And that thought galvanized me into action: now was not the time to go to pieces. I whipped out my phone and scrolled through to find the emergency Satcomms number that Sebastian had given me. Emergencies only he’d said – this sure as hell qualified.
The man at reception looked like he wanted to say something about my liberal use of the hotel’s telephone, but my ferocious expression stopped him.
I dialed quickly, and it was answered on the second ring.
“Grant.”
Oh!
“Captain Grant, this is Lee Venzi. I need a favor: I’m in Kabul but I have to get back to Leatherneck. Can you help me get papers, transport, anything?”
“Miss Venzi?” He sounded surprised and annoyed. “How did you get this number? Look, now isn’t a good time.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s urgent, Captain.”
For only the second time since I’d known him, he swore.
“I’ve just lost three of my men, and a further two are Cat A wounded, and…”
I screamed at him.
“I know that!”
“How the hell do you know that?” he barked back.
“It doesn’t matter – I just do.”
“The fuck it doesn’t! If someone is leaking our movements and…”
I took a deep breath: losing it now was not helping.
“No!” I managed to say, in a more measured tone. “No, it wasn’t anything like that: I have a medic friend at Bastion’s field hospital; I got the information from him.”
“I didn’t take you for a ghoul, Lee,” he said grimly.
“Fuck you, Grant!” I snarled. “I have a friend who is just being operated on and I don’t know if he’s going to get through alive so just fucking get me there!”
There was a short pause.
“You’re talking about Hunter, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, trying not to let my throat close up.
“Okay, Miss Venzi,” he said, in a more even tone. “I’ll see if I can pull some strings to get you there. But don’t call this number – and don’t ask me again.”
“I won’t,” I barked into the phone.
“Where are you staying?”
I gave him the hotel’s address and hung up.
I thought he’d try to help me, but he had other men to worry about – other casualties. I chewed on a nail, wondering who else I could call on.
Inspiration struck: there was one more number I could try: Ches Peters – Sebastian’s best friend. A man whom I was pretty certain despised me.
I did the math to work out the time difference: it was about seven o’clock in the evening in San Diego. He had two young kids, so I hoped he’d be home.
The phone rang three times before it was answered.
A child’s voice trilled down the line.
“Hello, Peters’ residence. This is Ben Peters speaking.”
“Hi, Ben. Can I talk to your daddy, please?”
“He’s making popcorn,” said the little boy.
“Could you get him for me? It’s important.”
There was an angry huff, a short pause where I could hear muffled voices, and then I heard Ches come on the line.
“Hello, who’s this?”
“Ches, this is Lee… this is Caroline Venzi… I was Caroline Wilson and…”
“I know who you are. What do you want?”
His voice was cool, but full of unspoken contempt.
“I need your help. Well, Mitch’s, I guess – I know he’s still in the Marines. I’d have called him direct but I don’t have his number.”
I realized I was babbling: I needed to focus.
“Ches, I’m calling from Afghanistan: Sebastian has been hurt. Pretty badly…”
I had to hold the phone away from my face for a moment, stifling the choking sobs that bubbled up my throat.
“How bad?” Ches whispered.
“Bad. They’re taking him into surgery now. They might… they’re talking about amputating his right leg.”
I heard Ches’s shocked curse.