In the Ring

  IN THE

  RING

  IN THE

  RING

  A DAN STAGG MYSTERY

  BY JAMES LEAR

  Copyright © 2018 by James Lear.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 101 Hudson Street, Thirty-Seventh Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph: Shutterstock

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-236-4

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-237-1

  IRAQ SUICIDE BOMB ATTACK: DEATHS IN BAGHDAD RISE TO 45

  The number of people killed in Thursday’s suicide bomb in the Iraqi capital, Baghdad, has risen to 45, interior ministry officials say. The blast also injured 120 people. A car packed with explosives was driven into a market square where civilians were doing their shopping, and exploded on colliding with a US military vehicle transporting personnel to a nearby base.

  Only three American troops were killed. Their names have not yet been released, as next of kin are informed. The rest of those killed are thought to be Iraqi civilians. The so-called Islamic State (IS) has said it carried out the suicide attack.

  SENIOR US OFFICER AMONG DEAD IN BAGHDAD BLAST

  A US Army general was among the victims of the suicide bomb in the Iraqi capital, Baghdad, on Tuesday. Colonel Dan Stagg, 43, was one of three military personnel thought to have been targeted in the attack. Second Lieutenant Mark Williams (32) and driver Private Jordan Flowers (24) were also killed by the blast. The remaining 42 civilian casualties were all Iraqi citizens, including five children under the age of eight.

  BAGHDAD TERROR VICTIMS RETURN HOME

  The bodies of three US Army personnel killed in last week’s suicide attack in Baghdad were today flown into Washington DC. Funerals take place next month at the Arlington National Cemetery.

  01

  A line of light. Greenish white, then gone.

  The sound of dishes being washed, chink chink chink, or is it bells, distant bells?

  Silence, a roaring silence like a never-ending explosion, and a sudden pounding in the chest, hard, like someone’s hitting me with their fists, thumping into me, breaking my ribs. Panic, flight, a jerk in the spine and the legs, prepare to run. Fear.

  Awake.

  Everything is white and blurred. I think there’s a TV on somewhere, a screen of some kind. Too much light. Movement, vague circles white out of white, puffy clouds coming closer and receding. Is this death?

  A face at the end of a long tunnel, like looking down the wrong end of a pair of binoculars, ridiculously far away and tiny, so tiny it makes me laugh, the breath coming out through my nose.

  The face getting closer, a brown sun in a blue sky, white clouds, coming towards me like a dolly shot in a movie, taking up more and more of the sky until all I can see is brown skin and white teeth and eyes that look into mine and a mouth that smiles and speaks, hey, you’re awake, hey Dan, how are you doing, buddy? Welcome back.

  And then the clouds cover the sun and the picture goes down to a line like on the old TV at home, a line and then a dot and closedown.

  It was the pain that woke me up in the end, a sharp sensation that cut through the last of my dreams. Awake, alive, and hurting. The pain is real, so I must be real.

  My eyes felt like they’d been tumble-dried and rolled in sand. I tried to lift my hand to rub them, but it weighed about a hundred pounds. Craning my neck, I looked down at it, lying on the white covers of the bed. Looked like my hand—tanned, gnarly, hairy—but didn’t feel like it. Didn’t feel at all, in fact. Shit, I thought, it’s been chopped off and left on top of the bed. It’s no longer part of me. Am I going to get robot parts?

  But the pain. Back to the pain. It was somewhere further down—below the hips, starting around my ass and travelling down to my right foot. Real strong good old-fashioned pain. At least I could feel my legs. I know lots of ex-soldiers who can’t.

  Jesus fucking Christ, it was beyond pain, it was getting into red-hot-blade territory, and I must have yelled because there was a sudden movement beside me, to the left of the bed, just beyond my field of vision, and then a voice.

  “Ah! Dan! You’re back.”

  Sounded familiar, like a dear friend, except I don’t have any friends, let alone dear ones, and God knows it couldn’t be my family.

  “Haahmmmfff.” That was meant to be “who’s that?” but my mouth wasn’t working any better than my hand. Fuck, I thought, if my dick doesn’t work either then I’m in real trouble. That made me laugh, which came out through my nose then got stuck and turned into a coughing fit. My lungs, it seemed, had been filled with hot ash.

  “Okay, okay.” An arm slipped round my shoulders, lifting me gently. “Take it easy.”

  Then the coughing made me belch, and I would have puked if there had been anything in my stomach to bring up other than a bit of foul-tasting bile that dribbled down my chin and neck. I tried to wipe it away, but of course—no hands.

  “Take it easy, Dan.” A soft cloth cleaned my mouth, and I was lowered back on to the pillows.

  That’s when it twigged. I’m a vegetable. Something has happened to me and I’ve lost the use of my limbs, I can’t control my mouth, I probably have to piss through a tube and shit into a diaper. I always wondered about those guys who come back from war zones like this. Do they know what’s going on—how bad it is? Well, apparently they do. Great.

  “Do you have any pain?”

  “Mmmmmm.” I couldn’t nod or form words, but I guess the intonation put it across.

  “A lot of pain?”

  “MmmMMMMMmmm.”

  “Okay. I’m calling the doctor.”

  He stepped away from the bed, into my field of vision, and for the first time I saw him, five foot eight inches of athletic American male poured into a nurse’s uniform, a handsome face that I recognized from somewhere, a dream perhaps.

  He spoke into a phone while I checked his back for wings. No: he appeared to be human, and mortal, which meant I must be alive, if not kicking.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and put his warm, living hand on my cold, dead fingers. Maybe not so dead. Maybe a flicker of response. “He’ll be here in a minute. Hang in there, Dan.” He smiled, and I tried to smile back, which led to more drooling. He smiled and dabbed. “Pain relief is coming.”

  It occurred to me with a sudden jolt that I had no idea where I was. I’ve heard the question asked in a million movies—where am I, Doc?—but now I couldn’t form the words. I glanced around, hoping for clues. My vision was still blurred, but I made out something that looked like the stars and stripes, high up on the wall. A US base, then, if not actually on home soil.

  The pain blasted back, as if my shinbone was being sawn through, and I tensed up, squeezing my eyes shut, all sorts of hell going on in parts of my body I couldn’t identify. A general cacophony of pain. And above it all, a gentle squeeze of my hand.

  “Can you look at me, Dan?”

  I opened my eyes and squinted out. A handsome face always makes me feel better.

  “That’s it. Try and listen. My name’s Luiz. I’m a nurse, and I’ve been looking after you for the last few days, since you got here. You’ve been unconscious for quite a long time, but you’re going to be f
ine. There’s no brain damage.”

  I waited for the but . . .

  “Your leg was pretty smashed up. They’ve pinned it back together, and now we’re just going to let it heal.”

  But . . .

  “The good news is, if it hurts, it’s mending. If you couldn’t feel anything, I’d be worried. The more it hurts, the better.” That sounded like something I’ve said to a lot of young men before, which made me laugh again, with the same messy results. Luiz cleaned me up.

  “Okay, okay. You’d better not laugh any more. Take a few deep breaths, it’ll help with the pain until the doctor gets here. I’m just going to keep talking. Listen to my voice, and look into my eyes.”

  No great hardship. Beautiful brown eyes . . .

  “You’re in the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland.”

  The Navy Med. I’d been here before, maybe four, five times in a career of being shot, blown up, and beaten for Uncle Sam.

  “You arrived three days ago after spending two days in a military hospital in Baghdad.”

  Baghdad. That rang a bell. Baghdad. That’s where I was. And now I’m here in Bethesda. Baghdad, Bethesda, Baghdad, Bethesda, Beghthesda, Big Bad, Bethlehem, Bthzzzzhzhzzh . . .

  His voice muffled, fading, shutters falling again, into a chasm, a deep black chasm that might be death.

  The next time I woke there were three doctors standing around my bed, and a man in military uniform. I recognized the rank before I recognized him: USMC major general, green coat, green trousers, web belt, khaki shirt, khaki tie, black shoes, two silver stars on the epaulettes. My right arm jerked upwards, trying to salute, but all I managed was a faint wave. I couldn’t see his face.

  “He’s coming around,” said a voice I didn’t recognize. “Here he is.”

  “You’re doing really well, Dan,” said another voice. “You’re going to make a full recovery.”

  All I could manage was “Hmmm.”

  They were whispering above me. I was too tired to hear what they were saying. I just wanted to sleep again.

  “Dan . . . Dan? Are you awake? Dan? Can you hear me?”

  “Yeah . . .” I was drifting off again. I tried to open my eyes. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “There’s someone here that wants to talk to you. An old friend.”

  “Wha’ . . .?”

  “It’s me, Dan.” I knew the voice. My father? Fuck, no. Someone I actually liked. “I’m here.”

  Perfect green service uniform. Gleaming stars. Of course. Major General Wallace Hamilton, the man who streamlined my re-entry to the corps after years in the civilian wilderness, and who made it his personal business to have my records cleared of any sexual wrongdoing. My champion. My mentor.

  “Dan. It’s good to see you. We thought we’d lost you there.”

  I tried to shrug. “Still alive.”

  “You had us worried. How do you feel, Dan?”

  I could just about make out his face against the glare of overhead fluorescents. In his fifties, gray hair, a little weather-beaten, like a stern headmaster that you know has your best interests at heart even when he’s punishing you. He’d been a good friend to me.

  “Feel like shit.”

  The doctors coughed and glanced at their watches. Hamilton crouched down, his face level with mine. “You get yourself well, Dan. I can’t afford to lose you.” I looked into his pale gray eyes. “Not again.”

  “Yes, sir. Do my best.”

  He lowered his voice. “I’ll come and talk to you later, when you’re feeling better. But I just wanted to see you. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I felt his cool, dry hand on my forehead, and closed my eyes. I don’t know how long he stayed there. When I opened my eyes again, he, and the doctors, were gone.

  Luiz was standing at the end of the bed.

  “Time for your bath,” he said.

  A bath? Jesus, when did I last have a bath? How long had I been lying there, drifting in and out of consciousness? How had I been shitting and pissing, let alone keeping clean? A bath—hot water, steam, bubbles, the full works—sounded like heaven. I tried to sit up. I wanted to get out of this damn bed, to walk, to run. More urgently, I needed to get to the bathroom.

  “Hey, hold on,” said Luiz, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Let’s not get carried away.” He had an accent that I couldn’t place—Spanish? Brazilian? Mexican? “I’ll take care of everything as usual.”

  “I need to piss.”

  “How do you think you’ve been peeing since you got here?” He produced a gray cardboard dish. Oh, Christ. A bedpan. Did that really mean that for the last few days, Luiz has been . . . He pulled back the bedclothes. “Come on. It’s too late to start being shy, Dan.” He positioned the pan between my legs, tilted it up, and placed my cock over the edge. “There you go. Fire away.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t? What do you mean?”

  “Like this. It’s . . . weird.” Considering that my sex life has consisted almost entirely of things that most people would consider weird, this surprised even me. I’ve done things with my cock far worse than pissing in a bedpan. Why the sudden primness?

  Luiz was laughing. “I’ll draw the curtains if you like.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Do you want me to look away?”

  Under normal circumstances I’d be more than happy to let him hold my cock—or do anything else he wanted. But now, vulnerable, exhausted, and in pain, I seemed to have gained a sense of shame.

  “Try to relax.” Patient fingers held my cock, resting it on the soft gray cardboard, but the piss wouldn’t come. In fact, to my horror, I was starting to get hard. Not just semi-hard; this was the kind of sudden erection that could rip through plate steel.

  “Sorry . . .”

  “It’s fine.” He was smiling. “I’ve seen it all before.”

  “You mean me?”

  “Dan, even while you were in a coma you seemed to be permanently horny. I don’t know what they feed you out there in Baghdad.”

  “I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

  “I’m a nurse. I wipe stuff up.”

  “Oh, Christ.” I wanted to hide my face, but there isn’t much you can do when you’re in a hospital bed, too weak to lift your arms but apparently well enough to have a rock-hard cock that’s being gently held in the soft hands of a handsome man.

  “I think we need to get rid of this before we can get you washed, Dan.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think it’ll go down on its own?”

  I strained my head forward to look down at myself. I was relieved to see that my cock was unscarred, however smashed up my leg may be. It rose, thick and straight, the foreskin half retracted. “I doubt it. Sometimes I’m hard all night.”

  “Okay. Don’t tell the doctors.” He squirted a few drops of liquid soap on his hands, rubbed them together, and started running them up and down my shaft. Fuck, it felt good, even when I tensed my legs and sent all sorts of pain signals running up and down my central nervous system. I needed to cum very urgently, and I needed it to be in Luiz’s hands. This gentle, smiling man who had looked after me for so many days, washed me, no doubt fed me and brought me my potty like a baby, while I was helpless, in his hands . . .

  I started shooting within about thirty seconds, great ropes of the stuff flying through the air and landing all over the bed, my nightshirt, Luiz’s arms. He started wiping up right away.

  “I needed that,” I said. “I mean, I haven’t come for days.”

  “Are you kidding? You’ve been coming every day. Sometimes twice.”

  “What?”

  “In your sleep. Sometimes when I’ve been washing you.”

  “I see. And you’ve . . . helped out?”

  “Not deliberately. But, you know, I have to keep you clean down there . . .”

  “Right. Well . . thanks, I guess.”

  He mopped up around my cock and balls. “Rea
dy to pee now?”

  “Nearly. You just keep holding it.”

  Somehow he managed to siphon about a pint of piss out of me.

  “Better?”

  “Much better.”

  “Now it’s time for your bath. Which, I’m afraid, means stripping you naked.” Luiz pulled the shirt over my head, carefully lifting my arms out of the sleeves. When I was naked, he sponged me with warm, soapy water. It felt wonderful.

  “I can’t do much to your leg, I’m afraid. Not till all the metalwork comes off.”

  I looked down; bolts protruded from four points around my knee, connected by metal strips out of a child’s construction kit.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Your knee was fractured, and the top of your fibula is badly smashed. You were in surgery for over eight hours.”

  “Wow. I’ll never get through airport security again.”

  “It’ll mend. They’ll take all this off in a week or so. You’ll be walking within a month.”

  “You seem confident.”

  “I’ve seen guys worse off than you. We get them on their feet in the end.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “I’ll be with you every step of the way,” he said, carefully wiping the sponge around my ass. “Now, let’s get you dressed and dry. You need to rest.”

  “What about you?” I pointed down towards the front of his loose blue cotton pants, where the bulge of his erection was clearly visible.

  “I’ll take care of that later.”

  “Let me watch.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course I’m fucking serious. Do it.” I didn’t want to resort to seniority—I was a colonel, and Luiz, as a military nurse, was unlikely to be more than a second lieutenant. He might even be a civilian. Whatever the facts, he seemed willing to take orders. He looked over his shoulder to check that there was no one at the door, then deftly lowered his waistband and hoisted out a big, hard dick and a pair of low-hanging balls. I’m not sure if this is a therapy recognized by the medical profession, but the sight of his junk did me more good than all the drugs in the pharmacy.