Page 2 of Scarred Souls

Brandon arrived and pulled the tool from the side of his pack. “What have you got?”

With the flashlight between my teeth, I didn’t answer but got to work prying the boards from the joists. As the strips came away, I tossed them aside.

The smell hit me like a punch to the face.

Body odor. Human waste. Fear.

I swallowed down the urge to vomit when unstoppable images flashed through my mind. Hands reaching for me. Others holding me down. A dull blade against my skin, dirty from the dozens of times it’d already sliced me up. Searing pain as my torturers cut through flesh. And the incessant flickering of the fluorescent light above my cage.

My breaths quickened, and I scrubbed a hand over my face. The scars that covered my arms, legs, and torso tingled as if the flashbacks brought them to life. My head swam. The pounding beneath my ribs skyrocketed.

You can have your panic attack later. Suck it up, and focus on the damn job.

I shone the light into the hole I’d made. From the corner of a concealed basement, a dozen or more grimy, terrified faces stared back at me. The women’s hands were restrained and their mouths gagged.

Captive. Bound. Helpless.

Sourness pooled in my mouth as a fresh bout of nausea washed over me.

Dammit. I couldn’t do this.

Without uttering a word, I staggered back and handed the flashlight to Brandon.

“Good work, Brother,” he said. “We can take it from here.”

He didn’t clap me on the shoulder like he would anyone else in our team. Despite Brandon being one of my oldest friends and the man who’d spearheaded the mission to rescue me, the contact would be barely tolerable.

Since my recovery, not a single soul had laid their hands on my scars without suffering repercussions.

If they were lucky, the rabid beast I turned into let them off with a vicious warning.

If they weren’t, they ended up in the hospital.

Owen approached my side. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

I nodded even as the urge to retch became unstoppable, but my brother knew the drill.

Barely able to breathe, I quickly strode for the exit. My pulse thumped inside my skull. A cold sweat broke out across my skin. I burst through the door into the balmy night air, not making it two steps before purging the contents of my gut. More came up a moment later. The acidic bile burned in my throat. I coughed and wiped my mouth, then braced my hands on my knees.

Fuck.

I really needed to get my shit together.

A lone coyote howled in the distance. Over the radio, someone called in the Black Hawk and Humvees for exfil.

I stood and propped my hands behind my head, drawing in ragged breaths while staring at the moonlit ranges in the distance.

This had been my life since being rescued six years ago. Sometimes, days went by between panic attacks. Sometimes months. But an unexpected touch or anything that brought forth stark memories of my time in captivity always triggered an episode.

The Black Hawk arrived first. A half dozen Humvees ten minutes later. I sat at the open door of the helo, smoking a cigarette while the team helped victims into vehicles. I felt useless. But you never knew how people responded when they were scared. Some withdrew. Others clung to their rescuers like they were drowning, and I couldn’t risk that happening.

Brandon approached with his combat helmet under one arm and his rifle slung over his shoulder. He ran a hand through his sweaty dark hair. “You all right?”

I took a drag on my cigarette. “Fine.”

“You know, if you wanted to skip the next op, no one would?—”

“I said I’m fine.” Snapping at Brandon wasn’t helpful. He was only looking out for me, the way he always had. I rested my hands on my thighs. “I don’t need to be sidelined. What I need is to stay in the fight so we can take these sons of bitches down.”

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