Chapter 4 #3
Truck moaned but didn’t regain consciousness.
“Come on, buddy. You gotta wake up. You’re huge, and it’ll take too many of us to haul your carcass out of here.”
No answer.
Beatle leaned down and lightly slapped Truck’s face. “Stop fucking around, Truck. We’ve got seventy freaked-out girls here that we need to move. This is no time to sleep on the job.”
Remarkably, Truck’s eyes fluttered and he moaned again, even as he shook his head.
“Easy, man,” Fletch soothed. “Open your eyes, buddy.”
They all watched as Truck opened his eyes, then immediately closed them again. “Fuuuuuck,” he swore. “Motherfucker, my head hurts.”
Ghost sighed in relief. If Truck was awake enough to bitch and moan, he was going to be just fine. “Yeah, well, that’s because the tent you were standing in exploded.”
“Awesome,” Truck muttered. “Sitrep?”
“The girls are good. Rebels are either dead or have fled,” Fletch said, filling him in.
Truck opened his eyes in a squint and looked up at his friend. “Girls?”
“Yeah, they’re okay,” Fletch repeated. “You look a bit banged up, but your spine is good. No broken legs or arms, although you’ll have to tell us if anything is fractured or not.”
They watched as Truck moved each of his legs, then his arms. He tried to sit up, and moaned in pain and collapsed backward. “Extremities are good, but feels like I have at least a couple of broken ribs. Fractured at the very least.”
“Anything else hurt? You think you have internal injuries?” Ghost asked.
Truck pressed his large hands on his abdomen. After a moment, he said, “I don’t think so. Although my head is pounding. It hurts. Bad. Can hardly keep my eyes open, the light hurts so much.”
“Concussion,” Beatle said. “You dizzy or nauseous?”
“Both,” Truck told them.
“Can you walk?” Ghost asked.
Truck took a deep breath and nodded. “If that’s the only way to get out of this shithole and back to civilization, then yeah, I can walk.”
“Fuck yeah, you can,” Fletch said softly. “Come on, we’ll help you stand.”
The three of them helped Truck stand and held on when he wobbled in their grip. It took a minute or so before they felt he was steady enough to stand on his own.
Just as they let go of him, Truck turned his head and puked.
He wiped his mouth and swore. “Fuck, I hate throwing up.”
“Come on, let’s get the hell out of here,” Fletch said.
Ghost took the lead, with Truck following and Beatle and Fletch at the rear. Truck was in no shape to defend himself against any rebel who might still be lingering. They walked toward the trucks and, as they got near, Coach and Blade materialized out of the surrounding trees.
“We heard,” Blade said, gesturing to his earbud. The group had an open mike, and they’d obviously been listening to the situation with Beatle and Truck. “Good to see you have a hard head,” Blade joked.
“That’s what she said,” Truck replied.
Everyone chuckled, and they continued toward the vehicles with the girls and Trigger’s Delta Force team.
Lefty stepped out from between two trucks as the group approached—and everyone watched in disbelief as Truck moved faster than they would’ve thought possible for a man with his injuries.
He grabbed the pistol out of the holster at Ghost’s waist and had it pointed at Lefty before he could say a word.
“Don’t move, asshole,” Truck ground out.
“What the fuck?” Lefty said, but obediently raised his hands in surrender.
Within seconds, Trigger, Oz, Grover, and Lucky appeared, and quickly had their weapons drawn, which made Coach, Beatle, and Blade pull their pistols.
“Everyone calm the fuck down,” Ghost ordered, holding his hands up and stepping in front of Lefty, facing Truck. “Put down the gun, Truck.”
“Who the fuck are they?” Truck asked, not lowering the gun.
“What do you mean, who are they?” Ghost asked.
“I mean, who the fuck are they? When we came in here, it was just the six of us. Speaking of which, where’s Hollywood? Do you assholes have him?”
Ghost stared at Truck in dismay. “Truck…Hollywood’s not here. He stayed back stateside this time.”
“No, he didn’t. We were talking right before we called in for air support to kill these motherfucking terrorists.”
Ghost swallowed hard. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “What were you talking about?” he asked.
“About tonight. About how we’re finally gonna get some R&R, pick up some chicks, and get some pussy.”
“Oh, shit,” Fletch said, and Ghost saw him lower his weapon.
“Truck, put down the weapon,” Ghost demanded again and took a step toward his friend. “I’m ordering you to stand down.”
Truck’s eyes met Ghost’s and the confusion was easy to see. And the pain. “Did they get Hollywood? What aren’t you telling me?”
Just then, one of the girls in the truck sobbed loud enough to be heard from where the standoff was happening. Truck turned toward the sound, his brows furrowed in confusion.
Ghost didn’t hesitate. He leaped toward his friend and slammed his hand down on Truck’s forearm, making him grunt in pain and, more importantly, drop the pistol he’d been holding. Ghost swept his leg out, taking Truck’s feet out from under him.
The large man fell to the dirt like a rock and grunted in pain once again when he landed. Ghost immediately went to his head and cradled it, while Beatle, Coach, and Trigger leapt on top of him to keep him down.
“Watch his ribs!” Ghost yelled. They needed to subdue and control their friend, but not hurt him more than he already was.
But Truck wasn’t moving. He stared up at Ghost in confusion. “What’s going on?”
“You were hurt, buddy. You hit your head.”
“Yeah, it hurts,” Truck agreed.
“Where are we?”
“What?”
“Where are we, Truck?”
“Iraq.”
“Fuck,” Ghost heard someone swear from above them, but he didn’t take his gaze from his friend’s. “How old are you?”
“Why?”
“Humor me.”
“Thirty-five.”
Ghost closed his eyes for a second in despair, then opened them again.
Truck was thirty-eight. Three years ago they had been in Iraq. They’d been on a mission that had complications, just like this one, and they’d had to call in the Air Force to drop some bombs to give them cover and to help dispatch the terrorists who’d surrounded them.
“Does the name Rayne mean anything to you?”
Truck’s brows furrowed again. “Like the water from the sky? Just that we’ve been in this damn country so long, I think I’ve forgotten what it looks like.”
“What about Emily? Kassie? Annie?”
“Are those the chicks you’ve lined up for when we get to Kuwait for our R&R?” Truck asked.
“No. Think, Truck. What about Mary?”
“I don’t know anyone named Mary. What’s going on?”
Instead of answering, Ghost patted Truck’s chest. “These are our friends,” he told him, gesturing to Lefty and the others. “They were helping us. Don’t shoot them, okay?”
“Where’s Hollywood?”
“He’s fine. I swear. He’s traveling ahead of us, making sure the coast is clear.”
Truck seemed to ponder that information for a moment before nodding.
“You ready to get out of here?” Ghost asked.
Truck nodded again. “Think I can get a painkiller? My head really hurts. It’s hard for me to even see straight.”
“Of course.” Then for the second time, Truck was helped to his feet by his teammates. But this time they all exchanged worried glances. They helped Truck to a beat-up truck nearby, one without any kids in it, and got him situated in the back seat.
Ghost watched in silence then turned when he felt a hand on his arm.
“Amnesia?” Trigger asked softly.
“Looks that way. He must’ve hit his head on a metal box we found behind him.” Ghost shook his head. “Rattled his brain. Fuck. This is bad.”
“I’m sure it’s temporary. Once his brain has had a chance to heal, he’ll remember,” Trigger offered tentatively.
“I hope so,” Ghost said. “I sure as fuck hope so.”