Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) Page 15
Allen Green had also just about driven Nick to another level of insanity before ultimately becoming a trusted ally. And if Nick was ever willing to admit it, he might even have come to consider Allen as a friend.
The truth was that Ahmud al-Habshi acted and looked like a pathetic mess, but Nick was willing to bet (at least a small sum) that the man might be clever enough to be at least a little bit dangerous. After all, even cute, little baby sharks can take a good bite out of you. Not to mention that some sharks breeds have even been known to eat their siblings while still in the womb. But at least their soft, and potentially evil, baby problems were in the trusted hands of professionals.
For Nick and his team, it took four hours before they were finally released from their debriefings. Nick then instructed his men to get cleaned up, scrub down their gear, and get their asses straight to bed. There had been no arguments, not even from feisty little Red. Apparently several hours of reporting and CIA gibberish is all you need to suck the feeling of victory from a man’s soul and leave him begging for respite.
So while his team headed off to shower and sleep, Nick went to have his injury poked and prodded. The base medical staff had quickly looked it over and redressed the wound when he first arrived on the base. Thankfully, they had also confirmed that he wouldn’t need surgery.
But now as he sat waiting on the exam room table -- tired as shit, in pain, and thoroughly marinated in layers of man-funk no longer identifiable -- he began to wish that he’d thought to rip his whole damned shoulder off for a chance at some anesthesia.
He had been dozing, still in a sitting position, on the table when he finally heard a knock on the exam room door. Nick opened his eyes, lifting his head to greet the doctor, and suddenly wished he was dead.
Nick sat staring in utter horror as a very attractive female doctor walked into the room. She only looked at him for a second -- presumably to check and just make sure someone was in fact in the room -- as she appeared to be in the middle of making notes in a file of some sort.
“Just give me one moment, and I’ll be right with you,” she said, moving over to a raised counter to finish her notes.
She had actually finished in a matter of seconds, but it had been all the time Nick needed to thoroughly check her out. She looked to be in her late thirties, early forties. She had a natural shade of brown hair that was cut just long enough to put up into a short … “ponytail,” Nick believed it was called.
She was average height with what appeared to be a healthy overall physique. But if Nick was honest, the first thing he’d noticed (as probably every male she’d ever met had) was that her bustline was not at all average. Let’s face it, scrubs aren’t really designed to show off the human body that much.
So while Nick couldn’t trace all of her curves from here, it was very easy to see that she had a rack, plus some. Unfortunately, all that information did was give Nick a reason to become real insecure and frustrated.
When the doctor had finished with the file, she left it on the counter and turned to face him. Oh crap, thought Nick as she gave him one of those genuinely gorgeous and radiant smiles. It was the kind of smile that people talk about being able to light up a room, the kind of smile that could instantly make the worst day of your life feel manageable, maybe even conquerable so long as she was there beside you.
But for Nick, all that smile did was instantly turn his frustration into anger. He didn’t want this woman, let alone any woman for that matter, looking at or touching him while he was this gross and weak and hurt.
The truth was that Nick didn’t have all that much experience with women, even on a general basis. Sure, he’d charmed a few girls here and there when he’d been younger. But even in those days, he’d never collected near the amount of stories his buddies had. Nick had always just figured that he was just a one woman kind of guy. And up until a few years ago, he’d thought that he’d be spending the rest of his life with his wife, Anne.
But now after losing Anne several years ago, the only other woman he’d even thought about had been Isabella, who he’d met a year ago on a job in Mexico.
And even with Isabella, it had been about more than just having a little fun. Nick’s attraction to Isabella had been immediate on the physical side of things, but he’d found that his real desire for her had grown as he’d gotten to know her, to respect her even. Now, maybe that was the way things were supposed to work, but it had been a long time since Nick had been in that kind of situation.
Nick was sure that most of his men thought he had gotten with Isabella because, well, she let him. Also, because she was drop-dead gorgeous. And God knows she was, she was possibly the most beautiful woman Nick had ever seen in real life. However, both Nick and Isabella knew that those moments together had been something special. Though it hadn’t been anything serious either, but it also hadn’t been just “banging,” as they say.
The overall point was that he felt a little lost on the concept of women, and Nick Woods was not the kind of guy that liked to feel lost or confused by anything. And he most certainly didn’t like being surprised. Now here before him stood a surprise that he was without a doubt not ready for, and frankly, that just pissed him off.
Nick saw her react to his scowl. She seemed slightly surprised, but only for a second. And then she recovered well.
“Listen, lady,” he said. “Whatever ray of sunshine crap you’re about to blow up my ass, trying to make me feel better, well, I just don’t have time for it. Alright?”
Her smile barely wavered. The only change, if anything, was a mischievous twinkle suddenly sparkling in her bright brown eyes.
“Well, I have to tell you, Mr. Woods, that’s actually a huge relief. Because as it just so happens, I spent the last little bit of sunshine I had left on my last patient. And to be honest, I consider my time to be quite precious, as well.”
Then she just stood there smiling at him, her hands clasped together in front of her. There was a challenge in that look, daring him to go ahead and take another shot. Apparently this woman was more than prepared for whatever crotchety card she got dealt. But having no good retort on hand, Nick settled for rolling his eyes and grunting.
“Well, now that pleasantries are out of the way,” she said, still smiling, “how about we take a look at that shoulder now?”
He didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at her.
“Good,” she replied, picking up a tray of instruments and other medical paraphernalia, and dragged a stool over toward the table. Snapping on a pair of gloves, she then stood still beside him giving him an expectant look.
“What?” he snarled, hating the feeling of being forced to look at her.
“Well, Mr. Woods. It’s your shirt,” she said.
Nick just sat there with a stupid look on his face too flustered to decipher her code.
Luckily, she was more than happy to help him out. “See, it appears to be blocking my access to the wound. I assumed that, given your inspired, can-do attitude, you’d prefer to remove it yourself. Yes?”
Nick growled again. His irritation getting the better of him as he quickly, and not at all gently, tore off the shirt. The wound on his shoulder howled, and Nick wanted to kick his own ass for the audible groan of pain he allowed to escape.
Thankfully the lady doctor didn’t comment or call him on it. She simply honed her focus onto the wound and became all but oblivious to Nick. She carefully cleaned the injury, inspecting it for any potential problems.
When it came time to stitch him up, she ended up beside him, sitting on the table facing him so that she could attack the wound from the side. She kept one foot lightly set on the floor with her other knee bent and butterflied out on the table, bearing most of her weight. When she had settled, she had then reached across him and delicately grabbed his uninjured shoulder trying to angle him so she could get a better view to start her stitch. Nick had resisted for a moment not realizing her intention, but obliged when he saw the focused, non-combati
ve expression on her face. She’s just doing her job, Nick reminded himself.
Nick tried desperately to stay calm, knowing it would be both easier for her and him to get through the sewing process if he was relaxed. But he couldn’t help but stiffen every time one of her breasts brushed or lightly pressed up against his arm. Not to mention the intoxicating scent of her shampoo she kept forcing him to inhale. He knew better than to think any of it was intentional, but with his present mood came a limited perspective, and he petulantly blamed her for every single slip.
Despite it feeling like hours to Nick, the doctor had finished stitching and patching him up in less than five minutes. She stood, removing the instruments and bloodstained debris while dutifully rattling off instructions of when and how to replace his bandages, what changes to watch for, and more medical details. Nick, both physically and emotionally spent, simply nodded, his eyes on the floor refusing to look at her.
In the midst of her final remarks, she informed him that, as he was significantly dehydrated, he was also to be fitted with an IV before bed. And instantly upon hearing that news, Nick was able to scrounge up the little bit of fight still left in him.
“Now look here, lady. I don’t need no damned IV!” he barked “Can’t you tell that I’m tired of being picked at and bothered today? And you, you come in here trying to get me to drool all over myself, acting like everything is damned rainbows and ponies. Well, get over yourself, sweetheart!”
Nick had no idea how long he’d ranted for, nor did he honestly remember a great deal of what he’d even said to her. The information had practically vanished from his head the second after it left his mouth, or more likely the information hadn’t passed much through his head at all. All evidence pointed at the latter because he’d finally looked up to find the doctor’s brown eyes burning into him, her face devoid of any humor. It looked like the doctor’s professionalism had held, but just barely.
She briefly let her eyes flutter to a close, before immediately snapping them back open. “You’re all set to go, Mr. Woods,” she said now appearing serious as a heart attack. “Medical staff will find you later for your IV. If you have any problems, please let someone from the medical staff know. Have a pleasant rest, Mr. Woods.”
She then smartly turned on her heel and headed for the door. Nick continued to watch her as she snatched up the file she’d come in with and reached for the door.
“Oh and Mr. Woods,” she said suddenly, releasing her grasp from the door handle and turning back around to face him. “While proctology may not be my specialty, it’s fairly obvious that, sunshine or otherwise, the attempt to blow anything else up your ass would not only be impossible, but it would also be of no benefit to anyone.”
And with that, she turned and left the room.
Chapter 51
Nick had intended to storm out of the base hospital mad as hell. But the presence of several blisters on his feet, which he hadn’t actually noticed until now, demanded that his stomp be downgraded into more of a pathetic shuffle with a limp.
It was more than just the blisters and the fatigue, though. Nick didn’t fully understand what had happened back with the doctor. He knew that he had been an inexcusable jerk, and deep down he was slightly ashamed of his behavior. But at the same time, from the moment she’d walked into the room, he’d felt like she was somehow manipulating him. He’d felt vulnerable and stupid, ultimately like he was the victim of some cruel joke.
He didn’t know how or why, but some instinctive defense mechanism had been tripped. And sure it didn’t make any damned sense, but Nick honestly just wasn’t in the mood for an emotional riddle right now.
So Nick trudged back to his room, determined to shut his mind off and enjoy a much needed shower, as well as the clean, air-conditioned room that awaited him.
Nick sat on his bed, his body now showered and very much ready to slip into a deep, long sleep. But as so very often happened whenever Nick finally found calm and quiet, his mind refused to get on board with the concept.
Knowing the drill, Nick figured he might as well put his hands to use while his brain ran its course. So he stretched out to grab his nearby Dragunov rifle and give it a quick cleaning.
His mind started off by replaying the past eleven days and nights. The miles and miles of walking. The attack by the villagers on the side of the hill. The night assault on al-Habshi’s compound. And as the movie reel raced through his mind, various frames stood out. Men he’d shot. The sight picture just prior to the rifle firing. The bodies he’d seen afterward, frozen in grotesque positions.
Those wouldn’t be going away for a while. But, it wasn’t just the memories of the past mission that had Nick’s mind racing. He and his men had endured the day-after-day march through hell not for Ahmud al-Habshi, but for Rasool Deraz.
And now only Deraz occupied his mind. The man propped up the entire infrastructure of the Taliban, and in truth, he affected and inspired more than just the Taliban and its supporters. Probably three-quarters of those opposing the government of Afghanistan -- villagers, town leaders, and drug runners -- followed the lead of Deraz. The revered leader pushed, prodded, and rallied the entire resistance movement.
And it was crucial that the men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter end the man’s reign. Nick wondered what the wizened leader was doing now. Probably not sitting on his duff over-analyzing everything, Nick thought. He focused on the Dragunov he was cleaning. It had served him well, but he looked forward to stowing it away for good and going back to his American-made M4, which he was far more comfortable with. Or he’d be carrying his bigger caliber M14 if the range warranted.
As Nick worked his brush on the Soviet-made sniper rifle, his mind wandered from Deraz and the thoughts of combat. In the comfort of his safe room, his thoughts ultimately drifted back to the events earlier with the doctor. His brain tried numerous times to replay the scene and force him to reconsider his opinion of her by highlighting her many positive traits, both physical and nonphysical. But mostly the physical traits, because, like most men, his brain was a back-stabbing pervert. So Nick repeatedly shut the memory down until it stopped playing altogether and all that remained was a raw and ragged anger.
Pretty or not, Nick would not waste one more thought on her or what had happened. He had work to do, and it didn’t matter if she, or anyone else for that matter, thought he was an asshole. Besides, being an asshole was what he was good at. And it was probably one of the characteristics that made him so damned good at his job. Point blank and period, Nick was what he was. Everybody else would just have to get over it.
And so with his identity secure and his mind thoroughly exhausted from its spinning, Nick set aside his rifle and climbed beneath the sheets. The last thought that passed through his head was that of reassurance: Once this is all over, he thought, at least he would never, ever have to see that woman again.
Chapter 52
Nick slept hard for fourteen hours. His exhaustion kept his nightmares mostly at a distance, and he awoke only a couple of times with a start and soaked in sweat.
Ignoring even the wound on his shoulder, Nick hurt all over. His feet were a mangled mess of bloody blisters, hot spots, and cracked skin. His back felt as if he’d been run over, and a crushing headache topped it off. He shook his head and realized the headache was from dehydration.
Oh, yeah, he thought somewhat regrettably, as he remembered the poor orderly who came to give him his IV. Nick had chased him out of his room and then a good bit down the hall too. The terrified man had bolted so suddenly that he’d ran right into the rolling IV stand and knocked it over. And instead of stopping to stand it back up, the desperate bastard just kept running, leaving the IV stand, bag and all, to drag behind him like an anchor.
Nick dragged himself from the cot and reached for his canteen. He guzzled about half of it, let the water settle in his stomach, then swallowed down the rest of it. Just like boot camp, he thought, where screaming drill instructors forced frightened
recruits to gulp down an entire canteen at a time.
He reached for his shower kit and towel, heading for the bathroom. No question about it, he felt like shit and figured it might take three days for him and his team to get ready to go back out.
It actually took four days for him and his team to fully recover, but by day three, still lethargic, sore, and slow, the four members who took part in the deep mission into Pakistan trudged out to the range with the rest of S3’s Primary Strike Team. The Primary Strike Team was a squad of the most elite and veteran roster of shooters in S3.
Everyone in S3 wanted to be on the Primary Strike Team, but it was highly competitive and difficult to land a spot on the squad. The Primary Strike Team had six members on it, same as the other squads in S3, but it handled the most dangerous missions, breaches, raids, etc.
Nick and the Primary Strike Team fired five hundred rounds through their rifles and two hundred and fifty through their pistols. Nick participated, but avoided the quick reload drills. He needed to take it easy so he wouldn’t reopen his wound.
He avoided re-injuring it but ended the day disappointed with what he had seen. Despite being some of the most skilled shooters in the world, Nick could see the target groups of his three shooters who had gone on the deep-strike mission were more ragged than usual. And morale looked rough.
Red wasn’t talking shit. Truck wasn’t bitching. Marcus wasn’t motivating.
Frankly, Nick felt like hell, too. On the bright side, his other two Primary Strike Team members looked sharp. Bullet holes lay centered and tight throughout their targets.
“Nice job, Lana and Preacher,” Nick said, nodding to both of them.
His command had grown from its time in Mexico. These days, S3 had five squads of six. There was the Primary Strike Team, three supporting squads, and a sniper squad, which had three teams of two scout snipers.
Five squads of badasses. Plus, additional personnel who handled security, logistics, and intel.