A Prior Engagement Read online

“He’s been a prisoner of the Taliban.”

  Nate read her fallen expression and added soothingly, “He’s in a military hospital in Bagram. His condition can’t be too critical or he’d have been evacuated to better facilities in Germany.”

  “We have to go to him.”

  Nate exchanged a glance with Claire, who put her arm around Jules. “The SAS has arranged for the guys to fly out tonight.”

  For a moment she stared at her friend blankly. “Oh, my God.” Jules massaged her temples. “He doesn’t know about his dad.”

  Nate gestured to the rock on Jules’s finger. The diamond was big and brash, a powerhouse that seemed to seize all ambient light. “Or that he’s engaged.”

  Knowing Lee had intended to propose, his buddies had given her the engagement ring. They’d found it when they’d packed up his personal effects.

  Reality hit her like an oncoming locomotive. Instinctively Jules covered the ring with her other hand.

  “Now he can propose in person,” Claire said cheerfully, as though a six-week whirlwind romance easily withstood a year-and-a-half’s separation. A separation where one of the parties had been presumed dead...and the other was boinking someone else.

  And that was the least of her problems.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LEE WOKE AT first light, habituated by many months of the rhythmic chanting of dawn prayers that his captors began their day with. And found himself in a private room in a military hospital at Bagram.

  His prayers had been answered.

  He stretched his fever-weakened muscles, relishing the clean, scratchy cotton against his torso and any damn mattress, even this serviceable hospital one, cushioning his body. Frankly, he needed the sensory reminder that he wasn’t lying on a dirt floor, scratching fleabites while his belly squirmed with dysentery.

  The comfortable bed allowed him to close his eyes, confident he wouldn’t be kicked into consciousness, and helped him bypass those terrible waking seconds when he thought, I have to survive another day. And later, when he’d given up all hope of rescue—What am I surviving for?

  Opening his eyes, he scanned the simple prefab hospital room, luxuriating in the peacefulness. Closed his eyes and reveled in the lack of pain.

  The Americans who’d found him had been kind, treating him with brisk efficiency. A Special Forces soldier—a Kiwi—found alive. Except none were missing. That information had been enough for Lee to begin to doubt his sanity. Again.

  Too hyped to sleep he switched on the light—a light!—and poured himself a glass of water from the jug beside the bed. Because he could drink his fill, he had another. Grateful for the small things. A glass. Being hydrated. Hair clean, if uncut. Lips moistened with lip balm, wounds cared for, fever broken. Particularly thankful that his thigh ached from the drugs they’d pumped into it to treat his viral leishmaniasis.

  The condition he’d lived with, untreated, for weeks. Along with his name and his unit, it was the only thing he kept repeating between delirium dreams.

  Still taking inventory, Lee ran his fingers across his chin, enjoying the smoothness. Last night a nurse had shaved off his beard in preparation for the big meet with the brass this morning, the first he was capable of since his rescue a few days ago. He traced the ridge of scar tissue on his cheek. Maybe designer stubble would be a better idea.

  He paused to examine his hand, ignoring the tube taped to the back that connected to an IV feeding him salts, glucose, amino acids and vitamins. His knuckles were swollen. Above the fresh white bandages on his wrist, the skin was weathered and scarred, ingrained dirt in the calluses. His ragged nails were at various stages of regrowth. Not so pretty.

  He wiggled his feet, lifted them off the bed, enjoying the light-as-air sensation after months of wearing leg irons. Under the bandages the raw flesh prickled and burned with the effort so he lowered them again.

  All that water had made him need to pee. Grabbing the IV stand, he used it as a support and hobbled painfully into the bathroom. He marveled at the clear stream produced by his hydrated kidneys.

  At the sink, Lee turned the tap on and off a few times before lathering up his hands. On impulse he cupped them under his nose and inhaled the sudsy fragrance deeply, though God knows there was nothing special about military-grade soap.

  Before returning to bed he dropped to the floor and began laboring through five sit-ups and five push-ups. That was all he could manage in his current state. But it was second nature to force himself through this ritual, to try to retain what muscle he could in the forlorn hope he’d find an opportunity to escape.

  It hadn’t come.

  And yet here he was. Free.

  Emotion choked him. Halfway through a push-up, his arms gave way and he collapsed on the floor. Automatically, Lee wiped his face dry with the hospital gown. The innocent do not cry, his captors said, because they do not fear death or God’s judgment.

  After long months of ironclad self-control, weeping was his greatest luxury.

  Exhausted, he dragged himself back to bed and slept.

  The next time Lee opened his eyes, two uniformed men sat beside him. The insignia on the elder’s beret and the badges on his camos indicated senior rank. Lee struggled to sit up but the man restrained him. “Rest easy, son.”

  The man’s accent, his calm commonsense, felt warm as a breeze from home. “I’m Colonel Lucas Bradford, Senior National Officer and Commander of the New Zealand Defense Forces—and this is Dr. Joseph McKenzie.”

  Lee inspected the second man. Civilian clothes. A clipboard and an intelligent “trust me” empathy. A shrink.

  Lee smiled, not an easy task with his cracked lips, no matter how much lip balm he used. “Why is it so hard to believe I’m Lee Davis?” The two men seemed taken aback by his astuteness. “I’ve been getting looks,” he explained. “People pausing at the door to stare at me.” Even in and out of fever, he’d noticed.

  “It’s true we doubted your identity,” Colonel Bradford answered. “Perhaps it will help if I tell you why.” He pulled a file out of a leather briefcase beside his chair and opened it. “Lee Davis died nineteen months ago in a convoy ambush. His uniformed body was found two days later, strapped with explosives. It was detonated with a trip wire as the recovery crew approached, killing four.”

  He paused, letting Lee fill in the gaps. The cleanup would have been horrendous, a charred mess of bone chips, fragments of flesh and almost nothing remaining of the booby-trapped corpse. “A fingertip collected for DNA testing confirmed one of the four dead as Lee Davis.” Instinctively he glanced at Lee’s left hand lying across his chest. Five fingers.

  Lee pulled his right hand from under the sheet and held up his middle finger. The tip was missing to the top knuckle. “And I thought they just did this for fun.” Realizing he was giving the SNO the bird, he grinned. “No disrespect, sir.”

  “None taken.”

  “I’m guessing local allies were part of the cleanup and collection team.”

  The colonel’s gaze narrowed. “An insider would explain the accuracy of the ambush.”

  “Take a DNA sample from me.”

  “We already have. The results came in a couple of days ago.” The older man grinned. “Welcome home, son.”

  A lump rose in Lee’s throat. Maybe being hydrated wasn’t such a great thing. “It’s good to be back, sir.” Or it would be when this sense of surrealism wore off. “My captors told me there had been an ambush.”
r />   “You don’t remember?” Dr. McKenzie spoke for the first time, his high voice sounding more like a cartoon character’s than a psychiatrist’s.

  “First thing I recall was coming to trussed up in the back of a Toyota pickup.” Bought with opium money, the vehicle was a Taliban favorite.

  He paused, reliving the triumph of his captors as they jabbed him with gun butts and laughed while he bounced around the cargo bed, unable to brace himself as the pickup bucked across the dunes. Bewildered as to how he’d got there. The sun had been high, the metal had burned where it touched his bare skin. Blood had obscured his vision.

  “You were thrown clear when the improvised explosive device detonated under the Humvee,” said the SNO. “You must have nine lives to have survived that and a lengthy captivity.”

  “I was down to my last, sir,” Lee said, and it wasn’t a joke.

  “What puzzles us is why they kept you alive.”

  “In a previous deployment I’d saved a baby with septicemia.” As the team’s advanced medic, Lee had often treated people in the remote villages in the course of patrols. Part of the campaign to win hearts and minds—and vital intel.

  “Her grandfather, the headman, initially refused treatment, despite the pleas of the baby’s mother. Steve Langford, our unit commander, lost his temper and told him he was a selfish old bastard....” Lee swallowed, remembering his troop mates. Dead. All dead. “The elder finally agreed to treatment if I came alone and unarmed.”

  He shrugged before continuing. “The headman—Ajmal—showed up at camp to watch my execution.” He’d been on his knees, wrists tied behind him, a grip on his hair forcing his head back and a blade pressed against his larynx when their startled gazes met.

  Lee smiled grimly. “Ajmal’s surprise matched mine.” He cleared his throat because in his imagination, he could still feel the blade. “His son was the local Taliban commander and, as it later turned out, the baby’s uncle. I demanded nanawatai. Asylum.” Amazing how fast the brain can think seconds from death.

  The colonel nodded; the doctor looked confused. “Pre-deployment our men study Pashtunwali,” the SNO informed the psych. “Nanawatai is one of its tenets.”

  “I know about Pashtunwali,” the other man replied defensively. “It’s a two-thousand-year-old code of honor used by the Pashtun tribes and carries the force of law. I haven’t heard of nanawatai.”

  “So you won a reprieve,” the SNO said, returning his attention to Lee. “And they were left wondering what to do with you,” he added.

  Lee rubbed the stiff, starched cotton of the sheet. “Had I known what lay in store I might have opted to have my throat cut,” he joked weakly.

  “Time to rest,” Dr. McKenzie said, taking control. “A debrief can wait. Our immediate priority is restoring your health and reuniting you with family.”

  The colonel nodded in agreement. “As soon as your identity was verified we updated your file and contacted your next of kin.” He glanced at the psychiatrist and Lee’s gut clenched, because he knew what was coming.

  “I’m sorry to break bad news,” Dr. McKenzie began in his cartoonish voice.

  “My father died.” Lee waited for the other man’s nod to impale him. “When?”

  “Six months ago. A heart attack.” The psych anticipated his next question. “Very quick and an autopsy confirmed nothing could have been done. Our deepest condolences.”

  “It’s not a surprise,” Lee finally managed to say. “Dad was eighty-four and had bypass surgery a year before I deployed. I’d half expected...” His voice failed him. He stared at the sheet caught between his fingers; he was like a child clutching a comforter. “You’ve contacted my siblings?” Thirteen and fifteen years old when Lee was born, their relationship was warm but unessential. Dad had been the rock in his life since their mother’s death when Lee was eleven.

  “Your brother and sister have been informed, as well as the men in your team,” said the SNO, and Lee’s head snapped up. “Dan Jansen and Nathan Wyatt have resigned from the SAS, but Ross Coltrane is still serving. In fact, your troop mates are flying here as we speak.”

  “You’ll be in hospital at least another five days before shipping home,” the doctor explained.

  Lee struggled to find his voice. “They said all my unit died in the ambush.”

  “Steve Langford was the only SAS fatality. Dan Jansen wasn’t on patrol that day.”

  “For a year and a half I’ve mourned my brothers. Now you’re saying three are alive?” A laugh escaped him and it was the strangest sensation, like finding water after a drought. “And they’re coming here?”

  “They all but hijacked a Hercules,” the SNO said drily. “They’ll arrive tomorrow. Nathan Wyatt also informed your fiancée.”

  And just like that Lee’s euphoria abated. “I don’t have one.”

  The SNO frowned then read through his notes. “Juliet Browne...okay...this explains why she’s not with them.” He glanced up, gave a little cough. “Apparently you mentioned that you intended proposing to her. When they found an engagement ring as they cleared out your locker they...ah...gave it to her.”

  The air wheezed out of his pillows as Lee sank into them. Ten grand it had cost him because only the best would do for Jules. “And she accepted it?”

  * * *

  “I NEED TO TALK to him as soon as possible,” Jules told the military representative sitting in her office. “Explain about the ring...about a lot of things.” Hyped on twenty-six hours of nervous adrenaline and three morning espressos, tired of waiting for the ax to fall, she stood up from her desk and paced the carpet. “Why can’t I phone him instead of waiting for his call?”

  Her relationship with Lee followed a pattern, Jules had decided at around three in the morning when she was using her treadmill like a hamster on a wheel. He dropped into her world and blew normal to smithereens, inciting giddy elation quickly supplanted by panic.

  Corporal “call me Kyra” Wallace had arrived to offer information and discuss Lee’s post-release management strategy. Though she’d dressed in mufti to excite less curiosity, the woman’s straight back, clipped speech and laser gaze gave away her profession. For now, only family and close friends knew Lee had been found alive.

  “I understand your anxiety,” said Kyra, “but Sergeant Davis asked to be the first to initiate contact. He’s had so little control over his environment it’s very important to allow him to set the pace. And given the unusual circumstances of your engagement, he said—”

  “Wait.” Jules gripped the edge of her desk. “He already knows the guys gave me his ring?” She’d hoped to be the one to tell him. “Oh God, no wonder he doesn’t want to talk to me!”

  “Not at all,” Kyra soothed. “I understand his first concern was that it might constitute a problem for you.”

  Jules opened her mouth, closed it. Then tried again. “What?”

  “He told Dr. McKenzie and the SNO that he intended to propose and has no issue with his buddies’ action. But he also understands that you accepted the engagement ring as a token of remembrance, not as a pledge.”

  That didn’t make sense. Unless... Needing to sit down, Jules skirted her desk and sank into the leather chair ergonomically designed to support and cradle her. “Earlier you said he doesn’t remember the ambush,” she said. “Post-traumatic...something...amnesia.”

  “Retrograde,” Kyra supplied. “From the head wound sustained during the attack.”

&nb
sp; “Exactly how far into the past does his memory loss go?”

  “We’re still determining that. He recalls patrols but they could date back to previous deployments in the same area.”

  “Could his amnesia extend prior to his deployment?”

  “I know of a couple of cases where memories were lost for about a year, but that’s unusual. However, Sergeant Davis’s head wound wasn’t properly treated and he was beaten into unconsciousness at least twice during captivity.”

  Jules flinched.

  “This is difficult to hear,” Kyra apologized, “but for both your sakes it’s better to be fully briefed. Understanding what he’s been through will help you deal with any changes you see in his physical condition or personality.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jules said briskly. “Tell me everything, I can handle it.” She dug her fingernails into the curved leather armrest. Lee.

  “He’s lost a lot of weight, through a struggle with untreated leishmaniasis.”

  “And that is?”

  “A parasitic disease, common to the area. The symptoms are similar to malaria—fever, weight loss and anemia. There’s also swelling of the spleen. Sometimes the spleen has to be removed but that’s been discounted in Corporal Davis’s case. After a course of drugs he should make a full recovery.”

  Should. And suddenly Jules was terrified again. “What else?” she said.

  “He’s scarred from wearing restraints.”

  “Restraints,” Jules repeated firmly. One of her fingernails pierced the leather through to the rubber foam.

  “He wore ankle shackles constantly and was often chained to a wall. He was found in a windowless room within a mud-brick compound and slept on a mat with one blanket. Though it appears he did get some exercise in an outside yard up until three months ago.”

  And what happened three months ago? Jules wanted to ask, because Kyra’s direct gaze had slid away. But grief had taught her to focus on challenges as they arose.