”

He’d told her how hard it had been to convince his editor there were still important stories in Iraq. “If I don’t hit this one out of the park, I’m dead.”

“I have no doubt you will.”

“Talking with you has been good. You remind me why I’m in this crazy business. I owe you for that.” To lighten the moment, he added, “And for the sex. Man, do I owe you for that.” He wrapped both arms around her and she tucked in tight. Damn, she felt good in his arms.

Don’t drag this out. He released her for the crucial reality check. “I’m not good about staying in touch,” he said. “Once I get deep into an assignment, I’m lost. The bases have good internet and cell reception, but away from there, there’s next to nothing, so I—”

“We had a great weekend, Noah,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

She was making it easy for him. He leaned in and kissed her goodbye. “You’re something else.” He couldn’t get enough of her eyes, which crackled with intelligence, humor and fire. They stayed with him on the plane.

Her mother’s story stuck with him, too. She’d risked her life in Salvador to speak out for the truth. And Xavier Sosa, who had died trying to force the world to see a reality it refused to admit.

Mel would carry Sosa’s mission forward, with her eye and her art, exposing truths, large and small, beautiful and surprising, hard to look at, but crucial to see. She was strong-willed, idealistic, but practical, too, with her head on square and her heart as big as hearts got.

Noah had had a weekend he wouldn’t soon forget with a woman he doubted he ever would. Her scent lingered on his clothes all the way to Fort Bragg—one last pleasure to hang on to before the hard work ahead.

Two months later

Phoenix, Arizona

“BE RIGHT BACK.” MEL tossed her camera bag over her shoulder, and hightailed it to the gas station restroom. It was big and shiny and very clean, gracias a Dios.

Since she’d been working for Arizona News Day she’d become a pro at identifying good restrooms from the outside. Lately, she’d spent more time in them than usual. She’d assumed it was some weird stomach flu, since her mother had complained, too. In fact, Irena had gone to the doctor that morning to find out what was causing her cramps and nausea.

Lately, though, Mel had had another idea about her own stomach upset and it had nothing to do with a virus.

She and Dave Roberts, the reporter she was working with, were about to leave for the housing development where police believed human smugglers were using foreclosure homes as drop houses, but she had enough time to test her theory about her health. She slipped into the bathroom and locked the door.

Five minutes later, she stared at the plus sign on the stick she held with shaking fingers. For some reason, it made her think of the X’s over the eyes of a cartoon character who’d been knocked unconscious. She could relate. She felt as though someone had kicked the wind right out of her. She was pregnant? How was that possible? She’d been on birth control—well, transitioning from pills to a patch. But that shouldn’t have mattered, considering the condition of her fallopian tubes. Endometriosis had so scarred them the doctor had told her she would need in vitro fertilization to get pregnant.

Someone tapped on the door. “We gotta roll, Mel.”

“Right, Dave. Coming.” She tossed the stick and the box in the trash. Her stomach surged, so she bolted back to the stall to lose what was left of lunch.

“You okay?” Dave asked when she emerged. He’d clearly heard her puke.

“The enchiladas were too spicy,” she mumbled, though Dave would never buy that—the two of them had regular contests over who could mouth-surf the hottest peppers in town.

Pushing back her panic, she hitched her camera bag higher on her shoulder and focused on the job ahead.

Their timing was ideal, as it turned out. Dave scored interviews with the smugglers’ neighbors and a family of immigrants who were held hostage in the drop house while the coyotes extorted more money from their people back home.

Mel got great shots, including one of a mournful immigrant couple sitting against the post of a for sale sign in the yard. It would make a perfect cover. So far, she’d scored three covers. Not bad for two months at a new job.

Her job was exactly as great as she’d dreamed it would be. Arizona News Day wasn’t afraid of the tough stories, allowed its journalists to take risks and gave tons of editorial space to photos.

She’d picked up shortcuts and tips from veteran photographers, honed her instincts and was proud that her candid images often seemed lit and composed as well as a studio shot.

Her editor loved her initiative and the managing editor, Randall Cox, called her “magic behind the lens,” though he seemed to dole out praise to distract them all from their less-than-fabulous salaries. Her highest compliment was that Dave, their top reporter, often asked for her to accompany him.

As the weeks passed, she’d loaded her print clips and photos into her portfolio so that it was always current and kept her eye on openings at bigger papers in other cities.

She would miss her mother, but when a spot opened up, she was ready to go. She longed to take the kind of world-changing photos she’d carried on about to Noah—whom, after a mere three emails, she hadn’t heard from in a month. Noah who, it turned out, had gotten her pregnant.

It was her fault. When they’d run out of condoms, they could have simply hit the gift shop, but, oh, no, she’d told Noah she had it handled.

Evidently not.

On the way home, she dropped into a Planned Parenthood clinic to learn how the impossible had happened. It turned out she’d missed the warning about elevated pregnancy risk while switching methods. As to her fallopian tubes, “The body is amazingly resilient, Mel,” the nurse practitioner told her sympathetically, then went through her options, giving her pamphlets for each. “Are there questions I can answer right now?”

“Yes. How could I have been so stupid?”

“No contraceptive is flawless. And we’re all human. We make mistakes. Think this through, talk about it with people you trust. Family. Clergy. A counselor. Are you in contact with the father?”

“No. He’s not in the country.” When Noah heard about this…

She cringed. She was already embarrassed by how often she replayed their time together—the sex and the conversation. She’d made too much of it, she knew. He’d warned her that he disappeared, so she had no right to feel hurt, yet she did. She’d thought they had a connection.

They did now, all right. A baby—the last thing either of them wanted.

“Do you feel faint?” the nurse asked, reaching toward her.

She shook herself back to the moment. “No. I’m just shocked. You’ve been very helpful.” She left the clinic, desperate to go home to think, but she’d promised she’d stop by Bright Blossoms, her mother’s day-care business, to take photos of the Fourth of July party.

Mel parked in front of the strip mall where her mother’s business nestled. An American flag proudly jutted from its eaves, waving in the light breeze. It was muggy, with monsoon clouds heavy on the horizon and the muted sunlight looked nearly golden. The magical smell of creosote filled the air from last night’s warm drizzle.

Bright Blossoms stood out among the bland shops in the mall. The bricks were painted canary-yellow and covered with tropical flowers and birds matching what Irena remembered of how her father had painted their small home not far from San Vicente in Salvador.

The place was so much like Mel’s mother—bright and colorful and cheerful. Though, behind Irena’s constant smile, Mel knew she missed her family terribly. Irena’s father had died a year after she left, and her mother, brother and two sisters never forgave her for leaving. Irena had visited three times, bringing Mel when she was five, but Irena found the trips almost more painful than missing her people from half a continent away.

Inside the building, Mel’s ears were hit with a Sousa march and a confusion of percussion. Through the glass wall, she saw the preschoolers marching around the refreshment table, wearing patriotic paper hats, beating toy drums, shaking maracas, banging cymbals or clacking castanets. A few parents sat in the tiny chairs, clapping along.

In the hallway, her mother crouched beside a sobbing toddler. Irena wiped his tears with a flag-decorated napkin. “Where does it hurt, mi’ jo?” she murmured, her voice rich as music.

“My finger,” he said, holding it out, clearly not in pain. He wanted the little ritual that came next. Her mother gently rubbed the boy’s finger while reciting the Spanish rhyme that translated as: “Get well, get well, little tadpole. If you don’t get well today, you’ll get well tomorrow.” All through Mel’s own childhood, Irena had soothed her with the incantation that magically took away all hurts, big and small.

Her mother had filled Mel’s life with poems and songs and sayings. Spanish was so beautiful, sensual and full of rhymes. Whenever Mel heard it, she remembered the comfort of childhood in the tiny apartment they’d lived in until Mel had graduated high school.

“Next time, keep your fingers away from drumsticks that are playing, eh, muchacho?” her mother said, giving the boy a hug. He nodded solemnly and ran into the parade room.

“Mamá,” Mel said.

“Melodía, you’re here.” Her mother smiled, but her eyes stayed serious.

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course. Come take the pictures.” She motioned Mel into the room. Her mother was in her element, surrounded by children. She’d never made a big deal of it, but she’d clearly wished for more babies after Mel, though it wasn’t possible. Bright Blossoms helped relieve that sorrow, Mel believed.

Mel nodded at Rachel and Marla, two of the caregivers who’d been here since they’d opened five years ago, then moved around the room taking shots of the kids marching and playing along with “God Bless America.”

As always, the song put tears in her strong mother’s eyes. The promise of America had sustained Irena through her terrible trip and the dark days and nights in a foreign land, where the warm welcome she’d hoped for had been denied over politics. She’d survived…and, in the end, thrived.

The final activity was decorating cupcakes and soon the small faces were smeared with bright frosting. As Mel took shot after shot, her mother’s words played in her head: You modern girls, you wait and wait for children. You will have gray hair and be chasing your niños with a cane if you’re not careful.

And that was without knowing about Mel’s fertility problem. Against all odds, a miracle had occurred. Mel was pregnant. What would her mother say?

“Estás bien, mi’ ja?” her mother asked, her eyes lingering on Mel’s face.

Mel forced a smile. “Will you be home soon?”

“Soon. Yes. And we will talk.” Her mother started to walk away, then came abruptly close and hugged Mel hard. “Mi cariña.” My beloved. “Mamá? What’s up?” Her mother was an affectionate person, but this felt as though they were parting for years, not an hour or so.

“Hablámos en casa.” We’ll talk at home.

An hour later, Mel’s mother shut the front door behind her and said, point-blank, “It is cancer,” pronouncing it the Spanish way—kahn-sare. “In the ovaries. There is treatment, now, the doctor says to me, that is better than before. First a surgery, then chemotherapy and, perhaps, radiation.”

“Oh, Mamá.” She threw her arms around her mother, who was holding herself stiffly erect, fighting emotion, Mel was certain.

Cancer. Her mother had cancer. She might die.

And Mel was pregnant.

She felt as though the world was closing in on her. “You’re strong, Mamá. You’ll beat this,” she said, holding back the tears, keeping her voice steady. “We’ll get you through this.” The idea of losing her mother was almost more than she could bear. Her mother was so vibrant, so alive. She had so much to live for. She was Mel’s best friend, her entire family. She fought a swirl of nausea.

“The doctor says that with my fibromyalgia, the treatment will be difícil. I will be more sick for longer times and some medicines will not work so well.”

“We’ll do what we have to do to get you better.”

“Of course. I have to live to be an old woman if I am to finally be a grandmother.” Her mother winked, making a joke she had no idea was no longer funny at all.

What if her mother died?

Ice froze Mel’s heart in her chest.

She had to be strong for her mother. She had to hope for the best. It’s what Irena would do. But Mel was too realistic to deny the terrible possibility. If the worst happened, if her mother’s life was cut short, then Mel would make every day that remained as happy and joyful as possible.

The answer was obvious. Mel would keep the baby. It would turn her life upside down, ruin her plans, but así es la vida. That’s how life is. She would make the most of it. Man plans, God laughs. Professor Stockton had foretold her future the night she’d met Noah.

Noah. What about him? Should she tell Noah about the baby?

Would he even want to know? He didn’t want children, he’d told her that first night. She would raise the child on her own, so what was her obligation to him? Her head was already spinning with too many questions.

Noah Stone would have to wait.

Five months later, near Balad, Iraq

“SO, NO BULLSHIT, YOU’RE seriously going to quote me about my girl in your article?” Sergeant Reggie “Horn Dog” Fuller turned from his shotgun seat in the Humvee to talk to Noah, sitting behind him.

“Of course. It’s a great quote.” Fuller was squad leader and Noah had convinced him to allow Noah to jump onto the patrol from Forward Operating Base River Watch, east of Balad, along the Al-Dhiluya peninsula, promising the quote, which would appease Fuller’s girl who was angry at him for reenlisting.

Fuller had discretion to patrol as he saw fit, but his commanding officer, Captain Gerald Carver—the officer Noah answered to—would not be pleased if he learned about it. Carver was totally by the book. Fully squared away, with combat experience in Afghanistan, he was primed for advancement, eventually to become a general, and would want no blot on his command.

Carver made it no secret he considered reporters deadweight best kept in the dark and tucked to the rear—the polar opposite of Noah’s purpose. Noah liked the guy. He was smart, worked hard, stood up for his officers and the enlisted men trusted him. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty—he had once fixed an engine rather than wait for the mechanic to arrive.

Not clearing this reporter-carry with his CO would be a minor infraction for Fuller, who might get “smoked”—given some humiliating duty, such as filling sand bags in front of the chow hall—so Fuller wasn’t that concerned.

The patrol consisted of three vehicles—two HMVs and a small troop carrier. Noah rode in the lead Hummer, keeping his eyes open for the turnoff he wanted. What he hadn’t told Fuller was that he intended to be dropped off for an interview with the Iraqi captain, Sajad Fariq.

Regulations forbade embedded reporters from traveling on their own, but the elite Iraqi unit Noah wanted to meet with was being trained by Carver’s men and the area was virtually secure.

There were rumblings of an insurgent assault being planned farther north, and Noah wanted to talk with Fariq, who spoke decent English. If he could manage it, Noah hoped to ride north with the Iraqis. He’d be off his embed and Carver would ream his ass later, but it was easier to get forgiveness than permission, in Noah’s experience.

The deal was he needed a big story. His editor, Hank Walker, was demanding more blood, guts and glory and Noah was determined to get it. The stories he’d been writing were rich with characters and insights about U.S. troops here, Iraqi troops and the future of Iraq. They were some of his best work, important human stories, he believed, but if he wanted to keep writing them, he had to satisfy Hank’s bloodlust.

“So why did you volunteer for patrol?” Noah asked the driver, Bo Dusfresne, a trucker from Georgia.

“’Cause I’m sick of sittin’ on my ass,” he said, scratching at his head beneath the ghutrah, the white Arab scarf he wore do-rag style. “I’d rather be making a goddamn motocross track for the Hajjis to practice RPG runs on than sit around the base, stewin’ in my own tang.”

Noah brushed his boonie back on his head. The canvas cap with a soft brim was far more comfortable than the helmet he’d had to wear on his first embed, early in the war. He shook out the ends of his ghutrah, which kept sun and mosquitoes off his neck, to generate a tiny breeze. Fuller had insisted Noah wear body armor, which made Noah feel like roast in a pot.

Over the Kevlar, he wore a khaki T-shirt, then his pocketed vest, stuffed with a mini tape recorder and his digital camera, along with spare media cards and batteries for both. He worked mostly old-school—pencil and small pad.

The Humvee stank of sweat and hot metal. The humidity was high this close to the Tigris. Flies were few, but mosquitoes buzzed at dawn and dusk. The dust wasn’t bad here and haboobs—gigantic wind storms—were rare. The one he’d experienced had been strange. It was as if dust had instantly coated every nook and cranny, human or object, inside the CHU—Containerized Housing Unit—that served as barracks.

The road beside them was lined with short palm trees. They passed a small orchard of pomegranate trees.

“Somethin’ at my eleven,” Specialist Chuy Gomez barked from where he stood in the gunner position beside Noah. A sharpshooter, Gomez hailed from East L.A. and claimed he’d honed his skills in drive-bys. Half his blood-curdling stories were total bull, designed to distract the guys from their poker hands, but they were convincing as hell. Shee-it. You crackers believe any evil thing a Mexican says.

“Can’t you tell goat herders from a hunter-killer RPG team?” Private First Class Emile Daggett growled. “You been in the sun too damn long, Spic.”

“Be glad I have crystal clear vision, Hick. If I hadn’t eyeballed that trip wire on that dud IED, you’d be missing the family jewels at least, cholo.”

“Who you calling cholo? There are no cho-los in the Upper Peninsula.” Daggett talked nonstop about the bait shop he intended to buy and run when he returned to his small town in northern Michigan.

“There will be if I buy that worm shack you keep talkin’ ’bout. Serious investment opportunity, amigo. Get me one of those hot Upper Peninsula shorties. Oye, cabrón, that’s the life.”

“Shut the hell up,” Daggett said. The two men, who’d named each other Spic and Hick, kept up running insults, but had each other’s backs.

The goat farmers, now visible, wore the traditional taloub—a long tunic, loose pants and head wrap. They whistled and called to their animals, urging them across the narrow irrigation ditch at the side of the road. The pastoral sound of “baas” and bells seemed proof the country was striving for normalcy. If only the government could keep the uneasy peace.

Noah snapped a photo of an Iraqi on a horse, sagging in the saddle, looking as dispirited as the town council in Balad after mortar fire had destroyed the new police building.

He checked the image. Not bad, but not brilliant. Mel would have managed a far more striking shot, he was certain. She’d been in his thoughts a lot in the months since they’d slept together. Too much, really.

“So what’s that picture for?” Fuller asked. “Some symbolic shit about tired old Iraq riding its broke-back nag into the sunset?”

Noah shrugged.

“You gotta be bored as shit watching us sweep sand into the sea.”

Noah scribbled notes: Soldiers pissed and bored and bitter. Missions seem pointless…sweeping sand into the sea, according to Fuller.

The buildings and mosques of Balad rose in the distance. He picked up the tinny murmur of a prayer playing over loudspeakers.

“Hear the prayers?” Chuy said to Noah. “Five times a day, hombre, right? So we’re driving down this street in Balad… Real narrow and twisty, sniper spots every-damn-where, and the prayer blares out. After, comes this eerie silence.” He paused, milking the moment for drama.

“Yeah?” Noah said, unobtrusively clicking on his tape recorder.

“Yo, so, they all s’posed to be in their houses or mosques, prayin’ like crazy. So anybody still runnin’ the street is up to no good, right?”

“Right.”

“I’m up in the gun, scalp pricklin’, adrenaline so high I’m not even blinkin’—you can’t blink when your blood’s hitting that hard—watching for movement, any change, a clue to something coming down. So I see this kid at my three o’clock. He’s holding something. A candy bar? An orange? Or maybe a detonator to an IED we’re about to drive over.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“Nah, man. ’S cool. Just a day in the neighborhood in East L.A.” He laughed, but Noah could tell this situation had been bad.

“Then what?”

“The kid runs in front of us, across the road. Seconds later, boom. Direct hit on the troop carrier behind us. Driver got shrapnel, a first-class flight to the States, champagne all the way, and a Purple Heart. We all envied his ass.”

Noah stayed silent, taking in the real story Chuy was telling. He’d had the lives of the men in his HMV and those in the vehicles behind in his hands. He could never have shot the kid because he possibly held a detonator, but that explosion could have killed a dozen of his comrades and it would be on Chuy—at least in his mind. That was a catch-22 that would be tough to endure, day after day, patrol after patrol. It was no wonder post-traumatic stress disorder rates were so high among Iraq vets. Friend and foe were impossible to tell apart, making civilian casualties common, but no less horrifying.

Bo hit a bump in the road and swore as the tobacco he constantly chewed missed the window and dribbled down the inside of his door.

They passed the low mud-brick wall with a chunk blasted away that Noah had been watching for. The turnoff was close. He leaned forward to talk to Fuller. “Half mile up, there’s a road going west. I need you to drop me there. I want to walk up to talk with Captain Fariq.”

“Say what?” Fuller shifted to glare at Noah. “This is not a bus line. You don’t ring the bell at your stop. You go on patrol, you stay on patrol, Stone.”

“It’s Fariq. You know him. You work with his men. Drop me off and I’ll meet you at the turnoff on your way back.”

Fuller stared at him, unmoved.

“Look, I need this interview or my editor will yank me home. It’s the dirt road up ahead. There’s a sign pointing to Al-Talad. The area’s secure.”

Fuller turned and stared out the mud-spattered windshield. “No such thing as secure in this godforsaken land. Give a reporter an inch and he takes out a convoy,” he muttered, but Noah picked up assent in his tone, so he kept his mouth shut.

When they reached the village sign, Fuller grumbled, “Halt.” Yards back, spaced for safety, the other vehicles slowed, too.

Up the road, Noah could see corrugated-steel structures and smaller buildings, some military vehicles and a few Iraqi soldiers.

“Looks hinky to me,” Chuy said.

“Everything’s hinky to you,” Noah said, opening his door. “I got this.”

“Do not exit the vehicle, Stone!” Fuller barked. “Take us there, Dusfresne. You get twenty minutes, Stone, then we haul you into this truck. You got that?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Got it.” Damn. Depending on what Fariq said about him hitching a ride, he’d have some fast talking to do with Fuller, for sure.

Bo turned onto the dirt road.

As they drew nearer to the buildings, the Iraqis seemed to stiffen, weapons half raised, as if expecting a confrontation. Noah’s scalp prickled. Chuy was right. This did feel hinky. The soldiers around him in the truck tensed, shifted positions, readying their weapons.

There was a sudden thud, as if a boulder had slammed into the driver’s side of the vehicle, followed by pops and pings from bullets hitting the front grill. The windshield cracked.

Then an explosion rocked them. Noah’s eardrums felt as if they’d burst. Smoke and dust filled the air. Around him, men were shouting, but it sounded like he was underwater in mud.

Noah fumbled with the door handle, but it wouldn’t give. He was moving through a nightmare’s quicksand, stunned and slow.

The door flew open and Daggett yanked him to the ground. A few feet out, Fuller was giving hand signals to the other men. He turned back to Daggett and yelled, “Get Stone under cover. Go, go—”

Abruptly, Fuller froze. A hole appeared in his forehead, his jaw sagged and he dropped to the ground. Before Noah or Emile could react, another blast struck—a direct hit on the HMV, now empty, behind them. A wave of heat and sound plowed him down. Hot knives seemed to slice his shoulders, belly and legs. He heard an ungodly scream. Just before everything went black, he realized the scream had come from him.

WHEN NOAH CAME TO, HIS body burned with pain and every breath was a stab of agony. He lay on his side, tasting dirt and swallowing blood. His ears rang and his mind kept flickering like a lightbulb about to blow. He tested his body for mobility. His right leg and left arm seemed to be broken. Any movement made him nearly pass out. His ribs were at least cracked and every breath was torture.

He was being shouted at, but with his ears ringing, he couldn’t detect the language. A rifle jabbed him in the chest. An Iraqi soldier above him wanted Noah up.

Adrenaline was all that got Noah to his knees, despite his injuries. He saw Emile Daggett, also kneeling, bleeding from the head and mouth, one eye swollen shut, a rifle trained at his temple.

The two Iraqis arranged themselves in front of Noah and Emile, clearly readying to execute them. Dully, Noah wondered why his life wasn’t passing before his eyes. Instead, he thought, This is a great story, but you’ll be too dead to write it.

Suddenly, shots chinked nearby, zinging off metal, pocking the dirt. Another Iraqi ran up to the two guarding Noah and Emile and yelled something. Agitated, the soldiers dragged Emile and Noah to their feet and shoved them forward. Noah’s leg gave out, so he got dragged along the ground into a machine shop, then to a small room filled with tarp-covered crates and what looked like engine parts. The space stank of wet earth, motor oil, blood and something foul.

Emile turned to speak and got slugged by a rifle butt. He dropped to the ground, unconscious, possibly dead. When Noah looked up, he saw the stock of a machine gun coming for his head. Once more, he dropped into blackness.

THE NEXT TIME NOAH WAS conscious, the dimness of the light leaking through the seams in the steel walls told him hours had passed. His mouth was coated with dust and he was desperate for water. His pain had localized to his injured parts, including his skull, where he fingered a baseball-size lump. Emile was out, but breathing.

Going under with a concussion was bad news, so he fought to stay awake, but failed. When he came to again, he heard machine-gun and rifle fire and an occasional mortar landing nearby. He wet Emile’s lips from a bucket of foul-smelling water that had appeared while Noah was unconscious. Emile groaned.

Hours passed. Noah faded in and out. At one point, he heard men talking overhead. He thought he recognized Fariq and tried to say his name, but his mouth was too dry, his voice too faint.

He tried to find a way out. There was something about the crates he needed to check. He felt for his camera, thinking he should take pictures, if he could stay awake long enough and clear his vision…?.

He woke in different parts of the cramped room, forgetting what he’d been trying to do. At one point, a guard came in and caught him writing in his notepad. This time, when the blow struck and the blackness came, Noah expected never to see light again.