Purple Heart, Veiled Heart

By Brindle Chase

In the war torn lands of Afghanistan each new day brings more death. It’s all Kharisse has ever known. When she finds an injured American pilot hiding in her home her world is turned inside out. Both their lives are forfeit if the Taliban find him. Necessity forces them to an uneasy alliance to escape to Pakistan.

Fleeing through Taliban controlled hills with death nipping at their heels becomes the least of her worries. It’s the realization of her undeniable attraction which scares her most. The American is not simply exotic and handsome; he is noble, kind and chivalrous.

For years David had endured women wanting to worm their way into his family’s wealth. They were nothing like the beautiful, courageous Persian he now had to trust with his life. Destiny brought them together and his heart was beginning to understand why.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brindle Chase
• Release date: Jun 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370725229

Brindle Chase

The world is a lonely place without romance. It took me too many years to figure that out, but now that I have, I hope to infect others with its splendor. I’ve always loved the paranormal -- vampires, demons, angels, were-creatures and more. I also love a spicy tale and writing stories that are both has been a fantastic adventure. Sharing it with you makes it all the greater. Join me at www.forlorn-hope.net

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Purple Heart, Veiled Heart

By Brindle Chase

Copyright © 2017 by Brindle Chase. Smashwords Edition.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed form without prior written permission from Brindle Chase. www.forlorn-hope.net

Editor: Brindle Chase

Cover Artist: Brindle Chase

Printed in the United States of America

Published by www.forlorn-hope.net by Smashwords

This book is a work of fiction. Any reference made to actual historical events or existing locations, as well the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Warning

This book contains sexually explicit scenes, kink, violence, and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Adults Only.

Acknowledgements

A big thank you to Jennilinh Dinh and Lois Merrill for their honest and helpful critique.

Purple Heart, Veiled Heart

By Brindle Chase

Chapter One

Every instrument on the helicopter’s panel still working was either blinking, beeping, or spinning. The ones smoking worried Captain David W. Johnson the most. With every fiber of muscle he possessed he tried to keep the joystick straight.

Jacobs hadn’t said anything through the crisis and David didn’t bother to visually verify his co-pilot was dead. Not crashing was his current priority in case the gunner was still alive. The surface to air rocket had scored a direct hit on their starboard flank and he’d lost most rudder control. With the radio out, even if he could decipher his coordinates from the broken and reeling gauges, he couldn’t report his exact location.

The surrounding terrain spun in a blur past the cockpit window. David felt dizzy. Disorientation was a pilot’s worst nightmare but he’d been trained to deal with it. With the entire aircraft lurching and banking wildly and all the while spiraling madly toward the rapidly approaching ground, he prayed for God’s mercy.

Time slowed as he dwelt on his sudden interest in piety. Did he deserve the Lord’s pity? His pampered life as the only son of a wealthy and influential family certainly didn’t help his cause. But he was young and had so much left to give. He’d joined the Marines in his own personal crusade to earn the freedoms he’d already been given on the blood of the poor.

One thing he hadn’t counted on was actually getting killed in the line of duty. Be that as it may, David nodded to himself, embracing the suddenly very real likelihood. Unless some minor miracle occurred, his copter would crash. The impact should do the job. If not and the fuel didn’t cook off and incinerate him, he was still twenty miles deep into enemy territory. The Taliban would finish it.

That was just his luck and David chuckled at the irony. To prove he wasn’t just another kid born with a silver spoon in his mouth had turned out to be his undoing. All this to avoid going into politics like his dad wanted. Maybe it was more to dodge his mother’s attempts to hook him up with a girl from the right family. It was as if the cosmic forces of the world were making fun of his futile efforts to escape the fate his parents wanted for him.

Nice guys really do finish last it seemed.

And then to add a splash of guilt, he wondered about the squad he was supposed to evacuate. Last he’d heard from command, they were being overrun and needed immediate support. David was supposed to get them out of there. He sighed in defeat and tried not think about anything but his immediate predicament.

David snapped out of his thoughts as the barren, ruddy brown terrain of Afghanistan leapt from the earth and slammed into his aircraft. The hull crumpled beneath him and the impact shook his entirety so hard he swore a wrecking ball had smashed into him.

The rotors slowly wound to a stop and oily smoke choked his every breath. Sparks spit from his console and his first two questions had been answered. The collision hadn’t killed him and the fuel tanks didn’t explode. It was to be death at the hand of Taliban extremists.

No. Not without a fight.

David knew in his heart he wasn’t up to the tortures he’d heard they would employ. The sinister and sadistic methods they used were barely conceivable. The thought of his decapitation being filmed and sent so his mother could watch was too much. How could humans do such horrific things to other human beings? No, if they were about to catch him, he’d take his own life first. After he gave them a fight to remember.

Reaching down, he gave his sidearm a tug to make sure it was still neatly tucked in its holster. Excruciating pain answered him. He groaned knowing this was not a good thing, took a deep breath and then looked down.

The flight stick had snapped and transformed itself into a crude, jagged spear. It was now lodged deep in his thigh. Murphy’s Law was having a hey-day on his ass. It had to be the adrenaline that kept him from feeling it before, but now he was aware and the pain throbbed in cruel waves.

Cursing under his breath, he yanked the belt off his dead co-pilot and whispered a prayer for forgiveness from Jacobs. He wrapped it around his leg above the wound. Cinching it as tight as he could, he grimaced until the pain was bearable and then crawled out of the cockpit. David made a quick scan around the copter for any sign of the enemy he knew damn well had seen him go down. After all, it was they who’d fired the rocket and they’d be making a beeline for his crash site.

He turned to the open passenger bay and sighed. His gunner, Henson was dead too. Clearing the grim sight from his head, he rummaged and found the medic kit. Inside there were morphine sticks and he stuffed them into a pocket. Taking one, he snapped it in half, releasing the precious pain killing medicine and then jammed the needle into his leg and squeezed. Almost immediately, the pain ebbed to a dull ache.

Much better.

Next, he took the bottle of disinfectant spray and aimed it at the wound. Turning away and gritting his teeth, he depressed the valve. Horrible sting answered and he knew he’d not missed his target. Infection was more of a danger than bleeding out, but either one could kill him. Hissing until the pain ebbed back to a dull morphine controlled throb, he went back to work.

Remembering his emergency procedures, he kept his helmet even though the damn bulky thing was a pain to wear. It couldn’t be allowed to fall into enemy hands with its embedded I.F.F chip. He grabbed up every piece of intelligence onboard, including the dog tags and chips on Jacobs and Henson, and stuffed them into the various pockets in his B.D.U.s.

For the sake of future Marines, he dismantled the firing pin from the side mount M60. The Taliban would never get to use it against his own. Lastly, he flipped the switch for the beacon. Its signal would be picked up by every friendly aircraft within 200 miles. Not that it would do him any good. The only rescue copter in range was the one he just crashed.

David sighed at the thought of his coming plight. They would expect him to make a direct escape to the east. A mere 20 miles to the Pakistan border where he would be safe. It was likely a US patrol would pick him up sooner, but that was a gamble. The Taliban could catch him long before then. With his bum leg, he couldn’t get far and he certainly couldn’t outrun them.

To the west and deeper into enemy territory was a village controlled by the Taliban. That would be the last place they would think to look. If he could find a place there to hide, he could wait until dark, then double back and use the night’s camouflage to cover his escape.

He looked around once more and sighed yet again. May as well. He was a dead man anyway and no greater idea came to mind. Hobbling as fast as his leg would allow, he scampered through the hard, barren rocks of the wastelands toward the small nameless village.

Chapter Two

The automatic weapon fire slowly faded into the distance and Kharisse looked to her hand. It visibly trembled and she couldn’t make it stop. She hated the war and it was taking a ruthless toll on her nerves. The American military had cleared her village only a month ago and as they always did, they moved on. Now the Taliban renegades had returned.

There was always gunfire it seemed, but today it had been particularly abundant. Something remarkable was occurring. Six times she went through the four rooms to her tiny house and checked the locks on the doors and windows. They could easily kick in her door, but she felt better knowing they’d have to consciously choose to use force in order to gain entry.

It was still too dangerous to peek outside. Many of her neighbors, friends and the last of her family had been killed for such daring. Word came every day of another boy having been killed, but the Western news reporters never asked about the innocents killed in the crossfire.

The fighting had been fierce for two hours straight and she knew there would be casualties. She wasn’t sure she could deal with the wounded one more time. It was a severe drain on her sanity, her heart, and her soul. But the streets would be filled with the dead and the dying and they relied on her medical skills, primitive as those might be. Sucking in a deep breath, she held it, and mentally prepared herself to face the carnage.

What was that?

A faint noise broke the eerie silence and she fearfully thought it came from the next room. Her bedroom. The fine hairs on her arm stood straight on end. Terror filled her heart and crept into her throat. It threatened to strangle her before whatever lurked on the other side of her bedroom door could get her.

But this was her home. Hers and hers alone. After the death of her husband, parents, and three brothers, she was all that remained of her family. In a land where women were forbidden property, the wars had kept the Taliban too busy to be concerned with her. Two years now she’d lived alone and she treasured every second of her freedom. Never again would she succumb to the rule of a man. Not if she could help it. This was her house. She’d be damned if she let them take it without a fight. Fire flooded her already churning blood and fed her courage.

She stood, grasped a heavy iron pan and wielded it as a weapon. With slow, measured steps she tiptoed toward the sound. Silently, she wrapped her fingers about the door handle and in a flurry she threw it open and charged in.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. Dressed in digital patterned desert fatigues, the US soldier whirled about and leveled his handgun at her face. Her eyes darted to the weapon. Horror filled her, but she would never let it show. His hands were blood stained, big with strong fingers, and yet seemed dwarfed by the menacing black steel of the pistol.

Terror tightened its cold, deathly grip about her heart and she froze. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a gun pointed at her. There was no getting used to the fright it infused. The wild cornered look in his eye pushed her sense of dread over the brink. He was likely injured, trapped in enemy territory, and she was in his way.

Don’t…scream. He lifted a single finger to his lips and spoke very slowly. Barely above a whisper. His English was strange to the forbidden language she’d been taught in secrecy. But then her father’s tutor had been British.

She decided freezing was best and nodded. A sudden movement might cause him to use the weapon he brandished. If he did and the bullet didn’t kill her, the Taliban who’d come running certainly would.

He hobbled toward her, and his leg came into view. The tan fatigues about his left leg were shredded on the thigh and soaked in dark crimson. A dark, jagged and ugly gash still bleed freely. He had his belt tied like a tourniquet above the injury. She’d seen enough battlefield wounds to know he would die if he didn’t get medical attention.

Sit, he said, using the end of the gun’s barrel to motion toward her small bed. But his condescending tone ignited a new emotion.

I am not a dog, sir.

Shhhh. Not so loud. He winced and stepped toward her.

Reflexively, she took a step backward. Eyeing him warily, she lifted her chin and pursed her lips in defiance. She was terrified but would rather die than let him know it.

I didn’t know you spoke English.

Because I am a woman? She glared at him. He stepped toward her with a crooked frown. His hand came up slowly, but his eyes held her frozen. She’d never seen such blue before. Like the northern skies just before sundown, they glowed cobalt with flecks of gold and lavender.

His fingers curled around her hand and dislodged the wrought iron pan. She’d forgotten she was armed. No wonder he was so skittish. He took it and stepped back, setting her makeshift weapon on the chest by the door.

Because you’re Afghani.

Persian!

Where did you learn English?

She could smell the battle all over him. Oil, gunpowder, sweat, and blood emanated from him in thick wafts. But it brought no revulsion. It was masculine in ways she’d never felt before. The soldier didn’t trust her, so why should she trust him and explain how she, a woman who is forbidden, had come to know his language? No words came to retort with so she summoned another defiant glare.

Alright. I suppose it doesn’t matter, but you have to be quiet. If they catch me, you’ll likely get in a lot of trouble.

Trouble? Was he daft? Trouble was a grotesque understatement.

Yeah, they don’t take kindly to people hiding American troops.

I am not hiding you. You are holding me prisoner, sir.

Yeah. I suppose. But do you really want to risk telling them that? His eyes narrowed and he took a step back from her. He dropped his gun hand to dangle at his side. Loss of blood had made him weak, she thought.

And he was right. They’d have her stripped and beaten to a pulp in the village square before she’d even have a chance at explaining herself. Women were automatically guilty and were allowed no voice.

I won’t cause you trouble, she offered. It was better to cooperate and try to sneak him out by night. She resented the US soldiers, but did not hate them. Despite their arrogance and ignorance, they were far better than the vicious Taliban. She just wanted her house back.

And I don’t wanna bring you none either, but… His words trailed off and she understood quite clearly what he meant. He was caught between a rock and hard place. At best, she was collateral.

Her eyes drifted down his lean body. The uniform was different than the foot soldiers