A JAG Fan-fiction Story © 2002 Sheri Mitchell
	Harm must face his demons head-on when he returns to the Afghan prison
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JAG HQ – 08:00

In a unison borne of practice and honed by their unique awareness of each other, Harm and Mac stepped briskly up to the admiral’s desk and halted. Harm’s spine straightened just a bit more. "Good morning, Admiral."

The admiral looked up from his work. "Good morning, Commander. Colonel. At ease."

As she assumed the at-ease position, Mac noted the admiral hadn’t offered them a seat, as he normally did before their morning briefing. Suddenly, she was on alert. She knew her C.O. well. He only kept his officers on their feet when delivering news he didn’t think they’d like.

"Commander, I have an assignment for you. Early last week, a Marine strike force took control of the Afghan prison you were confined to. During the process, they took into custody several men who are now claiming to be citizens who were incarcerated there. We need a visual identification in order to sort out the Afghan rebels from anyone they may truly have been holding. You leave for Afghanistan in one hour."

Barely able to believe what she was hearing, Mac fired a worried glance at Harm. The color had drained from his face and she saw him swallow hard as he came to attention. "Aye, aye, sir."

"I’m sure you’ll need time to prepare. Dismissed, Commander."

Mac swore she saw Harm sway slightly as he executed an about-face and strode from the room. The instant he was gone, she turned back to the desk. "Admiral...sir, with all due respect, you can’t send him back there! It’s too soon. He’s only been back on full duty for a month!"

Admiral Chegwidden rose very slowly to his feet, his expression dark and foreboding. "Colonel, I don’t recall giving you permission to speak freely."

Mac snapped to. "Sir, no sir. I’m sorry, Admiral."

The rigidity in the admiral’s shoulders eased slightly. "So am I, Colonel, sorry Cdr. Rabb is being asked to do this, but active duty is active duty. The Marine forces in Afghanistan need what he’s got."

"I understand, sir, but surely—"

"However," the admiral cut right across her words, "I’m not insensitive to how difficult this is going to be for the commander, so you’re going to go with him. Ostensibly you will be there to ensure the fair treatment of the prisoners, but in addition to that – and to offering what moral support you can – I have another assignment for you, one you will not reveal to the commander."

The hair on the back of Mac’s neck prickled sharply. "Yes, sir?"

The admiral hesitated a moment, then waved to a chair. "Have a seat, Colonel."

Coming now, the offer was nothing but ominous. She took a seat as he rounded the desk and reclaimed his own chair. "Colonel, it’s come to the attention of the C.O. of the Marine strike force that some of the men who were in control of the prison at the time Cdr. Rabb was being held may, in fact, be US Marines."

Mac couldn’t breathe. She stared at the admiral, knowing her mouth was hanging open, but she couldn’t do anything about that either. Some of the men who’d done those horrible, unspeakable things to Harm – who’d almost destroyed him – were Americans? Marines? It was ludicrous. It was inconceivable. It was treason!

Admiral AJ Chegwidden watched the range of emotion play over the colonel’s face, wondering which one was going to win out. It was the utter, complete indignation that finally stuck. He took a deep breath and continued with the story.

"For several months, the CIA has been keeping a dossier on a group of Marines who deserted and apparently joined the Talaban forces. The Marine Corps was aware of the desertions, of course, but they weren’t aware the these Marines had gone over to the Talaban. Shortly after Cdr. Rabb was released, the dossier came to light. I have no doubt Clayton Webb played a hand in that."

"Sir, if these men are Marines, can’t they be identified by comparing them to the photos on their service record?"

"Not to everyone’s satisfaction, I’m afraid. Many of them have been gone for months. They’ve lost weight, grown or lost facial hair, and in some cases even acquired scars that hamper visual identification."

"Then why send Harm?"

"His mission is exactly as I told him, ID his captors so we can sort them out from the prisoners. Once he’s done that, it will be your job to secure blood samples for DNA comparison. You will not inform him of the possibility some of these men are Marines. That order comes directly from the top, Colonel, and I concur. This is a very delicate situation. If the press should get wind of a band of ex-Marines running a Talaban prison camp.... We do not need a loose canon out there. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir."

"Besides, Colonel, I think the commander has been through enough. Adding insult to injury like this won’t serve any purpose except to make it worse."

Mac had to agree with that. Harm was back on his feet, but he was still recovering. Of course, he tried to make everyone think things were back to normal, that he’d put it all behind him, but Mac knew better. They all did. He was still healing, and now, the commitment to duty he’d worked so hard to regain was asking him to reopen all the old wounds.

When she came out of the admiral’s office a few minutes later, she went straight to Harm’s office, but the door was closed, the blinds lowered. Mac stood at the door, not sure if she should go in or not. He probably needed time to wrap his brain around this, but she didn’t want him to think he had to go through it alone. In the end, she walked away sadly. The closed door and blinds demanded – begged for – privacy.

Sitting at his desk, Harm took several slow, deep breaths, willing his hands to stop shaking. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t go back there. But he had to. He’d fought a long and hard battle to win back the right to wear the uniform. After months of questioning himself and rummaging around in his own soul to find the commitment that went with the clothes, he wasn’t about to shirk his duty the first time it asked something difficult of him.

He would get through this the same way he always had, with guts and determination...and the unwavering support of the woman in the office next door. Before he could too closely examine the sudden need that gripped him, Harm pushed to his feet and strode from the office.

A soft knock made Mac look up. Harm stood in the open doorway, leaning against the frame in pose that was almost casual – almost. The expression on his face destroyed the image. He looked at her with a silent desperation that had her up and moving around the desk before she was conscious of it.

Snared by an overwhelming desire to take him in her arms, she had to settle for putting a hand on his back, encouraging him to come inside.

She had no idea what to say to him. Before she could come up with something, he gripped her hand in a brief, tight squeeze. "I’m okay. I’ll be fine."

"Uh-huh," she said softly.

"I’ll...call you when I get there."

"Uh-uh."

She saw his frown and gave him a gentle smile. "You won’t need to. I’ll be right beside you." His frown transformed into confusion. "The admiral is sending me to ensure the prisoners are treated fairly."

His face clouded instantly. "You mean like they treated me?"

"No," she said slowly, "like our way of life demands we treat anyone accused of a crime."

He let out an explosive breath, and with it, some of the tension that was coming off him in waves. "I know, Mac. I’m sorry. This isn’t going to be easy, but I’ll get through it."

Mac couldn’t help it. Office protocol be damned, she put her arms around him and held him tightly. "We’ll get through it – together."

The closer they got to Afghanistan, the quieter Harm got. By the time they touched down on the Seahawk, it was becoming hard to get more than two words in a row out of him.

They were scheduled to fly out to the prison site the following morning, and once they reported to the skipper, they were off-duty till then. It didn’t surprise Mac one bit when Harm disappeared.

She knew right where he’d be, but gave him some time alone before going up to the weather deck. He stood, leaning against the rail, the wind whipping his hair as he watched the steady comings and goings of the aircraft on the deck below. With a monstrous roar, a Tomcat launched, rising steeply into the sky the instant it cleared the carrier. Harm watched it go and she could see the sudden tension in his frame. She knew with total certainty that, in his mind, he was in that cockpit.

She slid quietly into place beside him at the rail. "Wish you were out there?"

He didn’t answer for a moment. "Now more than ever," he said finally. Shoving off the rail, he straightened. "Mac, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but to be honest, I’d really like some time alone right now."

"Are you sure?"

The smile she was sure was supposed to be persuasive came across sad instead. "Yeah, I am. Just for a while."

She put a hand on his back, whispering softly, "All right, but if you want to talk, you know where I’ll be."

He nodded, turning back to the rail. Mac stood a moment longer, then slowly made her way back inside.

Sitting on the helo the next morning, Mac could literally feel the tension radiating from Harm. He sat gazing stoically straight ahead, making no effort to look out at the monotonous brown of the desert skimming by below them.

She was used to him chatting or discussing their current assignment during transport, ignoring even the roughest ride. He was so comfortable in anything that flew, he was oblivious to even extreme turbulence that would have her guts tied in knots. But today, in the ultra-smooth helo, he didn’t say a word.

From her seat, Mac watched as a small walled encampment grew steadily larger. It looked a lot like the prison she had gone to in search of Kabhir, only smaller. And unlike that prison, this one was under the control of the US Marine Corps.

The helo set down outside the front gates. Mac popped off her seatbelt and grabbed her gear. Harm was a little slower to respond. When he finally rose and picked up his own kit, she saw him hesitate slightly before stepping out onto Afghan soil.

They were escorted through the gates into the central compound. Like the other Afghan prison she had seen, this one was constructed in the shape of a hollow square. A low covered walkway lined all four sides, shading the entrances to rooms laid out in a row, similar to a roadside motel. Their escort led them to the far left corner of the compound, to a room that had become the office of the strike force C.O., Col. Mason Storey.

A squat, thick-necked bulldog of a man, Storey had to look up at Harm. "Commander, I hope this place looks a little friendlier than the last time you were here."

"Friendlier, yes," Harm replied, his tone empty and formal, "but no more inviting, sir. I’d like to get this over with ASAP, Colonel."

"I understand your discomfort, Commander, but there’s really no rush. There’s not enough light left to get you two back to the carrier today and I’m not willing to risk a helo and pilot on a night run. You’re here till morning."

Mac saw a little more of the color drain from Harm’s face, and wondered briefly how her own must look. She wasn’t too thrilled about spending the night in a place like this and she could only imagine how Harm felt.

"Cool your heels out in the compound for a few minutes," the colonel told them, "and I’ll have each of the suspected guards brought out one at a time."

"Yes, sir," Harm replied, his lack of enthusiasm plain.

When Mac turned to go out with him, the colonel stopped her. "Lt. Col. MacKenzie, if you’ll remain for a moment."

Reluctantly, Mac turned back as Harm went out.

His guts on fire, Harm stepped out of the colonel’s office. Although low in the sky, the sun still blazed. Sweat gathered and trickled down his spine. Oh, he knew that feeling well!

He also knew that in a few hours, it would be bitterly cold, dark and quiet out here. After the sun went down, everyone who had been out in the daylight would scurry inside. And everything that had been hidden from the strong light of day would come out.

He resisted the urge to brush away the remembered skittering of tiny creatures on his skin.

A Marine corporal came up to him, offering a sharp salute and dragging him thankfully back to the present. "Sir, I’ve been ordered to show you to your quarters. If you’ll follow me, you can stow your gear."

The young man started across the compound but when Harm saw the direction he was heading, his steps slowed. An overwhelming anxiety gripped him by the lungs and wouldn’t let go. He was not going anywhere near that corner of the compound, and absolutely nothing on earth would change that.

"Corporal!" The kid stopped, looking back questioningly. "Uh, where are the heads around here?"

"Right over there, sir," the corporal replied, pointing where Harm knew he would, to a corner on the side of the compound they’d just come from.

He stepped a little closer to the young Marine and lowered his voice. "Any chance of getting a room on this side?" He put a hand to his stomach. "I’m fighting a bit of a stomach bug, if you know what I mean."

Understanding dawned on the corporal’s face. "Ah, yes sir. I think we can work something out. We put Col. MacKenzie over here for privacy, since we don’t exactly have a lot of women present, but there’s one other empty room. I can move a cot in for you if you’d like, sir, but the room’s a little small."

That’s fine, Corporal. I don’t mind small." It wasn’t quite the truth, but as long as it was above ground, he’d manage.

After meeting with the colonel regarding the suspected Marine deserters, Storey asked a freckle-faced young corporal to escort Mac to the wing on far side of the compound where the prisoners were being held. She wanted a chance to interview them alone, before Harm made his identification.

As she followed the corporal across the compound, a strange, almost morbid curiosity gripped her as she tried to see the place as Harm would see it. She couldn’t do it.

Something must have registered on her face, however, because the corporal stopped suddenly, looking around the compound as if he’d never seen it before. "It sure is a different world here, isn’t it, ma’am? If some of the criminals in the US had to live like this, maybe our crime rate would be lower."

"Maybe so, Corporal, but this facility didn’t house criminals lawfully convicted of a crime," she reminded him.

"That’s true, ma’am. In fact, I heard that before we took the place, a captured US navy officer was held here. Kept him in that hole right over there." He pointed to a dark iron grate set into the ground only a few feet away. "I can’t imagine what that must have been like. Can you, ma’am?"

Oh, she could imagine all right, but she knew full well her imagination could not possibly come close to the reality she had seen in the haunted look in Harm’s eyes.

Her gaze fixed on the grate as a fresh wave of horror rose within her. She wanted to turn away, but she was drawn to it by a powerful force she couldn’t quite name. As she approached, she realized the grate was lying on solid ground. Beside it, a dark hole yawned wide, like an entrance to hell.

Mac swallowed against a dryness in her throat that had nothing to do with the desert heat. This was the pit Harm had spent three and a half months in, brought out only for interrogation and torture. Now that she was closer, she could see the remnants of a wooden framework on the ground. This was probably what they used to hoist him out. He’d described to her how they left him hanging above the hole in the brutal heat.

Unable to stop herself, Mac leaned over to look down into the pit. The darkness tried to swallow her whole.

For one brief moment of horrifying clarity, Mac was there. She saw it all, felt it all. The pain, the hunger and thirst, the overwhelming despair and humiliation. In the time it took to draw a single breath, she lived it all, right beside him.

Abruptly, her stomach recoiled. She turned away an instant before its contents boiled up. Gagging and coughing, she braced her hands on her knees, fighting to get herself under control.

The corporal was at her side in an instant. He reached out to help her, then hesitated, clearly uncertain what to do.

Swallowing against the vile taste in her mouth, Mac forced herself to straighten up. "I’m all right," she mumbled.

"Yes, ma’am," the young man answered, flushed a bright red against his freckles. "It’s...it’s probably the heat."

"I’m sure you’re right," she lied. "Let’s skip the interviews for now. I’ll just go to my quarters and clean up."

"Yes, ma’am. Right this way."

As she followed him back across the compound, she spotted Harm coming out of a room near the far end of the wing. When she saw him start in their direction, she prayed she looked better than she felt.

Apparently, she didn’t. He got to within a few feet of them, then his pace suddenly increased. He was at her side in an instant. "Hey, you okay? You’re as white as a sheet."

"I’m fine," she mumbled.

"The colonel’s finding the heat a little...difficult," the corporal supplied. Mac didn’t know whether to slug the kid or kiss him. It offered a good explanation, but it also caused the worried frown on Harm’s face to darken further.

"Are you sure you’re all right?" he asked quickly.

"I’m fine," she repeated. "I’m just going to go clean up a bit." As she strode away, she caught a glimpse of the change in Harm’s expression. He didn’t believe her for a minute.

Harm watched Mac go, knowing darn well it wasn’t the heat bothering her. She took the heat better than he did. He thought about questioning the young corporal still hovering beside him, but decided against it. He would keep an eye on her, though. Something wasn’t right.

Standing in the middle of the compound, Harm realized he had a choice to make. He could stand out here and bake or he could escape to the shade. The prisoners would be coming out soon, and he would have to go down to that wing to see them. It made sense to wait for Mac in front of that wing.

He still couldn’t go anywhere near the far corner, where the gaping mouth of a demon waited, ready to swallow him, but if he kept to the opposite side of the compound....

His mouth dry enough to spit sand, Harm made it to the prison wing. Waiting near the corner, he strategically positioned himself so his back was to the pit. Mac joined him a moment later, briefly touching his back as she stepped up beside him. To anyone else, it would have appeared she was merely alerting him to her presence, but Harm felt the subtle hesitation that turned it into a silent gesture of support.

Col. Storey arrived and nodded to one of the armed guards stationed along the row of cells. The guard moved to one of the doors as the colonel turned to Harm and Mac. "There are five men we’re uncertain of. The rest have been confirmed as being prisoners at the time of the takeover."

Harm’s stomach clenched painfully as the first man was brought out. He couldn’t even see his face yet, but he couldn’t stop the flood of apprehension that washed over him. Standing stiffly at ease, Harm squared his shoulders, forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply.

The guard roughly shoved the prisoner forward then yanked on his sleeve so he stopped directly in front of Harm. For a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to meet the man’s eyes. He finally forced himself to look at the prisoner’s face.

Dirty and disheveled, the man gazed at Harm, dark eyes boring into him. A malevolent, knowing smile spread across the prisoner’s face.

A barrage of memories slammed into Harm, nearly driving him to his knees. He saw that same vile grin, hovering over him as he crouched in that stinking pit, saw those eyes glowing with a twisted, fanatic gleam as he was hoisted high in the air. Every muscle in his body screamed with the urge to strike out against the smug arrogance. Behind his back, his hands curled into fists. It took everything he had to keep still. "That’s one of ‘em," he said quietly.

Standing close beside him, Mac could see the fine tremor that went through Harm as he identified one of his captors. She ached with the desire to touch him, to put an arm around him or at least take his hand—something to offer some support, but she didn’t dare.

This had to be agonizing for him, facing these men like this, but he stood, rigid and stoic. Mac was sure no one else could tell what this was costing him, and somehow, that made it even worse. She was right here beside him, but he still had to go through this alone.

Each of the other four men were brought out in turn. Harm positively identified two more, but wasn’t sure about the others. As the last man was led away, she watched Harm take a quick step back, unlocking muscles that had been held too rigid for too long. He gave a minute shake of his head, as if trying to clear his mind.

Mac stepped close to him and kept her voice low, but she couldn’t hide the urgency in it. "Are you okay?"

He nodded quickly, too quickly. "Fine."

The single clipped word belied its very declaration. Harm was not fine, not by a long shot, but as she watched him turn to speak to the colonel, gathering his tough naval aviator persona around him like a cloak, she knew he would be. It would take some time, but he would be.

Mac was praying Harm wouldn’t want to hang around the prison wing, and she was right. The moment he was dismissed, he strode away across the compound. She noted he kept to one side, the side opposite the pit she’d visited earlier.

Mac turned to the colonel. "Sir, I’d like to obtain blood samples from all five men. Even the ones Cdr. Rabb couldn’t positively identify. Just because he wasn’t sure they were here doesn’t mean they weren’t."

"I agree," the colonel said quickly. "I’ll make the arrangements to have the samples collected. We’ll keep them on ice in our temporary sickbay till you’re ready to leave tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir, and could you package them discretely? I don’t want to have to explain what I’m carrying back."

The colonel glanced in the direction Harm had gone. "I understand, Colonel. We’ll wrap ‘em up so you can put the package in your kit."

"Thank you, sir. Now, I’d like to interview the men."

****

As expected, Mac got nothing from the prisoners. None of them would even admit to speaking English. It was hard to believe any of these men were once proud Marines, but she kept thinking back to Gunnery Sergeant Galendez. The gunny had looked so much like a native, she hardly recognized him.

The sun had slipped below the horizon while she was conducting the interviews. She grabbed a quick bite of chow and then went in search of Harm. No one had seen him since he’d made the identifications.

She found him in his quarters, a tiny, windowless room next door to hers. He had the door open, but the room still felt like a cave.

Harm was stretched out facing the wall on a small folding cot. Mac knocked softly, but there was no response. She raised her hand to knock again, but he stirred finally, rolling over slowly.

She stepped into the room, wishing she had some magic words that could ease the pain in his eyes. "How you feeling?"

"Used up," he said flatly.

"Did you get some sleep?" she asked, knowing how stupid that sounded.

He covered his face with one hand. "No. Didn’t even try."

Her heart aching, Mac simply stood. She wanted to go to him, but something held her back. He was so completely closed off. It was as if he’d erected a barrier around himself as thick as the walls of this prison.

"Harm—"

"Mac, don’t." He bit off the words. "Not right now, okay? I don’t want to talk about it right now."

"I understand," she lied. "It’s...it’s getting late. Try to get some sleep."

He didn’t answer. He simply rolled back toward the wall. Her heart in her throat, Mac silently left the room.

Several hours later, Mac was still awake. After the heat of the day, she reveled in the brisk chill of the night air. In the privacy of her quarters, she’d changed out of her damp uniform shirt, slipping on a light tank top. It wasn’t quite regulation, but it was close enough.

Despite the relief from the heat, Mac couldn’t sleep. She was worried about Harm, but her insomnia went even beyond that. Ever since they arrived, she’d been feeling a deep unease. She kept telling herself it was because of what happened to Harm, but she swore there was an evil here, a vile presence in the very earth beneath them.

Suppressing a shudder, she paced the small, rough-hewn room. The air was cool, but utterly still and the room still felt stuffy. In hopes of finding at least a small breeze, she opened the door a few inches. Nothing. The air outside was as still as it was inside.

In the stillness of night, Mac heard a soft sound. Trying to identify it, she opened the door wider, listening hard. It came again, a low moan.

Mac went completely still. She knew that voice as well as she knew her own. It was Harm.

Slipping outside, she hurried to his room. Pausing in the open doorway, she peered into the darkened room. A shaft of pale moonlight slashed across the floor, giving just enough light to see the cot on the far side. Harm was sleeping on his side, facing toward her now. He flinched suddenly, thrashing onto his back, mumbling something incoherent.

As she feared, he was having a nightmare. She knew he’d been plagued by them in the weeks following his rescue from this awful place and it didn’t surprise her that coming back here had reawakened the demons inside him.

He cried out again, louder this time. Worried someone would think something was seriously wrong and sound the alarm, she darted across the room, going to her knees at his side.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a moan. "No! No more!" he pleaded, his voice a harsh, strangled whisper.

Swallowing down the lump of tears that suddenly clogged her throat, Mac caught his shoulders. "Easy, Harm. Wake up. Wake up now."

He thrashed against her restraint, fighting with a growing frenzy. "Stop it! No, don’t!"

Mac shook his shoulders hard. "Wake up! Harm, you’re dreaming. It’s all a bad dream, now wake up!"

At last, his eyes flew open and he went still. His body slick with sweat, the rigid muscles beneath her hands stayed rock hard for a long time before they finally began to uncoil.

"Mac?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Yeah, it’s me. You were having a bad dream."

He let out a huge sigh, and more of the tension left him. She didn’t need to restrain him any longer, and her touch turned soothing instead.

"I haven’t had a nightmare in weeks! I thought they were finally gone for good," he groaned.

"Hey, this place would give anyone nightmares," she said honestly.

"If you think this is bad, you ought to try the economy rooms on the other side. The basement suite is particularly interesting."

She could barely see him, but she stared anyway. "Harm, I can’t believe you said that! How can you joke about it?"

He gave a dry laugh. "Just following doctors’ orders. They tell me humor helps."

Mac shook her head. "Well, whatever works. Now, if you’re all right, I’d better get out of here. If anyone saw me come in, we’re both going to have some explaining to do."

She started to draw away, but he caught her hand. "Don’t go." Mac hadn’t realized it before, but he was trembling. His voice was rough and filled with a kind of pain she hadn’t heard before. "I don’t care what people might say. Stay with me."

He pulled her across his chest, wrapping her in his arms and burying his face in her hair. Something wasn’t right here, she told herself. Even with all he’d been through, she’d never seen him so...frightened. She did her best to sooth him, not sure how to handle this new side to him.

His fierce embrace went on and on until slowly, he began to relax. Mac thought he was drifting back to sleep, but he moved suddenly, stroking her hair. "I’m sorry," he whispered. "I didn’t mean to...overreact like that."

"Was this one worse than the others?" she asked softly.

"Sort of." Releasing her, he rolled over and sat up. He sat for a moment, then took her hand in both of his. "You know I’ve had nightmares about this place ever since I got out of it, but what you don’t know is, I could never remember them. Not one scrap. I’d wake up screaming, filled with a terror way beyond anything I felt while I was actually here, but I never knew why – till now."

"Maybe you were able to remember because I woke you up in the middle," she whispered. "Do you want to tell me what you saw?"

"You." The answer was so soft she almost didn’t hear. "I saw you. Oh God, Mac, it wasn’t me they were torturing, it was you!"

Stunned, Mac didn’t know what to say. He sat there, clinging to her hand, fighting for control and she had no words to comfort him. But maybe she didn’t need words. Sliding her free arm tightly around him, she rested her head on his shoulder, silently offering what words could not.

They sat together for a long moment before he stirred. Turning his head slightly, he softly kissed her cheek. Startled, she lifted her head to look at him but before she could get a word out, his mouth came down on hers.

His kiss was desperate this time, urgent and hungry. He crushed her against him, his sudden, raging desire igniting the fires inside her. She couldn’t help but respond to the urgent demands of his tongue as his hands roamed her body, trailing fire wherever they went.

But a part of her knew this was wrong. Not only were they in a Marine encampment, where intimate relationships were strictly forbidden, but it was wrong in other ways, too. It wasn’t Harm kissing her, touching her, needing her. Not really. It was his fear and guilt overwhelming him. If they went any farther, here, now, like this, they would both regret it.

An instant before she lost herself forever in the heat of his passion, Mac managed to pull away. "Harm, we can’t," she whispered, breathless.

His hands still skimming her back, he tried to pull her close. "Why not?"

"It’s...it’s not right. Not here and not now anyway. We’re in the middle of a war zone!"

"My whole life is a war zone," he groaned, but slowly, he drew his hands away. He folded them in front of him, as if needing to keep an eye on them. "Mac, I’m sorry."

"Don’t apologize. If this were another time, another place..."

"If," he snorted. "It’s always ‘if’ with you and me, isn’t it. ‘If’ we weren’t colleagues. ‘If’ we weren’t involved with other people. ‘If’ I had all my marbles where they belonged. Mac, I am so damned tired of ‘if’!"

Mac tried hard to blink away the sudden sting of tears in her eyes, glad it was so dark in the room. "So am I," she whispered.

He shifted over on the cot, literally putting distance between them. When he spoke, his voice was flat and empty. "Go, Mac, while you still can. We’ll talk later."

Slowly, she rose to do as he asked. Later. It was a word she hated almost as much as if.

In the dim light of the moon, Harm watched Mac go. He meant what he said. He was sick and tired of the twisted complexities of their lives constantly being a barrier between them. He wanted to go after her, to apologize and try one more time to explain, but he didn’t move. A hundred things held him back, including more than a little embarrassment.

This was getting ridiculous. It seemed like every time he got the slightest bit emotional, he ended up pawing Mac like a teenager in rut. When had this become about sex?

It’s not, you moron! came the answer. And it wasn’t. It wasn’t about sleeping with her, it was about wanting – needing – to be close to her, needing her to know how he felt about her. It was about making sure things ended up the way they should between them before it was too late.

Completely drained, Harm flopped back on the cot. How the hell was he supposed to do that when he’d just created another rift between them?

Part 2