5. 1942

CHAPTER FIVE

1942

MAX

T he words fall from my lips, and a wave of vertigo hits me so hard, I land on my ass. I blink, my bones rattling and my skin hot from the sun. I'm no longer in the cave. I'm in a moving vehicle bouncing and skidding over the sand, shaking me like a snow globe, and I'm fucking driving.

What the hell?

I try to slam on the brakes, and that's when I realize I can't control my body. Because it's not my body. The tanned hands with chipped nails do not belong to me, yet I am in this body.

Shit. What is going on? Why am I here? And where the fuck am I?

Gunfire right behind me makes me flinch, but the body keeps driving as if it isn't a problem. My mouth moves, and a voice that isn't mine comes out. "How close are they?"

"Too close," another man replies.

Did I die? Is that what's going on?

But that doesn't make sense either.

Nothing makes sense .

The body I'm in turns his head. Which is super disconcerting, as I should be looking at where I'm going given the speed we're traveling. I note the swelling clouds on the horizon. There's a sandstorm approaching, and I sense his concern about being caught out in it. He's more worried about the storm than the bullets pinging off the vehicle and in the sand around us.

If I'm not dead already, it seems like it's about to happen real soon. The body I'm in is sweating, and my heart is racing, but outwardly I'm acting as if being shot at is an everyday event.

Wait…

What was the last thing I remember?

I was studying the skeletons with Harrison…the skeletons of World War Two soldiers who never made it home. Oh, no. It's not possible.

My sleeves are khaki, and the vehicle is muddy colored. It's pretty obviously a military vehicle given the gun mounted behind me.

It makes zero sense, yet it seems I'm in Egypt in World War Two right before these guys get caught in a sandstorm. I'm guessing one of the guys is E Connell and the other is C Brown. Both of whom wind up dead in the cave I'm exploring with Harrison.

I scream, but it's all in my mind. The man whose body I'm riding in doesn't seem to realize he's picked up a hitchhiker from the future.

This shouldn't be happening.

I try willing myself back to Harrison.

Maybe I got bitten by a scorpion and I'm hallucinating, making up a story about the dead guys in the cave. Yeah. That's more believable. I'm in the cave, and this is my mind processing the trauma of finding the bodies and the toxin.

Rationalizing what's happening makes me feel a bit better.

Harrison knows first aid, but how long does scorpion venom take to kill? Will the sandstorm be over before I die? I try to remember what I memorized about snakes and scorpions before the trip, but the erratic driving and the bullets and not being able to control the body I'm in are kind of distracting.

The weapon behind me barks off a few more rounds. I jump because it sounds real, the sweat running down my sides feels real, the guy's worry is so much like my own right now—even though we're panicking about different things. This is definitely a ten out of ten panic situation.

I waste some more time swearing and trying to force the body to obey before I realize it's pointless and that I need to think this through. Nothing I've ever done or studied is helping right now. Breathe…except I can't.

Great.

All I have is my consciousness. Can I talk to him? I'm not sure what good it will do, but I try anyway.

Hey, buddy. What's going on? Who are you? Where are we?

Hellooooo.

Nothing.

Fuck.

I'm along for a ride, and there's nothing I can do. While I've never hallucinated, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be dreaming of grit in my mouth. It crunches between his teeth—I guess they are my teeth for the moment—and my cheeks are warm from sunburn.

The gun rattles, and a cheer goes up.

I assume the enemy vehicle was hit. But I don't even blink. I'm staring at the sand in front of me, glancing to the side only to check on the storm. We're not going to make it back to base before it hits.

My jaw clenches as I check the fuel gauge and run the numbers.

"Where are we, Teddy?" I glance at the man next to him, this time noting his name tag. E Connell. Edward Connell. Teddy. The man in the oversized gold and lapis lazuli bangle. I learned something about Ancient Egypt in the museum. They loved that shit.

Does that mean I'm C Brown? I want to check my name tag, but I can't.

Teddy pulls a map out of his pocket. "Thirty clicks. Unless the storm changes direction, it's going to cut us off."

"Bollocks," I snarl.

"We're close to the ridge," Teddy adds, like that means something.

I nod, like I know exactly what he's talking about. We'll be able to shelter from the storm, but we need to shake the enemy first because we can't fight them in the caves.

Then I realize which caves they're talking about.

Nooo! Don't go into the cave—you'll die there. But I'm screaming to myself.

I try again to convince myself this isn't real. It can't be.

My mind is filling in blanks, that's all. I need to wake up.

But I don't remember getting bitten. The last thing I remember is pulling the golden cat out of the bag.

I can't see a cat or a bag.

There's a bang, and the vehicle bucks. My guy attempts to regain control, but the ride is lumpy. The enemy has hit us.

"How far?" I ask.

Teddy points to a rise to our right. "One click. "

We're approaching the ridge and cave from a different angle than the one me and Harrison took. These guys must have been coming from Libya, which explains why we're being shot at. Had they crossed enemy lines? What were they doing?

My guy scans the sand. I'm not sure what he's looking for, and I don't know how he's keeping the vehicle under control, but the tension in his arms and body as he does is incredible. He's driving to save the lives of everyone on board. If he rolls the vehicle, they're dead or captured.

If he stops, it's much the same.

It's like he knows they're fucked, but since there's no other choice, he isn't going to make it easy for the enemy.

"Tell them I'm going to pull in at the rocks and we're going to make a stand, then retreat into the caves until the storm passes. Call it in so HQ knows where we are." My guy bites out the words, like he's ordering dinner in a restaurant and expects Teddy to say something like, "Excellent choice, sir."

The whole ‘calm in the face of disaster' thing he has going on is impressive, even though his stress levels are rising. I feel a connection to him, like I understand how he works.

It's kind of like me when attending an accident scene. It's a mess of emergency vehicles and people, some of whom are injured, but I need to stay calm and make decisions to get everyone stable and to hospital. It sucks when someone doesn't make it.

Teddy folds up the map and does as he's told. I'm guessing he's about my age, but the desert sun and war have gotten to him. My guy looks at him for a second too long, and there's a definite warmth in his chest.

Whoa.

Am I making up some kind of gay fantasy between these two because I've been trying not to pant over Harrison for the last week? I've known him for fourteen years. Looked up to him like an older brother. Yet now, I've suddenly decided that when he's hot and sweaty, he's the best thing I've ever seen, and I want to rub against him like a cat in heat?

I can't even blame the motorbike because he's been riding one since he got his license. Hell, I've ridden on the back of his bike, the nice one he bought after his first deployment. All black and chrome, it was as sexy as fuck, and because I was admiring it, he took me for a spin. My arms were around his waist, and the hard-on I got was because of the bike vibrations.

He'd gotten off the bike and adjusted his own obvious hard-on, calling it a traveling fat. Completely normal. I was nineteen, and I had a girlfriend. I believed him…or at least I wanted to believe him.

I'm sure I can remember the smell of his leather jacket and the way it felt against my cheek, though. The way he felt in my arms.

Damn.

"Radio is nothing but static," Teddy says.

The vehicle comes to a stop behind a rocky outcrop and everyone except the guy on the mounted gun piles out with their weapons ready. There's six of us in total.

Without any words being spoken, they find a place to take up position with the sole aim of taking out the enemy. Only one vehicle is following us.

The other one is stranded some distance back. The storm is getting closer, a towering wall of wind and sand. Sand dances in front of me, skating over the surface before spiraling up .

All the guys have sunglasses on and bandanas pulled up over their mouth and noses. My mouth is dry and gritty, and my heart is beating hard, knowing that not everyone is going to make it to safety. I lie in wait with the sand sticking to my sweaty body.

Down the scope of the rifle, I watch the enemy. A bunch of men who happen to be on the other side of this war. Did they have a choice, or were they forced to enlist? Do they believe in what they are fighting for, or is it just a job?

The man on our vehicle fires at them, and bullets pepper the sand and the enemy vehicle. They return fire, but their vehicle lurches to a halt. They keep shooting at us, the rock, and our vehicle. Our shooter falls off and hits the sand. I wince as his blood stains the sand. Someone runs over to drag him out of the line of fire, then climbs up and takes his place.

That takes balls.

I zero in on one enemy soldier and wait for him to stick his head over the hood. Three rapid shots—each one hits.

"One down," I say, already searching for the next target.

Our gunner takes out the Italian gunner. A new man steps up. The break gives our gunner a chance to go for the fuel tank and ammo on their vehicle. The enemy vehicle ignites with a bang, depriving them of cover, but their new gunner is ruthless. He knows he's going out, and he's taking everyone with him. My face is in the sand, rock chips hitting my back.

I hope they're fucking rock chips.

Someone screams.

The gun on my left goes quiet.

When the shooting stops, I look over. I wish I hadn't—I've see plenty of injuries, but this is somehow worse than a car accident. Half of his head is blown off. My stomach rolls. We're going to die out here.

I don't want to be here. I want to be back in the cave with Harrison. I want to live. Maybe when they reach the cave, I'll wake up from whatever nightmare this is.

But to reach the cave, we need to fight our way out.

I lift my rifle and scan the area through the scope. Nothing is moving, but I don't believe the enemy is all dead. The Italians are waiting for us to move so they can pick us off.

"Who's still with me?" I hiss like I don't want the wind to carry my words to the enemy.

"Willoby."

"Connell."

I wait a couple more seconds, my teeth pressed together. Did I make the right call in stopping to fight instead of leading the Italians to the caves? What were they going to do? Take shelter together and share rations?

I move slowly so as not to draw attention and assess our vehicle. I'm no mechanic, but I can tell it's fucked, and so is the second guy to take the gun. He's slumped over, clothes more red than green.

The storm has darkened the sky, and the wind is picking up.

I'm clenching my jaw so hard, I'm about to break a tooth.

We can't wait forever, but neither can the Italians. Not unless they want to be caught out in the storm. I'm stressing. I don't want to be in the storm, but I know Teddy and Brown don't make it out of this alive.

So what the hell happens?

I catch myself. I've gone from thinking this is a dream to believing its real.

If I'm stuck either way, does it matter?