Army of You & Me Read Free

Her feet pounded the dirt as she raced to the stalks of corn. The rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire was close. Too close. Her arm was burning, and she didn’t understand why. Her father skidded behind her, and they edged into the centre of the plantation, camouflaging themselves within the field.
    Don’t come here, Madeline begged. Just go, just go, please go away. She heard them calling out, “Snake! Snake! Come out of the grass!”
    She slapped her hands over her ears, blocking out the sound of gunfire. It could have been hours later, but eventually her father pulled her hands down. “It’s all right, darling. But they’ll be back. We need to move.”
    “Where?” she asked, feeling weak. “They’ll find us.”
    He removed a bag from his back and took out the small bottle of alcohol he had been saving for years. Pushing the sleeve of her T-shirt, he exposed the wound. She’d been hit. Pretty deeply, as well. He swore and with a capful of the brandy, he poured it over her arm. Before she could scream, he slapped a palm over her mouth, holding her tight against him until she sagged in his arms.
    “Sorry, my darling,” he whispered. “I had to clean it.” Pain flared through her body. Her father’s eyes were full of sorrow. “Hold on to the corn. It’s going to hurt.”
    ***
    The Goldsmith home in Cambridgeshire was a sprawling, detached, six-bedroom heirloom surrounded by several acres of green fields. Cain’s mother’s horses were trotting through the grass, unbridled. He’d thought of this view on tour. Even missed it. Now he was home, he realised nostalgia was a powerful tool. He couldn’t bear it. The noise and bustle of London would keep the voices in his head quieter than the stillness of the countryside ever would.
    Scratching at his face, he recognised the need to shave. The beard encouraged respect with the Afghan Police. Without it, they called him “boy” in Pashto. Maybe that scared Madeline more than finding out that he wasn’t Major Nathaniel Goldsmith. His father was long retired from active duty but taught instead, lecturing army graduates on engineering.
    With readjusting to life in the UK and his father’s schedule being as full and frantic as if he were still serving, it took some time to catch Major Goldsmith at home. He knocked on his father’s study and waited for a response before entering. “Come in, Nathaniel.”
    “Evening, sir,” he said. “May I sit?”
    “Of course, of course! Ah, mind the books.” He nodded to the one chair in the study that wasn’t broken but had a pile of texts on the seat instead. Cain placed the books on the floor and settled himself in front of his father. Naturally a blond-haired man, Major Goldsmith hadn’t greyed as much as his hair had sprouted silvery tones. Vanity wasn’t in his father’s nature, and he refused to dye his hair to its original state. His mother didn’t share his father’s opinion on beautification and spent her days regularly attempting to turn back the clock.
    “What can I do for you, Captain?”
    “Do you remember the woman who was sending care packages to me in Afghanistan?”
    “I do recall you being rather happy that someone was looking after you from an almost six-thousand-mile distance better than your wife had the entirety of your marriage.”
    Ouch. “I met her. A few days ago. I went into London and made myself known. Her name’s Madeline. For some reason, she has me and you rather confused.”
    His father’s eyebrows nearly shot off his face. “The devil! Why is that still happening? Obviously, I’ve been in service longer than you.  What’s so complicated about that?”
    “Yeah, she still thought I was you. Apparently you helped her when she was a child.”
    “You’re going to have to give a bit more detail than that,” his father said, his voice droll.
    “Her name’s Madeline Mpoyi. I think that’s Congolese. I can’t be sure.”
    His father put his book down and removed his glasses.