Page 2 of Hard Corps (Selected Sinners MC 7)

Show me those hands, motherfucker.

The pile of bedding remained motionless.

“Raweenee edeek!” I said in a more demanding tone.

As the mound of blankets began to move ever so slightly, I recognized the unmistakable shape of the barrel of an AK-47 as it exposed itself from the cover of the bedding.

My vision narrowed to the threat, and I could actually hear my heart beating. My throat constricted and instantly went dry. Everything surrounding me became distant, and the only thing that mattered was the location of the barrel. The AK-47 was the weapon of choice for the majority of the resistance against us, and had become a common sight. Although there was no doubt whoever was beneath the blanket had the means to resist, so far they hadn’t actually done so. The fine line we were required to walk regarding the use of deadly force had cost the life of many a Marine, but was a requirement nonetheless. Until the person with the rifle became an actual threat, the possibility existed that they were prepared to turn over the weapon and surrender, and we were required to treat them as such. Until he pointed the weapon at us or fired it, we were to treat him as if he were friendly.

I stood firm, anxiously waiting on whoever was beneath the blankets to reveal themselves.

“Weapon!” I heard Grayson shout.

“Shut the fuck up, Private. I see it,” I said over my shoulder as I maintained focus on the tip of the barrel.

“Raweenee edeek!” I shouted in an attempt to get him to release the weapon and show his hands.

A thin man jumped from the blankets without any warning, and the barrel of the weapon swung toward where I was standing. It was all that was necessary for me to act in self-defense. Without thought, the tip of my index finger slipped inside the trigger guard and pulled against the trigger twice.

His body jolted from the impact of the two bullets, and his hand instinctively pulled the trigger, discharging a few rounds into the far wall. As he dropped his weapon to the floor and fell to his knees, his eyes revealed the unmistakable regret he felt for doing what he had done.

“Hold your fire,” I said flatly as I watched him collapse.

On his knees, staring up at me with hopeful eyes, he held out his weathered hand.

Why?

Why didn’t you fucking surrender?

I kicked the weapon to the side. “Someone secure that weapon, and get this bedding searched.”

I shifted my gaze to meet the blank stare of the man I had shot. His eyes appeared to be that of a thirty-year-old man, but the sun damaged skin of his face seemed to be sixty, common for the people of Iraq.

“He’s alive. Cunningham, get a Corpsman in here and see if you can find a Terp,” I shouted.

“Fuck that Haji motherfucker,” Grayson blurted as he kicked along the pile of blankets positioned around the perimeter of the room.

“Find me a Corpsman and a fucking interpreter!” I demanded.

Just hang on for a few minutes, I’ve got help en route.

I glanced down at his wounds. One of the rounds struck him in the left side of the upper chest, and the other slightly higher, closer to his clavicle. With quick medical attention, he might survive, but the chest wound needed immediate action if he was going to live. I reached for his outstretched hand, held it in mine, and waited for a Corpsman. As he looked into my eyes, he calmly spoke in a manner and tone I perceived as apologetic. Although I had learned a few of the necessary phrases, I was not fluent in Arabic, and needed an interpreter to not only understand what he was saying but to interview him before he died.

Determining the locations of any other resistance we were likely to encounter would be helpful, and I had learned a dying man was more willing to be truthful than one who believed he was free from the threat of death.

In seeing as many men die as I had, there seemed to be one common thread in the few seconds immediately preceding death – regardless of race, religion, or skin color.

Death took the dying to a peaceful place.

I positioned my weapon over my shoulder, knelt in front of him, and cut the front of his shirt open. The chest wound was considerably lower than I expected it to be, and was discharging blood with each heartbeat. If he didn’t receive medical attention immediately, he would undoubtedly be added to the long list of men I had killed in my 16 months of combat.

“Anyone got a chest seal or catheter?” I asked over my shoulder as I studied the wound.

The sound of shuffling boots and a few light sighs was my only response.

With our eyes locked, he blinked a few times before his mouth curled into a shallow smile. It was a smile not of joy, but of comfort. I silently studied him, wondering if he had a family, kids, or a wife. I wondered if he was forced to fight, did so out of a feeling of need, or if he was simply guarding what was once his home. As he continued to gaze at me and smile lightly, I did my best to return the gesture. A few seconds later he released his grip on my hand and slumped against me.

Well, fuck.