Elaine Levine - The Edge Of Courage

The first book in the Red Team series, 2012

I’d like to thank my fabulous beta readers who field-tested this story: Barbara M., Ryan, Michelle, Joanne, Carol, and Barbara R. Thank you for your eagle eyes and endless patience!

A special thank you goes out to J.A. Konrath, Marie Force, and all the fearless indie authors who so freely shared their experiences and expertise as they blazed the way ahead of me.

Most of all, I’d like to thank my readers. Your emails mean the world to me-thank you for your support. You’re why I write.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, couldn’t stand, but his goddamned eyes could still see. Everything.

Women hurried in random directions, their faces filled with terror, their mouths open and straining with silent screams. Most of them were still in their house clothes, exposed in their panic to the eyes of men. Children were clinging to their mothers. Others cried where they stood. Or worse, lay silent and bleeding in the dirt.

He pushed himself up to his elbows and looked behind him.

Dust fell like snow. Not dust. Ash. Debris rained down on him. A boot. A brick. An arm. A scream pushed its way from his gut, cut through his heart, and erupted from his mouth.

Silent, like all the others.

Rocco landed on his stomach, his hands clasped to his ears. He pulled a deep breath, felt the air scrape his raw throat, then screamed again.

And woke himself up.

People surrounded him. Faces he didn’t know. A room he couldn’t remember. Where the hell was he? Men pulled at him. The jagged noise of their shouts slammed into his head like knives. They yanked him up to a sitting position, dragged him into the light, shaking him and gesturing.

“No. Don’t. Don’t touch me!” he shouted to everyone around him, in this reality and the one he’d just left. “Don’t touch! Get the fuck off me!” They looked at him with odd expressions.

Christ, what language was he speaking? He looked at his clothes, seeking a clue from what he wore where he might be. He had jeans and a T-shirt on. Not a shalwar kameez . He was not in Afghanistan, then. He should have spoken in English or Spanish.

“What’s he saying?” one of the men asked the others.

“Who the hell knows? He’s still hallucinating. Shit, can’t a man get a little sleep?”

“It ain’t English. You heard him.”

“It’s Pashto. I served over there. I know that language. Look at him. He ain’t American. He’s a Pashtun, a goddamned haji.”

More men gathered around, frowning, reaching toward him. He pushed himself back with the heels of his bare feet, shoving and tearing at the people around him as he did a crab-walk shuffle to the nearest wall. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get free. And the blood. The blood was everywhere. Tears spilled down his cheeks. He let loose a roar and shoved again at everyone around him, punching them, warning them.

But it was too late.

The burned flesh was already drying, sticking to him, to them, to everything. He leaned to his side, bucking against the dry heaves squeezing his ribs. He sucked in a harsh breath, smelled the smoke of the burning village, and heaved again.

Rocco leaned against the wall as he wiped the spit off his mouth with the back of his hand. The cinderblock was cold through his sweat-dampened T-shirt. Keeping his eyes closed, he drew small breaths through his mouth. He didn’t dare smell the air, fearing it would stink of smoke and ash and burning flesh. This world and the other kept flashing in and out, back and forth, like a TV that flipped between two channels. He squeezed his head between his fisted hands, trying to make it settle on a single reality.

Let it have been a dream. Just a dream. Nausea writhed in his stomach like a living thing. God, he couldn’t take seeing Kadisha’s home collapse again, tracking the cloud of dust that had risen from what had been her house. It wasn’t real, this. It was a dream.

He cautiously opened his eyes. Someone had switched on the fluorescent panels, flooding the room with sterile, white light. He looked around, blinking, unable to reconcile where he found himself with where he’d just been-where his soul still was.

“Everything all right?” Reverend Daniels asked. He leaned toward Rocco, but didn’t touch him.

“Hell no, it’s not all right, Rev,” one of the men said. “You heard him screaming. All of Cheyenne heard it. Ain’t none of us can get any sleep with him here.”

Rocco looked at the man who spoke. In deference to the minister, his fellow vagrants had moved a few steps away. But they stood in a tight circle, staring at him as if he’d sprouted feet out his ears. The bus from DC had dropped him here three days ago. Faithful Heart Homeless Shelter. A holy fucking Mecca to all drifters, hungry and lost men, women and children.

“You ain’t lettin’ him stay, are you, Reverend?”

“He does this every night. He could hurt someone.”

Rocco’s gaze slashed toward the new speaker. He could hurt someone. It would be so easy. He bent his ankle, feeling for the strap of his knife’s sheath. It was gone. All of his weapons were gone. No matter. An arm around the forehead, a quick twist. The end would be the same.

Sweet, goddamn silence.

“I’m sorry, son. I’m afraid they’re right.” The minister set his hand on Rocco’s shoulder. Rocco jerked free, sending a quick look from his arm to the preacher to see if the blackened flesh had moved.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. It wasn’t real. He held his arms up and looked at them, seeing only his bare skin, damp with sweat. He felt like vomiting again, but knew nothing would come up. He’d not eaten since he’d been here. He’d taken only water as his body rid itself of the meds the shrinks had pushed on him at Walter Reed. That shit fucked with his head. He needed to get clean, to start thinking straight.

“Get your things, son, and come see me. I’ve got some coffee on in my office,” the minister offered. Having nothing else better to do, Rocco moved to his cot. Someone had set it back upright. He shoved his feet into his still-new combat boots, struck by the oddity that after ten years’ service, he didn’t have a pair of boots that was broken in. Forcing himself to stay focused, stay present, he grabbed his jacket and green duffel bag, then followed the older man.

Reverend Daniels poured two cups of coffee. He was stirring sugar and powdered creamer into one. “How do you like yours?”

Rocco ignored the question. Answering it would involve too many decisions about preferences he didn’t have. And way too many words. He shrugged. He’d drink it however it was served him. It wasn’t as if food tasted like anything anyway. He took the proffered mug and sat in one of the chairs in front of the minister’s desk.

“You got a place to go, son?”

“Yeah.” That’s why he was staying in this shithole.

“You serve overseas?”

“Yeah.”

“Come back recently?”

Rocco sighed and leaned forward, scrubbing a hand over his face. The inquisition made him nervous. All he needed was for the helpful minister to put a call in to Walter Reed. They’d send a couple of muscles out with a straitjacket for him. Hell, they could come right over from F. E. Warren. He set the mug on the desk and stood.

“Thanks, Reverend, for the coffee, the place to crash.” Rocco slung his duffel over his shoulder and made his way outside. It was a few hours to morning. The chilly spring air cooled his fiery skin. Shoving a hand in his pocket, he dug out the key to the old Ford truck he’d picked up. He tossed his duffel in the truck bed and climbed inside. The vinyl seat was cold, the steering wheel like ice. He leaned his forehead on the hard, cracked surface.